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Ernest Pooleʼs The Harbor: Naturalism, Socialism and the Whitmanian Tradition Christophe Den Tandt Université Libre de Bruxelles (U.L.B) (1998) Ernest Pooleʼs socialist novel of education The Harbor (1915) is argu- ably one of the unjustly forgotten texts of early-twentieth century American fiction. The history of its literary reception may be interest- ingly contrasted with that of Kate Chopinʼs The Awakening—another previously ignored, though now famous text. Though Chopinʼs novel was barely noticed in its day, Pooleʼs The Harbor was, critic Peter Conn writes, “one of the most widely reviewed and discussed work of its time” (110). Peter Conn, who has recently underlined the im- portance of this pre-WWI literary corpus, mentions also that intellectu- als of the 1920s and 1930s like Lewis Mumford and Joseph Freeman still celebrated The Harbor as a” high point in radical fiction” (Freeman qted in Conn 110) or as a work that deserved a “special place” (Mum- ford qted in Conn 110) in the imagination of intellectuals. Yet, because The Harbor was less subtly crafted from a literary point-of-view than Chopinʼs The Awakening and because it was wedded to a cause— socialism—that, unlike Chopinʼs feminism—soon disappeared from the American political agenda, it lost its hold on the readerʼs memories; it even failed to attract the attention of many critics of realism and naturalism. I wish to argue however that, as a cultural achievement, it ranks at least as high as most of the fiction by more celebrated natural- ists like Theodore Dreiser or Frank Norris. Ernest Poole (1880-1950) was a socialist intellectual of the Pro- gressive Era. He was as such a typical product of a period when Ameri- cans developed new and very varied political programs in order to adapt their society to massive urbanisation and immigration. He worked as a muckraking journalist in New York and Chicago and was linked to the urban settlement movement—the political reforms initiat- ed by social workers like Jane Addams, who attempted to facilitate the immigrantsʼ adaptation to the American city. During the First World War, Poole worked as a press correspondent and provided a positive 2 Den Tandt Ernest Pooleʼs The Harbor coverage of the Bolshevik revolution. His literary production—both fiction and nonfiction—includes about twenty titles. One of his nov- els—His Family (1917), a story of the new immigration—received the Pulitzer Prize. As a man of letter and a political activist, he met most of the literary figures of the radical scene—people like Upton Sinclair, whom Poole helped in the research that led to the publication of Sin- clairʼs The Jungle, or like Abraham Cahan, the Jewish novelist and journalist. From the literary-historical perspective I wish to adopt here, The Harbor marks the outer boundary of the first wave of naturalist fiction in the United States, a literary corpus that stretches from the 1890s to WWI and was superseded by modernism. In terms of genre, this set of texts could be described by means of several related labels: they consti- tute a form of sociological vitalism, or also, of romantic realism. In his literary criticism, novelist Frank Norris had very perceptively pointed out that naturalism as practiced by Emile Zola should best be described as a genre that mixes realism and romance (Norris, Responsibilities). If we look at the whole turn-of-the-century corpus of American literary naturalism, it appears that the two main sources of romance discourse in naturalism are, on the one hand, urban gothic—as illustrated in Charles Brocken Brownʼs, Edgar Allan Poeʼs, George Lippardʼs or Robert Louis Stephensonʼs works—and, on the other hand, the tradi- tion of American pastoralism embodied in Walt Whitmanʼs poetry. In the present essay, it is the legacy of the pastoral current I wish to bring out. I propose to show that Pooleʼs description of the industrial mega- lopolis—New York harbor—both follows and displaces the literary idiom set by mid-nineteenth-century nature poetry. Pooleʼs The Harbor is the story of an artistʼs education, narrated in the first person by a protagonist named Bill, whose existence is defined by his relation to the New York harbor. In the novel, the harbor serves as an allegorical correlative of American industrialism as it develops from competitive capitalism to the era of the masses. At one point, the narrator confides that he has “seen three harbors” in his lifetime: his “fatherʼs harbor,” which corresponds to the now extinct mid—nineteenth—century economy of small entrepreneurs, the harbor of big companies which is still very much alive when the novel closes, and another harbor that “is struggling to be born” (373)—the polity of the socialist crowds. Initially, Bill is a timid bourgeois youngster, partly educated in the Paris bohemia. On his return from Europe, with the help of several mentors, he discovers the second harbor mentioned in 3 his enumeration—the world of trusts. At first reluctant to intervene in the social struggles, Bill goes through several existential epiphanies that incite him to commit himself to a course of political action: amazed by the power and magnificence of the new corporations, he is first con- verted to what historian James Weinstein calls corporate liberalism— the doctrine of scientific management and company—regulated wel- fare. Accordingly, he becomes a pro-capitalist publicist. Later, Bill outgrows this pro-corporate outlook: in a climactic scene, he is intro- duced to the harbor of the crowds that have resolved to go on strike against the masters of the harbor. Bill realizes then that “the spirit of the crowd” (315) can coalesce from its initial chaotic state and produce organized action. He then decides to record his experiences as a striker in an autobiographical narrative. What links this story to Whitmanʼs pastoral tradition is Pooleʼs at- tempt to offer a totalizing description of the urban landscape—his effort to capture the industrial city as a whole. In Whitman, the most conspic- uous textual device that enacts this totalizing program is the poetʼs recourse to panoramic catalogues. In “Starting from Paumanok,” the poet surveys “Democracyʼs lands” in those terms: Interlinkʼd, food—yielding lands! Land of coal and iron! land of gold! land of cotton, sugar, rice! Land of wheat, beef, pork! land of wool and hemp! land of the apple and the grape! Land of the pastoral plains, the grass—fields of the world! land of those sweet—airʼd interminable plateaus! (20) Poole transposes this cataloguing device to the urban context. In The Harbor, the protagonist experiences an oceanic epiphany as he con- templates the flood of commodities converging to New York harbor from all over the United States: For in this long sea station, under the blue arc— lights, in boxes, barrels, crates and bags, tumbling, banging, crashing, came the products of this modern land. You could feel the pulse of a continent here. From the factories, the mines and mills, the prairies and the forests, the plantations and the vineyards, there flowed a mighty tide of things—endlessly, both day and night—you could shut your eye and see the long brown lines of cars crawl eastward from 4 Den Tandt Ernest Pooleʼs The Harbor all over the land, you could see the stuff converging here to be gathered into coarse rope nets and swept up to the liners. The pulse beat fast and furious (162- 63). By virtue of the logic of infinite economic interconnection described in these lines, the harbor is endowed with the awe—inspiring capacity to absorb “the raw produce of Mother Earthʼs four corners” (177) and to transform it into “toys, sofas, glue, curled hair [...] ladiesʼ hats, corks, carpets, dynamos, stuffed dates ... dirt-proof collars and shirt bosoms, salad dressing, blackboards, corsets and the like” (178). Both in Whit- manʼs and in Pooleʼs panoramic enumerations, the American continent is constructed as an object of sublime fascination—a spectacle that exceeds the powers of perception and representation. Because it is too large and too powerful to be adequately represented linguistically, America is evoked by a concatenation of synecdoches. Thus, fragments of America are brought to view, with the implication that they might add up to the sublime whole. Although Whitman, the pastoral poet, and Poole, the naturalist, share the impulse to circumscribe an unrepresentable object through literary language, there is a marked difference in their respective confi- dence in the feasibility of this project. Whitmanʼs anchorage in the pastoral tradition endows his texts if not with the actual ability to retotalize the fragments of his sublime visions, at least with the power to intimate that this gesture is somehow possible. One might expect that a poetry that relies on discontinuous enumerations should be threatened by fragmentation. Yet, even when he deals with the proverbially alien- ating spectacle of the city, as he does in “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,” Whitman can turn the communion with nature into a credible agent of reconciliation: the poet uses the oceanic metaphor of “the pouring—in of the flood-tide” as an all-unifying medium into which all selves dissolve (128). In this way, the text overcomes any suspicion that the members of the urban crowd could remain strangers to themselves and to each other. Because it cultivates the ability to conjure up these feelings of oceanic fusion, Whitmanʼs verse fosters the impression that the reduction of particulars to the totality can be taken for granted. Whitmanʼs belief that America can be united through the poetic imagination is based on a sexualised relationship to the landscape. The driving power behind Whitmanʼs trust in the regenerative virtue of the American “garden of the world” is the belief that the poetʼs self can merge into the “interminable” stretches of nature by a process of pan- 5 theistic sensualism.