Citation, Collaboration, and Appropriation in the Works of Andrew and Nora Lang

by

Andrea Lynne Day

A thesis submitted in conformity with the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy Department of English University of Toronto

© Copyright by Andrea Lynne Day 2018 Citation, Collaboration, and Appropriation in the Works of Andrew and Nora Lang

Andrea Lynne Day

Doctor of Philosophy Department of English

University of Toronto

2018 Abstract

This dissertation argues that the representations and practices of authorship in the works of An- drew Lang (1844-1912) and Nora Lang (1851-1933) emblematize this literary couple’s struggles to define the nature of literary creativity and, by extension, to determine whose creative efforts are worthy of acknowledgment. Chapter One reveals the importance of adaptation to Andrew’s def-inition of creativity by considering the relationship between his first book, Ballads and

Lyrics of Old France: With Other Poems (1872), and three texts that shaped his conception of authorship: Walter Scott’s Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1802-03), E.B. Tylor’s Primitive

Culture (1871), and Walter Pater’s Studies in the History of the Renaissance (1873). Chapter

Two focuses on the three-year period (1887-90) during which Andrew, now a well-established man of letters, deployed his own authority to defend his friend H. Rider Haggard against charges of plagiarism. I focus on three of his creative works that claim adaptation is a necessary precondition of origi-nality: He (1887), a parody of Haggard’s She (1887); “From Mr. Allan

Quatermain to Sir Henry Curtis” (1890), an epistolary yarn wherein Haggard’s hero rescues the

Stranger from Olive Schreiner’s The Story of An African Farm (1883); and The World’s Desire

ii (1890), Lang and Haggard’s co-authored sequel to the Odyssey. In Chapter Three, I illustrate the ways in which this same insistence on the communalization of literary materials, and folk- literature in particular, paradoxically obscures Nora’s responsibility for the popular Fairy Book series (1889-1913). Nora’s work is, I demonstrate, consistently represented as domestic labour rather than authorship by Andrew’s prefaces, advertisements for the series, and contemporary reviews. Chapter Four examines her resistance to this misrepresentation. I focus on The Strange

Story Book (1913), ar-guing that the volume’s seemingly eclectic contents — a short biography of the recently-deceased Andrew, appropriated Tlingit legends, and stories of gender- nonconforming and adven-turous women — indicate both Nora’s participation in and challenging of the model of author-ship promoted by her husband. Both Langs’ works, I conclude, have much to tell us about the literary, political, and ethical valences of citation.

iii Acknowledgments

This research was supported by the Social Sciences and Humanities Council of Canada, the University of Toronto’s School of Graduate Studies and Department of English, and Carroll Atwater Bishop and her family.

I am grateful to my supervisor, Christine Bolus-Reichert, and my committee members, Deirdre Baker and Danny Wright, for their insightful feedback, their mentorship, and their patience, as well as to Carol Percy for her support. I also thank my external examiner, David Latham, for his generous comments on my work, and my previous committee members, Heather Jackson and Mark Knight, for their guidance. The Department of English’s administrative staff, especially Sangeeta Panjwani, Marguerite Perry, and Tanuja Persaud, were unfailingly patient and supportive as I progressed through the program.

I am indebted to a great number library and archive professionals for their guidance and expertise. Thank you, Leslie McGrath (Osborne Collection of Early English Children’s Literature); Briony Aitchison, Catriona Foote, Moira Mackenzie, and Maia Sheridan (Special Collections at the University of St. Andrews); Andrew Whitesell (Smithsonian Institution Archives); Ceri Lumley (University of Reading); and the Norfolk Records Office.

The pursuit of a PhD is expensive. It is for this reason and many others that I am forever thankful to everyone who contributed to my beloved cat Mortimer’s much-needed dental surgery: Zelda Beard; Elizabeth Bernath-Walker; Sam Brickey-Hughes; Lindsay Chick; Laura Cok; Michael Collins; Amy Coté; Christina D’Amico; Cathy and David Day; Lyndsay Day; Scott Day; Noelle Gadon; Seyward Goodhand; Kaitlin Heller; Alex Howard; Jordan Howie; Carol Hroncek; Kaelyn Kaoma; Heather Ladd; Victoria Loucks; Beth Martin; Tara McDonald; Frank McDowell-Ivry; Alison Murdock; Ellen Murdock; Kerry and Erroll Murdock; Kyle Murdock; Angelo Muredda; Linda Novick; Miriam Novick; Christine Penhale; Masquie and Palmie Percy; Brittany Pladek; Matt Rice, Maria Ljungmark, and Buddy; Tim Riggins; Matt Schneider; Patti Schneider; Dana Schwab; Murphy Selak; Chaucer and Swift Service-Gray; Elliot Storm; Elisa Tersigni; and Morgan Vanek.

Like Sara Ahmed, I feel “Solidarity with my fellow killjoys, with those marching for a different life.” I include in this group my union, CUPE 3902, especially those members who participated in the Unit 1 strike of 2015. I cherish the feminist killjoys whom I am lucky to call my colleagues and friends: Stephanie Cavanaugh, Adleen Crapo, Dara Greaves,

iv Alex “Sam Johnson” Howard, and Miriam Novick.

Thanks are due also to my family: my feline siblings, Chester and Wilcox, for modelling exuberance and refinement, respectively; my parents, Cathy and David, for nurturing my love of reading and research; and my brother, Scott, for providing levity. My sister, pal, and favourite Victorianist, Lyndsay, has helped me refine my ideas through thoughtful conversation and lifted my spirits with excessive hilarity.

My partner, Kyle Murdock, has been unfailingly supportive in matters intellectual, practical, and emotional as I wrote this dissertation in a manner stately rather than rapid.

And, of course: thank you, Mortimer Homer Day. You are my best friend, my favourite teacher, and a very good boy, even if you did try to eat the remarks I’d prepared for my defence.

v Table of Contents

Acknowledgments iv Table of Contents v List of Figures vi Introduction 1i Methodology: The Author Function, Citation, Appropriation, and Narrative Historicism 4 Intellectual Property and the Authorial Brand 10 Chapter Descriptions 132 Narrative Citation 166 1. Re­Reading Ballads and Lyrics of Old France as an Anthropological Anthology 17 Tylor, Pater, and Authorship 24 Lang, Scott, and the Ballad 31 Ballads and Lyrics of Old France … and of Modern Greece 38 “Look on us six that are hanging thus”: Villon’s Literary Gallows­Ballad 42 “Fairy Land” and “The Death of Mirandola, 1494” 47 Conclusion 51 2. Andrew Lang’s Literary Defences of H. Rider Haggard 53 Lang’s Rise and the Role of the Critic 58 He and the “Ethics of Reviewing” 65 Allan Quatermain and the “celebrated allegorical walking stick” 78 Citational Authority in The World’s Desire 85 Conclusion 96 3. Nora Lang, Literary Labour, and Marketing the Fairy Books 98 Commercializing the Declarative Editor 103 The Fairy Books and the Langs’ Critical Afterlives 107 (Mis)Representing Literary Authority 112 Literary Plagiarism versus Literary Labour 119 Advertisements and Anxieties 123 Contemporary Reviews 127 Conclusion: “Trials of the Wife of a Literary Man” 129 4. Metalepsis and Editorial Authority in The Strange Story Book 132 Metalepsis in Wuthering Heights : A Fictional Case Study 135 Metalepsis and the Storytelling Scholar 141 Nostalgia and Editorial Authority 149 Paratextual and Textual Imperialism 155 Reframing History: Queering the Storytelling Scholar 163 Conclusion 172 Conclusion 174 Appendix: Figures 176 Works Consulted 185

vi List of Figures

Fig. 1. Title page of The All Sorts of Stories Book.

Fig. 2. Advertisement in The Strange Story Book.

Fig. 3. Advertisement in The Blue Fairy Book (standard edition).

Fig. 4. Advertisement in The Arabian Nights Entertainments.

Fig. 5. Advertisement in The Pink Fairy Book.

Fig. 6. Detail of advertisement in The Bookman.

Fig. 7. Title page of Men, Women, and Minxes.

Fig. 8. Frontispiece and title page of The Strange Story Book.

Fig. 9. Frontispiece and title page of The Book of Saints and Heroes.

vii Introduction

In 1899, Books of To-day and Books of To-morrow, the Christmas catalogue produced by Hatchards Bookshop of London, ran an advertisement that gently mocks the reading public’s perceptions of Andrew Lang, a prolific and popular man of letters.1 Called “The Child’s Guide to Literature,” this advertisement is a parody of Fanny Umphelby’s dialogic primer The Child’s Guide to Knowledge (1825).2 The book is formatted as a barrage of seemingly disconnected questions asked by a child named Q. — “who,” Evelyn Sharp fondly recalls, “began by asking us the origin of the Universe, and ended by asking us the origin of the British lion as seen on copper coins” (239) — and answered by another character, A. In Hatchards’ version, however, the seemingly indefatigable Q. is flummoxed by the sheer quantity of Lang’s literary output.

Q. — Who is Andrew Lang?

A. — A syndicate of literary gentlemen.

Q. — But I have seen photographs of him?

A. — They were composite photographs.

Q. — You mean to say he really doesn’t exist?

A. — He couldn’t. No man could do as much as he.

1 Almost five hundred articles and pamphlets on a broad range of subjects bear Lang’s name, and he published an average of four monographs per year as either sole author, contributing author, or editor (Dorson 206); however, as this dissertation will argue, the extent of his contributions to these books varied. For the most complete bibliography of Lang’s works, see Roger Lancelyn Green’s Andrew Lang: A Critical Biography (1946).

2 Originally published under the title 262 Questions and Answers and credited simply to “A Lady,” this primer was eventually retitled The Child’s Guide to Knowledge; Being a Collection of Useful and Familiar Questions and Answers on Every-day Subjects, Adapted for Young Persons, and Arranged in the Most Simple and Easy Language, and its author’s identity was widely known by about 1900 (Norcia 232). In 1903, The Child’s Guide was eulogized by Sharp, a children’s author and suffragette, in The Academy and Literature’s Education Supplement as “A Forgotten Lesson-Book”; therefore, it is likely that Hatchards’ advertisement was aimed at the adults who would purchase books from the catalogue rather than the children who would read them.

1 2

Q. - How much?

A. - He writes leading articles for the Daily News. He reviews novels for The Times. He gossips in Longman s. He is the new historian of Scotland. He is the first authority on the '45. He edits fai1y tales, and Dickens, and Walter Scott. He translates Homer and Theocritus. He knows Edmund Gosse-

Q. -Steady on!

A. - He can preface anything: Coleridge's poems, Australian folk tales, or Hittite inscriptions. He is a poet and a parodist, and a detennined letter- writer. He knows all about cricket. He plays golf. He catches salmon.

Q. -I say! I say.

A. -He is the biographer of Lord Iddlesleigh and J.G. Lockhart. He is an authority on religion and spirit-rapping. He discovered Rider Haggard. He -

Q. -That'll do. Have it your own way.

A. -Yes, I thought I could convince you. There is no Andrew Lang. It is only a name - like Bovril - for trade purposes. Andrew Lang is really a Kensington secret society that exists to make good reading. (MS-38255)

This "Guide" tells us a great deal about Lang's wide-ranging expertise, his intimacy with respected and popular authors both living and dead, and his status as a litera1y tastemaker. He has recently enjoyed a resurgence of critical interest, as is demonstrated by a recent special issue of Romantics and Victorians on the Net devoted to him (2013) and the publication of an Edinburgh Critical Edition of his works (2015). I investigate the tmth of the declaration that "no man could do as much as he," not least because the wildly popular Farry Book series (1889-1913) for which he is now most well known, was 3 primarily translated and edited by his wife, Leonora Blanche “Nora” (Alleyne) Lang.

Many of Andrew’s literary ventures, including those cited in “The Child’s Guide,” were collaborative, or, at the very least, explicitly connected to the work of others. For example, in addition to writing letters, articles, history, and poetry, “he edits,” “he translates,” “he reviews novels,” “he is … a parodist,” and he writes “preface[s].” Moreover, by the appearance of this “Guide” in 1899, Lang had co-authored novels with May Kendall (That Very Mab, 1885), W.H. Pollock (He, 1887), and Haggard (The World’s Desire, 1890). Even his social and professional connections — he “knows Edmund Gosse” and “discovered … Haggard” — are listed among his accomplishments, pointing to the importance of this multidisciplinary sociality to his authorial brand.

This brand, I want to emphasize, was classed, gendered, and racialized. Firstly, though Lang vocally preferred Haggard’s middlebrow imperial romances over what he perceived as the pretentious realism of Thomas Hardy and Henry James, he supported this opinion with references to the classics, canonical works of English literature, and contemporary anthropological debates. As Margaret Beetham puts it, “His anti-intellectualism was articulated with all the resources of the scholar whose education had been anything but popular” (263). Secondly, not all of his collaborators were, as the “Guide” claims, “literary gentlemen”; indeed, the identities of his women collaborators are paratextually available. For example,Nora Lang is absent from the list of colleagues and collaborators in the “Guide,” as is K. Langloh Parker, who collected, edited, and translated the “Australian folk tales” he “prefaces” (Australian Legendary Tales: Folk-lore of the Noongahburrahs as Told to the Piccaninnies, 1896; More Australian Legendary Tales, 1898). Finally, the names of the working-class and colonized storytellers whose work is appropriated by the Fairy Books are much harder (and in some cases, virtually impossible) to find, in no small part because Nora declines to share them in order to maintain her authority — such as it is — over the series. Motivated by these imbalances, 4

this dissertation argues that tracking the Langs’ citations, collaborations, and appropriations can enrich our understanding of their struggles to define the nature of literary creativity and, by extension, to determine whose creative efforts were worthy of acknowledgment.

Methodology: The Author Function, Citation, Appropriation, and Narrative Historicism

The “Guide’s” claim that an author’s “name” might exist “only … for trade purposes” anticipates Michel Foucault’s definition of the “author function” as a discursive branding that enables us “to group together a certain number of texts, define them, differentiate them from and contrast them to others” (107) by nearly three-quarters of a century. Studying the contemporary and current “author function” of the words “Andrew Lang” and “Mrs. Lang” — neither Nora’s first name nor her initials (under which she published translations and journalism) were ever included in materials related to the Fairy Books — and their popular and critical aftereffects can, I argue, illustrate some of the ways in which “a certain number of discourses […] are endowed with the ‘author function,’ while others are deprived of it” (Foucault 107). Determining the criteria according to which select “discourses” earn this endowment is, however, somewhat difficult.3 A hint can be found, though, in Roland Barthes’s “The Death of the Author” (1967), the essay that occasioned Foucault’s definition of the author function in “What Is an Author?” (1969), which I’ve quoted above. Barthes declares that a “text … is a multi-dimensional space in which a variety of writings, none of them original, blend and clash” (146): in order to merit an author function, “writings” must be reproduced by others. Though reproduction

3 For a critical history of authorship studies, see Harold Love’s Attributing Authorship: An Introduction (2002) and Amy E. Robillard and Ron Fortune’s introduction to Authorship Contested: Cultural Challenges to the Authentic, Autonomous Author (2015).

6

I engage most deeply with Ahmed’s analysis of citation in Chapter Two, but her work, especially her declaration that “Citation is feminist memory” (Living 15), has profoundly influenced this entire dissertation. My focus on Nora Lang is, in some ways, similar to the second-wave feminist recovery projects undertaken by critics like Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar. I am wary, however, of calling myself an inheritor of this tradition for two reasons. Firstly, in “The Madwoman in the Academy,” the introduction to the second edition of The Madwoman in the Attic (1979; 2002), Gilbert explicitly rejects the Oedipal imagery — and its hierarchical implications — notoriously employed by men like Harold Bloom in favour of a more collaborative model of intellectual exchange. Instead, she calls “younger feminists” in and outside the academy “Neither our progeny nor our replicants but very much our confederates” (xlv). Secondly, my theoretical framework is rooted in third-wave feminist thought: though, like Gilbert and Gubar, I primarily focus on white Victorians, my work is also informed by Kimberlé Crenshaw’s (1989) definition of intersectionality as the mechanisms by which inequality and oppression are produced and amplified by the interactions of race, gender, sexuality, class, and ability (140).4 I should note, however, that my own “citation policy” is not as “strict” as Ahmed’s. She “do[es] not cite any white men” (15), whereas this dissertation began as a study of one white man in particular. Though I’ve been interested in Andrew’s appropriation of women’s and racialized people’s voices since I encountered him in Suha Kudsieh’s “Arabian Nights: Texts and Contexts” graduate course in the Centre for Comparative Literature at the University of Toronto, I did not originally plan to devote two full chapters to Nora. However, about a year after I’d begun writing, Leslie McGrath, then the Head of the Osborne Collection of Early Children’s Literature in Toronto, informed me that Nora had actually composed most of the Fairy Books, and the archival evidence she guided me toward is the antecedent of Chapter Three.

4 Crenshaw developed this framework in response to “the particular manner in which Black women are subordinated”; in her words, “the intersectional experience is greater than the sum of racism and sexism” (140).

8 reconstructing the “litany of intimacies” that constituted the Langs’ lives is essential to understanding their authorial practices.

However, anyone who sets out to tell the Langs’ story will quickly realize that relatively few of their letters remain (Langstaff 16). Andrew was intensely private; as Nora explains to Clement King Shorter, a friend of the couple and a journalist, critic, and collector of literary ephemera,

No, there will be no letters. My husband made me promise, not once but fifty times — “you will never allow it” — from the first I have refused. The only thing I did was to write (at Mr. Longman’s request) a sort of sketch or Memoir for the children, as a Preface to the Strange Story Book & I felt that was as far as he would wish me to go. (26 Feb. 1923)

Nevertheless, combining published anecdotes with the available archival evidence can tell us a great deal. For example, we know that the Langs had no children, but doted on their pet cats (L.B. Lang, “To the Children,” viii-ix; A. Lang to Hills, n.d.) and spoiled their nieces and nephews (A. Lang to J. Lang, 31 Mar. 1911).5 I might be the only critic who cares about their shared hatred of cucumbers (A. Lang to Hills, 22 Apr. 1893) — not least because it vindicates my own — but other details about the Langs’ marriage illuminate the ways in which authorship in their household was acknowledged, if not always performed, according to traditional gender norms.6

5 The Langs also had a dog, but he is only mentioned once in Andrew’s correspondence: “You should see my Dog [sic], a stray, he is the funniest creature. I wish he would go away” (A. Lang to J. Lang, 4 Jan. 1908).

6 These norms did not disappear at the close of the nineteenth century. For example, in many twentieth- century academic books, the authors’ wives, who are often unnamed, are variously thanked for typing, editing, translating, proofreading, researching, and even conducting paleographic work, but they are never named as co-authors of the books to which they contributed. In a recent interview, Bruce Holsinger, originator of the Twitter hashtag #ThanksForTyping, points to the counterhistorical narrative about “the politics of academic labor and writing, the role of women as collaborators, often even unacknowledged co- authors of academic work” that emerges with startling frequency in the acknowledgements of such monographs (Mazanec para. 7). 9

According to Nora’s obituary, the Langs were an ideal match not only due to their shared “good looks,” but because their “intellectual and social gifts” complemented one another’s so well (“Gift” 16), and the latter part of this assessment is borne out by others’ recollections of the couple. Though Andrew was in print “impelled … to poke fun at any great man who was alive to be annoyed,” he was privately shy to the point of awkwardness (Beerbohm 4), whereas Nora was vivacious and adept at the socialization necessary to the advancement and maintenance of his career (Christie and Stewart 126). He was disorganized but wrote quickly and easily; she was meticulous and sometimes “ponderous” in her consideration of various subjects, traits that served her well in her role as her husband’s first reader and de facto secretary (Christie and Stewart 126).7 The extent to which she asserted agency — and controlled her own income — is tantalizingly hinted at in two letters Andrew sent in 1895. Though he was technophobic (L.B. Lang, “To the Children” viii) and so old-fashioned that he thought “bykes” were “vulgar things” (A. Lang to Hills, 30 Nov. 1895), she, according to one of his letters to Haggard, “bought a byke” and taught herself to ride it “in a manner stately rather than rapid” (28 Nov. 1895). Knowing that Nora was fluent in at least seven languages in addition to her native English underlines the injustice of her near-erasure from the Fairy Books; her multilingualism becomes even more impressive when we learn that, after her husband’s death, she taught herself Russian “not merely to enjoy the literature, but to correspond with Russian soldiers in the hospitals and camps” during the First World War (“Gift” 16). Ultimately, understanding the material conditions in which the Langs lived and wrote, I argue, helps us to understand their work more fully. Moreover, mapping these details onto a more or less chronological trajectory of the Langs’ careers allows us to track their various collaborations across texts, genres, and decades. This indicates the inextricability of Andrew’s citational practices from his almost total appropriation of credit for Nora’s

7 The classic fictional example of a Victorian woman whose administrative tasks and intellectual capabilities are essential to her husband’s success is Mina (Murray) Harker of Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897). For a discussion of the fictional and historical relationships between gender and secretarial work at the fin de siècle, see Katherine Mullin’s Working Girls: Fiction, Sexuality, and Modernity (2016) and the essays in Literary Secretaries / Secretarial Culture, edited by Leah Price and Pamela Thurschwell (2005). 10

work, which, in turn, contextualizes her own selective citational practices and authorial performances.

Intellectual Property and the Authorial Brand

Like Andrea Lunsford and Lisa Ede, I believe “looking at concepts of authorship through … [a] materially grounded lens allows us to see, and then critique … powerful ideological, cultural, social, and political forces” (170). Therefore, though public conversations about authors’ rights in Britain date back to at least the eighteenth century, my interest here is in the transatlantic copyright debates that lasted for most of the nineteenth century. Until the United States’ International Copyright Act of 1891, foreign authors did not enjoy the same copyright protections in the US as citizens did, a legal gap that amounted to the government’s “sanctioning [of] literary piracy” (P.V. Allingham para. 2) and resulted in substantial loss of income, especially for British authors.8 In the 1850s, British authors like Charles Dickens, Elizabeth Gaskell, and George Eliot intervened in “debates over the value and ownership of labour” both publicly and in their novels (Pettitt 22), but it was the protectionist arguments of American authors, including Mark Twain, in the late 1880s and early 1890s that eventually convinced Congress that cheap reprints of English books were hindering the growth of both American letters and the national economy (P.V. Allingham para. 2).9 This legal debate contributed to, Clare Pettitt explains, “the irreconcilable tensions between” the cultural figures of “the Romantic creator and the middle-class professional” that were both produced and fuelled by questions regarding “the definition of intellectual property” that surfaced in the wake

8 The Statute of Anne (1710) is important to the history of British authorship because it allowed anyone — including a writer — to hold the copyright of a literary work, thereby eliminating the monopoly on both printing and censorship that had since 1662 been exercised by the government-sanctioned Stationers’ Company. Therefore, Meredith L. McGill explains, the Statute “has long been thought to mark the separation of state surveillance from the protection of literary property,” though the historical reality is somewhat more complex (399). For an overview of recent legal and literary scholarship on the relationships between authorship and copyright, see McGill’s article, “Copyright and Intellectual Property: The State of the Discipline” (2013).

9 Ironically, American books would be pirated by Canadian publishers as ruthlessly as American publishers had pirated British books during the second half of the century (P.V. Allingham para. 2-3). 11 of the Industrial Revolution (12). These tensions, in turn, precipitated the rapid professionalization of authorship in the final decades of the century, a cultural and economic shift evinced by the establishment of the first literary agency in 1875 by A.P. Watt and by Walter Besant’s founding of the Society of Authors in 1884 (Demoor, “Introduction” 5).

Like many of his contemporaries, Andrew publicly expressed concern about what he perceived as the theft of his own literary property. For example, in December 1895, he began what Arthur Sherbo calls a “spirited exchange … in the pages of the New York- based periodical The Critic” (101) and the Illustrated London News (103) with the American publisher Thomas Mosher. This debate, which lasted nearly a year, centred on Mosher’s unauthorized reprinting of Lang’s 1887 translation of the French chantefable Aucassin et Nicolette (c. 1200-1300) with what The Critic’s summary of the controversy calls “small misdeeds of the proof-reader” (qtd. in Sherbo 102). Andrew’s position was that it was “bad manners” (qtd. in Sherbo 101) for Mosher to reprint his work without seeking permission. Mosher’s initial response was conciliatory: he asks Andrew to forgive this theft and “let your good humor prevail and ascribe my forcible entry to mere inability to keep my hands off your exquisite productions” (qtd. in Sherbo 103). After Andrew continued to press the issue, however, Mosher repositioned himself as a Robin Hood of letters, pointing out that the book was not copyrighted in the US and so “Legal rights there were none; moral rights I take to have been forfeited when the needy scholar could not buy your book” (qtd. in Sherbo 105).

Only five years earlier, Andrew had expressed an opinion on piracy in the July 1890 instalment of “At the Sign of the Ship,” his monthly causerie for Longman’s Magazine, that seems somewhat at odds with his open letters to Mosher. Writing in response to “Congress having recently thrown out the Copyright Bill” (347), he echoes Twain, claiming that the real victims of this decision are “Americans, [who] in the long run, will see that their own pockets and interests, moral, pecuniary, and literary, are not served by pouring indiscriminately all the trash of English fiction on their home market” (348). His 12

subsequent argument — that the high price of British books was partially to blame for the frequency with which these same books were pirated — is surprising in light of his opposition to Mosher. However, it appears that any book of Andrew’s that might have been pirated by American publishers up to this point was not the “labor of love” that he would later claim in The Critic that Aucassin and Nicolette was (qtd. in Sherbo 101). In “At the Sign of the Ship,” however, he is more troubled by the books that pirates “alter, compress, expand to suit their market, or … crib … from the periodical in which three- fourths of it has appeared, and send it forth into the world with a forged conclusion.” Such adaptations were, for Andrew, unpardonable: “To put a man’s name on a book which he did not write seems worse than an error in taste, and borders on the peccadillo of forgery” (“Sign” July 1890, 349). This protectiveness of his own literary property was not grounded in a desire for American remuneration, a “philosophy,” he admits, “which comes easily to a British author who it does not pay to pirate” (348). However, as Sarah Brouillette argues, creative activities performed under capitalism can never be fully separated from economic forces: authors’ “labor power derives mainly from the value attached to their names by the ideologies of authorship that make literary expression interesting to audiences and that secure it as copyright” (50). This explains Andrew’s interpretation of of Mosher’s typographical errors as a personal affront. He was concerned with the damage that these might do to his particular “mode of literary expression,” or, more simply put, his “brand” — a term that, as Nathan K. Hensley points out, he uses in the same column that I’ve quoted here (“What is a Network?” para. 12). Each of the following four chapters considers a different facet of this brand.

Chapter Descriptions

My chapters are grouped into two parts, each of which focuses on one of the Langs. In Part One, Chapters One and Two examine the ways in which perceptions of Andrew’s versatility were and continue to be shaped by his individual and collaborative editorial, 13 critical, and creative performances from the 1870s through the 1890s. In Part Two, Chapters Three and Four, which cover the period from 1889 to 1913, i.e., the Fairy Books’ original publication run, form the first substantive critical consideration of Nora Lang as an author and editor in her own right. These two chapters analyze, respectively, the mechanisms of Nora’s near-erasure from popular and critical histories of the series as well the ways in which she pushes back against literary marginalization and, in doing so, marginalizes others.

Chapter One examines Andrew’s first book, Ballads and Lyrics of Old France: With Other Poems (1872). This book, I argue, confirms that Andrew’s authorial persona was predicated on his multidisciplinary expertise from the very beginning of his career. Influenced by E.B. Tylor’s conceptualization of “survivals” as cultural relics that have persisted until the present day, this collection brings together Andrew’s interests in anthropology — in particular, the relationship between contemporary literature and traditional folk songs — and criticism, a convergence that would continue to inform his conception of authorship for forty years. Though the book’s subtitle refers to Andrew’s own verses, it also alludes to his translations of four French “POETS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY” (4), Victor Hugo, Alfred de Musset, Gérard de Nerval, and Henri Murger; six traditional Greek ballads translated from Claude Fauriel’s Chants populaires de la Grèce moderne (1824); and two “Modern Greek Folk Songs” (85-87) from the same source. I close-read four of these poems: “The Sudden Bridal,” a Greek folk-song that closely resembles the British ballad “Fair Annie,” which Walter Scott included in Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1802-03); “Ballad of the Gibbet,” a translation from François Villon, a medieval French author who was a favourite of the Pre-Raphaelites; “Fairy Land,” a ballad narrated by Thomas the Rhymer, the eponymous protagonist of another traditional British ballad collected by Scott; and “The Death of Mirandola, 1494,” which I link to Walter Pater’s essay on Pico della Mirandola in Studies of the History of the Renaissance (1873). Bringing together Tylor, Scott, and Pater, Andrew develops a definition of the author as a collector, a reviser, and a 14 refurbisher. Therefore, I argue, this seemingly eclectic collection of poems reveals Tylor, Scott, and Pater’s influences on both Andrew’s work and his efforts to establish himself as a poet, translator, editor, anthropologist, and literary critic.

Chapter Two focuses on Andrew’s citational practices in three of his less-studied creative works: the aforementioned He and The World’s Desire as well as a parodic short story called “From Mr. Allan Quatermain to Sir Henry Curtis,” wherein our narrator, the hero of a series of popular romances by Haggard, encounters a Stranger we might recognize from Olive Schreiner’s The Story of an African Farm (1883). All three of these texts were published at the height of Andrew’s popularity in the late 1880s and early 1890s, the period of his career that is currently most popular with critics. The existing Lang scholarship tends to focus on Andrew’s interventions in contemporary debates about plagiarism and genre, both of which were integral to a broader conversation about literary value. I add to this conversation by reading these three creative texts alongside his criticism, which, I think, allows us to see heretofore unnoticed continuities. Though two are parody and one is a sincere pastiche, all three draw heavily on contemporary print culture, classical scholarship, and anthropology. In these works, I argue, Andrew uses citation to illustrate the value of Haggard’s work and the male-dominated romance, to disparage women’s authorship and purportedly feminized genres like realism and the New Journalism, and to defend the legitimacy of his own critical position.

In Chapter Three, I turn to the ways in which the Fairy Books are influenced by and contribute to the long European literary tradition that privileges the voice of the male editor over that of female, working-class, and racialized storytellers. By casting Nora’s editorial, translational, and creative contributions as domestic labour and his own minimal editorial involvement as supervision, Andrew assumes a curatorial role, and the series’ commercial paratexts support this reading. The first five Fairy Books advertise his anthropological and folkloric works, thereby insinuating that these books are more scholarly than their competitors, and their publisher, Longmans, Green, and Co., consistently marketed the series as “Edited by Andrew Lang” while minimizing Nora’s 15

more substantial contributions. In light of this gendered erasure, I argue that future critical readings of the Fairy Books should read Andrew’s anthropological theories as part of the commercial and cultural contexts of, rather than the driving force behind, the individual stories in each volume.

Chapter Four models such a reading. I focus on The Strange Story Book (1913), the final Fairy Book and the only one for which Nora wrote a preface. Her nostalgic representation of her recently deceased husband in this preface is, I argue, more than a eulogy; it suggests that Andrew’s storytelling-scholar persona is one of the many tales the series tells. This re-framing enables Nora to push back against the erasure of her authorial voice. However, though the textual content of this volume supports Nora’s paratextual claim to the author-editorship of both The Strange Story Book and the series as a whole, neither the text nor its paratexts substantially challenge the imperial appropriation that characterizes Andrew’s editorial persona. Nora constructs a pantheon of exemplary European women — Hannah Snell, Catalina D’Erauso, and George Sand — who successfully performed traditionally masculine roles, and I read The Strange Story Book as, in part, her attempt to position herself among them. The adaptations of contemporary Tlingit stories in the volume, meanwhile, are not presented as adventures, but as anthropological relics. The stories themselves are represented as belonging to a distant past and stripped of all references to colonialism and, though the Bureau of American Ethnology and the ethnographer John Reed Swanton are thanked for their permission to adapt Tlingit Myths and Texts (1909), his informants Don Cameron, Katlian, Q!ā’dastin, Dekinâ’k!u, Katishan (and his mother, who is unnamed by Reed), and Kasā’nk!, are not mentioned. By including these Tlingit stories in this way, Nora demonstrates her facility for ethnographic research but silences those stories’ contemporary tellers, which raises questions about the extent to which she might have been responsible for similar erasures throughout the series. By proposing an alternate model for reading the Fairy Books, this chapter makes a case for considering the ways in which the polyvocality of similar folk-and fairy-tale collections might be flattened by editorial and critical practices that focus only on the narrative work of the author-editor whose name brands the work.

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(1871),Walter Pater’s Studies in the History of the Renaissance (1873), and Walter Scott’s The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1802-03) in Ballads and Lyrics of Old France is early evidence of his reflexive transmission practices. This argument brings together two critical perspectives: Robert Crawford’s 1985 triangulation of Ballads and Lyrics of Old France, Primitive Culture, and Studies in the History of the Renaissance, and Yuri Cowan and Marysa Demoor’s more recent study of the ways in which, by following the model established by Scott’s The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, nineteenth-century editors of ballad anthologies asserted their literary and ethnographic bonafides. In Ballads and Lyrics of Old France, Lang performs such expertise by bringing together Romanticism, aestheticism, and anthropology to define the ideal author as one who self-consciously innovates within an existing tradition rather than attempting to create a new one altogether.

Crawford deems Pater’s and Lang’s mutual influence “the first direct coming together of literary and scientific anthropological writing in English literature” (849), and he defines Pater’s Renaissance as “a work of imaginative anthropology” (875). More specifically, Lang’s application of Tylor’s doctrine of “survivals” — remnants of earlier cultural practices that are transmitted through generations despite having lost their original significance (1: 16) — to literature informed Pater’s “developing concern with the survival and transmission of pagan modes of thought and mythology, and their transmutation into art” (Crawford 876). Similarly, he argues, “the combination and collocation of poems in Ballads and Lyrics of Old France make it clear that Lang was seeing modern French poetry not only in relation to the work of the Plèiade” — a group of Old French poets admired by Pater — “but also in relation to Greece” (863). I extend Crawford’s focus on the significance of relationality within and between these books by identifying Ballads and Lyrics of Old France as an anthology. This designation, I argue, enables us to analyze Lang’s comparative methodology more closely because anthologies, according to Leah Price, are defined by their “synechdocal aesthetic” (7). She explains, “The anthology’s ambition to represent a whole through its parts is always 19 undermined by readers’ awareness that the parts have been chosen for their difference from those left out” (Anthology 6). Though Price’s concern here is with the formal and historical relationships between the anthology and the novel, her argument can be applied to other kinds of texts as well. Most relevant to this chapter is the fact that, as Crawford points out (863, 867), the careful selection and arrangements of the particular essays or poems included in a book constitute what Price calls a “narrative frame” (Anthology 11); in Pater and Lang, these frames include the developmental trajectories that both books chart. Accordingly, in this chapter, I focus on the narrative frame of Ballads and Lyrics of Old France, asking what kind of whole(s) Lang wants readers to construct from the parts with which he presents them.

Central to my inquiry is Cowan and Demoor’s explication of “the role of editors’ own self-interest and authorial self-creation in the evolution of the ballad’s ‘framing narratives’” from the Minstrelsy through the end of the nineteenth century (49). They define the Minstrelsy as an anthology, rather than as a collection, on the basis of what these textual elements can tell us about its “intended audience”: broadly speaking, collections are the end-product of ethnographic fieldwork, whereas anthologies “form part of a concerted publishing enterprise to repackage the ballad for Victorian reading audiences” (50). This enterprise, according to Cowan and Demoor, had two goals. Firstly, Scott, who was in 1802 a “budding celebrity writer,” used the Minstrelsy to position himself as a literary and cultural “authority by mediating the apparently anonymous border ballad” (49). This mediation created a context for Scott’s own poetry; indeed, the third volume of the Minstrelsy contains a number of Scott’s own “modern ballad adaptations,” and these, when coupled with The Lay of the Last Minstrel (1805) — which Cowan and Demoor note was “Scott’s first long narrative poem” (56) — demonstrate the poet-anthologist’s awareness that “a ballad author who has already proven himself as a ballad editor may relinquish gestures of self-assurance” by submitting his original work to the reading public “without damage to his authority” (57). 20

Cowan and Demoor include Lang’s A Collection of Ballads (1897) amongst the Victorian ballad anthologies influenced by the Minstrelsy (49); I argue that Scott’s influence on Lang’s editorial and authorial practices first emerges twenty-five years earlier in Ballads and Lyrics of Old France. Admittedly, the 1897 Collection includes what Lang calls “A few notes” on each ballad (xxii) as well as introduction (xi-xxiii) that outlines “a few curiosities of the ballad” — mostly regarding its relationship to a range of other literary genres — and his editorial principles, namely that “The examples selected are chiefly included for their romantic charm” (xxii); Ballads and Lyrics of Old France does not. Nevertheless, in 1872, Lang was, like Scott in 1802, not yet a celebrity; furthermore, Ballads and Lyrics of Old France contains his own work alongside more traditional verses. By following this model, Lang likewise establishes himself as an expert on folk-literature, a precondition for, in his view, successful authorship (excepting that of his wife, a hypocrisy that I will discuss in Chapter Three).

Though Ballads and Lyrics of Old France was not particularly financially successful (Green, Andrew Lang 53-54), it is nonetheless, according to Lang’s literary executor, an important creative achievement. Nora Lang, who edited the four-volume Poetical Works of Andrew Lang (1923), was thoroughly acquainted with the quantity and quality of Andrew’s verse, and in 1932 she wrote to Charles Hodge, then a doctoral candidate, that her husband’s translations “that were done out of the French language … contain … his best work” (19 Sept. 1932). Hodge had written to Longmans requesting permission to “quote the whole of, or portions of certain of Mr. Lang’s poems or writings, either in English, or translated” (10 Sept. 1932), and Nora, who was her deceased husband’s literary executor, was insistent that Hodge not undertake “the re-translation of any of the poems [from Ballads and Lyrics of Old France] back into French” (14 Sept. 1932). Nora included all of these translations in the Poetical Works, which further indicates her high estimation of them. Though her preface to this compendium is nostalgic, extolling Andrew’s “love of nature, his unchangeable affection to his old friends, his boyish spirit, [and] his sympathy with lost causes just because they were lost causes” (viii-ix), it also

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France” (132). He drew on this knowledge when swiftly producing two meticulously researched monographs, The Maid of France (1908) and La Vie de Jeanne d’Arc de M. Anatole France (1909), that effectively disproved the claims of his rival. In other words, Ballads and Lyrics of Old France was, within Lang’s lifetime, mobilized as evidence of the multidisciplinary nature of his expertise. That a poetry anthology enhanced Lang’s credibility as a researcher is only one example of the ways in which what Jonah Siegel calls the “heterogeneous, distributed, wide-ranging quality of his work … [is] an important and conceptually vital element of his achievement” (para. 15). This same heterogeneity informs the comparative methodology that characterizes Lang’s anthological practices in Ballads and Lyrics of Old France.

The rest of this chapter is divided into four sections. First, I contextualize my argument by detailing the ways in which Ballads and Lyrics of Old France brings together Tylor’s Primitive Culture, Pater’s Renaissance, and Scott’s pseudo-ethnographic anthological practices. Next, in order to illustrate the ways in which Lang’s own anthological practices are informed by his conception of authorship and vice versa, I conduct close readings of two translations included in Ballads and Lyrics of Old France: “The Sudden Bridal” (84-89) and “Ballad of the Gibbet” (13-15). “The Sudden Bridal,” one of the aforementioned Greek ballads drawn from Fauriel’s Chants populaires, is a folk song from contemporary Greece, a society that Lang believes is less culturally developed than his own (“Mythology and Fairy Tales” 618). Lang includes this poem in the anthology, I argue, because it provides evidence for his theory that folk-culture is an ideal site of investigation for the anthropologist who wishes to find the remnants of pre-modern culture in contemporary life. Moreover, Lang’s own translation of “The Sudden Bridal” — which bears a striking resemblance to the British ballad “Fair Annie” — indicates his ability to produce new work within a cross-cultural tradition.

The object of my second case study, “Ballad of the Gibbet” is a literary gallows-ballad by François Villon (c.1431-64), who was popular with the Pre-Raphaelites for “his several brushes with the hangman’s noose” and “the formal dexterity of his ballades 23 and rondeaux” (Pascolini-Campbell 661). By translating Villon, I argue, Lang participates in an ongoing conversation about a poet rediscovered by Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Algernon Charles Swinburne in the 1860s.11 Moreover, Villon models the practice of innovating within an established tradition. Taken together, “The Sudden Bridal” and “Ballad of the Gibbet” highlight the coexistence of the ballad’s literary and folk-created forms, thereby demonstrating Lang’s understanding of the form’s lineage as well as his own mastery of it.

Finally, I analyze two of Lang’s original poems: “Fairy Land” (151-53), and “The Death of Mirandola, 1494” (175-76). “Fairy Land” is the despondent inner monologue of Thomas the Rhymer, the eponymous protagonist of a British ballad dating back to the thirteenth century and retold by Scott in the Minstrelsy. This poem, I argue, is representative of Lang’s reinvention of traditional texts — see, for example, the seven- lyric cycle “Hesperothen” (105-23), which imagines the repercussions of the Battle of Troy — throughout Ballads and Lyrics of Old France. “The Death of Mirandola, 1494” likewise revisits a well-known story, but its topic is drawn from history rather than from literature. The poem’s subject, the fifteenth-century Italian humanist philosopher Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, seems out of place alongside poems dedicated to “Jacques Tahureau” (169), “François Villon” (171), “Pierre Ronsard” (172), and “Gérard de Nerval” (174), all Old French poets to whom the title of Ballads and Lyrics of Old France explicitly refers. However, Pico is a prominent figure in Pater’s Renaissance, and reading Pater’s essay on Pico’s syncretic view of the relationship between paganism and Christianity can help us understand why Lang re-classifies him as a poet: for Lang, literary creativity is the result of bringing together extant traditions in new ways. Because it celebrates the same nodality that the anthology enacts, “The Death of Mirandola, 1494” is a fitting conclusion for Ballads and Lyrics of Old France.

11 According to Claire Pascolini-Campbell, though “Rossetti’s 1870 translation of the ‘ballade des dames du temps jadis’ is arguably the most canonical of the Villon translations to date … it was ... Swinburne who first discovered Villon” a decade earlier and introduced Rossetti to his work (661).

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successively changed conditions in savage, barbaric, and civilized life. (qtd. in Logan 94)

This “developmental continuum” (Logan 2) is exemplary of the mode of historicist thought which Peter J. Bowler terms “developmentalism.” Bowler claims that this “flourished because the Victorians were convinced of their own unique place in history, and were thus compelled to relate all other cultures and species to their own origins” (13). The widespread Victorian belief that, as Bowler puts it, “‘Lower’ races were stagnant failures, relics of earlier episodes in the history of mankind’s ascent, with nothing further to contribute to the march of progress” (13) had a devastating impact on the world beyond the gates of universities and the walls of the gentleman scholar’s study.

The most influential concept to emerge from Tylor’s endowment of culture with “a historical register it has since lost” is that of the aforementioned “survival,” or the “primitive” belief, behaviour, or ritual which has survived the passage of time and continues to exist in the modern — i.e., Victorian — day (Logan 3). In Tylor’s words, “These are processes, customs, opinions, and so forth, which have been carried on by force of habit into a new state of society different from that in which they had their original home, and they thus remain as proofs and examples of an older condition of culture out of which a newer has been evolved” (Primitive Culture 1: 16). Logan explains that Tylor believed that “Survivals are signifiers that persist out of habit or tradition long after they have lost their signified” and that it was the anthropologist’s duty to find these forgotten meanings (102). Indeed, Tylor suggests that anthropologists look to “popular phrases, children’s games, familiar rhymes, holiday traditions, jokes, [and] baby talk” for survivals (1: 171). Lang was the first to follow this directive and apply Tylor’s theory of survivals to folk-literature, a project that would reshape the English study of folklore in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (Dorson, British 206-08).

In 1872, Lang, then a fellow at Merton College, met Tylor at Balliol College, where the latter delivered a lecture that motivated Lang to borrow a library copy of Primitive

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perceptible in his work something individual, inventive, unique, the impress there of the writer’s own temper and personality. (82)

Pater does not argue that a poet’s work must be entirely original “if it is to have an aesthetic … value”; rather, poems must bear “the impress … of the writer’s own temper and personality” while also “charm[ing] and stimulat[ing]” the “age” in which he lives. In other words, a genius is an inheritor of a literary tradition who, by participating in that tradition, makes it his or her own.

This definition is reflected by Ballads and Lyrics of Old France in two ways. Firstly, by including poems by the Plèiade and by Hugo, Musset, Nerval, and Murger — all of whom Pater identifies as the “Romanticists” who “went back to the works of the middle age” to find form and content for their poetry, thereby bringing about “a new middle age [in] which … the poetry of the Pleiad [sic] has found its place” (79) — Lang intimates that the past and the present can each help us understand the other; moreover, by reading them together, heretofore buried aesthetic lineages are revealed. Secondly, and metatextually, Lang positions himself as a participatory revisionist by bringing together developmentalist, anthropological thought and the ballad anthology, which was, by the 1870s, a British cultural institution. His definition of his own authorship is thus both rooted in and contingent on his own multidisciplinarity.

Lang would continue to refine the comparativist methodology he espouses in “Mythology and Fairy Tales” and that he practices in Ballads and Lyrics of Old France. In the introduction to Custom and Myth (1884), his first anthropological monograph, Lang mounts a passionate apologia for his field, declaring that the study of folklore is as scientific an undertaking as archaeology:

There is a science, Archæology, which collects and compares the material relics of old races, the axes and arrow-heads. There is a form of study, Folklore, which collects and compares the similar but immaterial relics of

34 process of collecting folk literature may be, despite its scientific aspirations, ultimately an exercise in approximation emerges.15

However, that many of the poems in Ballads and Lyrics of Old France were translations could potentially, for Lang, have heightened their “scientific” import. According to Walter Benjamin’s famous formulation, “The task of the translator consists in finding that intended effect [Intention] upon the language into which he is translating which produces in it the echo of the original” (76; parentheses original). By producing “echoes” of both Old French and modern Greek poetry and inviting his readers to listen (as it were) to both, Lang implicitly invites us to compare them as well. Unlike his ballad-collecting predecessors, Lang does not include poems from a single geographic or temporal region — be it the “Ancient English” of Percy or the Border of Scott’s collection — but from diverse eras and areas. Thus, it does not seem accidental that the methodology Lang both proposes and practices in “Mythology and Fairy Tales” maps onto this poetic anthology so well.

The implicitly comparative, anthological structure of Ballads and Lyrics of Old France illustrates the comparative view of folk literature that Lang would articulate only three years later in the ninth edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, to which he contributed

15 Anxieties regarding the authenticity of texts based on fragments of other texts were by no means confined to the Victorian era; see, for example, Trumpener’s discussion of Samuel Johnson’s “well- publicized skepticism (and in the wake of the Journey [To the Western Islands of Scotland]’s publication [in 1775], his exchange of insults with Macpherson, ending in physical threats)” regarding the origins and authenticity of the poetry that James Macpherson claims to have collected in 1765’s fraudulent The Works of Ossian (77). Ballad collectors felt similar anxieties; these were, according to Tim Fulford, rooted in the ways in which “the ballad’s modern urban existence was competing with its traditional rural one in the minds of most Britons” (317). In order for the ballad to be appreciated as an aesthetic and cultural remnant of an idealized rural past, its very real contemporary presence as working-class entertainment — in broadside form or, later, in a music hall — had to be set aside. According to Paula McDowell, the very structure of Child’s Popular Ballads, which divides “ballads into two principal categories, traditional (or ‘popular’) vs. broadside ballads” (36) enacts this separation.

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Ballads and Lyrics of Old France … and of Modern Greece

“The Sudden Bridal” is one such piece of evidence. Before I begin my analysis of it, I want to locate this poem within Ballads and Lyrics of Old France. With the exception of “Ballad of the Gibbet,” the anthology’s ballads are contained in “Translations” in a subsection entitled, appropriately enough, “Ballads.” This subsection comprises six traditional French ballads — “The Three Captains,” “The Bridge of Death,” “Le Père Sévère,” “The Milk White Doe,” “A Lady of High Degree,” and “Lost for a Rose’s Sake” — and two “Ballads of Modern Greece,” “The Brigand’s Grave” and “The Sudden Bridal.” Interestingly, the “Ballads” section of the book also includes two poems, “Iannoula”(85-86) and “The Tell-Tales” (87), borrowed from Fauriel. Lang characterizes these as “Modern Greek Folk Songs,” and they appear to have been included for comparative purposes. By encouraging readers to consider the “multiple relational possibilities” between these poems old and new (R. Cohen 210) , Lang both defines the ballad as an authentic, folk-originated form and as an essential part of European literary heritage, thereby enacting his own anthropological theories in his editorial methodology.

According to Lang’s Tylorian methodology, if we read all of Ballads and Lyrics of Old France, the Greek ballads will help us understand the French ballads and vice-versa, and both will be further illuminated by an understanding of Greek folk songs. This may be why no contemporary French ballads — traditional or purely literary — are included in the anthology; as Price would put it, these have been “left out” (6). To remind readers that these poems exist would be to complicate and perhaps even undermine the paradoxically allochronic chronology that equates traditional French poetry with modern Greek poetry and positions them both as the progenitors — and, implicitly, as more primitive than and perhaps (but not necessarily) inferior to — more contemporary poetry. This chronology is important to the collection because, after reading what Lang has read (and wants us to 39 read), we will be able to contextualize his own poetry within what Lang positions as the pan-European tradition contained within the book.

“The Sudden Bridal” is particularly relevant to a study of Lang’s comparative editorial methodology because it is strikingly similar to, as previously mentioned, “Fair Annie,” the sixty-second ballad-type enumerated by Child in the Popular Ballads. This ballad would have been familiar to Victorian readers: Susan Stewart has illuminated the ways in which Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights (1847) draws upon “Fair Annie” and other ballads, and ten years before the publication of Ballads and Lyrics of Old France, Christina Rossetti had included two original versions of the ballad, “Cousin Kate” and “Maude Clare,” in Goblin Market and Other Poems (1862).

Child identifies nine versions of “Fair Annie” (63-82). The first and most common of these, 62A, is a narrative that begins in medias res with a conversation between Annie and her lover Thomas. Child has borrowed this version of the ballad from Scott (63n), though it is unclear whether 62A was anthologized by Scott because it was so popular, or if 62A was so popular because it was anthologized by Scott. Scott notes in his introduction to the ballad that its “tale is much the same with the Breton romance, called Lay Le Frain, or The Song of the Ash” (102). He posits this similarity as proof for his theory that “the more we shall see ground to believe, that the romantic ballads of later times are, for the most part, abridgements of the ancient metrical romances” (102-03). Lang uses the same version of this ballad to provide evidence for his disagreement with Scott on the causal relationship between ballads and romance in the 1897 Collection:

In Scotch the Earl of Wemyss is a recent importation: the earldom dates from 1633. Of course this process of attaching a legend or Märchen to a well-known name, or place, is one of the most common in mythological evolution, and by itself invalidates the theory which would explain myths by a philological analysis of the proper names in the tale. These may not be, and are probably not, the original names. (242) 40

Most important to my argument here, however, is the ballad’s plot. In 62A, Annie has, she reminds Thomas, “born seven sons to thee, / And am with child again” (19-20), but she agrees to help with the preparations for Thomas’s upcoming marriage to another woman. After the wedding, Annie’s erstwhile rival realizes that she and Annie, who was kidnapped by Lord Thomas from her parents, the “Earl of Wemyss” (113) and the “Countess of Wemyss” (114), are sisters. She then donates her dowry to Annie so that Annie can marry Lord Thomas and goes “maiden hame” (124). Though this ending is common in the versions of the ballad collected by Child, not all tales of “Fair Annie” end in exactly this way: for example, in variant 62B, the bride mourns what she foresees as her loss of honour, lamenting that

But when I gae hame to my father’s house, They will laugh me to scorn, To come awa a wedded wife, Gae hame a maid the morn. (101-04)

Annie and her lover are not reunited in many versions of the ballad. Variant 62D ends with Annie serving at the wedding as her lover “wipes the tears trickling / Adown her cheek and chin” (15-16); variant 62G, which calls Annie “fair Ellen” (17), ends ambiguously, with Annie telling her sons that she “sigh[s] and moan[s]” (18) because “The hoops are off my wine hogsheads, / And my wine is overflown” (19-20); that is, because she has had children out of wedlock with one man, she cannot marry another. In all variants of the ballad, it is Annie’s lover who forsakes her, and, in all variants in which they are reunited, it is her sister — Thomas’s new bride — who has, as she says to Annie in variant 62J, “dane ye nae wrang” (224). In other words, this is a ballad about a man who treats a woman poorly, a wrong that is sometimes righted (if marriage to the man who has forsaken her can be said to be “right” for Annie) by the intervention of another woman. 41

Though “The Sudden Bridal” does not include such an intervention — it ends before the nuptials occur — the ballad opens with the establishment of a female community that echoes the sisterly solidarity of 62A as its protagonist seeks comfort over her lover’s betrayal from “three of her bower-maidens” (3). Most significantly, the protagonist of “The Sudden Bridal” is, like Annie, expected to serve her lover’s new love. He tells her,

I go to marry my new bride, That I bring o’er the down; And you shall be her bridal maid, And hold her bridal crown. (69-72)

However, unlike Annie, the protagonist of this ballad wishes to keep her former relationship a secret (this seems easier for her than it is for Annie, as the characters of “The Sudden Bridal” do not include seven abandoned children). Echoing 62G, the woman tells her former lover to “never tell” (76) his new bride that he has “kissed the lips of love ... And spoiled the running spring / And robbed the fruits so fair” (81, 83-84) — i.e. “spoiled” her virginity, thereby making her an unsuitable partner for another man. He ends the poem by responding that “he may wed that will; / But she that was my old true love / Shall be my true love still” (86-88). Whether this means that he will pine for her or that their sexual relationship will continue is unclear. What is clear, however, is that, as in “Fair Annie,” the male character at the centre of “The Sudden Bridal” does not suffer as a result of his callousness: it is the women of the ballad who must endure the repercussions of this unexpected marriage, and female community that must heal the wounds that the marriage inflicts. Though, as is characteristic of traditional ballads, none of the versions of “Fair Annie” or “The Sudden Bridal” moralize these events, their stark representations of betrayal engender sympathy for the women spurned by their amoral lovers by implying that, in a male-dominated marriage economy, this is often simply the way that things are. 42

Overall, “The Sudden Bridal,” a Greek ballad that is thematically, structurally, and narratively similar to a traditional British ballad that would likely have been familiar to Lang’s readers confirms universalist (or at least pan-European) theory of ballad origins and diffusion. If in Greece — where the communal ballad tradition was, Lang believed, still very much alive — such narratives still existed, then the similarities between “The Sudden Bridal” and “Fair Annie” (and, implicitly, other versions of this ballad that might exist across Europe) are ample anthropological evidence in favour of Lang’s comparative methodology.

“Look on us six that are hanging thus”: Villon’s Literary Gallows-Ballad

As I’ve previously indicated, François Villon’s “Ballad of the Gibbet” — originally titled “L’Epitaphe Villon” — is the only explicitly literary ballad translation included in Ballads and Lyrics of Old France. Because Villon innovates within an established tradition, his work is evidence for both Lang’s allochronic chronology of ballad development and his definition of literary originality. In the note that precedes “Ballad of the Gibbet,” Lang informs his readers that the poem is “An epitaph in the form of a ballad that Villon wrote of himself and his company, they expecting shortly to be hanged” (11). This introduction is consistent with the short biography of Villon that Lang includes in his “LIST OF POETS TRANSLATED” (2-4). According to Lang, “Nothing is known of Villon’s birth or death, and only too much of his life. In his poems the ancient forms of French verse are animated with the keenest sense of personal emotion, of love, of melancholy, of mocking despair, and of repentance for a life passed in taverns and prisons” (2).

Noteworthy in this biographical sketch is the emphasis that Lang places on Villon’s innovation within generic parameters: the medieval poet used “the ancient forms of French verse,” and these are “animated with the keenest” of emotions. Lang also praises the emotional resonance of another of the poets whose verse he translates, writing of Jacques Tahureau that his “amorous poetry ... has the merit, rare in his, or in any age, of 43 being the real expression of passion” (4). However, Villon is the only writer distinguished by Lang for his facility within a particular poetic form. This suggests, then, that “Ballad of the Gibbet” may have been selected for inclusion in Ballads and Lyrics of Old France because it is an exemplary reinvention of a well-known genre.

Villon’s rather eventful life predictably enhanced, rather than diminished, the French poet’s reputation amongst the Pre-Raphaelites and so he was, as I have previously indicated, popular with those who sought to resurrect the medieval in both literature and the visual arts. According to Jerome McGann, Rossetti and Swinburne had “planned, in the early 1860s, to do a complete translation of Villon’s poetry,” and Rossetti includes three translations of Villon — “The Ballad of Dead Ladies,” “To Death, of His Lady,” and “His Mother’s Service to Our Lady”— in the first edition of Poems (1870) under the heading “Three Translations from François Villon, 1450.” McGann explains that Villon’s poetry plays a significant role in the translations with which Rossetti ends the collection: “The Villon translations are especially important, and aptly chosen as a group, since they graphically emphasize the continuity of sacred and profane love” (para. 1).

Swinburne admired Villon for similar reasons. According to Antony H. Harrison, he “produced ideologically skewed translations of works by the single medieval poet he acclaims as the equal of Sappho and as the pre-eminent balladist of the period” and, in these translations and his own poem, “A Ballad of François Villon, Prince of All Ballad- Makers” (1877), “Swinburne idealizes Villon on the grounds of both his skill as a poet and the unsavouriness of his character: what most Victorian readers would have seen as the scandalousness of his work is for Swinburne the source of its greatness” (259). Swinburne’s efforts to recover Villon for a contemporary readership are evident in“A Ballad of François Villon.” Swinburne ends each stanza with the refrain “Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother’s name” (10, 20, 30, 36) as he celebrates Villon’s phoenix-like rise from history to brighten the “dusk of dolorous years” (2); laments the rejection Villon faced during his own lifetime; rhetorically asks why Villon’s “fierce desire” has been “cooled” (26) by time; and, finally, declares to his subject that “from thy feet death has 44

washed the mire” (34) so that Villon may take his rightful place “at head of all our quire” (35). Thus, though Villon was not universally known by the Victorian reading public — in fact, Lang introduced John Ruskin to the poet by lending him a volume of Villon’s work in the 1860s (Morsberger 189) — he had a reputation amongst those interested in medieval French poetry as both an historical figure of note and an integral part of what they perceived as their pan-European literary heritage.

As Swinburne’s praise suggests, Villon employs ballad conventions in strikingly creative ways. For example, in “Ballad of the Gibbet,” Villon’s speaker is his own corpse, which implores readers to “Look on us six that are hanging thus” (5). This reinvents, combines, and personalizes the ballad tropes of the ventriloquized inanimate object and the voice from beyond the grave. This is another continuity between Ballads and Lyrics of Old France and Goblin Market and Other Poems, though Christina Rossetti’s corpse-speaker appears here in a Petrarchan sonnet. Here, Rossetti also innovates within a fixed form: in “After Death,” it is not clear until the volta — “He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold / That hid my face, or take my hand in his” (9-10) — that the speaker, who earlier recounts that her visitor “leaned above me, thinking that I slept” (5), is dead.

Given the Victorian fascination with death, it is perhaps unsurprising that gallows ballads were popular during a period when, as Ellen O’Brien explains, “England’s increased specialization in and development of the discourses of criminology, crime reform, and class, though sometimes working at cross purposes, tended to locate the laboring classes, implicitly or explicitly, in a distinct cultural realm.” Both the result of and a contributing factor to this class-based separation, “murder ballads overthrew the edifying power of state execution’s spectacular lesson when they transformed the image of the ignorant and the criminal scaffold crowd into the image of a literate and literary public” (16). In other words, the murder ballad is an assertion of the cultural agency of “the ignorant and the criminal scaffold crowd” via the establishment of and participation in the textualization of an oral tradition: no longer objects to be written about, these people define their own subjectivity through the writing of their own narratives and, in doing so, create a record

46

many ballads, including the one of Swinburne’s quoted above, “Ballad of the Gibbet” employs a progressive refrain. The first stanza ends with a request that onlookers “Mock not at us that so feeble be, / But pray God pardon us out of His grace” (9-10); the second, with the declaration, “We are but dead, let no soul deny / To pray God succour us of His grace” (19-20); and the third with the exhortation to “Live not as we, nor fare as we fare; / Pray God pardon us out of His grace” (29-30). In the first stanza, the conjunction “But” that begins the final line indicates that the speaker means to counter what he has just said: readers should not “Mock ... at us that so feeble be” (9); instead, they should pray for the six hanged men. The second stanza eliminates the conjunction and replaces the “pardon” of the preceding stanza’s final line with “succour” (20). The claim that “No soul” should “deny” (19-20) divine intervention to these men shifts the meaning of intercession that Villon seeks for himself and his compatriots: rather than asking readers to compassionately seek heavenly, if not earthly, forgiveness for the hanged six, these lines insist that the men are entitled to divine assistance. Finally, the closing lines of the poem’s third and final stanza return to the speaker’s original request that his audience “Pray God pardon us out of His grace” (30). The absence of the conjunction “but” in this reworking of the first stanza’s conclusion indicates that this is not a contradiction of the preceding injunction to “Live not as we, nor fare as we fare” (29); rather, as the semicolon that joins the two lines suggests, an expansion upon it: readers must both learn from the example of the hanged men and pray for them, and these actions are inextricably linked.

Ultimately, the progression of this refrain — readers should pray for the hanged men for the men’s sake, for Jesus’s sake, and for their own sake — mimics the ways in which traditional ballad refrains create both continuity and momentum through repetition. This subtle but important change emblematizes Lang’s awareness of the expectations of ballad audiences and his creative manouevering within their confines. 47

“Fairy Land” and “The Death of Mirandola, 1494”

Lang’s own poetry both enacts and praises the revisionary originality he praises in Villon. “Fairy Land” is Lang’s reworking of the traditional British ballad “Thomas the Rhymer,” which can also be found in the Minstrelsy. Lang responds to Scott’s ballad by retelling it in the first person rather than from a third-person, omniscient perspective. In Scott’s tripartite version, the ballad’s protagonist, Thomas, is seduced by the “queen of fair Elfland” (“Part First” 15) and thereby compelled to “serve … [her] seven years” (27). In many renditions of the ballad, Thomas never returns, but in Scott’s version, seven years pass and Thomas finds himself back in the spot where he first encountered the queen, “Like one awaken’d from a dream” (“Part Second” 4) and with newfound prophetic abilities. In the final third of the poem, we meet Thomas “When seven years more were come and gone” (“Part Third” 1) and “Was war through Scotland spread” (2). He then enchants those assembled at a banquet with tales of “King Arthur’s Table Round” (37) Later that night, “A hart and hind … As white as snow on Fairnalie” (107-08) appear; according to Thomas, “This sign regardeth me” (120), and he returns to Elfland, never to be seen again.

Unlike Scott’s ballad, Lang’s version of “Thomas” contracts, rather than expands, its source text. Lang only tells a portion of Thomas’s story, beginning some time after our protagonist’s return to the human world and ending before his eventual return to Fairy Land. This narrow focus, coupled with Lang’s substitution of Thomas’s internal monologue for Scott’s more traditional omniscient narrator, facilitates his consideration of Thomas’s heretofore unexamined inner life. For example, where Scott’s version begins as “True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank” (1) before meeting the Fairy Queen, Lang’s first stanza depicts Thomas struggling to readjust to life among mortals, asking, “Was beauty once a thing that died? / Was pleasure never satisfied?” (8-9). Similarly, at the end of the poem’s second stanza, Thomas laments, “no words, nor any spell / Can lull the eyes that know too well, / The lost fair world of Fairy Land” (39-47). The poem’s third and final stanza is its most mournful: 48

Ah, would that I had never been The lover of the Fairy Queen! Or would that through the sleepy town, The grey old place of Ercildoune, And all along the little street, The soft fall of the white deer’s feet Came, with the mystical command That I must back to Fairy Land! (42-49)

Like Scott’s Thomas and many iterations of the character before him (Chambers 73), Lang’s protagonist finds himself in Ercildoune (III. 13; 45); in “Fairy Land,” however, Thomas is discontent. He longs for the “mystical command” (48) heralded by the sound of “the white deer’s feet” (47) that, we know from Scott’s ballad, will eventually bear him away. It is unclear whether Lang’s Thomas shares his counterpart’s prophetic abilities, but his wish that he “had never been / The lover of the Fairy Queen” (42-43) suggests that his own fate is a mystery to him.

“The Death of Mirandola, 1494” also reimagines its textual antecedent. Here, Lang participates in and extends a scholarly tradition of arranging divine and supernatural figures around Pico’s deathbed in order to comment on the philosopher’s religious beliefs. Unlike the other writers addressed in “Sonnets to Poets,” Pico is not primarily known for his verse; Pater notes that before he began his philosophical career, Pico “had destroyed those love-songs in the vulgar tongue which would have been such a relief to us after the scholastic prolixity of his Latin writings” (24). Lang situates Pico amongst “Poets,” I believe, because he heard poetry in Pico’s philosophy. I read “The Death of Mirandola, 1494” as, in part, a response to Pater’s essay “Pico della Mirandola,” originally published in the Fortnightly Review (1871) and the second chapter of the Renaissance. 49

“Pico della Mirandola” begins with the claim, “No account of the Renaissance can be complete without some notice of the attempt made by certain Italian scholars of the fifteenth century to reconcile Christianity with the religion of ancient Greece” (18), and, Pater writes, Pico is one of these scholars. Though Pater calls Pico “a knight-errant of philosophy,” pointing out that many of his conclusions were wrong (23), he also praises Pico as emblematic of “the generous instincts of … [his] age” (18) and the intellectual “curiosity” that would come to be refined during the Enlightenment (19). For example, in De hominis dignitate (Oration on the Dignity of Man, 1496), Pico’s Ptolemaic understanding of the cosmos situates humanity at the centre of the universe; according to Pater, “that famous expression of [Francis] Bacon’s,” that to be human is to be an “‘interpreter of nature’ … really belongs to Pico” (23). Pater argues that though the basis of Pico’s thought, the Neoplatonic concept of the Great Chain of Being , was “false …, the theory had its use” (23) insofar as “it was a counterpoise to the increasing tendency of the mediaeval religion to depreciate man’s nature … [because] It helped man onward to that reassertion of himself, that rehabilitation of human nature, the body, the senses, the heart, the intelligence, which the Renaissance fulfills” (24).18 Similarly, Pico’s 900 Theses (1486), which Pater calls “nine hundred bold paradoxes drawn from the most opposite sources,” are valuable not because they prove, as Pico sought and failed to do, the compatibility of astrology, Kabbalah, Christianity, and ancient Greek paganism (23), but because they position Pico as a “true humanist” who “seems never to have doubted, that nothing which has ever interested living men and women can wholly lose its vitality” (28).

This humanism, and, more specifically, how it manifests in Pico’s attempts to reconcile paganism and Christianity, is the topic of Lang’s sonnet. Following a religious awakening, Pico embraced a life of asceticism two years before his untimely death. Pater 18 Pater quotes Pico on this matter: “Tritium es in scholis … esse hominem minorum mundum, in quo mixtum ex elementis corpus et spiritus coelestis et plantarum anima vegetalis et brutorum sensus et ratio aet angelica mens et Dei similitudo comspicitur.” He translates Pico’s words thusly: “It is a commonplace of the schools that man is a little world, in which we may discern a body mingled of earthly elements, and ethereal breath, and the vegetable life of plants, and the senses of the lower animals, and reason, and the intelligence of angels, and a likeness to God” (23). 50

explains that although “he did not become a monk,” Pico’s devotion was such that “He was buried … in the hood and white frock of the Dominican order.” Pico “did not … even after his conversion forget the old gods,” and “in this,” for Pater, lies “the enduring interest of his story” (25).

What Pater calls Pico’s willingness to “seriously and sincerely” consider “the claims on men’s faith of the pagan religions” (25) is of great interest to Lang as well. His sonnet’s epigraph, “The Queen of Heaven appeared, comforting him and promising that he should not utterly die” (175), is taken from Thomas More’s Life of John Picus, Earl of Mirandola (1504), a translation of a biography written by its subject’s nephew, Gianfrancesco Pico (Lehmberg 61). Lang recreates this moment, writing that as Pico lay dying, “The Virgin … to comfort him … / Kissed the thin cheek” (6-7). However, he then departs from More’s text, and we learn that this visitor was not “alone” (9). At the sonnet’s volta, Lang shifts from reproducing More’s Catholicism to celebrating Pico’s syncretism: we learn that Pico is also “mourned” (13) by “Venus in her mourning weed, / Pallas and Dian” (11-12). This image literalizes Pater’s vision of Pico “lying down to rest in the Dominican habit, yet amid thoughts of the older gods” (25). Lang intensifies this comparison of Christianity and paganism, telling readers that the “queens of the old creed” who visit Pico are “Like [the] rival queens that tended Arthur” (9-10). By equating Arthurian legend with religion, Lang positions himself as an inheritor of Pico’s comparativist reading practices. These “rival queens” (10) are also an allusion to the penultimate poem in Tennyson’s Idylls of the King, “The Passing of Arthur” (1869), in which the dying king is accompanied to Avalon by “Three queens with crowns of gold” (367).19 In this poem, Arthur responds to Sir Bedivere’s lamentations that “now the whole Round Table is dissolved / Which was an image of the mighty world” (402-03) with words that echo Pico’s hybrid Christianity: “The old order changeth, yielding place to new, /And God fulfils himself in many ways, / Lest one good

19 Idylls of the King, which Tennyson expanded several times between 1859 and 1874, was collocated by an edition of Tennyson’s Works published by the Imperial Library in 1872-73. This version of the Idylls included an epilogue dedicated to Queen Victoria; previously, “The Passing of Arthur” had been the final poem in the series. 51 custom should corrupt the world” (408-10). Perhaps, Lang suggests, these “many ways” might include an appreciation of myth and legend as well as Christian practices.

In Lang’s sonnet, “the old world passe[s] away” (2) as Pico nears death, both because Pico is transitioning from this world to the next and because his death occurs at a pivotal moment in history. According to Pater, Pico “died ... on the very day on which Charles the Eighth entered Florence” (25), beginning the First Italian War. Lang alludes to this by beginning the sonnet with a description of the “Strange lilies” (1) blooming as Pico lay dying. These unseasonable flowers are fleurs de lis, “the lilies of the shield of France” (Pater 25), but they also serve an additional symbolic function in the sonnet. Though it is “autumn” (1), “new and old” are “mingling” (1-2), confounding the transition from autumn to winter in the same way that Pico’s allochronic philosophy imagines “The religions of the world … subsisting side by side, and substantially in agreement with each other” (Pater 20). Though this view, Pater explains, is wrong, it is not without value; indeed, Pico “has a true place in that group of great Italians who fill the end of the fifteenth century with their names” both because of his respect for that “which … [others] have ever been passionate” and for his own passionate inquiry into such topics, which Pater deems “the essence of humanism” (28). Similarly, for Lang, Pico’s diverse interests are cause for celebration; he is rewarded with a pantheistic escort to the afterlife because he “living did not wrong / One altar of its dues of wine and song” (13-14). For Lang, multidisciplinarity is its own reward.

Conclusion

Ballads and Lyrics of Old France is, in some ways, a relic of a particular moment in Lang’s career; he would eventually distance himself from Pater, writing to his friend Anna Hills, “Time was when I admired Mr. Pater inordinately, and Rossetti beyond measure, but one can introduce some limit to one’s worship” (23 March [1893]). He would also denounce Pater’s disciples when, beginning in the 1880s, he prescribed the 52 epic and folk traditions of ages past as antidotes to what he saw as contemporary fiction’s tendency toward degeneracy (Reid 356). However, as Siegel points out, survivals and “the processes of salvage and preservation by which they move in and out of later culture” (para. 12) would be, for Lang, lifelong concerns, and these would continue to shape his conceptions and performances of authorship during the height of his popularity in the closing decades of the nineteenth century. Though his focus would shift from medieval French poetry to romance by the late 1880s, Lang’s insistence on adaptation as a precondition of literary value indicates more than a trace of Pater’s continued influence on his work. 53

Chapter Two

Andrew Lang’s Literary Defences of H. Rider Haggard

In the previous chapter, I argued that Andrew Lang’s first book, an anthology of translated and original poetry titled Ballads and Lyrics of Old France: With Other Poems (1872), establishes the intertextual practices that would continue to inform his literary and critical work. By including his own poems alongside his translations of medieval and contemporary French poetry and contemporary Greek ballads, Lang positions himself at the crossroads of popular and literary poetic traditions in order to demonstrate his linguistic, ethnographic, and editorial abilities; moreover, by innovating within the constraints of established poetic forms, Lang enacts his own definition of literary originality. If, however, Jorge Luis Borges’s maxim that “each writer creates his own precursors” (337) describes Lang’s career in the early 1870s, by the late 1880s, he was a well-established man of letters who was willing and able to help construct literary genealogies for and, relatedly, defend the originality of authors he admired.

Marysa Demoor explains that Lang’s widely-read reviews played no small role in “the definitive break-through[s]” of H. Rider Haggard, Robert Louis Stevenson, George Gissing, Rudyard Kipling, H.G. Wells, and Arthur Conan Doyle (“Causeries” 18). In the cases of Haggard, Stevenson, Kipling, and Conan Doyle, these endorsements led to friendships, which then begat further endorsements; in her biography of Lang, Eleanor De Selms Langstaff explains that he “considered it ethical to use his literary influence to encourage the public to buy his friends’ books, as though his friendship was a guarantee of quality” (117). Although all of these relationships are fascinating — see, for example, Demoor’s edition of Lang and Stevenson’s letters — Lang’s efforts on Haggard’s behalf are particularly relevant to this dissertation. In a number of Lang’s critical articles and fictive works, Haggard’s novels are his point of entry into contemporary debates about genre, plagiarism, and the nature of authorship.

Nearly all of the existing research on Lang and Haggard focuses on the relationship 54 between Lang’s criticism and Haggard’s fiction, particularly their shared preference for romance. For example, Demoor’s survey of their correspondence is primarily intended “to describe the authors’ respective contributions to their special friendship as well as the literary taste which brought them together in the first place” (313-14). Lang’s contemporaries were unimpressed that he rigorously defended Haggard’s books but disliked Thomas Hardy’s (Green, Andrew Lang 168), and this preference would come to “undermin[e] Lang’s critical reputation” (Weintraub 13). More recent scholarship has sought to recuperate, or at least nuance, both writers’ legacies by modelling new ways of interpreting their reciprocal influence. Kathy Alexis Psomiades argues that Lang’s Tylorian approach to literature, which I discuss in the previous chapter, informed Haggard’s She (1887); she then traces this chain of influence to Sigmund Freud’s discussion of She in The Interpretation of Dreams (1899) (par. 1). Through Haggard, Psomiades argues, Lang indirectly shapes the thought of Claude Lévi-Strauss and Fredric Jameson, and so continues to influence critical theory’s quest for encrypted, unconscious meaning (par. 3n). Hensley, by contrast, pursues a formalist reading, illuminating the influence of Lang’s Homeric scholarship on Haggard’s prose in order to historicize Haggard’s focus on action rather than introspection. This, Hensley argues, is not a stylistic deficiency; rather, Haggard’s romances constitute a deliberate attempt to recreate the prose style of a more heroic age, an aesthetic project that was at odds with the “depth” that characterized the realist novels of his contemporaries and that critics still privilege today (Forms of Empire 237).

None of these important approaches have taken into account, however, Lang’s creative works that engage with Haggard’s romances through either parody or collaboration. Because these creative works provide valuable insight into the intersections between Lang’s aesthetic theories and practices, this chapter contributes to Lang studies by focusing on three such texts: He (1887), “From Mr. Allan Quatermain to Sir Henry Curtis” (1890), and The World’s Desire (1890). These works are characterized by dense networks of citations of literature, contemporary print culture, classical scholarship, and 55

anthropology, all fields in which Lang was well-versed and that were, at his particular historical moment, rapidly shifting. I argue that these citations can be read as part of Lang’s effort to resist such changes: he uses citation to illustrate the value of Haggard’s work and the male-dominated romance, to disparage women’s authorship and purportedly feminized genres like realism and the New Journalism, and to defend the legitimacy of his own critical position.

Lang’s referential practices in these works should, I argue, be categorized as citation rather than as quotation, allusion, or intertext because citation is the term that best conveys Lang’s marshalling of authoritative evidence for his claims, his confidence in his own expertise, and his willingness to engage in debate. The Oxford English Dictionary is helpful in this regard. It defines citation as the “act of quoting or referring to a passage, text, author, legal precedent, … esp[ecially] as an authority or in support of an argument,” and Lang frequently deploys direct, allusive, and parodic literary references, anthropological discourses, and classical scholarship in his defenses of Haggard. Moreover, Lang’s frequent comparisons of Haggard to Homer and others also bring to mind a now-obsolete definition of citation as “A summons; a call” (OED). Finally, Lang’s thorough — and notoriously provocative — engagement with those with whom he disagreed is congruent with “the action or an act of citing or summoning someone to a court of law, tribunal, or the like” (OED) insofar as he prosecutes authors, critics, and entire genres in the court of public opinion.

My argument in this chapter is indebted to Sara Ahmed’s critique of current academic practices in her most recent book, Living a Feminist Life, and on her blog, Feminist Killjoys. She classifies citation as performative, writing that it is both “how we generate knowledge” (Living 14) and “how we acknowledge our debt to those who came before” (15). By telling us who is and who, via omission, is not worth reading, “citational structures can form what we call disciplines,” and “The reproduction of a discipline can be the reproduction of these techniques of selection, ways of making certain bodies and 56

thematics core to the discipline, and others not even part” (“Making” par. 3).20 Academic disciplines are thus imagined communities of the sort envisaged by Benedict Anderson. No discipline “imagines itself coterminous with mankind,” and so maintaining a particular form of “comradeship” (7) fortified not by “the novel and the newspaper” (25), but by the monograph, the journal article, and the bibliography, depends upon excluding some voices and ideas altogether.

Citationality is another form of academic relationality. … White men cite other white men: it is what they have always done; it is what they will do; what they teach each other to do when they teach each other. … The relation is often paternal: the father brings up the son who will eventually take his place. (“White Men” par. 24)

In other words, “Citation is a rather successful reproductive technology, a way of reproducing the world around certain bodies” (“Making” par. 4).21 Ahmed’s generative imagery here echoes Elaine Showalter’s Sexual Anarchy, which enumerates “the fantasies of male self-creation” and “alternative forms of male reproduction” that characterize both Lang’s criticism and a number of resolutely masculinist fin de siècle novels by Haggard and others. These works express, Showalter argues, anxieties about women’s increasing presence in the literary marketplace (78). Such exclusionary practices could have material results; as Linda K. Hughes explains, in the crowded fin de siècle literary marketplace, reviews, interviews, and gossip columns became essential to the success of “the aspiring author [who] needed to attain citation and hence visibility before a new reading public” (135). Thus, whether or not the editors of The Edinburgh Critical Edition of the

20 Here, Ahmed draws on Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble, which defines gender as “performatively constituted by the very ‘expressions’ that are said to be its results” (25). Butler is informed by her reading of Jacques Derrida’s deconstructive minimization of authorial intention, which is characterized by, as Kira Hall explains, a belief that “context can never be identified since speech acts work through a … [process] of never-ending citationality” (185). This theory resonates with Lang’s position that true literary originality is impossible.

21 In Living a Feminist Life, Ahmed uses a different simile, “describ[ing] citations as academic bricks through which we create houses.” She argues that “When citational practices become habits, bricks form walls” that bar non-white, non-male, trans, and queer bodies from accessing academic spaces both literally and figuratively (148).

58 which, as the previous chapter discusses, Lang excelled. The novel, which Lang co-wrote with Haggard, stages an ill-fated love affair between Odysseus and Helen of Troy. Through the duplicitous Egyptian queen and sorceress Meriamun, The World’s Desire evinces an anxiety about the inescapability of women, even in male-oriented genres like epic and romance. Though both authors collaborated on the body of the novel, Lang alone wrote its paratexts (two poems and, in later editions, a prefatory note); in these, he cites both the classical tradition and contemporary scholarship as evidence that The World’s Desire is an authentic interpretation of its source texts. These justifications indicate that the novel, despite its imaginative intervention in the literary canon, is ultimately an attempt to preserve the status quo, thereby revealing its fragility. Taken together, these three texts demonstrate the phenomenon that Caroline Levine in Forms calls “collision,” that is, “the strange encounter between two or more forms that sometimes reroutes intention and ideology” (18). In Lang’s defences of Haggard, I argue, collisions between social, literary, and material forms contribute to our understanding of Lang’s perceptions of literary originality, his responses to the increased numbers in which women were entering the literary marketplace, and the ways in which he deploys citation against the writers he sees as Haggard’s rivals.

Lang’s Rise and the Role of the Critic

The specific conditions of late-Victorian print culture were essential to Lang’s success, and so I will briefly describe these in order to contextualize my arguments regarding the scope and nature of his influence. Three years after the publication of Ballads, Lang withdrew from his Oxford fellowship to launch a career in journalism and to marry Leonora Blanche “Nora” Alleyne, an accomplished author and translator to whom Chapters Three and Four of this dissertation are devoted. Lang’s move from academia to letters was a canny financial decision, as the final decades of the nineteenth century were “a time when social and economic changes had a more dramatic effect on the conditions 59 of authorship than at any time since Gutenberg” (Cross 204). Technological advances in the mechanization and, later in the century, the automatization of printing made reading material more accessible, and an expanded reading public was eager and able to take advantage of this. The 1871, 1880, and 1891 Elementary Education Acts ensured, Richard D. Altick explains, that “Very poor children, living in slums or in remote country regions, were taught to read” and that the quality of literacy instruction received by all children in state schools improved (172).22

By the 1880s, these children had grown up, and, according to Nigel Cross, their subsequent demand for affordable, accessible reading material, coupled with an overall “increase in disposable incomes,” precipitated “the growth of popular journalism,” which resulted in the publication of more and more diverse magazines, journals, and newspapers (206) and gave rise to the New Journalism, characterized by “new types of content, such as interviews, human interest stories, celebrity features, and a shifting emphasis from opinion to news” (Hampton para. 1). At the same time, “the market for cheap quick issue reprints” — as opposed to the expensive three-volume editions that were primarily purchased by circulating libraries like Mudie’s — exploded, and “the logical outcome of this trend was the cheap one-volume novel” (Cross 207). Many of these one-volume novels were adventure fiction, and, like the penny dreadfuls and sensation fiction of generations past, they appealed to working-class and bourgeois readers alike. Finally, under these conditions, a culture of critical commentary rooted in book reviews and heated debates about the nature of artistic value flourished.

All of this meant that there were more opportunities for journalists, authors, and critics to

22 In his landmark study The English Common Reader, Altick analyzes census data regarding literacy rates that was collected at ten-year intervals from 1841 to 1891. This data reveals that “In the two decades before the … [1871] Act, the literacy rate for males had increased by 11.3 percentage points and that for females by 18.4 points. In the next two decades” — by which time the Board school students would have been adults — “the increase was 13.0 and 19.5, respectively” (171). Thus, he concludes, the 1871 “Act did not significantly hasten the spread of literacy,” but “what it did do was … ensure that the rate at which literacy had increased 1851-1871 would be maintained” (171-72). Moreover, the Act also ensured that literacy would spread to populations that had previously foregone the previous system of church-run education for their children on economic or religious grounds (172). 60 earn a living than ever before. A writer as versatile, educated, and efficient as Lang was well-equipped to succeed in this fast-paced and often combative market.23 Lang began working for his long-time publisher, Longmans, Green, and Co. in the early 1870s. F.W. Longman, a cousin of Charles Longman — who would eventually take control of the family business and become Lang’s life-long friend — had been Lang’s friend and fellow student at Balliol. The firm published Ballads, as I discuss in Chapter One, while Lang was still at Merton, and he began working as “a consultant and reader for” Longman at the same time (Maurer 153). During this period, Lang wrote anonymous leaders for the Daily News — collected in 1889 by W. Pett Ridge as Lost Leaders — that were easily identifiable by “the individuality of his style” and of which George Bernard Shaw was an ardent fan (Green, Andrew Lang 57); he also contributed reviews to the Academy and the Saturday Review and articles on literature and folklore to the Fortnightly Review and Cornhill (Maurer 153). By the time Longman’s long-running Fraser’s Magazine (1830-82) folded and was succeeded by Longman’s Magazine in 1882, Lang was a celebrity.

With a six-penny cover price and no illustrations, Longman’s Magazine was read mostly by the middle class (Reid 355-56). Lang’s influence on the magazine is evident from its first issue: he recommended that Longman publish Stevenson’s essay “A Gossip on Romance” (1882), a rallying cry for the romance revival that Lang would credit Treasure Island (1883) with beginning in earnest. In 1885, the magazine capitalized on Lang’s

23 Of course, as George Gissing’s New Grub Street (1895) demonstrates, talent and drive alone were not enough to ensure a writer’s success. For example, Ralph Warbury, the novel’s “all-round man of letters … whose name you’ll happen to see in the first magazine you happen to open” is “a clever, prolific man” not unlike many of his less successful contemporaries. However, “he began with money and friends; he came from Oxford into the thick of advertised people” (26). Jasper Milvain, who delivers this analysis of Warbury’s success, is working toward a similar career for himself. He opines, “Literature nowadays is a trade. Putting aside men of genius, who may succeed by mere cosmic force, your successful man of letters is your skilful tradesman. He thinks first and foremost of the markets; when one kind of goods begins to go off slackly, he is ready with something new and appetising” (8), and this philosophy serves him well. I include these excerpts because, as Cross points out, both Milvain, who is superhumanly productive, and Warbury, who is connected, wealthy, and educated, were, in part, based on Lang (224). Critical response to the novel was mixed: “The Author carried a review by Walter Besant, founder of the writers’ trade union, the Society of Authors, which praised it for the wrong reasons, blaming Reardon for his weakness and praising Milvain’s common sense. … Lang condemned it in the same journal for being too” pessimistic (Goode x). 61

popularity with the regular column “At the Sign of the Ship,” a causerie that Langstaff describes as “a chatty accumulation of paragraphs on assorted subjects, poems by Lang and others, gentle literary gossip, and enthusiastic recommendations of books Lang liked. The column was always placed in the last portion of Longman’s, after the fiction writing and other articles.” The column ended when the magazine folded in 1905, at which point Lang began writing a similar causerie, “At the Sign of St. Paul’s” for St. Paul’s Magazine (117). Lang’s devoted fan-base devoured these columns, especially “At the Sign of the Ship,” and to be cited by Lang — admiringly or otherwise — was to be brought to the attention of a large readership.

Though this chapter focuses on Lang’s uses of citation in his battles with Haggard’s critics, he was, of course, not the only late-Victorian who publicly disagreed with his colleagues, and nor were Haggard’s critics the only colleagues with whom Lang publicly disagreed. John Sloan, who focuses primarily on James Abbott Whistler and Oscar Wilde’s mutual antipathy, writes that though “Literary feuds have … flourished in all ages” (246), these became particularly prevalent at the fin de siècle because “the expanding marketplace” opened new avenues for aesthetic debates, self-promotion, and financial competition (248). By and large, the reading public enjoyed these quarrels, and “In the age of mass culture and the popular press, public rowing was regarded as a favourite device for the attention-seekers whose wish was to astonish and arrive” (249).

Sometimes, however, these rows were between more established figures; take, for example, Lang and Hardy’s 1892 debate over Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Lang’s review of the novel in The New Review is mixed: he praises its “moral passages of great beauty” (248) and “exquisite studies of the few remaining idyllic passages in rural life” (249), but dislikes the novel’s “persistent melancholy,” suggesting that “probably bitterness is never a mark of the greatest art and the noblest thought” (248). Hardy responds to this review in the preface to the novel’s 1892 one-volume edition. Here, Hardy cites Lear — “As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; / They kill us for their sport” — as he chastises an unnamed “great critic” for his ignorance of the fact that “to 62

exclaim illogically against the gods, singular or plural, is no such an original sin of mine as he seems to imagine” (37). Perhaps unsurprisingly, Lang swiftly responded to what he calls Hardy’s “petulant expression of annoyance” (101) in the November 1892 instalment of “At the Sign of the Ship.” First, he cites his previous evaluation: “Mr. Hardy … does always give us of his best — of his best labour and earnest endeavour — and this is a virtue not universal among artists” (102). Lang then follows this faint praise with a more thorough catalogue of his objections to the novel, all of which are supported by either implicit or explicit citations.

In the column, Lang deploys literary and scientific citations against Tess. For example, he insinuates that Stevenson disliked Tess by remarking that the novel fared well with a Scottish reader “living his life out in a remote savage island, which, by the way, is not Samoa” (102), the place that Stevenson called home.24 The main thrust of Lang’s argument is that he dislikes Tess “for its forbidding conception, for its apparent unreality, for its defects of style, so provokingly superfluous” (105), an assessment that he supports with a rigorous close reading (102-05) and citations of fictional and scholarly texts that, he suggests, “will occur to the studious reader” (103). He continues: “Other girls in fiction have been seduced with more blame, and have not lost our sympathy” (103), including the heroines of Clarissa, The Heart of Midlothian, and Madame Bovary (103-04). Finally, he argues that Hardy’s free indirect discourse is unrealistic because “the words ‘cerebral’ and ‘metaphysical’ were probably not in” Mrs. Durbeyfield’s “West Saxon vocabulary.” He suggests that uch terminology “legitimately might” be used by “Mr. Herbert Spencer, analysing his own state of mind, after dinner, for Typical Developments” (104) but it is “out of place” in the mind of “an unscientific character” (105). Thus, though Lang demurs that he here merely gives his “subjective and personal opinion,” his citation of literature and science suggest that this opinion is well- informed. Lang speculates that Hardy responded to him in particular because “I signed

24 Stevenson and Henry James corresponded about their mutual dislike of Tess (Millgate 344), but, perhaps because they expressed their opinions more privately than Lang did, no damage was done to their reputations. 63

my notice in the New Review” (101); interestingly, Hardy’s citation of Lang has, in a roundabout way, contributed to the latter’s critical afterlife, as many recent scholarly editions of Tess include both Hardy’s preface to the second edition and at least a brief explanation of this spat.

Lang begins his rejoinder to Hardy with characteristic flippancy: “Could I write a successful novel — which is not a probable chance — I think I might contemplate the royalties with an avaricious grin.” However, he argues, Hardy’s address to “the graceless persons … who did not admire [Tess] without qualification” is bad form because Hardy has no commercial and very little critical reason to “stand on the defensive” (100). “Arguing about” Lang’s preference for Far From the Madding Crowd (1874) over Tess “proves nothing” (106) but Hardy’s pettiness. Lang concludes by parodying Hardy’s self-defence: “Might we not have a new periodical, The Author’s Review, in which authors should criticize their own books, after the critics … had had their foolish and unenlightened say? … Artists of all sorts might plead their own cause in it” (107). For Lang, the self-citations that this periodical would publish are unforgivable; an author reviewing his or her own work could not properly perform what Lang saw as the critic’s duties.

In one of many statements on these duties, the July 1887 iteration of “At the Sign of the Ship,” Lang argues that the critic helps good authors “to improve” (330) and “turns” bad authors away “from a business in which they are of no avail” (329). A critic might also discover a “new genius” and bring “him” to the public’s attention, or, “at least, [give] the stranger a chance” and provide encouragement until the public is ready to take notice (330). In September 1890, Lang further refines his definition of criticism: “it is time that the line be firmly drawn between criticism and reviewing” (569). A short review, or notice, “may be merely an item of literary news, or it may be a brief summary … or it may be a puff, or it may be a spiteful insult,” but it “is not ‘criticism.’” A reviewer who “must do a dozen books briefly” on a tight deadline cannot “treat each of them with the touch of a specialist.” It is for this reason, Lang writes, that he pays little attention to 64 reviews of “any new venture of my own”; they will inevitably say, “The versatile and industrious Mr. L. New field. Accustomed lightness of touch. Desultory. Inaccurate. May be read without fatigue. Opinions still divided as to Mr. L’s conclusions” (570). Lang seems to treat his hypothetical reviewer with equanimity: “He has a right to his opinion, and one likes to hear him express it as though he meant it” (571); however, he also implies that anyone who negatively reviews his work does not understand it, a point that he will later be unwilling to concede to Hardy.

This tension between Lang’s positive self-citation and his negative citation of Hardy is reconciled, however, by Lang’s separation of criticism and reviewing. “Criticism seems more valuable” to him than reviews because criticism is “Reasoned and considered writing on the tried masterpieces of the world, or even ingenious and entertaining writing about new books.” Such work, written by “a clever and accomplished man,” can provide “insight into another nature,” regardless of the critic’s “praise or condemnation” of the work in question. This contextualizes Lang’s response to Hardy: by misreading Lang’s criticism of Tess as a review, Hardy focuses too closely on what Lang here calls his “verdict,” thereby shutting himself off from — in addition to potentially helpful feedback — the intellectual “pleasure” that, Lang argues, truly good criticism can impart (571). Furthermore, unlike his unnamed, cursory “reviewer,” Lang does indeed have “encyclopedic” (570) knowledge of literature and science, and so his objections to Hardy’s citation of these fields is valid. Moreover, for Lang, Hardy’s defensiveness betrays his lack of trust in his book’s quality, as a critic’s “verdict can attract ... attention” to the work in question, and “The public which reads is not so easily led.” Besides, “the larger reading public elects its own favourites in contempt, or in ignorance, of reviews” (571), and so plenty of readers less qualified — that is, with fewer citations at hand — than Lang will probably purchase Tess anyway. 65

He and the “Ethics of Reviewing”

Despite the very public nature of this quarrel, its lasting effects on Lang’s critical reputation, and Lang’s close relationship with Haggard, Lang and Hardy’s spat is not mentioned in Haggard’s autobiography, The Days of My Life (1926). This omission is odd because Days is otherwise very concerned with literary legacies. For example, Haggard cites not only his own work but the opinion of “my friend, Mr. Rudyard Kipling” when discussing how he hopes to be remembered. According to Haggard, both he and Kipling believe that “all fiction is in its essence an appeal to the emotions, and … this is not the highest class of appeal” (1: xx); accordingly, Haggard believes, “should my novels be forgotten in the passage of years, Rural England [(1902)] and my other books on agriculture may still serve to keep my memory green” (1: xxiv).25

Although two chapters of Days are devoted to Haggard and Lang’s friendship, Haggard remains silent about the animosity between Lang and Hardy. Instead, he parallels the moral outrage directed at Jude the Obscure to the critical distaste for the plot and style of his own novel Cleopatra (1889). Of “professional critics” and their negative reviews, Haggard writes:

Little do these gentlemen know the harm they do sometimes. A story comes into my mind in illustration of this truth. One day … I was in the little writing-room of the Savile Club … [when] Thomas Hardy entered and took up one of the leading weekly papers in which was a long review of his last novel. He read it, then came to me — there were no others in the room — and pointed out a certain passage.

“There’s a nice thing to say about a man!” he exclaimed. “Well, I’ll never write another novel.”

25 The full title of this book is Rural England: Being an Account of the Agricultural and Social Researches Carried Out in 1901 and 1902. 66

And he never did. (1: 272-73)

Here, Haggard neglects to mention that although Hardy was no doubt frustrated that Jude “proved to be as controversial as Tess … the sales of both Tess and Jude were so large that (when the continuing success of earlier novels was taken into account) he had no further financial obligation to pursue the career of a fiction-writer” (Watts 12). Hardy never forgave Lang for his negative review of Tess (Millgate 295), but he consented to the publication of the passage cited above (Longman x). Perhaps he felt that being cited in this way allowed him to have the last word against Lang, who had, by that point, been dead for fourteen years. In this case, the absence of a citation calls attention to, rather than elides, an inconsistency in Haggard’s story.

Haggard’s professed dislike of “professional critics” is somewhat hypocritical, as he greatly benefitted from Lang’s personal and professional support, which he discusses in detail immediately after recounting the above anecdote about Hardy (1: 273-74). This is not to say that Haggard takes Lang’s friendship for granted; he describes Lang as “one of the sweetest-natured and highest minded men whom it has ever been my privilege to know.” He also does not romanticize his friend, noting, “a certain obtrusive honesty … and an indifferent off-handedness of manner … [have] prevented him from becoming generally popular” (1: 228). Lang and Haggard’s relationship began as a professional one on March 28, 1885, when Lang, in his capacity as the London editor of Harper’s Magazine, rejected Haggard’s story “The Blue Curtains” (Green, Andrew Lang 176). However, he closed his letter with praise for Haggard’s second novel, The Witch’s Head (1885), writing, “I have not read anything so good for a long time” (qtd. in Haggard 1: 227). Later that year, W.E. Henley gave Lang the unpublished manuscript of King Solomon’s Mines, and Lang wrote to Haggard, “There is so much invention and imaginative power and knowledge of African character in your book that I almost prefer it to Treasure Island” (qtd. in Haggard 1: 227). The two became fast friends: by October 3, Lang addressed Haggard as “Rider Haggard” (qtd. in Haggard 1: 228) rather than “Mr. Rider Haggard,” which, Haggard writes in his autobiography, “show[s] that by now we 67 were on more or less intimate terms” (1: 228). This intimacy continued to grow: two years later, Lang sent Haggard a gift, writing, “I see in a Biography of you that your Birthday is the 22nd. I am sending you a b.d. present, but don’t open it till your birthday” (13 June 1887).

The first of Haggard’s two chapters about Lang discusses primarily business matters, the second, written the day after Lang’s death (2: 72), is dedicated to his friend’s personality. Here, Haggard writes that although “I have not seen much of Andrew Lang of late years, for the reason that we lived totally different lives in totally different localities” (2: 73), Lang was “among men my best friend perhaps, and the one with whom I was most entirely in tune” (2: 80). After Lang’s death, Haggard writes, “his wife” gave “to me a … token of remembrance,” one of two ancient Egyptian rings featuring cats that the two purchased as tokens of their friendship in 1887, and which he “shall always wear” (2: 82). Their admiration was mutual: after the premature death of his younger brother, Alexander Craig Lang, Lang, reflecting on mortality and the importance of human relationships, wrote to Haggard that “You have been more to me of what the dead friends of my youth were, than any other man, and I take the chance to say it, though not given to speaking of such matters” (20 Feb. 1896). Nora Lang and Haggard do not appear to have gotten along particularly well — she writes in an undated postcard to her nephew William Munro that “Rider Haggard’s Auto” was “much more congenial to me than I expected” — but the reasons for this are unclear.

Despite Lang’s public and private endorsements of Haggard’s work, Days indicates Haggard’s somewhat dimmer view of his own literary abilities. While reflecting on his failed 1895 Parliamentary campaign, he laments, “though I feel myself more strongly drawn to other pursuits, such as administration or politics or even law, I have been called upon to earn the bread of myself and others out of a kind of by-product of my brain which chances to be saleable; namely, the writing of fiction” (1: xxii-xxiii). In this same introductory overview of his public life thus far, he confesses, “I have done nothing at all in my profession at the Bar. In an unfortunate hour, considered from this point of view, I 68 employed my somewhat ample leisure in chambers in writing King Solomon’s Mines. That, metaphorically, settled my legal hash” (1: xix). He speculates that “The British solicitor, and indeed the British client, cannot be induced to put confidence in anyone who has become well known as an author” because “That such a person should combine gifts of imagination with forensic aptitude and sound legal knowledge is a thing to them past all belief” (1: xx).

Conversely, an unsigned review in The Pall Mall Gazette objected to King Solomon’s Mines on the grounds that Haggard’s style was too forensic — or, at least, too journalistic; indeed, Haggard had, before his rise to literary fame, contributed a number of articles on South African cultures and politics to a variety of periodicals, and he would continue to do so throughout his career (Griffiths 92-101). In January 1887, Haggard was, thanks to the serial success of King Solomon’s Mines, already a celebrity when the Gazette published what Andrew Griffiths calls “a remarkably mixed review” of She’s recently-completed serial run in The Graphic. This review, which was “quite possibly [written] by Stead himself” (Griffiths 88), praises the novel’s plot but condemns its style, speculating that “If Dante had been accompanied on his tour of the ‘città dolente’ by a special correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, the result would have been just such a book as She” (qtd. in Griffiths 88-89). This comparison to the Telegraph is not a compliment, but it is also surprising: along with the Telegraph, the Gazette “was one of the journals most closely associated with the New Journalism” (Griffiths 89). In fact, just five months after the Gazette compared Haggard to “a special correspondent,” Matthew Arnold, writing in the Nineteenth Century, coined the term “New Journalism” and attributed the creation of the genre to Stead (638-39). Stead had made his name in 1885 with a lurid exposé of child prostitution in Britain that the Gazette published as a series of articles called “The Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon” that was “apparently the prompt for … Arnold’s designation” (Campbell 20). Stead’s undercover reporting for the “Maiden Tribute” series culminated in what Gretchen Soderlund calls his “virgin-purchasing stunt” (54) and the subsequent criminal trial, which resulted in Stead serving a three-month 69 sentence for the “conspiracy to commit abduction” of thirteen year-old Eliza Armstrong (58). Luckily for Stead, he was, unlike his collaborators, well-treated by his jailers and found prison generally restful (59). The publicity surrounding the series and Stead’s trial led to the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885, which raised the age of consent from thirteen to sixteen, strengthened legislation against brothels, and re-criminalized male homosexuality. By 1886, “The Gazette had become synonymous with Stead” (Soderlund 60) in much the same way that Longman’s was synonymous with Lang.

Haggard’s reply to the Gazette’s review further highlights the similarities between his style and the New Journalism’s. In the essay “About Fiction,” published by the Contemporary Review in February 1887, he employs a truly outrageous simile to dismiss most Victorian print media — including periodicals — as evidence of “the enormous appetite of readers, who are prepared, like a diseased ostrich, to swallow stones and even carrion, rather than not get their fill of novelties” (173), thereby insulting his core readership. Haggard’s hypocrisy is not the only reason that “About Fiction” is not particularly convincing; he demonstrates a lack of the kind of expertise that, for Lang, is the mark of a truly good critic. For example, Haggard claims that “with the exception of perfect sculpture, really good romance writing is perhaps the most difficult art practiced by the sons of men” (172), a claim that is as off-putting as it is unprovable. Luckily, he had one of the “professional critics” whom he claimed to despise ready to come to his defense when Stead responded.

The ensuing battle between Stead and Lang was the kind of very public performance that, according to Sloane, the late Victorians loved. Though this debate was ostensibly about the relative merits of both She and of Haggard’s authorial practices, the real nature of Lang and Stead’s disagreement was rooted in contemporary debates about the nature not only of art, but also of expertise. This becomes evident when one considers Lang’s tireless deployment of citation to defend Haggard and, by extension, to challenge Stead’s authority as a literary critic. For example, the violent Amahagger tribe of Haggard’s novel are, in He — published only a month after the Gazette’s review of She — the “Ama Lo- 70 grolla.” Rather than “hot-potting” their victims by killing them with the same vessel in which they will be cooked (She 134), the members of Lang and Pollock’s tribe “slate strangers” (26). This pun refers to both their practice of hitting interlopers with schoolroom-sized writing tablets and the slang use of “slate” to mean “a severe criticism” (OED): the Ama Lo-grolla are both literal and figurative gatekeepers.26 The slang term “log-rollery” generally refers to the exchange of endorsements by politicians (OED), but it was also applied to print culture by Stead, who repeatedly referred to Lang and Haggard as “the Log-Rollers,” claiming they were members of “the Mutual Admiration Society of Authors” (Green 122). Lang had already addressed these accusations in “At the Sign of the Ship” in December 1886, where he outlines his own “Ethics of Reviewing.” He dismisses Stead’s belief that “Mutual Admiration Societies” of authors “combine to denounce the books of persons who are not of their set,” writing that “As one not unacquainted with the handicraft of reviewing, I humbly remark that I don’t believe in the conspiracy” (216).

Though Lang acknowledges that some reviews are more biased than others, he opines that personal relationships do not weaken critical faculties; on the contrary, a reviewer might be “one of the very few practiced and competent judges of … [a] friend’s special knowledge and performances” (218). Concluding that he has been accused of both praising and maligning books he has neither reviewed nor even read, Lang suggests that the “problem” of log-rollery is a misunderstanding that could easily be solved by requiring all reviewers to sign their work (218-19). This likely alludes to the rumours that Lang had “written a dozen or more notices of” She, which Haggard is “almost sure” are not true (1: 248). Their correspondence suggests that these accusations were false not because Lang was particularly ethical, but because Haggard dedicated the novel to him and thereby foreclosed his ability “to review it, except with my name signed thereto, and an honest explanation” (27 July 1886). Thus, though Lang and Pollock mock Stead’s use

26 Incidentally, though the term “slating” is defined in John Camden Hotten’s The Slang Dictionary, published in 1865, as meaning “in the language of the reviewers, ‘to cut up’” (234), Lang’s Books and Bookmen (1886) is the first usage of the term cited by the Oxford English Dictionary (“slate, n.”). 71 of “log-rollery,” in He, Lang’s private, unironic use of the term over two years later — he confides in a letter to Haggard that he is “infinitely more anxious for your success than for my own, which is not an excitement to me. But Lord love you, it would be log-rollery to say that in a review” (qtd. in Haggard 1: 274) — suggests that Stead’s criticisms had touched a nerve.

He is dedicated to “Allan Quatermain,” whom “Two of the Ama-Logrolla” thank for aiding “so manfully in the restoration of King Romance” (v), a reference to a poem that Lang had previously written about Haggard and their mutual friend Stevenson’s roles in the romance revival (Koestenbaum 153). He’s prefatory materials both conflate and separate Haggard and Quatermain: though the dedication assures Quatermain that “the respectful Liberty we have taken with your Wondrous Tale” does not demonstrate “any lack of Loyalty to our lady Ayesha” (v), this dedication is preceded by a sonnet, “She,” which is dedicated “To H. Rider Haggard” (iii). Though He’s prefatory poem, parodic dedication, and novel are formally separated — each begins on the recto of a new page — collisions between them are perhaps unavoidable. This formal intimation that an author is not entirely separable from his or her work is a more flattering reflection of the manner in which, via the character Pellmelli, Lang and Haggard conflate Stead and the Gazette (Griffiths 102-04).

Similar conflations can be found in the book’s prefatory sonnet, “She”:

Not in the waste beyond the swamps and sand, The fever-haunted forest and lagoon, Mysterious Kôr thy walls forsaken stand, Thy lonely towers beneath the lonely moon, Not there doth Ayesha linger, rune by rune Spelling strange scriptures of a people banned. The world is disenchanted; over soon Shall Europe send her spies through all the land.

73 setting also speaks to this fear. Following the mock-epic tradition, Lang and Pollock’s story’s setting is quotidian: it occurs in the London Zoo and at the British Museum, domestic miniatures of the more dangerous and dynamic Africa depicted by Haggard. Captive animals are not killed by gunshot as the wildlife of She is; they are tamed by “buns and ginger-bread nuts” from Leonora’s “practicable pocket” because, we are parenthetically informed, she “belong[s] to the Rational Dress Association” and has come prepared. The implied comparison of snacks and weaponry here indicates how out of place Lang and Pollock believe that women are in the romance genre; a trip to the zoo, never mind Africa, is exciting enough. Polly’s recollection of this incident concludes, “the gorilla was pacified with nuts from his native Brazil” (20). This is also parodic: gorillas are native to Africa, not South America, and Polly’s confident ignorance of this fact forms a stark contrast with Haggard’s well-educated heroes. Thus, although Polly is a university professor — a reference both to her antecedent Horace Holly’s position and a disparaging commentary on the fact that Cambridge had recently begun admitting women — she is naive. This characterization is reinforced when she is astonished to find herself in a “hall … [with] the characteristics of ancient Egyptian architecture … in perfect preservation” (45) and believes that she has found a lost civilization rather than a museum. Thus, in He, women are figuratively excluded from the imperial romance by virtue of their literal containment within the boundaries of London, a city that they cannot competently navigate. However, the fact that they manage to penetrate both the Academy and the Athenaeum, suggests these institutions may not be able to keep women out 74 forever. 27

She ends with, as Showalter writes, the triumphant defeat of its titular femme fatale and “Holly and Leo go[ing] away together to experience their ‘joint life’ somewhere in Tibet, where no women will find or separate them” (87). Conversely, He ends with Leonora and Polly in hot pursuit of He, who is really a stage magician and has stolen their “high-class American securities” (Lang and Pollock 50). In both novels, male intellect triumphs, and, as a final insult, He ends with its protagonists being led through the sewer by Pellmelli, indicating that they have foolishly aligned themselves with the New Journalism instead of with the Ama Lo-grollas (51).

Lang and Pollock’s repudiation of Stead’s critical faculties and their mockery of his education — Pellmelli does not understand Latin, “thought it would often be useful to him if he did in his dealings with the Lo-grollas” (25) — may have led Stead to adopt another mode of attack. He accused Haggard of plagiarism in “Who is She and Where Did She Come From?,” published in February 1887. This essay inspired pieces in “Literary World, Spectator, Whitehall Review, New York Post, Court and Society, and … the Times” that charge Haggard with plagiarizing texts including Bishop Hall’s Mundus Alter et Idem, stories by Théophile Gautier, Thomas More’s Epicurian, and “the Japanese

27 Though Lang mostly sought to keep women out of his literary clubhouse, it should be noted that he once made a significant exception to this rule, albeit accidentally. According to Linda K. Hughes, the poet Rosamund Marriott Watson published “a slender collection of technically accomplished lyrics that traced the dissolution of a couple’s love, Tares [(1884)]” that “attracted a single laudatory notice in the Academy” and sold only “twenty-three copies … in three years … [and] most remaining copies were sold as waste paper at the end of 1887.” However, when Watson began using the pen name Graham R. Tomson to avoid the scandal associated with her divorce and swift remarriage “when nearly eight months’ pregnant,” she “attracted the notice of Andrew Lang, who was impressed with the talent of what he assumed was a new young man on the literary scene” (137). Watson was “steadily … networked into important literary circles by Lang, who … printed ‘his’ poems in ‘At the Sign of the Ship,’” and included Watson’s “Ballade of Nicolette” “next to his own introductory ballad in … [his] translation of Aucassin and Nicolette [(1887)].” His “networking and promotion also assured that a dozen French verse forms … were included in an important landmark in British aestheticism, Ballades and Rondeaus (1887), edited by Gleeson White.” Lang invited Watson to join the Savile Club, “and she was forced to reveal herself as a woman, by which time she was safely married and able, by virtue of her new name, to distance herself from the scandal of divorce” (138). To his credit — and perhaps to spare himself the embarrassment — Lang did not “retract his sponsorship” (138); instead, he recommended her to Longmans, which published The Bird-Bride: A Volume of Ballads and Sonnets (1889), and continued to promote Watson’s work to his circle (138-39). It is debatable, however, whether Watson’s work would have come to Lang’s attention had she continued to publish it under her own name. 75

legend of Urashima” (Ellis 122-23). In March, this furor had just begun to die down when Haggard’s melodrama Jess prompted further — and more credible — accusations of plagiarism. Haggard had, without acknowledgment, reprinted poetry in the novel that had been sent to him by a friend; in “The Song of Jess and Who Wrote It,” the Gazette revealed “that the verses had been published anonymously in the Transatlantic in March 1874, having in their turn been copied from the Anglo-American Times of 31 January 1874” (Ellis 123). Subsequently, Letitia Henville observes, “Spurred by the specifics of Haggard’s case … [and] by decades of articles by ‘plagiarism hunters’ who mined texts for allusions and then castigated authors for their lack of originality … a more general debate arose … about literary dishonesty and ethics, citation and acknowledgment, original form and original content” (2). In the essay “Literary Plagiarism,” published in June 1887, Lang participated in these debates by challenging both arguments made against Haggard and the positions from which they were made.

Lang was one of a group of “plagiarism apologists,” critics, journalists, and authors who, according to Robert Macfarlane, responded to the plagiarism hunters by seeking “to create aesthetic and ethical space for literary works which exploited the creative possibilities of intertextuality” (45).28 This focus on intertextuality is a logical extension of Lang’s earlier definition and practices of literary originality in Ballads and Lyrics of Old France. As I discuss in Chapter One, these practices triangulate Scott, Pater, and Tylor’s conceptions of folk-literature, the literary tradition, and cultural survivals, respectively, and Lang arrives at a definition of authorship as a process of both engaging with and contributing to the evolution of the culture from which it originates. “Literary Plagiarism” does similar work. Like He, “Literary Plagiarism” employs citation for parodic purposes. Responding to, among other accusations, charges that Haggard had plagiarized a travelogue in King Solomon’s Mines, Lang dismisses the “idea that a novelist must acknowledge, in a preface or in footnotes, every suggestion of fact which

28 Macfarlane’s use of the term “plagiarism apologists” follows Paul K. Saint-Amour’s The Copywrights: Intellectual Property and the Literary Imagination (2003). Other apologists include E.F. Benson, Brander Matthews, and Edward Wright (Macfarlane 43). 76 comes to him from any corner.”

For example, I write a novel in which a man is poisoned by curari. Am I to add a note saying, ‘These details as to the Macusi tribe are extracted from Wallace, from Bates, and from Brett’s ‘Indians of Guiana’ (London: Bell and Daldy. 1878) etc …’? This kind of thing is customary and appropriate in books of learning, but it seems incredible pedantry to demand such explanations from others of works of fancy. … The novel

would become a treatise. (835)

Here, plagiarism — i.e. adaptation without citation — is represented here as not only a valid authorial act, but as the very definition of authorship itself. In his analysis of the above passage, Macfarlane notes that for Lang and for Haggard’s other defenders, the “novelistic adjustment” and subsequent incorporation of factual material into fiction “was, in fact, skillfully mediated realism” (131). Lang’s inclusion of publication information in this hypothetical citation is meant to indicate how “absurd” (835) it would be for fiction writers to fully credit their sources. “Literary Plagiarism” supports Margaret Beetham’s argument that Lang’s journalism “both invoked and denied his own privileged position” (263): only someone as well-versed in anthropology as Lang would have ready knowledge not only of curare — a botanical extract traditionally used to poison arrow- heads in parts of South America (OED) — but of three separate texts that describe it. Here, the citations that Lang uses to highlight what he calls the “incredible pedantry” (835) of Haggard’s critics come dangerously close to exposing his own.

Similar collisions occur between the more sincere citations with which Lang defends Haggard here. In “Literary Plagiarism,” Henville explains, “a significant trope … is the repeated insistence on the physicality of ideas” (4). Accordingly, she writes, “Lang’s figuration of authorship implies that an accessible set of literary ‘material’ exists which a writer can ‘choose’ to make use of productively, and assumes that ‘whoever likes’ to can ‘pick it up’” (para. 9). This rhetoric is reminiscent of Lang’s comparison of folktales to 77

“axes and arrowheads” in Custom and Myth (1884), which I discuss in Chapter One. As Henville points out, Lang includes Scott, Virgil, and Homer among those who have “stole[n]” (qtd. in Henville para. 8), “a stance that is shaped by a desire to sidestep any consideration of the role that networks of privilege may have played in the publishing market … in which Lang was such a central figure” (para. 3).

Though, as I discuss in Chapter One, Lang had by the 1880s disavowed Walter Pater, his insistence that authorship is a process of reinvention reveals Pater’s continued influence. Indeed, Lang’s argument here is echoed by Oscar Wilde, a more loyal disciple of Pater’s, in “The Critic as Artist” (1891): “No doubt Homer had old ballads and stories to deal with, as Shakespeare had chronicles and plays and novels from which to work, but they were merely his rough material. … They became his because he made them lovely.” In other words, for Wilde, to rewrite a text is to engage “the critical faculty that invents fresh forms” (254). Therefore, originality is necessarily an act of recreation, because all forms of art, “except the sonnet,” according to Wilde, are “due to the Greek critical spirit” (255). Indeed, according to Macfarlane, fin de siècle authors like Pater and Wilde “maintained … that getting to ‘the original’ meant not surging forwards, but ‘going back.’” What Macfarlane calls “an aesthetic of salvage” (163) differs in degree but not in kind from Lang’s claim in the essay “Realism and Romance” (1887) that “the whole of the poetic way of regarding Nature,” including “our few modern romances of adventure,” can be classified as “‘savage survivals’” (690). This is why, according to Lang, the Odyssey appeals to “the ancestral barbarism of our natures” (689). However, not all invocations of “the Greek critical spirit” (Wilde 255) are equal in Lang’s eyes; romance is masculine and invigorating, whereas realism is effete and boring. This distaste for modernity informs, as He suggests, not only Lang’s love of Haggard’s fiction, but also his dislike of one of modernity’s most controversial cultural figures: the New Woman. 78

Allan Quatermain and the “celebrated allegorical walking stick”

The extent to which Lang saw the New Woman novel as existing in opposition to Haggard’s romances is evident in his literary bringing together of The Story of an African Farm and King Solomon’s Mines. Because “Realism and Romance” is not merely the consequence of the furor incited by the Pall Mall Gazette, I want to take a moment to situate this article in what Hensley calls the “realism wars” and in the context of Lang’s tastes more generally. According to Hensley, these debates

pitted a deliberative and introspective American realism, conceptualized by William Dean Howells and exemplified in the work of Henry James, against a self-consciously atavistic and stalwartly non-cognitive romance, a faux-epic style concretized in the novels of Haggard and devised as a theoretical model by Lang, his literary handler. (198-99)29

The damage done to Haggard’s and Lang’s reputations by this debate, according to Hensley, is not because their preferred literary genre was inherently inferior, but because the other side won.30

In “Literary Plagiarism,” Lang states his awareness that the definition of literary value is not a zero-sum calculation, and he compares James and Haggard accordingly: “The dubitations of a Bostonian spinster may be made as interesting, by one genius, as a fight between a crocodile and a catawumpus, by another genius” (693). However, Lang supports his preference for romance with, as he does elsewhere, citations of Homer, claiming that “The ‘Odyssey’ is the typical example of a romance” (689). Lang directly

29 Howells and Lang met in person in 1904. That same day, both “were given the honorary degree of Doctor of Letters” by Oxford. Their interaction seems to have been pleasant, and they learned of their “shared admiration for Leonard Merrick, an unknown British novelist” (Demoor, “Literary Duel” 420).

30 For a consideration of the ways in which the late nineteenth century’s shifting definitions of maturity and literary value resulted in the valorization of James’ work and the reclassification of Daniel Defoe’s and Walter Scott’s novels as children’s literature, see Teresa Michals’ Books for Children, Books for Adults: Age and the Novel from Defoe to James (2014). 79 cites Tylor, calling romances “savage survivals,” but he then complicates the Tylorian model of linear cultural evolution by rejoicing in the possibility that “the barbarian under our clothes” (690) might emerge at any time in order to enjoy a good story. Incidentally, although many of the barbs in “Realism and Romance” are aimed at “‘Public Opinion,’ in Boston” — i.e., at James and Howells — Lang’s invocation of “The Coming Man,” who “may be bald, toothless, highly ‘cultured,’ and addicted to tales of introspective analysis” (689), prefigures Max Nordau’s Degeneration (1892) and its critique of the aesthetes, including Wilde.

It is in this context that Lang wrote “From Mr. Allan Quatermain to Sir Henry Curtis.” Lang’s parody here targets naturalist novels — especially those written by and about women — and the readers who prefer these to Haggard’s romances. In a letter written to Haggard on January 31, 1890, Lang informs his friend, “I have just written … a letter from Allan Q. to Sir Harry about two right and left shots he … made, killing two lions, a crocodile, and an eagle, and saving a fellow adventurer’s life.” The letter is accompanied by a sketch titled “Allan Draws” that depicts a figure labelled “Allan” firing shots labelled “3” as he faces a stick figure labelled “man,” who is jumping over a crocodile pit flanked by two lions with an eagle in hot pursuit.31 The “man” in this picture — Quatermain’s “fellow adventurer” — is, as I’ve previously noted, Schreiner’s Stranger, and I read this story as Lang’s narrativization of the critical argument he makes in “Realism and Romance.”

In his autobiography, Haggard writes that he “could never be a success as a modern novelist” because, he confesses, “petty social conditions” as depicted by “naturalistic novels …bore … [him] too much.” Though he calls this “a failing in myself, since under all conditions human nature is the same and the true artist should be able to present it with equal power,” he echoes the tone of “About Fiction” as he hastens to add that “Even the great Shakespeare, I observe, sought distant scenes and far-off events for his tragedies, seeking … to escape the trammels of his time” (1: 256). Haggard does not,

31 The crocodile is an alligator in the published version of the story (162). 80 however, discuss Lang’s efforts to steer him away from writing the “naturalistic novels” he found so boring. Following the unenthusiastic critical reception of the aforementioned Cleopatra, Lang recommended that his friend read “Scott’s preface to Ivanhoe (1830),” explaining that this preface “is the reflections of a successful novelist who was a man of business. What he says about varying the venue and about names of novels (he would condemn ‘Cleopatra’ e.g. for reasons he gives, as the name of a tale) is good and interesting” (n. date). Representative of the keen interest Lang took in the critical and financial successes of friends and the effort he put into forging connections between them, this letter is as much concerned with Haggard’s reputation as it is with his sales.32

Indeed, Lang’s suggestion that Haggard look to Scott as a model was both a critical assessment and practical advice. Though it does not specifically refer to the letter I’ve quoted above, Haggard’s autobiography indicates that Lang’s advice was sound. Haggard recalls that Cleopatra “was a good deal attacked by the critics who were angry that, after Shakespeare’s play, I should dare to write of Cleopatra” (1: 272); conversely, Scott explains in his preface that he carefully selected a title for Ivanhoe that “conveyed no indication whatever of the nature of the story” (11). This “quality,” Scott writes, is “of no small importance”:

When we meet such a title as the Gunpowder Plot, or any other connected with general history, each reader, before he has seen the book, has formed to himself some particular idea of the sort of manner in which the story is to be conducted, and the nature of the amusement which he is to derive from it. … In such a case the literary adventurer is censured not for having missed the mark at which he himself aimed, but for not having shot off his

shaft in a direction he never thought of. (11)

Scott’s reflections regarding what Lang calls a novel’s “venue” — that is, its setting —

32 Lang was not the only of Haggard’s friends to offer constructive criticism. Regarding King Solomon’s Mines, Stevenson gently suggests that Haggard revise his work, particularly the “quiet parts” that begin a novel; “In other words,” he writes, “what you have still to learn is to take trouble with those parts that do not excite you” (qtd. in Haggard 1: 236). 81 are likewise applicable to Haggard’s work. Scott’s turn from “subjects purely Scottish” (4) to England during “the reign of Richard I” (5) were motivated, he explains, by both practical and artistic concerns: he “felt … he was not only likely to weary out the indulgence of his readers, but also greatly limit his own power of affording them pleasure” (4).

Almost ninety years later, Haggard’s efforts to, as Scott puts it, “prevent … the character of a mannerist” from becoming “attached to him” (3) resulted in the disastrous Jess. However, Haggard’s body of work indicates that he eventually took Scott and Lang’s advice. Morton N. Cohen writes:

Of the fifty-eight volumes [of fiction], forty-seven are conventional Rider Haggard adventure romances, and twelve are novels of contemporary life. One is a propagandist novel. Of the romances, almost a dozen can be called historical novels, and four comprise a loosely knit story of the rise and fall of the Zulu dynasty in South Africa. Allan Quatermain appears in eighteen adventures (four of them short stories), Ayesha in four romances, in one of which they appear together. Haggard’s romances are not restricted to Africa and England: he also wrote about other lands, Iceland, Mexico, Peru, Denmark, Spain, the Holy Land among them. (219)

In 1890, the ratio of realism to romance in Haggard’s catalogue was not so imbalanced; indeed, he had written a roughly equal number of novels in each genre. Nine of these were romances, all of which, except Cleopatra and Eric Brighteyes (which unfolds in tenth-century Iceland), are set in contemporary Africa. Meanwhile, of his “twelve … novels of contemporary life,” seven — Dawn, The Witch’s Head, Jess, Mr. Meeson’s Will, Colonel Quaritch, V.C., and Beatrice — existed in either published or manuscript form by the end of 1890, and Haggard’s last such book, Joan Haste, was published in 1895.

Despite his own failures in the genre, however, at least two naturalist novels did not “bore” Haggard. In 1884, a then-unknown Haggard was so smitten with Story of an

83 marrying the baby’s father, he being ready and willing to make her an honest woman” (182). This misreading — which re-frames Lyndall’s tragic death as thelogical outcome of a bad decision — reflects Lang’s conservative discussion of the novel in the essay “Theological Romances” (1888). This essay is primarily a review of Mary Augusta Ward’s novel Robert Elsemere (1888); in it, Lang writes, “any novel written to make a theological point … is a tract.” The exception to this rule is Story of an African Farm, “which begins so well, and tackles Belief, as it were, on first principles” but “has no theological point to make, no new system to advocate” (819). Lang goes on to disparage the novel for the same reasons that he would later dismiss Tess: according to him, its themes are tedious and its plot ends unhappily. He cites Lyndall’s determination to avoid marriage alongside Gregory Rose’s “dress[ing] like a young woman that he may nurse … [Lyndall] in her last illness” as evidence that Story of an African Farm “ends in trivialities that would astonish a reader of penny fiction” (819). These “trivialities” are, however, integral to the novel’s New Woman project; indeed, Christine Haskell classifies Lyndall’s death as a “valuable failure” through which Schreiner “reinterprets sacrifice and defeat as necessary and productive for a better future. It accounts for the invisible work and suffering of individuals striving to achieve political goals” (82). In support of this reading, Haskell argues that the Stranger’s allegory “acts as a metafictional moment providing an interpretive framework for the complexities of the text,” including Lyndall’s death, because “it calls to the reader to consider the work toward truth within a longer progression” (87). Placing Lang’s misreading of the novel (which dismisses Lyndall’s death) alongside his parody of it (which parodies the Stranger’s story) reveals that he rejects the “new system” that Schreiner “advocate[s]” (“Theological Romances” 819) by mocking it.

The events of “From Mr. Allan Quatermain” parody Haggard’s work as well: surely even a legendary big-game hunter could not kill four animals with three bullets, and to suggest otherwise is to poke fun at Allan Quatermain’s seemingly impossible acts of heroism. Other elements of the story appear to be cribbed directly from King Solomon’s Mines: Like his antecedent, Lang’s Quatermain attributes Shakespeare’s words to the Ingoldsby Legends, and his African servant “perish[es] by an awful fate, otherwise he would testify 84 to the truth of my plain story” (163). Lang, a talented mimic, imitates Haggard’s style in a manner that is, by and large, as cutting as it is hilarious: Quatermain claims to be “no hand with a pen” (155), and, after seven typed pages of improbable adventures, moralizing about “life, that perpetual problem,” and sexually-charged descriptions of “nature, satisfied and grateful for her silent existence and her amorous repose” (162), he concludes that “I hate writing, as you know, and don’t pretend to give a literary colour to this little business” (163).

The story is, however, more than a parody. It is also crossover fiction; that is, it is a work of art in which characters from one fictional universe appear in another. Quatermain recounts meeting a “Stranger” who has recently obtained “a huge carved walking-stick … from a boy on a South African Farm” (156), an obvious reference to The Story of an African Farm. In Schreiner’s novel, this “walking-stick” is symbolically charged: Waldo claims that his carvings are “Only things” (122), but from these figures the Stranger weaves an allegorical tale of a hunter’s quest for truth (123-37). Though the Stranger insults Waldo’s abilities, saying that the “little carving” was produced “with the least possible mechanical skill,” he concedes that “What … [it] wants is not truth, but beauty of external form, the other half of art.” Therefore, the stick “will yet find interpreters” because “it represents some mental facts as they really are, [and] ... fifty different true stories might be read from it” (134). Here, the Stranger performs literary creativity in a manner not unlike Lang’s: he encounters a text and adapts it, and this process both produces a new text and constitutes a critical commentary on its antecedent. Lang does not, however, seem particularly interested in this methodological sympathy. Instead, by bringing Schreiner and Haggard’s novels together, Lang probes the limitations of allegory: by attempting to find precise correspondences between life and art, he argues, we do a disservice to the pleasures of reading pure fiction. Thus, although Lang’s Stranger is not incorrect when he tells Quatermain that the stick depicts a “hunter [who] pursued a vast white bird with silver wings, sailing into the everlasting blue. … That bird was Truth, … a bird you don’t trouble yourself with much, my friend,” he is perhaps 85

missing the point of the “yarns” Quatermain has been spinning (157).

Although Quatermain ejects the stranger from his camp, they soon meet again: drawn toward “the screams of a human being in the last agony of terror” (161), Quatermain saves the Stranger from the aforementioned lions, alligator, and eagle (162). During the fray, Quatermain recalls, the Stranger’s “celebrated allegorical walking stick from the African Farm had been broken into two pieces after it (the bullet) had passed through the head of the lion” (162-63). If, as Henville argues, Lang conceptualizes ideas as physical objects, then embodied allegories are no match for our hero’s “yarns”: the Stranger now has no tangible proof of his story or his adventure, while Quatermain’s “hall at home” is decorated with the taxidermied lions, eagle, and alligator arranged in a tableau that reflects how “they were when I settled them and saved the Stranger” (178) but destroyed his stick. For Quatermain and for Lang, the story of an adventure is the kind of story worth retelling, even — or especially — at the expense of those like the Stranger’s.

Citational Authority in The World’s Desire

For Lang, Homer’s Odyssey is the story that’s most worth retelling, and, like many of Lang’s other passions, Homer and the Odyssey are recurring themes throughout his corpus. Reflecting on his childhood reading experiences in Adventures Among Books (1901), Lang credits the Odyssey with piquing his interest in classics (17), a subject in which he would later earn a First-Class Bachelor’s degree from St. Andrews University and pursue graduate studies at Oxford. His claim in Adventures that “Homer was the real beginning of study” in this field (16) can be applied to his other areas of interest as well: many of Lang’s critical and creative works are also rooted in his appreciation for Homer, and The World’s Desire, co-written with Haggard, is only one of many texts in which he uses Homer to bring these fields together. For example, he draws upon his combined interests in folklore, anthropology, and classical myth in “Mythology and 86

Fairy Tales” (1872), which, as the previous chapter discusses, refutes Max Müller’s claim that the myths of antiquity degenerated to become contemporary folklore, an argument Müller makes in Comparative Mythology (1856), which is itself heavily influenced by its author’s reading of Homer (Olverson 7). Scholars that Lang cites more approvingly were also steeped in Homer: for example, in Epic and Empire in Nineteenth-Century Britain, Simon Dentith explains that “[E.B.] Tylor’s anthropology … was overwhelmingly literary and started from an immersion in the culture of the classical world” (182), and that Tylor uses “occasional analogies drawn from Homer” (181).

Other scholarly works of Lang’s are explicitly about, rather than influenced by, the poet. Lang published a number of articles and three scholarly monographs, Homer and the Epic (1893), Homer and His Age (1906), and Homer and Anthropology (1908), on the poet. This triptych participates in the century-long academic debate known as the “Homeric question,” which was really a lack of consensus regarding the answers to three interrelated questions: whether Homer was one author or many; where and when the Homeric epics were composed; and, finally, whether or not the epics are historically accurate (Luce 15).33 Lang agreed with his predecessors that the Homeric epics are pastiches of extant historical and literary traditions, but he disagrees that inconsistencies in Greek customs practiced in the text are proof of multiple authorship. For Lang, these supposed discrepancies actually locate a single author living and writing in a multicultural time and place. This argument proves not only his competence in literature, history, and anthropology, but also his ability to bring these fields together in order to produce groundbreaking scholarship. According to Alexander Shewan, Homer and the Epic responds to those who “argue difference of age from variety of custom”; Homer and His Age strives “to show that the culture described by Homer is the culture of one moment of time”; and The World of Homer “maintain[s] that the culture was Achaean, a product of the Greek mainland,” which, Shewan explains, “was a striking, original

33 One of the first texts to raise this issue was Robert Wood’s An Essay on the Original Genius and Writings of Homer (1769), the record of an expedition that sought to confirm the existence of sites mentioned in the Iliad and the Odyssey (Dentith 16). 87

demonstration” that Lang supported with ample historical and literary evidence (8). Homer and His Age and The World of Homer bring together essays Lang had written in the 1880s and 1890s (Hensley, Forms 233); that is, during roughly the same period that he wrote “Literary Plagiarism,” He, “From Mr. Allan Quatermain,” and The World’s Desire. The relevance of this work to Lang’s quasi-Paterian definition of literary originality as the production of an imaginative, culturally specific, and cohesive narrative from the fragments of others’ work cannot be overstated.

Unsurprisingly, a number of Lang’s own literary works draw on Homer. His “numerous imaginative engagements with Helen of Troy” in print began with the “Hesperothen” section of Ballads and Lyrics of Old France (1872), and included the poem “Helen on the Walls” (1887), the long narrative poem Helen of Troy (1892), and, of course, The World’s Desire, co-authored with Haggard (Vance 32). Finally, his children’s book Tales of Troy and Greece (1907) is, as Chapter Three discusses, the only volume in the Fairy Book series that he actually wrote by himself. He produced prose translations of the Odyssey with Samuel Henry Butcher (1879), the Iliad with Walter Leaf and Ernest Myers (1883), and The Homeric Hymns (1899). The decision to write these translations in prose was grounded in Lang’s scholarship on Homer and in his awareness of the market’s demands; according to Hensley, it “convey[s] immediacy and reach[es] common audiences” (Forms 235). These translations were widely read, and Lang, Leaf, and Myers’s Iliad was one of the period’s most popular translations of that epic (Hensley 234). Conversely, Haggard appears to have been less interested in the classics, which is at least partially due to the fact that his parents’ low confidence in his academic abilities and their focus on his more promising brothers meant that his education was, compared to Lang’s, desultory (M.N. Cohen 24). In his autobiography, Haggard candidly admits this limited interest and knowledge, referring to the antecedent of a collaboration with Lang that never came to fruition as “one of the old Greek legends that ended in the most horrible all-round tragedy” (2: 76), a description that might apply to any number of stories. 88

Nevertheless, Lang was far from the only late-Victorian fascinated by the classical world; according to T.D. Olverson, “Over twenty-five translations of Homer’s epics [into English] appeared between 1800 and 1860, followed by another sixty-four translations in the years up to 1900” (46). As this suggests, though access to Homer et al was not universal during Lang’s lifetime, the ability to cite the classical tradition was becoming increasingly widespread.34 As Lang and Pollock’s mockery of Stead’s lack of Latin in He suggests, education in the classics had, by and large, been restricted to middle-class men and boys throughout the nineteenth century. However, by the 1890s, this was beginning to change.35 Recent scholarship indicates that more Victorian women and girls achieved competency in classical languages than previously thought, and many of them used this knowledge to subvert gender norms; see, for example, Olverson’s Women Writers and the Dark Side of Victorian Hellenism. At the same time, as Linda Dowling explains in Hellenism and Homosexuality at Victorian Oxford, for John Addington Symonds, Pater, Wilde, and others, the “ethically relativizing historicism” of Greek studies at Oxford (73), where Plato had joined Aristotle in the curriculum only a few decades earlier (Olverson 6), aligned with the spirit of an age in which “English religious prohibitions on sodomy … were being made to recede” (Dowling 73). For these writers, ancient Greek citations became a queer-positive, “sophisticated counter-discourse” (Olverson 10). Finally, the

34 Of course, this access is by no means universal now, either: the first English translation of the Odyssey by a woman — Emily Wilson, currently a Professor of Classics at the University of Pennsylvania — was published in 2017. In a recent interview with the New York Times, Wilson points out that though Arnold’s lecture series “On Translating Homer” (1860) has long been the standard against which translations of the Iliad and the Odyssey are measured, Arnold’s criteria are firmly rooted in “the boys’ club” of mid-Victorian intellectual culture from which they arose. Besides, “It’s not like he ever translated Homer” (n.p.).

35 In the middle of the nineteenth century, girls’ schools tended to teach less Latin than boys’, and, in many cases, they taught no Greek to their pupils; girls educated at home by governesses also learned very little Greek and Latin (Olverson 12). Some women and girls, including Augusta Weber, taught themselves classical languages from books (12); a few, like Elizabeth Barrett Browning, were educated alongside their brothers (10-11); others, the “fortunate” children of “reasonably affluent parents” who attended good local schools, like Mary Anne Evans, could develop a strong foundation of classical knowledge to build upon through private study in adulthood (11); and the members of a final group “fortunate enough to receive private tuition in Greek,” included Mary Coleridge, Eliza Lynn Linton, Katharine Bradley, Edith Cooper, and Emily Pfeiffer (13). Following the establishment of the National Union for the Improvement of the Education of Women of All Classes, the 1870 and 1876 Education Acts, middle-class girls’ education was somewhat reformed, and a handful of privately-funded schools offered girls almost exactly the same curriculum as their brothers. Working-class girls attending publicly funded schools, however, were still mostly “educated in order to fulfil a domestic role” (13). 89 working class enjoyed increased access to “Hellenic subjects … through plays and … astoundingly popular musical burlesques” (Olverson 7). Thus, The World’s Desire emerged into a world in which the forms and functions of classical citations were rapidly increasing. The novel’s own Homeric citations play a number of roles. Metatextually, they attempt to establish Lang and Haggard as, due to their respective expertise in classical scholarship and romance-writing, respectively, as well-suited to “pick up” and adapt the Odyssey. Textually, these citations reveal an anxiety about the centrality of women to even the male-dominated genres of romance and epic.

The authors had different visions for the marketing of their collaboration. On June 27, 1889, Lang wrote to Haggard:

I dislike the idea of serial publication. It is emphatically a book for educated people only, and would lower your vogue with newspaper readers, if it were syndicated, to an extent beyond what the price the papers would pay would make up for. I am about as sure as possible of this. (qtd. in Haggard, Days 1: 283)

Reflecting on this letter in his autobiography, Haggard says that it “well exemplifies Lang’s habit of depreciating his own work.” However, though Haggard appears to have won this debate, as the novel was “published serially in the New Review” and “appeared in book form in 1890” (1: 283), Lang was likely right. Contemporary reviewers tended to dislike the novel, complaining that its combination of Lang’s Homeric expertise with Haggard’s romantic style and pacing was too jarring to provide an enjoyable reading experience, an opinion echoed by more recent criticism (M.N. Cohen 187). The Spectator calls “the whole thing … a failure in which each of its authors has so wasted as almost to extinguish his natural genius,” confessing, “We think so well of Mr. Lang that what would please us best would be to be told that his name on the title-page is his principal contribution” (qtd. in M.N. Cohen 185). The Athenaeum is likewise focused on Lang’s participation, asking, “Why should Mr. Lang lend himself and his genius to such unreal

91 revised” (Sexchanges xvii). Documentary evidence supports this reading. The Norfolk Record Office (NRO) now holds Haggard’s manuscript copy of The World’s Desire. The item’s catalogue record explains that pages “1-53” are “by Andrew Lang” and pages “[5]4-145” were written “by Haggard” (MS 4692/18). This means that, mathematically speaking, the sheer number of pages that Haggard contributed to the novel is twice the number of those written by Lang. However, the NRO also holds a draft copy of the novel, which, as its catalogue record notes, features “numerous annotations, suggestions and drafts of verses by … Andrew Lang”; moreover, manuscript and draft indicate that Lang composed the book’s “Palinode” and the note that accompanies its second edition.

Following Haggard, who in his autobiography suggests that “the best history of [The World’s Desire] is to be extracted from Lang’s letters” about the novel, I use these letters to supplement the information about the novel’s composition that the NRO’s manuscript copy provides. Haggard guesses that he received the earliest of these “probably in 1888” (1: 280). They do not reveal who first had the idea to collaborate, and Haggard does not remember, but the letters do tell us that the authors were responsible for aspects of the novel that might surprise us: Lang, the scholar and poet, determined the novel’s plot, and Haggard, perhaps best known for his command of genre conventions, contributed the story’s more fanciful elements. For example, we learn from a letter sent on March 25, 1888, that the poetic notion of Helen’s appearance “shifting” depending on the viewer — it is literally in the eye of the beholder — is Haggard’s (qtd. 281). Meanwhile, a letter dated October 11, 1888 indicates that Lang is primarily responsible for the novel’s structure. It appears that Haggard had sent Lang a draft of the novel with its hero either already in or en route to Egypt, to which Lang replies, “I’d have begun with Odysseus in a plague-stricken Ithaca and have got on to Egypt” (qtd. 281).

Both Lang’s theories regarding authorship and the essentially collaborative nature of The World’s Desire are laid out for the reader before the novel properly begins. An introductory poem titled “Palinode” acknowledges that the “puny hands of dull, o’learned men” (12) have damaged “the great webs of … [Homer’s] weaving” (11) and asks that he 92

“forgive us that thy hero’s star / Once more above sea waves and waves of war, / Must rise, must triumph, and must set again” (13-15). Though the authors ritualistically humble themselves before their muse here, they also subtly differentiate themselves from Homer’s other adapters. Haggard was neither “dull” nor “o’learned”; in fact, Lang recommended while they were drafting the novel that Haggard read Euripides’s play “in a prose crib” (qtd. in Green, Andrew Lang 126), indicating that Haggard was likely unable to read Greek. However, Haggard, a writer of romances, is not only suited but compelled to pen a sequel to the Odyssey; as the final line of this stanza says three times, it “must” be done. Henville argues that in “Literary Plagiarism” Lang performs a “rhetorical slip from conceiving intellectual property as an abstraction to imagining ideas as physical objects” (para 4); here, as in “From Mr. Allan Quatermain,” though an idea may be “the possession of whoever likes to pick it up” (“Literary Plagiarism” 833), not everyone knows how to handle such objects properly.

This reading is further supported by significant paratextual differences between the first edition of the novel and the “new edition,” which acknowledges Lang and Haggard’s critics. In the first edition, the “Palinode” appears at the end of the story (317), following the words “The End” (316). In the later version, it appears immediately after the title page and dedication (viii). The first edition of the novel begins with a shorter poem composed of two stanzas, an invitation to readers “whose hearts are set / On this, the present, to forget” (1-2). The poem insists on the universality of Helen’s story, equating her with another mythic figure about whom, as the previous chapter explains, Lang has already written: “There lives no man but he hath seen / The World’s Desire, the fairy queen” (21-22). In the new edition, these verses follow the “Palinode” and do not have a separate title; instead, they become the third and fourth stanzas of a longer introductory poem. Following the acknowledgement that “little in our tale accordeth well / with” the story Stesichorus — or, as they continue, Homer — “had to tell” (4-5), the invitation to “Come read the things whereof ye know / They were not, and could not be so!” (18-19) seems more like a disclaimer than the invitation it does in the novel’s first edition (3-4). 93

This is not a novelization of an epic we have read before, but a new work in which

The fables of the North and South Shall mingle in a modern mouth; The fancies of the West and East Shall flock and flit about the feast. (24-27)

This poem establishes that the novel is a self-conscious pastiche — bringing together the Helen of the “West,” the Egyptians of the “East,” and the “fairy queen” of European folklore traditions — and its movement from the novel’s end changes its meaning. In the first edition, the poem is a tongue-in-cheek acknowledgment that the story we have just finished is non-canonical; in the new edition, it is both a response to the novel’s critics and a pre-emptive strike against those who may be reading it with the intention to find fault. The “Palinode” thus both establishes a classical precedent for the novel and asserts his and Haggard’s credentials as its authors.

The title of this poem is a citation as well. The word palinode, Anne Carson explains, can be translated literally as “Counter song”; that is, “saying the opposite of what you said before” (15). Apocryphally, the form was invented by the Greek lyrical poet Stesichorus, who was blinded by Helen of Troy after blaming her for the Trojan War but regained his sight after apologizing (Carson 3-4). In The World’s Desire, the “Palinode” cites this tradition:

Thou that of old didst blind Stesichorus If e’er, sweet Helen, such a thing befell, We pray thee of thy grace, be good to us, Though little in our tale accordeth well With that thine ancient minstrel had to tell. (1-5)

Very little of Stesichorus’ poetry has survived until the present day, and much of what we do have was excavated in the late twentieth century (Carson 3-4). The fragmentary nature 94 of Stesichorus’ corpus might well have been a source of fascination for Lang, whose comparison of narrative survivals to archaeological relics is documented in the previous chapter. According to Gerson Schade, from the medieval period onward Stesichorus’ verse has primarily been accessed through Plato, and he fell out of fashion for about two centuries, only to be rediscovered by the Victorians; significantly, Stesichorus was popular with the Plèiade (164), the medieval French poets for whom Lang and Pater share an admiration. The “Palinode” thus textually and metatextually further establishes the novel’s grounding in the classical tradition.

This second-degree citation of Stesichorus can more specifically be read as reported speech, an epic convention cited by the narrative form of The World’s Desire. The novel seems to be narrated in a third-person omniscient voice, though we are told that its “substance was set out long ago by Rei, the … Egyptian priest” (2), which suggests that the story is based on a fictional found document like the Portuguese treasure map of King Solomon’s Mines or the ancient Egyptian sherd of She. Once Odysseus reaches Egypt and meets Rei, however, a good deal of the narrative work is done by what Alexander J. Beecroft calls “narrative deixis”; that is, “reported speech” that gives characters and audiences access to information that they would otherwise not have (50). The most obvious example of this in The World’s Desire occurs when Rei tells Odysseus about Meriamun’s intelligence, trickery, and necromancy (35-67), but Meriamun later inverts the terms of this exchange. Using witchcraft, she “loose[s] [the] Spirit of Rei” from his body and sends it to spy on Odysseus and Helen; the Spirit then narrates their actions to her in real time (127). When Rei awakens, he knows “naught of that which his Spirit had seen,” and Meriamun dismisses his questions, telling him that she has “heard things that may not be told” (129). This scene can be mapped onto Lang and Haggard’s shared interest in the occult (Pearson 224), but my interest lies in the ways that Meriamun seizes control of the narrative. She not only subverts a prophecy Odysseus has received from Aphrodite about his eventual union with Helen (12) by using this information to disguise herself as Helen and seduce Odysseus (141); she appropriates a narrative technique used 95 to objectify her by forcing Rei to perform deixis without knowing what it is that he reports, thereby turning him from a narrative agent into a passive conduit for information.

We could read Rei’s getting the book’s last word as a reassertion of his agency, but his “splendid tomb,” he tells us, is “by Thebes” (218), where he had asked Meriamun to bury him “if my Spirit come back no more” from its reconnaissance mission (127). This means that it is possible that the version of Rei who tells us this story is, in fact, his Spirit; alternately, the act of telling us this “tale” may have been what killed him. Rei’s final words are similarly ambiguous: “Let every man read … [the story] as he will, and every woman as the Gods have given her wit” (218). Though this sentence contains a dig at women’s intelligence, it also leaves the final interpretation of this “reported speech” up to the reader, not Rei. Odysseus is granted even less agency: when he dies at the novel’s end, Helen assumes his role, “wandering, wandering, till Odysseus comes again” (218). Helen is not only, as Richard Pearson points out, enacting a gender-swapped retelling of Leo Vincey and Ayesha’s separation (226) here; she is also set free from both this story and from the shrine in which she has been imprisoned for most of the novel (World’s Desire 200). Thus, narrative containment of certain women characters is, as the “Palinode’s” appeal to Helen suggests, ultimately impossible.

In fact, The World’s Desire betrays an anxiety regarding the importance of women to the plots of romance, a genre predicated in part, as Showalter points out, on the fear of and desire for powerful women (78). The women who appear in the novel’s primary antecedent, the Odyssey, are cited in absentia; that is, their absence from this sequel must be explained before the plot can properly begin. The novel begins as the Odyssey ended: with a homecoming. While Odysseus was away fighting in an unnamed war, a plague has ravaged Ithaca, and Penelope appears only as “the bone of a forearm” wearing a bracelet that her husband recognizes when he returns (4). The “Temple of Athene”is in ruins (8), and so Odysseus cannot appeal to the goddess who had previously interceded with Zeus on his behalf and ensured his success in renaming his home. Instead, he prays at a shrine to Aphrodite, inciting the quest that constitutes the rest of the novel’s plot. In response to 96 these prayers, Aphrodite admonishes Odysseus for his faithlessness not to Penelope, but to her.

[T]hou didst but endure the caresses of Circe, the Daughter of the Sun, and thou wert aweary in the arms of Calypso, and the Sea King’s daughter came never to her longing. As for her who is dead, thy dear wife Penelope, thou didst love her with a loyal heart, but never with a heart of fire. Nay, she was but thy companion, thy housewife, and the mother of thy child. She was mingled with all the memories of the land thou lovest, and so thou gavest her a little love. But she is dead. (10)

In this speech, Lang and Haggard attempt to rehabilitate Odysseus’s infidelity in order to align their “loyal” hero with Victorian sexual mores. At the same time, however, by negatively aligning the steadfast Penelope with the angel of the house — “she was but thy companion, thy housewife, and the mother of thy child” (emphasis mine) — the authors suggest that gendered expectations for women restricted men as well. This is not, however, a feminist argument; rather, Lang and Haggard free Odysseus from his domestic responsibilities so that he can embark upon a “new” life, one “without a remnant of the old days, except for the bitterness of longing and remembrance” and with the promise of a passionate love with the incomparably beautiful Helen (12). All of this calls to mind another classical figure, the hydra: when a woman is removed from the Odyssey by Lang and Haggard, two more take her place in The World’s Desire.

Conclusion

Altogether, Lang’s uses of citation with Pollock in He, in “From Mr. Allan Quatermain,” and, with Haggard, in The World’s Desire can be interpreted as an extension of his critical work on the role of literary criticism, the nature of creativity, and the relationship between romance and epic. We might also read these citations as evidence of his anxieties 97 about the shifting nature of literary culture and the challenges this might pose to his own privileged position. For example, He’s New Woman protagonists, Polly and Leonora have no obvious real-world referents — their names are feminized versions of Holly and Leo — but this element of the parody has since collided with history. Leonora, a polyglot who reads and speaks, in addition to English, Hebrew, Hittite (15), Zend, Sanskrit, Japanese, Irish, and what Lang and Pollock call “the American language” (17), shares a given name with Lang’s wife, whose command of at least seven languages in addition to her native English — one more language than her fictional counterpart — enabled her work as the primary editor, writer, and translator of the Fairy Book series (1889-1913) for which her husband is now most well-known. The restoration of Nora Lang to her rightful place in literary history is the project of my next two chapters. 98

Chapter Three Nora Lang, Literary Labour, and Marketing the Fairy Books

Just three months after her husband’s death in 1912, Nora Lang responded to an inquiry from Louise Both-Hendricksen, an American journalist and poet, with a surprising declaration. She claims primary responsibility for the Fairy Books (1889-1913), a popular series of Christmas books that were prominently branded as “EDITED BY ANDREW LANG” and framed, via Andrew’s discursive prefaces, as a child-friendly outgrowth of his folkloric scholarship. The prominence of his name on the Fairy Books meant that Nora’s contributions to the series, which include the collection, editing, adaptation, and translation of folk- and fairy-tales from around the world, were — and often still are — perceived as secondary to those of her more famous spouse. Nora’s letter, however, indicates otherwise:

I don’t know if you are aware that every word of the two Romance Books, Princes & Princes[ses], the All-Saints, & the two new Saints & Heroes were written by me. I also wrote the bulk of all the Fairy Books after the first four, & edited and often rewrote those [stories] contributed by other people (I also include the Animal Books & the True Stories.) My husband never saw the stories until they were ready for Press, when he read them through and wrote the Preface.

Although very little paperwork pertaining to the Fairy Books survived the Second World War (Briggs, History 555-58), the documentation that now resides at the Archive of British Printing and Publishing at the University of Reading supports Nora’s claims. A receipt headed “Lang’s Violet Fairy Book” confirms the sheer amount of content that she contributed to that particular volume. The receipt lists “Contributors (as per Mrs. Lang’s Letter Sept. 29/01)” and notes that Nora, who was responsible for 225.5 pages of the 298- page book, was paid £113.11 — about £11,270.00 today (Officer and Williamson) — for her creative labour but nothing for her editorial work (“Contributors”). The receipt, its 99

title, and an accompanying letter from Nora that pronounces it “quite correct” suggests the extent of her administrative and creative contributions to the Fairy Books. Precisely why “A. Lang Esq.” was paid £200 — nearly twice what his wife received — is unclear; however, it is likely that this was either remuneration for the editorial work for which his wife was neither credited nor compensated, for the use of his name, or for both.36

It is possible that Longmans, the series’ publisher, was unaware of Nora’s editorial work, but this work appears not to have been a secret in the Langs’ social circle, which, as I discuss in Chapter Two, included Charles Longman. Ella Christie and Alice Stewart, sisters to one another and friends to the Langs, write in their memoir that “To Mrs. Lang we practically owe the larger number of Andrew’s collections of Fairy Tales, as her sound and clear judgment could be relied upon and was unerring in what was fitting in the matter of selection, while her linguistic abilities opened a wide field” (168). Andrew himself addresses Nora’s editorial work when rejecting his brother John’s submission to a collection that was most likely The All Sorts of Stories Book (1911): “Unluckily by this time N. has nearly done the book single-handed and wants it to be her book,” and his phrasing here suggests the degree to which she, rather than he, determined the Fairy Books’ content (n.d.). Nevertheless, though the title page of The All Sorts of Stories Book indicates that the book is “BY MRS. LANG,” her husband is credited as its editor (iii) (see fig. 1). His preface likewise claims a closer degree of collaboration than is indicated by his letter to John: “The stories were written, as they are given here, by Mrs. Lang; we hunted for and found them in all sorts of books” (xi).

In light of all this, Nora’s letter to Both-Hendricksen raises a number of questions. Why was Andrew willing to be credited as the series’ editor long after he ceased to perform this role, and why was Nora’s editorial work ignored? Why does she assert her authorship

36 What is clear, however, is the extent of Nora’s contribution to their household’s assets. In an undated letter to his brother John Lang, whose forays into Australian viticulture led to “hard times,” Andrew sympathetically writes, “If N. died tomorrow, and I were unemployed, my finances could be after all these thirty-five years, where they were when I was twenty-four.” Given that, as Max Beerbohm notes, “after his death … [Andrew] left twelve thousand pounds” (11) — about £1,090,000 today (Officer and Williamson) — Andrew is likely accounting for both Nora’s direct and indirect contributions to their income. 100 of The Book of Romance (1902), The Red Romance Book (1906), The Book of Princes and Princesses (1908), The Red Book of Heroes (1909), The All Sorts of Stories Book (1911), and The Book of Saints and Heroes (1912), all of which bear her byline? Furthermore, why, if Andrew publicly declared her responsibility for the series in the preface to The Lilac Fairy Book (1910), confessing that “The Fairy Books have been almost wholly the work of Mrs. Lang, who has translated and adapted them from the French, German, Portuguese, Italian, Spanish, Catalan, and other languages” (vi-vii), does Nora remain a footnote to literary history? Answering these questions can contribute to our understanding of the ways in which women’s writing has historically been kept out of the canon, even when the genre in question — children’s literature — is ostensibly female-dominated.

We can begin to answer these questions by scrutinizing Andrew’s efforts in the Lilac preface to, as he puts it, “give credit where credit is due” (vi). Though he highlights Nora’s translations and adaptations here, he does not acknowledge her editorial work. Furthermore, he casts her substantial intellectual contributions to the series as domestic labour: “My part has been that of Adam, according to Mark Twain, in the Garden of Eden. Eve worked, Adam superintended” (vi-vii). This is a gendered comparison, but contemporary perceptions of marriage alone cannot explain the discrepancy between such public performances and the private reality of the Langs’ collaboration. The legal fact of their marriage cannot account for the misattribution of her work to him, either. As Clare Pettitt explains, “the issue of intellectual property for women” was an important concern for mid-Victorian women writers (205), and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Elizabeth Gaskell, Anna Jameson, and Marian Evans were among the authors who signed an 1856 petition to Parliament that “called for the property rights of married women.” However, coverture ended in 1883 (204), and so Nora’s work was legally her own. Furthermore, despite Andrew’s distaste for the New Woman, which I discuss in Chapter Two, he was not an entirely irredeemable misogynist: his side of undated correspondence reveals that he employed a woman research assistant, E. Thompson, and encouraged her to charge 101 him “at the masculine level in search work” at the British Museum. He also privately held Nora’s opinion in high esteem: though he jokingly refers to her in an undated letter to H. Rider Haggard as “the critic on the hearth,” they nevertheless took her advice to excise “all allusions to Kôr and She” from the World’s Desire (1890). Therefore, I argue in this chapter that Andrew’s subordination of Nora’s intellect to his own in the Lilac preface is representative of his ongoing efforts to align the Fairy Books with his own anthropological work. By situating the series in a European fairy-tale tradition that privileges the voice of the white, educated male editor over those of women, peasant, and racialized storytellers, Andrew spins a story that depends on and perpetuates the devaluing of Nora’s translations and the total erasure of her editorial work.

Investigating current definitions of the series’ scope can help us see the extent to which Nora’s work has been ignored in favour of the connections between the series’ folk- and fairy-tale anthologies — which I hereafter refer to collectively as the Coloured Fairy Books — and Andrew’s anthropological theories. Critics generally define the Fairy Book series as including only what Tolkien calls “the twelve books of twelve colours” (11), anthologies of translated and adapted folk- and fairy-tales named for the hues of their binding. Sara Hines, for example, writes that “The Fairy Books never had an official comprehensive title, and yet through the repetition of the title structure (The Red Fairy Book, The Olive Fairy Book, etc.), the uniform size and shape of the books, the single illustrator and editor, and finally the use of color to convey a rainbow, the twelve books function as a collection” (39). Following Hines’ logic, however, the materiality of these volumes actually supports a more expansive definition of the series, as their visual branding is consistent with that of their Coloured siblings: all of them feature illustrations by H.J. Ford and the name “Andrew Lang” in gilt letters on their spines.

Because my interest lies in the ways in which the Fairy Books were marketed to and received by their contemporary reading public, I depart from critical conventions by using the terms “Fairy Books” and “Fairy Book series” to refer to all twenty-six of the Langs’ Christmas books. This is the definition of the series used by its publisher: an 102

advertisement for “The Fairy Book Series” in The Strange Story Book (1913) also includes the Langs’ fourteen other Christmas books (see fig. 2). Nora also follows this definition: in her letter to Both-Hendricksen, she “include[s] the Animal Books & the True Stories” in the category of “all the Fairy Books after the first four” (12 Oct. 1912). The majority of these books also contain a characteristically discursive preface by Andrew; in fact, the only two Fairy Books that Andrew did not preface are Tales of Troy and Greece and The Strange Story Book. Tales of Troy and Greece was published in 1907, the only year in which the Langs produced two Christmas books (the other was The Olive Fairy Book). Coupled with its lack of preface, this could potentially signify that Troy and Greece was related to, but not part of, the Fairy Book series; however, I follow Longmans’ example and include it. Meanwhile, The Strange Story Book was written after Andrew’s death and is the only Fairy Book for which Nora wrote a preface; I discuss this at some length in Chapter Four.

By investigating the misrepresentation of Nora’s editorial work as her husband’s, I add to a small body of feminist scholarship on the Fairy Books. According to Wayne Koestenbaum, “Leonora Blanche Alleyne … wrote most of [Andrew] Lang’s acclaimed fairy tale books, although he and not she took the credit” (155), but this assertion is not mentioned in three subsequent decades of Fairy Book scholarship. More recently, Gillian Lathey and Anna Smol have queried the extent to which Andrew characterized the contributions of the series’ translators, especially Nora, as drudgery. Though exhaustive textual analysis of the entire series is not possible here, this chapter lays a critical foundation for the necessary reappraisal of each Lang’s contributions to the series and makes possible future scholarship that will analyze each book, its translators’ contributions, and its appropriations of indigenous literatures more accurately.

The rest of this chapter is divided into seven parts. I begin by contextualizing the rhetorical and commercial functions of the words “Edited by Andrew Lang” both historically and theoretically. Next, I analyze the existing Fairy Book criticism in order to demonstrate the many ways in which Andrew’s prefaces have directed our interpretations 103

of the series. This literature review is substantially longer than those of the previous two chapters because, ironically, the bulk of Lang scholarship focuses not on Andrew’s creative work or his criticism, but on his relationship to a series with which he was minimally involved. I then turn to the mechanisms of Nora’s near-erasure by contextualizing Andrew’s prefaces in the European fairy-tale tradition, and I explain how Andrew’s grafting of his own anthropological theories onto this tradition produces a definition of literary originality that is at odds with the critical and creative citation practices that I discuss in Chapters One and Two. Following this, I discuss the ways in which Andrew’s prefaces are reinforced by advertisements for the series, and I evaluate the influence of these paratexts on Nora’s collection of reviews of The Book and Saints and Heroes because, I believe, the organization of this collection provides further insight into her definition of her own role in the series. Finally, I support this reading with a brief discussion of both versions of Nora’s essay “Trials of the Wife of a Literary Man” (1898; 1912), thereby allowing Nora to have the last word on the elision of her substantial contributions to the Fairy Book series.

Commercializing the Declarative Editor

Though Andrew was officially associated with the Fairy Books as their editor rather than as their author, his name nevertheless performed — and, indeed, still performs — what Michel Foucault calls the “author function” (107); that is, the words “Andrew Lang” refer not to a person, but to a particular way of reading the Fairy Books. The seemingly unbreakable connection between this series and its editor is not unique: analyzing the rise of the literary series during the final decades of the late nineteenth century, Leslie Howsam explains, “A small but important minority of series were edited by someone who lent to the publisher the prestige of his (the more often) or her name” (14). Andrew’s name, I argue, was used to brand the series as a child-friendly extension of his folkloric scholarship. 104

Harold Love’s taxonomy of the actors who contribute to a text is a useful model for analyzing the commercial and rhetorical effects of the words “Edited By Andrew Lang.” For Love, “The term ‘authorship’ … [does] not … denote the condition of being an originator of works, but a set of linked activities which are sometimes performed by a single person but will often be performed collaboratively or by several persons in succession.” These activities, according to Love, can be categorized as “precursory,” “executive,” “declarative,” and “revisionary” authorship (39). These categories can help us understand the ways in which the Langs’ author functions overlapped. According to Love, “A precursory author would be anyone whose function as a ‘source’ or ‘influence’ makes a substantial contribution to the shape and substance of the work.” He argues that “Precursory authorship may be … collective,” as is the case when re-tellers of folk literature, claiming to be “articulating the experience of the masses … represent themselves as little better than transcribers” (40). These re-tellers, meanwhile, actually perform the role of the “executive author,” that is, “the compiler of the verbal text up to the point where it is judged suitable for publication in one or another form” (49). According to these definitions, Andrew’s supposed editing of Nora’s executive translations and adaptations of precursory texts would appear to fit into the category of “revisionary authorship,” which occurs when “a second writer or editor remodels a work completed or in some cases abandoned by a first” (49).

Indeed, Andrew represents his role in the series this way, writing in the preface to The Crimson Fairy Book (1903) that he primarily revises others’ work, “guarding the interests of propriety, and toning down to mild reproofs the tortures inflicted on wicked stepmothers, and other naughty characters” (vi). Of course, Nora actually did most of this work, too. Therefore, the deliberate misrepresentation of the Fairy Books as “edited by Andrew Lang” indicates that Andrew’s role in the series is closest to what Love describes as that of the “declarative author.” This is the person or persons charged with “appearing 105

in the public sphere as the work’s creator, and … shouldering the responsibilities and accepting the benefits that flow from this” (45). The positioning of Andrew as the series’ declarative author-editor necessitated the concealment of Nora’s editorial work and the misrepresentation of her translations and adaptations as drudgery.

A New York Times review of The Lilac Fairy Book supports this argument. According to the reviewer, Andrew’s persona is, like his expertise, an important part of the Fairy Books’ appeal: “We know of no more agreeable ‘causeur’ than Mr. Andrew Lang. One reason why his ‘causeries’ are so entertaining is that he is apt to talk about himself — a subject as interesting to other people as it is to him … being a man of unusual gifts and much experience, what he reveals of his personality has an unfailing attraction” (BR1). As this review suggests, how Andrew declared his role in the Fairy Books was integral to the series’ popularity. Indeed, the saleability of an author’s — or, in this case, editor’s — name was at least as important a concern for publishers of children’s books as it was for those who sold their wares to adults. The Victorian children’s book was an explicitly commercial genre: as Anne H. Lundin explains, “Victorian children’s books developed in part from the gift book tradition. John Newbery’s pioneer works in the mid-eighteenth century were gift books, containing miscellaneous verse, pictures, and marketing ploys. A

Little Pretty Pocket-Book (1744) included toys as rewards and gimmicks of promotion: balls for boys, pincushions for girls” (36).37 By the closing decades of the nineteenth century, “The concentration of children’s book publishing at the Christmas season promoted the notion of the book as commodity” (35).38 According to Hillard, Andrew’s “prefaces are directed, not at child readers, but at the adult purchasers of the books”; she explains that he “uses this forum to remind the reader that the books were best-selling items on the Christmas market, and that they presented the commercial face of his scholarly endeavours in the emerging field of folklore” (221). Moreover, as Lundin points

37 For a rich account of the infancy of children’s book publishing, see Lissa Paul, The Children’s Book Business: Lessons from the Long Eighteenth Century (2010).

38 For a discussion of the mutually influential relationship between Victorian children’s literature and Christmas as a cultural institution, see Tara Moore, Victorian Christmas in Print (2009). 106

out, “Children’s books were read frequently by adults in the nineteenth century. Six of the ten best-sellers in the United States between 1875 and 1895 were children’s books: Heidi, Treasure Island, A Child’s Garden of Verses, Huckleberry Finn, Little Lord Fauntleroy, and King Solomon’s Mines” (40); thus, perhaps some of the adults who purchased Fairy Books did so based on the reputation of the man who had, as the previous chapter discusses, recommended both Stevenson’s and Haggard’s wildly popular books to them.

Andrew certainly knew that his name would sell: of a supernatural story that his brother John, then living in Australia, sent him, he wrote, “I have found a place for your phenomena, but I must sign it (you can’t, of course)” (n.d.). He was not unwilling to share credit (and labour), however. He later wrote to John of the project that would become Highways and Byways in the Border (1913), “I was asked to do something, and said I could if I might have your collaboration – which was essential. Perhaps they wanted my Xin [Christian] name without yours. If so, they can’t get it!” (24 June 1910). John writes in the preface to Highways that “At the time of his death, my brother had proceeded but a little way in this task which he and I began together” (vii), but the elder sibling is credited before the younger on the book’s title page (iii).

Longmans’ intention to capitalize on the cultural currency of Andrew’s name from the very beginning of the Fairy Book series is clear: an advertisement in the first edition of The Blue Fairy Book lists several popular and scholarly “WORKS BY ANDREW LANG.” Aimed at adult purchasers, this advertisement highlights both the authority and readability of this collection (see fig. 3). It includes anthropological works (Myth, Ritual, and Religion, 1887; Custom and Myth, 1884); popular criticism (Letters to Dead Authors, 1886; Books and Bookmen, 1886; Ballads of Books, 1888; Letters on Literature, 1889); and one creative work, the poetry collection Grass of Parnassus (1888). Ballads and Lyrics of Old France: With Other Poems is not included here; however, because it was published seventeen years before The Blue Fairy Book and was never popular (Green 54), this is perhaps understandable. More surprising is the omission of Andrew’s three original children’s books: The Princess Nobody (1884), which Longmans commissioned to 107

accompany a set of extant illustrations by the Punch cartoonist Richard “Dicky” Doyle; The Gold of Fairnilee (1888); and Prince Prigio (1889). The latter two books were published by Arrowsmith in the UK and Longmans in the US, and so, given that Longmans stood to benefit from sales of both of these books, it seems likely that the publisher deliberately focused instead on books that highlighted Andrew’s status as an expert in anthropology and a popular man of letters.

The Fairy Books and the Langs’ Critical Afterlives

A survey of scholarship on the Fairy Books indicates that both Andrew’s prefaces and Longmans’ marketing have proved effective. The editors of the brand-new Edinburgh Critical Edition of the Selected Writings of Andrew Lang call the Coloured Fairy Books Andrew’s “highly popular anthologies of international fairy tales” (Teverson et al. 1: 124). They excerpt several Fairy Book prefaces to “offer insights into the principles Lang adopted as an editor and compiler” (125); however, though these include the Lilac preface (163-64) the editors neither engage with its content nor mention Nora’s translations and adaptations elsewhere. This oversight is characteristic of the current literature on the Fairy Books, which I will summarize here.

Tolkien’s 1939 Lang Lecture, which would be republished as the essay “On Fairy- Stories” in 1947, considers the cultural significance of the fairy tale and articulates Tolkien’s own philosophy of fantastic literature. Unfortunately, he names Nora in neither lecture nor essay, instead attributing the Coloured Fairy Books “to Andrew Lang and to his wife” (11). More recently, A.S. Byatt (“Introduction” xvi) and Jack Zipes (681) have likewise referred to Nora by her marital status instead of by her name.39 She fares only

39 Nora is, unfortunately, not the only woman whose work is eclipsed by the name of a male relative. Joanna Russ calls this phenomenon “Denial by False Categorizing” (49), a practice exemplified by, she writes, “the (let us hope) apocryphal story of the high school textbook which called Marie Curie the ‘laboratory assistant of her husband Pierre.’” In the literary realm, according to Russ, “women may not only be re-named as non-artists” — as Nora is by Andrew’s insistence on labelling her contributions to the Fairy Books as labour — “their contributions to art may be absorbed into a man’s and categorized as his” as well (50). 108

slightly better in biographies of her husband. In Andrew Lang: A Critical Biography (1946), which began as a Master’s thesis written under Tolkien’s supervision, Roger Lancelyn Green acknowledges that Andrew’s “share in any of the Fairy Books is limited almost exclusively to the Preface”; he contradicts himself — and several of these prefaces — by adding that this “share” also, “of course,” encompassed “the selection and choice of the stories included” in the volumes. Though Green notes that “The tales themselves were retold, translated or adapted mainly by Mrs. Lang” (82), in his own Lang Lecture, “The Mystery of Andrew Lang” (1968), Green fantasizes that the artistic merits of Nora’s work might be attributable to her husband. Calling Andrew “the presiding genius and ... the background inspiration” of the series, he writes that “We can never know — but we may guess — how often Andrew was leaning over Nora’s shoulder murmuring some little addition or alteration that bring to … [the Coloured Fairy Books] the touch of magic that was his to give” (26). Andrew’s other biographer, Eleanor de Selms Langstaff (1978), writes that Nora “was herself a competent writer, as several of her literary essays in periodicals of the time attest.” However, Langstaff also laments that “Much of her time ...was spent in the production of a wide variety of children’s books,” indicating that she thinks the series was drudgery and a waste of Nora’s talents; furthermore, like Green, she believes that Andrew “edited” Nora’s work “with invisible scholarship” (30).

Though more recent criticism avoids such overtly unprovable claims, it also flattens the complex process of Fairy Book authorship by reading individual Fairy Book stories alongside Andrew’s prefaces without considering the creative agency of those stories’ translators. Even Michael Patrick Hearn, who in a footnote quotes the same letter of Nora’s to Both-Hendricksen that this chapter does (487n), writes that Andrew “supervised others” in the same manner that Walt Disney did (487). However, he proceeds to read the Coloured Fairy Books not — as his intriguing comparison of Andrew to Disney seems to promise — as an extension of the Andrew Lang brand, but as the product of Andrew’s editorial imagination, thus contradicting his own assertion of Nora’s responsibility for the 109 series. Sara Hines cites the preface to The Brown Fairy Book, in which Andrew notes that the bulk of that volume’s stories “are by Mrs. Lang, who does not give them exactly as they are told by all sorts of outlandish natives, but makes them up in the hope white people will like them, skipping the pieces which they will not like” (qtd. 54). This is the only time that Hines mentions Nora, and this quotation is made in service of her argument that “the stories” in the Fairy Books were the products of Empire, “collected, translated, and edited specifically ... to be read from the security of the British home,” activities with which Andrew is paradoxically credited (54). To support this argument, Hines analyzes “The Glass Ax” from The Yellow Fairy Book (1894), and compares it to “The Magic Mirror” from The Orange Fairy Book (1906) to demonstrate the ways in which “‘The Glass Axe’ [sic] acquires additional meaning when read in the context of the Fairy Books as a collection” (44). However, her focus is not, as her conclusion suggests, on the ways in which the collection, translation, and editing of this particular tale and the collections that frame it – i.e. The Yellow Fairy Book and the Fairy Book series – produce “meaning.” Although Hines contextualizes her close readings with regard to Andrew’s anthropological work and “the nineteenth-century interest in collecting” (40), hardly any attention is paid to these stories as translations: neither “The Glass Ax” nor “The Magic Mirror” is compared to the source from which it was translated or another English- language adaptation, and the names of their translators do not appear in Hines’s article.40

Though Karen Sands-O’Connor parenthetically notes that Nora “did most of the editing” of the Coloured Fairy Books, “a point ... [Andrew] acknowledges several times in prefaces, although never on the title page,” her comparative reading of The Brown Fairy Book and The Orange Fairy Book is centred on the argument that “comparing the source tales with his own versions for children reveals some of ... [Andrew’s] prejudices” (179). This suggests that Andrew’s biases were added to Nora’s adaptations after she had

40 “The Glass Ax” is not directly attributed to a particular translator, but the first page of “The Magic Mirror” and Andrew’s preface to The Orange Fairy Book can be used to identify it as one of the “stories of Rhodesia, collected by Mr. [Kingsley] Fairbridge” (vii). A consideration of Fairbridge’s work as a colonial official and his enthusiasm for child emigration to the colonies, which resulted in “a series of farm schools for orphaned and underprivileged [English] children” in Australia and Canada (“Fairbridge” para. 2-3), could potentially enrich a reading of the imperialist overtones of “The Magic Mirror.” 110 completed these portions of their (supposedly) collaborative projects. It also contradicts Sands-O’Connor’s own acknowledgment of Nora’s editorial work:

“The Bunyip” is an Australian tale collected/written by W. Dunlop and T.V. Holmes that ... [Andrew] read in The Journal of the Anthropological Institute of Britain and Ireland; “The Sacred Milk of Koumongoé” is a tale from southern Africa that ... [he] borrowed from Edouard Jacottet’s Contes Populaires des Bassoutos (1895). ... [He] took a Native Canadian tale from The Journal of the Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland as the basis for “The Owl and the Eagle.” (179)

Here, Sands-O’Connor collapses the distinction between Dunlop and Holmes’s having “collected” and “written” the story “The Bunyip”; however, the preface to The Brown Fairy Book indicates that this is one of the stories “told by Mrs. Lang” (viii). Dunlop and Holmes’s adaptation of an oral narrative is represented as a form of authorship, but Nora’s subsequent adaptation of this story is not. Similarly, it is Andrew, not Nora, who is credited with “borrowing” “The Sacred Milk of Koumongoé” from Édouard Jacottet; likewise, he “took” “The Owl and the Eagle” from a previously published source. Whether or not Andrew was the Lang who initially read these stories is unclear, but it is also somewhat beside the point. Sands-O’Connor’s use of “borrowed” and “took” implies that Andrew, not Nora, is ultimately responsible for the versions of all of the stories that appeared in the Fairy Books regardless of who actually translated, adapted, and appropriated them. The gap between Sands-O’Connor’s biographical research and her textual analysis reveals the extent to which the myth of Andrew’s authorship of the Fairy Books is insurmountable even to those who possess evidence to the contrary.

Both Hines and Sands-O’Connor subject Andrew’s insistence that folklore is suitable reading material for children to much-deserved postcolonial scrutiny. Anna Smol likewise connects Andrew’s anthropological scholarship to his and common late-Victorian conceptions of the child, explaining, “essential to his comparative method of folklore 111 study is the belief that certain people exist in the same primitive state in the modern day” (177). The preface to the large-paper edition of The Blue Fairy Book echoes Andrew’s belief in recapitulation theory: he claims, “The taste of the world, which has veered so often, is constant enough to fairy tales. The children to whom and for whom they are told represent the young age of man” (xi).41 Therefore, for Andrew, folktales are the natural inhabitants of the nursery.42 His frequent repetition of this argument has meant that Nora’s specific contributions to the Fairy Books’ imperial project have not yet been examined. This is particularly worth considering given the extent to which her family was culpable for the exploitation of the Caribbean. Legal documentation indicates that between 11 April 1836 and 11 May 1836, Nora’s father won five claims against the British government after 717 of his Barbadian slaves were freed by the 1833 Slavery Abolition Act. He received £15, 411 6S 6D, an amount that would be worth about £1.3 million today. At his death in 1872, Alleyne’s assets totalled £30,000 (“Charles Thomas Alleyne”), the equivalent of about £2.4 million today (Officer and Williamson). The Alleynes’ colonial wealth may have increased Nora’s access to educational opportunities that nurtured her talents as a translator, and may have influenced her position on imperialism as well. Accordingly, Chapter Four investigates her appropriation of Tlingit myth and folk-literature in The Strange Story Book.

41 For a discussion of the reciprocal influence between recapitulation theory, child psychology and psychiatry, and childhood studies, see Sally Shuttleworth’s The Mind of the Child: Child Development in Literature, Science, and Medicine 1840-1900 (2010).

42 Marah Gubar has recently problematized the widespread critical belief that Victorian and Edwardian conceptions of childhood were invariably Romantic. She argues that the common contemporary popular and scholarly belief in a “static, highly idealized picture of childhood as a time of primitive simplicity” elides the ways in which children’s authors, she writes, “frequently complicate, challenge, ironize or interrogate the artless ‘Child of Nature’ paradigm” (vii). This paradigm itself is a simplification of both Victorian culture and the Romantic and Enlightenment ideologies (particularly those of Jean-Jacques Rousseau) which preceded it. Gubar explains that Victorian and Edwardian children’s authors “were informed not simply (or even mainly) by primitivism but by a habit of extolling the child’s innocent simplicity while simultaneously indulging a profound fascination with youthful sharpness and precocity” (ix), as in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) and Peter Pan (1904, 1911). 112

(Mis)Representing Literary Authority

Like the authorial performances that I discuss in the previous two chapters, Andrew’s editorial persona in the Fairy Books is self-reflexively predicated on a masculinist literary tradition. According to this model, anthropology and written literature are civilized, manly endeavours because they are at least one degree of separation away from oral storytelling, which is primitive, feminized work. Accordingly, the narrative distancing of male authors from the feminine connotations of fairy tales has long been a staple of the genre. Men who found fame as children’s authors during the period in which the Fairy Books were published — for example, Haggard, Kipling, Stevenson, and G.A. Henty — were often writers of romance and historical fiction, i.e. boys’ books. Thus, in the Fairy Book prefaces, Andrew “is willing to present himself as the firm editorial hand over a body of narrative pulled from the savage margins for the pleasure of a civilization predicated on literacy,” but he is “more reluctant to own his debt to a literary fairy tale tradition that was explicitly female” (Clark Hillard 223). Accordingly, he conflates women’s writing, translation, adaptation, and orality, and he represents all of these as inferior modes of literary production. This practice constitutes a double erasure. By shifting Nora and her colleagues into the role of these tale’s original tellers (Smol 181), Andrew appropriates these tellers’ creative work, thereby erasing them entirely. Nora’s complicity in this erasure is discussed in Chapter Four.

Andrew’s misrepresentations of women’s writing also draw on the convention of framing the voices of female storytellers with those of male interlocutors, a tradition that has its roots in Charles Perrault’s Histoires ou contes du temps passé, avec des moralités: Contes de ma mère l’Oye (Tales From Mother Goose) (1697). As Elizabeth Wanning Harries explains, the sophisticated late seventeenth-century conteuses, Perrault’s female contemporaries, tended not to perpetuate the illusion of the feminized, class-inflected “mythical oral tradition that Perrault claimed to draw on and at the same time carefully 113 distanced himself from.” Instead, they framed their stories with “conversation” (47) partly because “if they identified themselves primarily as tellers of tales, they would find it more difficult to see themselves” — and be seen — “as writers of tales” (32). The association of women with the oral was a means of excluding them from the literary realm, and so “Perrault’s frontispiece,” which depicts a woman simultaneously spinning and telling a story, Harries writes, “may have been an attempt to etch his female writing competitors out of existence” (51). His attribution of the book to his teenaged son, Pierre Perrault Darmancour, might have been intended similarly (Betts xv).

According to Jennifer Schacker, the ethnographically-inflected “tale type” of “Woman Tells Story While Man Takes Notes” was first made available to the English reading public by Edgar Taylor’s 1832 translation of Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm’s Kinder- und Hausmärchen (Childhood and Nursery Tales, 1812) (8). She explains that Taylor’s German Popular Stories sets the precedent in English for scholarly collections of folk- and fairy tales (2). Like so many other conventions of the modern fairy-tale collection, the framing of romanticized, ostensibly working-class female informants by the explicitly academic voices of male researchers was inaugurated by the Grimms, who originally published their book as a philological record of various German dialects. Accordingly, its first and second editions contain prefaces and footnotes that discourse at length on the significance of the tales that the brothers collected. Although these prefaces were discarded as the collection gained popularity as a compendium of bedtime stories, their legacy endured, and the collection continues to be read as both authentic (thanks to the allegedly peasant-class female tellers of its stories) and authoritative (thanks to the middle-class male compositors and editors of these stories). This illusion of authenticity persists even though scholars have noted that the Grimms drew several of their stories from print sources, and, as Maria Tatar explains, their “informants were rarely unlettered peasants who spoke the inimitable language of the ‘folk,’ but literate men and women from various social classes,” including Dorothea “Dortchen” Wild, who married Wilhelm Grimm in 1825 (24).

115 and knows only the sphere appropriate to women” (182). However, in order to remove objectionable materials, one must know both what is objectionable and where one might find it, and Matus observes that the Burtons “collude in the fiction that Isabel has never read the material excised from” the Nights. Matus argues that this “collusion” grants Isabel a measure of agency insofar as it enables her to “protect … [her husband’s] copyright and guarantee his reputation as the finest of orientalists” while bringing his work to “a respectable female audience” (176).

Isabel’s misrepresentation of her own editorial work as bowdlerism is particularly interesting given that the man who lent his surname to this eponymous adjective, Thomas Bowdler, actually did very little of the work with which he is credited. His sister, Henrietta Maria Bowdler was primarily responsible for the heavily expurgated Family Shakespeare (1807). Her edition of 1807 was published anonymously, but her brother had taken on the mantle of editorship by 1809: an unmarried woman of her stature and beliefs could hardly then acknowledge publicly that she knew enough about sexual impropriety to edit Shakespeare effectively. The later edition of the complete plays that he produced reinforced the notion that he had originated the idea (Loughlin-Chow para. 4). By the time the Fairy Books were published, this sort of censorship was, as the case of Isabel Burton indicates, appropriate work for women when it was framed as a domestic endeavour.

Though the extent of Nora’s collusion in the erasure of her own work is unclear, it is worth noting here that, though Andrew wrote prefaces for another set of folktale collections, K. Langloh Parker’s Australian Legendary Tales: Folk-lore of the Noongahburrahs as Told to the Piccaninnies (1896) and its sequel More Australian Legendary Tales (1898), these prefaces endorse Langloh Parker’s work rather than appropriate it entirely. Because Parker, an Australian of English descent, conducted her own ethnographic fieldwork and spoke the Euhalayi language (M. Muir para. 4-5), she was a public expert on her subject matter in a way that Nora was not. Therefore, as Rebecca-Anne C. Do Rozario points out, Andrew’s attempt to graft his own scholarship

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Langloh Parker dispenses with Andrew’s allochronic association of the present-day colonized with a vague, prehistoric past, writing that “the Noongahburrahs before the arrival of” colonizing Europeans “would not have imagined that their stories ‘would be used to make a Christmas booklet for the children of their white supplanters’” (qtd. in Do Rozario 20).43 These statements are strikingly different from the comparative study promoted by Andrew’s Fairy Book prefaces.

This is not to say that Andrew and Langloh Parker disagreed entirely. As I discuss in Chapter One, he held a great deal of antipathy toward Herbert Spencer’s philology, and he notes with satisfaction in the introduction to The Euahlayi Tribe that Langloh Parker had been “a disciple of Mr. Herbert Spencer in regard to the religious ideas of the Australians … [but] was obliged to alter her attitude, in consequence of all that she learned at first hand.” He continues, “It seems necessary to mention these details, as I have, in other works [The Making of Religion (1900) and Custom and Myth (1884)] expressed my own opinions on Australian religion and customary law.” However, he reassures readers, “These opinions I have not, so to speak, edited into the work of Mrs. Parker” (x). Langloh Parker corroborates this. Before beginning her fieldwork, “My anthropological reading was scanty, but I was well acquainted with and believed in Mr. Herbert Spencer’s ‘ghost theory’ of the origin of religion in the worship of ancestral spirits. What I learned from the natives surprised me, and shook my faith in Mr. Spencer’s theory, with which it seemed incompatible” (3). Overall, Andrew’s insistence that he has not “edited” his own ideas “into” Langloh Parker’s book forms a stark contrast with the Fairy Book prefaces, as does his representation of himself as an educated admirer of Langloh Parker’s work but a benevolent supervisor of Nora’s. All of this indicates the extent to which contemporary perceptions of domestic collaboration, and not just women’s writing, informed the Fairy Book brand.

43 However, Langloh Parker’s attitude toward her informants was still colonial: Do Rozario observes that her “intent” to give them preselected material goods (tobacco and clothing) rather than money — or the ability to choose their own goods — is, “in effect, charity,” not remuneration (20). 118

The preface to The Brown Fairy Book provides further evidence for this claim. Andrew concludes by acknowledging the writers who have “translated … stories … from all quarters of the world” (vii) for the volume. Annette S. Beveridge is credited for translating “What the Rose Did to the Cyprus,” Lang writes, “out of a Persian manuscript”; “the Editor” himself is responsible for “Pivi and Kabo,” which he describes as “a tale from the brown people in the island of New Caledonia”; Miss Blackley translated “Asmund and Signy” from Hugo Gering and Reinhold Köhler’s Islendzk Äventyri: Isländische Legenden, Novellen und Märchen (Icelandic Adventures: Icelandic Stories, Legends, and Fairy Tales) (1882), which they translated from Old Norse to German; and Major Campbell contributes “[The] Story of Wali Dad the Simple Hearted” and “The King Who Would be Stronger Than Fate,” stories he “wrote … out” after they were “told to [him] … by Hindoos.” These writers are represented as ethnographers and scholars, whereas Nora is depicted as a bowdlerizer: the remaining twenty-one of the twenty-six stories in the collection are, Andrew explains, “told by Mrs. Lang, who does not give them exactly as they are told by all sorts of outlandish natives, but makes them up in the hope white people will like them, skipping the pieces which they will not like” (viii).

The contrast between this acknowledgment and the language Andrew uses to credit the other translators — two of whom were women — who contributed to the volume is striking. As they are in prefaces throughout the series, Nora’s translations, editorial work, and authorship are misrepresented and reconfigured as spontaneous storytelling. Furthermore, his declaration that these stories are “told by” Nora evokes oral, rather than textual, composition and thereby semantically aligns her with the “outlandish natives” whose stories she appropriates instead of with her co-translators. The claim that she “makes … up” the stories in The Brown Fairy Book equates adaptation with housecleaning — for example, one might “make up” a bed — when read in light of her expurgation of the “pieces” of these stories that white children and their parents “will not like” (viii). Nora’s translations are thereby recast as low-skilled, domestic — that is, conventionally women’s — work. Indeed, though Andrew explains in the Lilac preface, 119

“I do not write the stories out of my own head” (vii), he does not, despite his assertion of Nora’s responsibility for the series, claim that she is their author, either:

Nobody really wrote most of the stories. ... The grannies told them to the grandchildren, and when the grandchildren became grannies they repeated the same old tales to the new generation. Homer knew the stories and made up the “Odyssey” out of half a dozen of them. … Shakespeare took them and put bits of them into ’King Lear’ and other plays; he could not have made them up himself, great as he was. (vii)

The folk-transmission of these plots is credited to women — “grannies” — while their literary transmission is attributed entirely to men — Homer and Shakespeare, both of whom are, unlike Nora in the Brown preface, freed from the domestic connotations of having “made” anything “up.” Andrew makes similar arguments in six of the twelve Coloured Fairy Books’ prefaces (Hines 51). Such divisions reify a system of narrative production in which women labour, men create, and the colonized and rural populations who originated these stories are, if they are acknowledged at all, credited en masse in order to highlight the authenticity of the stories that the (white, middle-class, male) editor has improved.

Literary Plagiarism versus Literary Labour

The rhetoric exemplified above contradicts Andrew’s previous claims regarding the nature of literary creativity. As I discuss in Chapter Two, he argues in “Literary Plagiarism” that a finite number of plots exist and it is what authors do with these plots that constitutes literary innovation. Citing Virgil and Homer as examples of such author- adapters, he writes, “Not the matter, but the casting of the matter; not the stuff, but the form given to the stuff, makes the novel, the novelty, and the success” (832-33). Letitia Henville argues this “repeated insistence on the physicality of ideas” is “an appropriate 120 rhetorical device, given the importance of access in the late nineteenth-century publishing market.” She connects this rhetoric to Andrew’s editorial and critical “position as [a] collator and citer of all kinds of texts,” a role that “depends on the networks of privilege, and therefore presumes singular authority at another, displaced level” (para. 3). Indeed, just as the archaeologist has the cultural and educational capital necessary to access and analyze the “material relics of old races” (Custom and Myth 11), the folklorist, the author- adaptor, and the editor have privileged access to both narratives and avenues in which to publish their interpretations, versions, and collections of these. The plots which Andrew believes had folkloric, i.e. uncivilized, origins are, to borrow his own metaphor, re-cast here as raw material that must be deconstructed and reshaped before it can be properly termed “literature.” According to this logic, to translate a story into another narrative form is to make it one’s own, and so while adaptation therefore constitutes authorship, plagiarism does not.

However, the extent to which adaptation is, for Andrew, authorship — that is, the degree to which the production of literature is art and not labour — depends both upon the gender of the adapter and the genre of the adaptation. In the preface to The Crimson Fairy Book (1903), he writes, “A sense of literary honesty compels the Editor to keep repeating that he is the Editor, and not the author of the Fairy Tales, just as a distinguished man of science is only the Editor, not the Author of Nature. Like nature, popular tales are too vast to be the creation of a single modern mind” (v). Because, according to Andrew, the collection of folk-stories both in the field and between the covers of a book is a science, the fact that “The stories [in The Crimson Fairy Book] have mainly been translated or adapted by Mrs. Lang” does not make those stories Nora’s in the same way that the novels She (1885) and Jess (1885) are Haggard’s. Andrew’s job as a “man of science” is to curate these “popular tales” (vi) for the education of his readers, and Nora’s is to collect the products of “nature” (v) under the supervision of her husband, who assures readers that his specimens have not been contaminated. 121

Henville connects Andrew’s representation of authorship in “Literary Plagiarism” to the “Literary Machine” that Marian Yule imagines is an invention into which a person could “throw in a given number of old books, and have them reduced, blended, modernised into a single one for to-day’s consumption” (qtd. Henville para. 12) in George Gissing’s New Grub Street (1891). However, a more accurate comparison can be drawn between the Literary Machine and Andrew’s representation of Nora’s translations and adaptations as labour rather than artistry. Marian, a researcher and writer whose education was solely aimed at ensuring her usefulness to her fame-hungry father (Gissing 94), is virtually chained to a desk in the British Library and thrills to the advertisement for the “Literary Machine” that she imagines must be “some automaton to supply the place of such poor creatures as herself to turn out books and articles.” Unfortunately for Marian, however, “the machine was only one for holding volumes conveniently, that the work of literary manufacture might be physically lightened.” Marian’s own “work,” is, of course, another sort of “literary manufacture,” and she is, in Marx’s terms, profoundly alienated from it. Wishing for the opportunity “to go forth and labour with one’s hands, to do any poorest, commonest work of which the world had truly need” (107), Marian sees herself as a dehumanized “machine” doomed to an eternity of busy-work and with “no business to refuse its duty” (108).

Gissing’s critique of the relationship between gender and mediating technology reflects attitudes toward the movement of women into offices at the end of the nineteenth century. Jill Galvan identifies the proliferation of women as telegraph and telephone operators, secretaries, and occult mediums at the end of the nineteenth century as the result of a widespread belief in “two allegedly feminine traits: sensitivity or sympathy, often imagined as the product of women’s delicate nervous systems; and an easy reversion to automatism, or a state of unconsciousness.” Thus, according to Galvan, “women were exemplary go-betweens because they potentially combined the right kind of presence 122

with the right kind of absence” (12).44 Such assumptions would have positioned women well as candidates for the invisible — or at least erasable — work of translation: as Lesa Scholl explains, the burgeoning Victorian demand for the translation of modern languages created an avenue through which middle-class women could enter the literary marketplace and participate in intellectual discourses, partly because these languages were not as respected as the classical ones over which male translators held dominion (6).

This might partially explain why Andrew represents the Fairy Book translators’ work as superficial and focuses instead on the connections between their translated texts and his own criticism. In the large-paper edition of The Blue Fairy Book, he traces the stories therein to their origins in myth and folktale, writing of fairy tales, “We may alter now and again the arrangements of incidents” in these stories, but the incidents themselves “remain essentially the same” (xi). He highlights the similarities between “The Scotch ‘Black Bull of Norroway,’” and “‘East of the Sun, West of the Moon,’ a tale from the Norse.” Both of these stories, he explains, “have manifest resemblances to ‘Beauty and the Beast,’” a story that itself reminds “every classical student [of] … the fable of ‘Eros and Psyche’” and “every anthropologist [of] … a similar Märchen among Kaffirs and Bassutos” (xi-xii). He makes these observations in order to establish the literary genealogy of the fairy tale, an argument that he first made, as I discuss in Chapter One, in “Mythology and Fairy Tales” (1873). He notes that The Blue Fairy Book contains literary fairy tales by “The Grimms,” “Hans Christian Andersen,” and “Madame D’Aulnoy and Madame Le Prince de Beaumont,” in addition to a number of folktales, but he “doubt[s] if any of our tales are absolutely pure from literary handling, absolutely set down as they drop from the lips of tradition” (xiv). One might think that this acknowledgment of the “literary handling” to which the translated, adapted, and re-cast stories of the Fairy Books have been subjected might lead Andrew to classify these stories as, like those of the

44 This is not to say that men were not interested in spiritualism and the occult; Andrew himself wrote a number of works on the subject and served as president of the Society for Psychical Research in 1911 (Green, Andrew Lang 71-73). However, women more frequently acted as mediums. One notable exception to this rule is Arthur Conan Doyle, whose “finest hour came in 1927 when he summoned Dickens at a seance”; unfortunately, the late author declined “to solve” The Mystery of Edwin Drood (1870) for his colleague (Waller 191). 123

Grimms, Andersen, D’Aulnoy, and de Beaumont, original works, but such an assumption would be incorrect.

He explains that the versions of the English folktales “Jack the Giant Killer” and “Dick Whittington” in the large-paper edition of The Blue Fairy Book are “decent but dull” adaptations of “chap books” whose unnamed authors “flattened and stupefied, and crammed [these stories] with gross rural jests” (xxi). To rewrite them entirely, Andrew implies, would be to further remove them from their oral sources, and so “decent but dull” is the best that can be managed, a sentiment that expresses little faith in his collaborators or their precursors. Here, it is the editor who receives credit for discovering and displaying these narrative objects, not their original tellers or those who have reworked them. Thus, although Clark Hillard positions Andrew as “an alternate model to the cult of the solo literary genius that occupied so much of the Victorian literary landscape,” and argues that this model is “defined by collaboration and coterie production” (218), the inconsistencies in Andrew’s own definitions of authorship indicate that, for him, some collaborators are more equal than others.

Advertisements and Anxieties

Though, as I’ve previously indicated, Andrew’s original children’s books are not advertised in The Blue Fairy Book, he does name three of them in his preface to The Lilac Fairy Book:

In truth I never did write any fairy books in my life, except “Prince Prigio” [(1889)], “Prince Ricardo [of Pantouflia]” [(1893)], and “Tales from a Fairy Court” [(1907)]—that of the aforesaid Prigio. I take this opportunity of recommending these fairy books —poor things, but my own — to parents and guardians who may never have heard of them. (iv)

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work of “the three hundred and sixty-five authors who try to write new fairy tales” but do not understand that “Real fairies never preach or talk slang.” The Fairy Books are better than these, he explains, because “Our stories” — that is, the stories Nora adapted while he “superintended” — “are almost all old” (viii); that is, they are authentic. This echoes his claim in “Realism and Romance” (1887) that “not only boys and illiterate people, but even critics not wholly illiterate, can be moved by a tale of adventure” like Kidnapped or Treasure Island because they appeal to one’s inner “barbarian” (690).

The Prigio series, meanwhile, is framed as a series of histories, a narrative conceit that draws on Andrew’s status as a respected critic and public intellectual. For example, the preface to Prince Prigio informs readers, “In compiling the following History from the Archives of Pantouflia, the Editor has incurred several obligations to the Learned. The Return of Benson ... is the fruit of the research of the late Mr. Allan Quatermain” (vii). This fictional conflation of the roles of scholar, editor, and storyteller prefigures Andrew’s assumption of the same hybrid role in his prefaces to the Fairy Books; furthermore, his intertextual nod to the protagonist of Haggard’s imperial romances reifies the connection between the two writers that was, as the previous chapter discusses, an essential component of both of their authorial brands. According to this preface, Prince Prigio is not just any fairy tale; it is a fairy tale that is informed by the boys’ books that Quatermain metonymically represents. Therefore, though the conflict between Andrew’s desire to distance himself from and assert ownership of the Fairy Books is never fully resolved, it is clear that his promotion of the Prigio series in The Lilac Fairy Book is an attempt to capitalize on the Fairy Book brand. By recommending these “fairy books” to the “parents and guardians” of his readers (vi), Andrew suggests that his authorial and editorial voices — when framed by a particular sort of preface — are similar enough to satisfy both his young fans and the adult book-buyers Brian Alderson and Andrea Immel identify as “sophisticated adults looking for a quality product” (411). 126

Another paratext, the introduction to the large-paper edition of The Blue Fairy Book, confirms my hypothesis. Here, Andrew writes that this “limited edition of the Blue Fairy Book, [is] only meant for grown-up people, and never for children,” that is, for “readers who will care to hear a little about the literary sources whence our tales come, and to know how far they are truly traditional, how far the art of later times has altered or embellished the original data” (xvi). Because these stories are unchanged from the children’s edition of the book, it is, Andrew indicates, the introduction that makes this collection appropriate for adults. Three more large-paper Fairy Books were produced. The Blue and Red volumes feature introductions that do not appear in their mass-market counterparts, which contain only short prefaces that detail the provenance of their tales; the special Green (1892) and Yellow (1894) editions have the same prefaces as the standard editions, which, like the prefaces to the Fairy Books that would follow them, conversationally repackage Andrew’s scholarship for a general audience. These Fairy Books thus, like Stevenson's and Haggard’s romances, engage in “cross-writing,” or knowingly and simultaneously addressing adult and child readers, within a single volume (rather than across two editions of that volume) of the series (Beckett 192-96). From Green onward, adult readers were no longer solely targeted as potential buyers of the standard editions, but as potential readers of them as well. Beginning with The Arabian Nights Entertainments (1898), Longmans advertised only the Langs’ Christmas books in the Fairy Books, doing so under the heading “Edited by Andrew Lang” (see fig. 4). By contrast, first editions of The Pink Fairy Book (1897), the preceding volume, advertise a mixture of Fairy Books and Andrew’s books for adults under the heading “Works by Andrew Lang.” (see fig. 5).

In a 1912 advertisement in The Bookman, The Book of Saints and Heroes is advertised as “Mr. Lang’s Book for 1912” even though the book is, as the advertisement notes in smaller letters, “By Mrs. Andrew Lang” (see fig. 6). Meanwhile, in the only three advertisements for the series that ran in Longman’s Magazine, Nora’s name does not appear at all: the last of these ads appeared in 1901, and the first Fairy Book to bear her 127

byline, The Book of Romance, was published in 1902. In the advertisements printed in the Fairy Books themselves, she is credited in a much smaller font than the all-caps heading that advertises her husband’s supposed editorship of the books that are “By” her. For example, in the advertisement in The Strange Story Book that I discuss above, the words “By Mrs. Lang” are the same size as the text that tells readers how many illustrations are in each book. Andrew’s translation and adaptation of the stories in Tales of Troy and Greece are, conversely, highlighted: though his byline is no larger than his wife’s, information about this book is enclosed by two horizontal rules that visually separate it from the rest of the list and emphasize his solitary authorship of this volume (see fig. 2). The striking discrepancy between the ways in which the Langs’ authorship is represented indicates the extent to which the words “Andrew Lang” were integral to the Fairy Book brand.

Contemporary Reviews

Interestingly, a survey of Nora’s collection of reviews of The Book of Saints and Heroes, the Fairy Book published in the same year that she wrote to Both-Hendricksen, indicates that she often received more credit from contemporary reviewers than she does from today’s critics (MS-38256). For example, the Standard mourns what its reviewer presumes is the end of the series of “the many delightful books of legend which were edited by the late Mr. Andrew Lang” but also notes that “the stories, however, are from the pen of Mrs. Andrew Lang, and from that gifted writer we can expect much more to come.” However, two publications, the Observer and Westminster Gazette, misattribute the entire book to Andrew. Other reviews reproduce Andrew’s Edenic representation of Fairy Book production (Lilac vi-vii). For example, the Bookseller describes Saints and Heroes as the final “book of stories for children at Christmas time … provided by Mr. Andrew Lang” and claims that it was produced by “Mrs. Lang under his direction.” 128

Catholic Book Notes, meanwhile, describes the volume as “prepared” by “the late Andrew Lang, assisted by his wife,” and praises the manner in which “Mr. Lang tells charming stories drawn from Church history and legend.”46 However, the only saints’ lives that Andrew has contributed to the book are in its preface (v-viii), which the reviewer suggests that “Catholic parents might — as they can, without in any way marring the book — do well to detach … from any copies they give to their young folk.” This recommendation is likely made because this preface claims that stories about the saints arose when “pleasant people of long ago mixed up fairies with their religion” (vi- vii), a fanciful, quasi-ethnographic statement that is, ironically, more characteristic of Andrew’s style than any of the stories misattributed to him by this review.

Other reviews also illuminate the extent to which Nora’s work was commercially linked to the words “Andrew Lang.” For example, the Bolton Journal and Guardian says that this is “probably the last book to bear the imprimatur of Andrew Lang,” crediting Nora with editorial as well as creative work, noting that she “knows how to select her themes and arrange her materials.” The Globe “presume[s]” incorrectly that “this book” will be “the last Christmas volume that will be issued with Andrew Lang’s name in the title page” before telling readers that “Mrs. Lang is responsible for the letterpress, and she has done her part with her usual skill.” However, she must share the only sentence of this review that mentions her at all with “Mr. Ford” and praise for his “many dainty coloured and black-and-white pictures illustrating the legends.” The Nottingham Guardian informs readers that “the principal part of the work of collating and translating stories from the traditional literature of various countries” for the Fairy Books was “done by Mrs. Lang” but credits Andrew with “a most effective supervision” in addition to “furnishing a preface.”

46 The Dial commits a similar error in its review of The Book of Romance, telling readers that the stories “are re-told in Mr. Lang’s attractive manner” (404). 129

Only one reviewer believes that The Book of Saints and Heroes was almost entirely Nora’s work alone. Inverting the terms of the Globe’s equation of Nora’s work with Ford’s, New York’s Churchman only briefly mentions “Andrew Lang[’s] ... characteristically light-hearted and humorous preface and Mr. H.J. Ford[’s] ... number of really admirable illustrations in color and black and white” but extensively praises Nora’s writing for being “entirely free from the sentimentality which is too often employed in dealing with” saints’ lives. This review begins by referring to “the long series of story books for children with which the name of the late Andrew Lang is associated”; it concludes that “It seems ... a pity that Andrew Lang’s name should have been put on the back of the volume, seeing that he is the author of the four pages of preface and no more” (MS-38256). I am inclined to agree.

So, it appears, was Nora. The University of St. Andrews has preserved the original, non- chronological order in which Nora placed these reviews: the Churchman’s review is the penultimate clipping, and it is followed by the Bolton Journal and Guardian’s, an organization that establishes the quality of the book before emphasizing her authorship and her editorial skills.47

Conclusion: “Trials of the Wife of a Literary Man”

Because Andrew was so instrumental in the elision of Nora’s contributions to the Fairy Books, I’ve unfortunately spent a great deal of space here on his words rather than on hers. However, I want to end as I began: with Nora speaking for herself. Her essay, “Trials of the Wife of a Literary Man” (1898), was published anonymously in Longman’s Magazine, which, as I note in Chapter Two, featured a popular causerie, “At the Sign of the Ship,” by her husband. “Trials” would have appealed to the Victorians’ nearly unquenchable thirst for details about the lives of their favourite celebrities, and

47 The Churchman’s review, which is dated 30 November 1912, is one of the earliest reviews in this envelope. The Bolton Journal and Guardian’s, which is dated 14 December 1912, is older than seven of the twenty-one reviews that Nora saved.

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Fairy Books. Moreover, we learn that Andrew “placed” the essays “in order,” but their authorship is wholly Nora’s; here, it is the husband, not the wife, who assists but does not create (ix). The book’s title page, unlike the one mentioned in Nora’s essay, is also more truthful than those of the Fairy Books, including the ones on which “her name appears.” It informs readers that what follows is “By Mrs. Andrew Lang” and includes a “Prefatory Note By Mr. Andrew Lang” (see fig. 7).

Admittedly, reclassifying the Fairy Book series presents logistical problems. For example, Nathan K. Hensley credits Nora with “the main work of adaptation” but follows “the convention” of referring to the series as Andrew’s “because,” he writes, this “is the only way to locate them in the various catalogs and databases we use to do our work.” I am sympathetic to the potential difficulty of re-cataloguing physical and digital archives; however, the truth that the Fairy Books are “almost wholly the work” of Nora Lang demands a critical reconsideration of the series. I begin this work with an analysis of The Strange Story Book in the next chapter. !132

Chapter Four Metalepsis and Editorial Authority in The Strange Story Book

The previous chapter argues that Nora Lang deserves much more popular, critical, and commercial credit than she has been given for her editorial and creative contributions to the Fairy Book series (1889-1913), which were almost invariably subordinated to her husband Andrew Lang’s formidable reputation as an editor and scholar of fairy tales. Here, I deepen my analysis of Nora’s role in the series by considering another implication of Andrew’s confession that “The Fairy Books have been almost wholly the work of Mrs. Lang” (Lilac, “Preface” vi); specifically, I ask how Nora represents others’ contributions to the series that was “almost wholly” — but, it must be noted, not entirely — hers. Accordingly, this chapter focuses on The Strange Story Book (1913), the second of two Fairy Books published after Andrew’s death and the only one with a preface written by Nora.

Unlike Andrew’s prefaces, which reproduce his anthropological work and represent Nora’s contributions to the series as domestic work, Nora’s preface to The Strange Story Book is nostalgic, eulogizing both her late husband and the series itself. This nostalgia is, I argue, strategic: Nora’s preface relegates Andrew to the golden age of her now-adult readers’ childhood, thereby suggesting that the author-editor “Andrew Lang” is another character in the Fairy Books’ stories, making space for her to assert her own editorial and creative agency. Therefore, this preface is central to my analysis of her editorial methodology, her performance of authorship, and the relationships between these practices. By studying the relationships between The Strange Story Book’s text and paratexts, this chapter lays the necessary groundwork for a reconsideration of the Fairy Books that accounts for Nora’s substantial role in the series.

The Strange Story Book mixes short biographies, Tlingit legends, incidents from George Sand’s autobiography, stories about the unsolved disappearances of Owen Parfitt and Elizabeth Canning, and adaptations of longer literary works by Washington Irving, 133

Voltaire, Pliny, and Daniel Defoe. Such miscellany suggests that the book is aptly named, making it stand out amongst its more thematically cohesive siblings, which contain either adaptations of folk- and fairy tales or stories about Heroes (1909, 1912), Animals (1896, 1899), Princes and Princesses (1908), or Saints (1912). However, the strangest thing about this book is, I think, that it has heretofore been critically ignored: reading its contents alongside Nora’s preface extends the body of postcolonial and feminist scholarship on the Fairy Books by revealing the connections between Nora’s eulogization of her husband, her valourization of exemplary women and gender-variant persons, and her appropriation of indigenous narratives. I argue that these practices enable Nora to put to rest the notion that Andrew was primarily responsible for the series and to situate herself in a mixed-gender authorial community, establish a lineage of transgressive women, and demonstrate her own competence at ethnographic research.

Thus, what follows is an examination of the paratextual and textual ways in which Nora uses The Strange Story Book to challenge readers’ perceptions of her collaboration with Andrew and Andrew’s own citation practices. Central to my analysis is the concept of “metalepsis,” which Gérard Genette defines as “any intrusion by the extradiegetic narrator or narratee into the diegetic universe (or by diegetic characters into a metadiegetic universe, etc.), or the inverse” (Narrative Discourse 234-35). I use the term metalepsis rather than intrusion here because my interest lies in the dialogic relationship between the stories in and preface to The Strange Story Book, and the events and characters on which an intrusive narrator comments tend not to (literally or metaphorically) talk back. The interactions between text and paratext are central to my analysis of the citational community Nora constructs for herself in this book.

The rest of this chapter is divided into six sections. I begin with a discussion of metalepsis and the ways in which it functions in Wuthering Heights. This establishes the terms of my analysis of metalepic editorial personas in collections of folk and fairy tales, which I support with readings of Joseph Jacobs’s English Fairy Tales (1890) and The Tales of Beedle the Bard (2007) by J.K. Rowling. I focus this lens on the strategic !134

nostalgia of Nora’s preface to The Strange Story Book, which, I argue, is both a eulogy for Andrew Lang and an assertion of her own editorial and creative work. I then turn to the “strange stories” themselves. First, I affirm that Nora should not be absolved from responsibility for the series’ colonial appropriations. She declines to name the individual

Tlingit informants, Don Cameron, Katilan, Q!ādAstin, Dekinā’ku, Katishan, his unnamed

mother, and KAsā’nk!, whose tales she retells; however, she does acknowledge John R. Swanton, the ethnographer who collected these stories under the aegis of the American Bureau of Ethnology. I argue that Nora’s concurrent erasure of Tlingit storytellers and representation of her relationship with Swanton as a collaborative one serves to paratextually and textually assert her facility for both ethnographic research and literary adaptation. Then, I discuss the fact that four of the stories in the collection are drawn from the autobiography of the “large-brained woman and large-hearted man, / Self-called George Sand” (Barrett, “Desire” 1-2), and I connect these stories to Nora’s abbreviated biographies of Hannah Snell (1723-92) and Catalina D’Erauso (1585-1650), who donned men’s clothing and were celebrated for their skills in battle.48 Nora’s affinity for these women, I argue, queers the patriarchal model of collaboration established by her husband: where, as I discuss in Chapters One and Two, Andrew spent his career establishing a literary fraternity by aligning himself with established writers at the beginning of his career, collaborating with less well-known authors at the apex of his popularity, and devaluing the work of women throughout, Nora situates herself in a community of women who have distinguished themselves by ably occupying roles that are traditionally coded male. I conclude that although Andrew’s prefaces frame Nora’s work for the Fairy Book as domestic labour, The Strange Story Book reframes these contributions as academic and creative endeavours, enabling Nora to claim editorial and authorial credit for the series as a whole.

48 Sherry Velasco positions Erauso as both a lesbian and a “transgender figure” (172); using Erauso’s autobiography as a guide, she uses female pronouns to refer to her subject. I follow Velasco’s model here, but with the caveat that Erauso’s gender identity was almost certainly less feminine than Sand’s or Snell’s. !135

Metalepsis in Wuthering Heights: A Fictional Case Study

Before I turn to the metaleptic relations between editors of folklore anthologies and those anthologies’ contents, a fuller explanation of the precise narratological mechanisms of metalepsis is necessary. Therefore, I begin with a case study of a well-known metaleptic text, analyzing the ways in which narratorial collaboration and competition operate in Emily Brontë’s novel Wuthering Heights (1847). Genette cites Lockwood as an example of a narrator “who plays a secondary role … as observer or witness” in the text that he or she narrates (245); I argue that the metaleptic negotiations and tensions between Lockwood’s frame narration and Nelly Dean’s framed narration as both characters try and fail to narratively contain the ethnically ambiguous and anti-heroic Heathcliff reveal the extent to which narrative authority is grounded in — and can be subverted by — power imbalances that result from the intersections of class, gender, and race.

As she finishes the first instalment of her story and “proceed[s] to lay aside her sewing,” Nelly tells Lockwood that “I could have told Heathcliff’s history, all that you need hear, in half a dozen words.” He protests that she has “done just right to tell the story leisurely … and … must finish it in the same style” (55), and she acquiesces, deciding that “instead of leaping three years” in the lives of her subjects as she had originally planned, she “instead will be content to pass to the next summer” (56) and the birth of Hareton Earnshaw, the eldest of the novel’s second generation of characters. Nelly’s change of mind is not, however, capitulation to the whims of a man so oblivious to the responsibilities of a housekeeper that he ignores her hint that “a person who has not done one-half his day’s work by ten o’clock, runs a chance of leaving the other half undone” and thus cannot go to bed at “One or two” (55). Rather, her ability to temporally expand or contract her narrative to suit her audience — to say nothing of her ability to keep an interested listener awake until the wee hours of the morning — positions Nelly as a Sheherazade-like figure with the ability to manipulate her interlocutor’s experience of 136

time through storytelling. She “could have told” Lockwood everything he “need hear” about Heathcliff in only six words, but instead she elects to tell him everything he wants to know about his mysterious landlord in a complex narrative that spans several evenings of Lockwood’s life and several decades in the lives of its characters.

As Susan Stewart demonstrates, Nelly is well-versed in balladry and folk traditions, and she infuses her narrative with tropes from these, including the figure of “The Demon Lover” (“The Ballad” 178), changelings (182), the characters’ “dreamlike and circular” experiences of time (186), and “the motif of ‘the dead mother’s gifts’” (190). Chapter One discusses the Victorian obsession with the impossibility of reading the ballad as both folk artefact and literary text, and the generic liminality of Nelly’s narrative might

similarly account for its appeal to both character and critic. Crucially, Nelly forecloses assumptions that her facility for storytelling and familiarity with folklore are the ‘natural’ result of her class and gender. She explains to her temporary employer:

I have read more than you would fancy. … You could not open a book in this library that I have not looked into, and got something out of also: unless it be that range of Greek and Latin, and that of French; and those I know one from another: it is as much as you can expect of a poor man’s daughter. (55)

Indeed, Nelly’s decision to, as she puts it, “follow my story in true gossip’s fashion” (55) is a stylistic choice born of both her reading and her familiarity with folk traditions, as is Brontë’s construction of Wuthering Heights (1847).49 Lockwood praises her as “on the whole, a very fair narrator, “ adding that “I don’t think I could improve her style” (137).

49 Stewart points out that Nelly sings baby Hareton “Walter Scott’s translation of the Danish ballad ‘Svend Dyring,’ which … Brontë would have found in the footnotes to canto four of The Lady of the Lake” (190). The Lady of the Lake was first published in 1810, which was little less than a decade after the events of Wuthering Heights end; thus, Nelly could not have sung Scott’s translation to Hareton or retroactively inserted it into the version of events that she recounts to Lockwood. However, though it is anachronistic, this allusion to a poem centred on rivalry for a woman’s love and the feuding lowland and highland Scots is thematically relevant to Wuthering Heights, suggesting that, like Scott (and perhaps also Nelly), Brontë plays fast and loose with historical facts for aesthetic effect. Alternately, Brontë may be metaleptically insinuating that Scott’s version of "Svend Dyring" should really be credited to Nelly. 137

Nelly’s awareness of her narrative power, however, challenges Lockwood’s positioning of himself as a Romantic tale-collector who recounts the story of a working-class woman, and it also enables her to breach the narrative frame in which Lockwood has attempted to enclose her.

Nelly hybridizes literary genres, the other characters’ lived realities, and her own experiences throughout the novel. She guides the young Heathcliff toward a specific, albeit fanciful, interpretation of his own past, weaving the boy’s racial ambiguity into the fairy-tale tradition in order to steel him against Hindley Earnshaw’s abuse. She says, “Who knows but your father was Emperor of China, and your mother an Indian queen. … And you were kidnapped by wicked sailors and brought to England. Were I in your place, I would frame high notions of my birth; and the thoughts of what I was should give me courage and dignity to support the oppressions of a little farmer!” (50). She later draws on the folkloric and Gothic traditions, wondering if the adult Heathcliff “Is … a ghoul, or a vampire”; though she attempts to discount this “sense of horror” as “absurd nonsense,” asks, to great dramatic effect, “Where did he come from, the dark little thing, harboured by a good man to his bane?” (293).

Conversely, when Lockwood seeks to learn the details of Heathcliff’s absence of “three years” from Wuthering Heights, she declines to construct a definitive biography of her subject. Lockwood’s conjectures range from the conventional to the patriotic to the romantic: he asks, “Did he finish his education on the Continent, and come back a gentleman? Or did he get a sizer’s place at college? Or escape to America, and earn honours by drawing blood from his foster country? Or make a fortune more promptly, on the English highways?” However, Nelly refuses to privilege any one of these hypotheses over the others, saying, “He may have done a little in all these vocations … but I couldn’t give my word for any” (80). In both cases, Nelly encourages her listener and the reader to create their own narratives around Heathcliff, thereby highlighting the extent to which the narratives that help us understand ourselves and others are constructed; by doing so from the position of “a poor man’s daughter” (55), she both highlights and subverts the 138 aesthetic functions of the boundary between her framed narrative and Lockwood’s framing one.

The permeability of such boundaries is highlighted by the novel’s very structure. By pressing Nelly for details about Heathcliff, Hareton, and Cathy II, Lockwood learns the history of their families and thus attempts to insert himself into their pasts; by renting Thrushcross Grange, developing an infatuation with Cathy, and attempting to court her, he intrudes upon their present lives. Unlike Nelly, however, he is constrained by his familiarity with literary plots: he misreads the story unfolding around him as he muses, “What a realization of something more romantic than a fairy tale it would have been for Mrs. Linton Heathcliff, had she and I struck up an attachment … and migrated together into the stirring atmosphere of the town!” (270). Conversely, Nelly uses her peripheral position to great narrative effect: practically omnipresent and a confessor for nearly all of the novel’s major characters, she shifts back and forth from Lockwood’s present to her own past, Wuthering Heights to Thrushcross Grange, and frame narrative to framed narrative.

These narratological, spatial, and temporal slippages exemplify metalepsis. Citing Lockwood as a narrator who is “incontestably not” the “hero of the story he tells,” but an “observer and witness” of it, Genette argues that metalepsis signals to readers that “the real author of the narrative is not only he who tells it, but also, and at times even more, he who hears it. And who is not always the one it is addressed to: there are always people off to the side” (262). For example, Nelly’s decisions to disclose or withhold the information that she acquires due to her class position are integral to the novel’s plot; in this way, her role in the framed narrative reflects her recursive control of the frame narrative. For example, she neglects to tell Cathy that “Heathcliff … had listened” to their conversation “till he heard … [her] say it would degrade her to marry him” and did not hear Cathy’s confession that “I love him … because he’s more myself than I am” (Brontë 71); by the time she tells Cathy the truth, Heathcliff has fled Wuthering Heights in search of fortune and revenge (73). 139

In other words, both Lockwood and Nelly are “off to the side” of the main events of Wuthering Heights, and it is this outsider status that situates the former as the ideal interlocutor for and recorder of the story that the latter narrates from her own, differently liminal position. Nelly acknowledges the collaborative role of teller and audience in the production of a narrative, telling Lockwood that “you’ll judge as well as I can, all these things; at least, you’ll think you will, and that’s the same” (163). This underscores his misinterpretation of her story, tacitly encouraging readers to challenge the seeming authority of the frame narrative and, perhaps, “imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth” (300). Ultimately, Nelly influences our reading of Lockwood’s framing narrative long after her own framed narrative has ended.

By highlighting the constructedness of her novel’s narrative (and, by extension, of all narratives), Brontë “demonstrate[s],” Genette writes, “the importance of the boundary they tax their ingenuity to overstep, in defiance of verisimilitude — a boundary that is precisely the narrating … itself: a shifting but sacred frontier between two worlds, the world in which one tells, the world of which one tells” (236). Elaine Freedgood extends Genette’s definition to include the location of “fictional characters in factual spaces” because this, she explains, is ultimately “a breakdown between levels of narration” (398). For example, Sherlock Holmes’s residence in Baker Street, Freedgood writes, is an example of a form of metalepsis that has been “naturalized as the mixing of fictional and factual elements in realism” (408). For example, Charlotte Brontë suggested that she and her sisters adopt male pseudonyms because they “had a vague impression that authoresses are liable to be looked on with prejudice” (“Biographical Notice” ix) .

Here, I invert Freedgood’s terms by considering the narrative effects of the situation of factual persons in fictional spaces. Take, for instance, Brontë’s defence of her sister in her 1850 preface to Wuthering Heights, wherein she seeks to explain the “things alien and unfamiliar” that make Wuthering Heights “appear a rude and strange production” to some readers (“Editor’s Preface” xvii) by figuring its author as “a native and nursling of the moors” (xx). This preface draws on the text in order to confirm Southern suspicions 140 about the North as it locates the recently-deceased Emily in a fictionalized version of the sisters’ native Yorkshire, thereby strengthening the reciprocal relationship between the mythologization of Brontë and her novel itself.50

Such metalepsis is another aspect of the relationships between author(s), editor(s), and text(s) with which this dissertation is concerned. As Jill R. Ehnenn explains, the post- Wordsworthian author occupies a unique position:

The author, especially the nineteenth-century author, is one who has something to say, one who is recognized as having something to say, one who speaks with authority, and one who is recognized as having author- ity. The nineteenth-century male author, in this sense, is the individual par excellence, not merely another job or a role, but a special identity that is emblematic, at least to some extent, of what it means to occupy a dominant, easily recognized subject position. (168)

Here, I examine the ways in which the paratextual framing of folk- and fairy-tale collections — and the Fairy Book series in particular — enables (almost invariably) male editors to claim the “dominant, easily recognized subject position” that Ehnenn identifies; Lockwood’s attempts to appropriate Nelly’s narrative is a fictional example of these factual practices. I argue that in order to believably appropriate the work of their informants and/or translators, such editors must fictionalize themselves; that is, they metaleptically participate in the narratives of their books’ construction as what I term “storytelling scholars,” figures whose unique blend of folkloric expertise and literary talents has enabled them to produce collections that are, paradoxically, both entirely authentic and tailored to the needs of the British nursery. My primary focus here is on the strategies that those whose stories are appropriated use to push back against the narrative frames that seek to contain them. This metaleptic resistance highlights the dialogic,

50 This relationship has, since Elizabeth Gaskell’s Life of Charlotte Brontë (1857), persisted throughout scholarship on Charlotte, Emily, Anne, and — to a lesser extent — Branwell Brontë. Though the Life is outside the scope of this chapter, it is worth noting here that the biography can be read as, in part, a sorority-building project similar to Nora’s own. 141

collaborative, and, in some cases, combative relationships between framing and framed narratives by challenging the storytelling scholar’s claims to narratorial dominance.

Metalepsis and the Storytelling Scholar

Seth Lerer connects a change in which “the ways in which the old tales were passed on” to the increasing “bookishness” of the late Victorian era. He deems Andrew Lang “the most influential of ... [the] intermediaries” between “published sources” and child readers: the Fairy Books contain “mysteries of the past” drawn from the “pseudo- medieval world” of literary fairy tales that Lerer identifies (220) and the ethnographic records that represented humanity’s evolutionary past to Victorian anthropologists (Stocking 108). The anthropological prefaces that connect these two sorts of stories in the Fairy Books diverge from the conventional philological framework established by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm; however, whether anthropologist or philologist, the storytelling scholar who both collects and recounts folk- and fairy-tales is a staple of the genre.

This semi-fictionalized narrator is invariably the product and producer of metalepsis. Jennifer Schacker writes, “In the folktale collections of nineteenth-century England, storytelling is wed to interpretive framing, the intentions of collectors/translators/editors are addressed in introductory essays, annotations and the like, and double-voicing is, it would seem, readily apparent and somewhat self-reflexive” (51). Building on Mikhail Bakhtin’s explanation of heteroglossia, Schacker argues that “transcription can be said to serve ‘two speakers at the same time’ and express ‘simultaneously two different intentions’: the direct intention of the character [or storyteller/consultant] who is speaking, and the refracted intention of the author [or fieldworker]’” (51, parentheses original). Therefore, in these folktale collections, “the issue of voicing — who speaks and how that voice should be received — is highly ambiguous” (51). Are the tales narrated by the collector-translator-editors of these collections, or are they intended to be read as the transcribed voices of the colonized and the folk? When Lockwood recounts Nelly’s tale “in her own words, only a little condensed” (137), the resulting narrative is neither fully 142 his nor fully hers; it is made possible by these characters’ competing narratorial intentions and their metaleptic incursions into one another’s narrative frames. Likewise, the purported anthropological authenticity of the stories included in these folklore collections is always already metaleptically compromised by the tensions between their editors’ literary impulses and the appropriated voices of the tales’ original tellers, which are often most conspicuous in their absence.

Freedgood argues that “self-referential rupture often occurs in paratextual spaces” (399), and I argue that Joseph Jacobs’s English Fairy Tales manifests these tensions. To borrow Freedgood’s phrasing, the book’s layout, introduction, and notes “heckle the main text, embarrassing and undermining its authority” (399); in other words, in English Fairy Tales, metalepsis both undermines and reinforces its editor-author-narrator’s goals. Rather than disproving the maxim “that English folk have no fairy-tales of their own” (vii), Jacobs inadvertently supports it by broadening the definition of Englishness beyond the nation’s borders, “tak[ing] what was good wherever … [he] could find it,” and flattening the differences between the English, Anglo-American, Anglo-Australian, and Scottish societies that produced culturally-specific versions of the stories he anthologizes.

Jacobs’s own cultural hybridity might explain his expansive definition of Englishness. Born to Anglo-Jewish parents in Sydney, Australia, he collaborated with Lucien Wolf on “the Catalogue of the Anglo-Jewish Historical Exhibition of 1887 and Bibliotheca Anglo- Judaica, on which all future work in Anglo-Jewish history was based,” and remained an important intellectual and historian of Jewish culture for the rest of his life. He eventually relocated to New York to become the revising editor of and a major contributor to the Jewish Encyclopedia; he then became an English professor at the Jewish Theological Seminary and, later, editor of the American Hebrew. Jacobs came to folklore through his interest in anthropology, itself an outgrowth of his work in Jewish studies. In addition to English Fairy Tales, he published Celtic Fairy Tales (1891), Indian Fairy Tales (1892), 143

More English Fairy Tales (1893), More Celtic Fairy Tales (1894), and European Folk and Fairy Tales (1916) (Bergman para. 2-5).

Jacobs was, along with Andrew Lang, a member of the Folk-Lore Society, and he edited the Society’s journal, Folk-Lore, from 1889 to 1890 (Bergman para. 3). Andrew names Jacobs as an ally in the preface to The Yellow Fairy Book, telling readers that he and “Mr. Joseph Jacobs (who has published many delightful fairy tales with pretty pictures)” have been chastised by “Mr. G. Laurence Gomme … president of a learned body called the Folk-Lore Society” for “publish[ing] fairy books” (ix). Gomme’s 1894 Presidential Address singles out the Fairy Books for censure: according to Gomme, the “literary rough handling” of folktales that have been “Maimed, altered, and distorted in one direction; clothed in red, blue, and green in another direction” will damage the credibility of folklore as “an element of the anthropology of civilised races.” Moreover, he cautions, “Folk-tales, when they are reduced to the level of literature, will never really teach children literature, nor morals, nor manners; because all their charm is in the unconscious … beauty and poetry of their incidents and characters” (63). However, according to Andrew, the popular and commercial success of the Fairy Books trumps Gomme’s opinion, as “If children are pleased, and they are so kind to say they are pleased, the

Editor does not care very much for what other people will say” (ix).

This statement appears to align with Jacobs’s own editorial philosophy. In English Fairy Tales, he explains, “a couple of these stories have been found among descendants of English immigrants in America; a couple of others I tell as I heard them myself in my youth in Australia. One of the best was taken down from the mouth of an English Gipsy” (ix). Such confessions raise questions about the wisdom of claiming to “giv[e] a common fund of nursery literature to all classes of the English people” (viii) when it appears there are not enough stories in England to go around. Jacobs anticipates this criticism and attempts to sidestep it. Claiming that “Children, and sometimes those of larger growth, will not read dialect” (x) and that “Lowland Scotch may be regarded as simply a dialect of English” (ix), he domesticates four Scottish stories — “Nix, Nought, 144

Nothing,” “Childe Rowland,” “Red Ettin,” and “The Well of the World’s End” — that might otherwise seem out of place in a nominally English collection.

Jacobs also obscures class differences between tellers and readers, though he notes that he has “left a few vulgarisms in the mouths of vulgar people” not for authenticity’s sake, but because “Children appreciate the dramatic propriety of this as much as their elders.” The “colloquial-romantic tone” to which he hopes these expressions contribute represents his efforts “to write as a good old nurse will speak when she tells Fairy Tales.” Jacobs declares that this is “the … tone appropriate for such narratives” because the “main object” of this project is “to give a book of English Fairy Tales which English children will listen to” (x). In his quest for stylistic uniformity, Jacobs also flattens the historical differences between his readers and his sources,”reduc[ing] the flatulent phraseology of the eighteenth-century chap-books” on which some of his tales are based (x). He also rewrites some of the stories in the name of authenticity: “I have … rescued and re-told a few Fairy Tales that only exist now-a-days in the form of ballads” (ix), a practice that seems paradoxical to the modern reader.

This privileging of entertainment over education, however, is undercut by the volume’s extensive introduction and endnotes; metalepsis in English Fairy Tales is, thanks to the book’s layout, virtually unavoidable. Though its title page credits the “Anonymous” tellers of the English Fairy Tales, we are swiftly reminded by print on the same page that these stories were “Collected By” Jacobs. It is the metaleptic relation between the romance that these stories were culled from unknown peasant storytellers and Jacobs’s real-life role as the editor of the collection that enables him to play the storytelling scholar. By inserting the preface between his assurance that children do not need to read it and the stories themselves and an injunction for children to stop reading between the stories and his notes, Jacobs interweaves juvenile and scholarly materials in a way that ensures that readers who skip one set of these are still aware of the existence of the other.

The book opens with a note to children that tells them “How to Get Into This Book”: 145

Knock at the Knocker on the Door,

Pull the Bell at the side,

Then, if you are very quiet, you will hear a teeny tiny voice say through the grating “Take down the Key.” This you will find at the back: you cannot mistake it, for it has J. J. in the wards. Put the Key in the Keyhole, which it fits exactly, unlock the door and

WALK IN. (ii)

Jacobs’s scholarly introduction, which explains both his aforementioned methodology and the “no[t] unpatriotic” (viii) impulses that drove the book’s composition, invites adult readers into a different sort of clubhouse; that is, one populated by amateur folklorists.

The stories follow this, and the book ends with Jacobs’s notes, which are preceded by an illustration of a medieval town crier, who announces

OYEZ! OYEZ! OYEZ! The English fairy tales Are now closed Little boys and girls Must not read any further. (228)

By separating the notes from the stories in this way, Jacobs and his publisher David Nutt enable adult readers to quickly find the notes that might interest them even more than the stories that compose the bulk of the volume. This separation of adult and child reader is undercut, however, as Jacobs playfully indicates his awareness that young readers might be intrigued, rather than repelled, by this interdiction. For example, the note to “The Magpie’s Nest” is emblematic of the metaleptically constituted storytelling scholar, conflating the voices of Jacobs the anthropological scholar and Jacobs the storyteller. Explaining that the story is a combination of two tales from “Rev. Mr. Swainson’s Folk- 146

Lore of British Birds,” Jacobs writes, “I have received instruction about the relative values of nests from a little friend of mine named Katie, who knows all about it. If there is any mistake in the order of neatness in the various birds’ nests, I must have learnt my lesson badly” (250).

Jacobs was not the only storytelling scholar to winkingly engage non-traditional informants. Just five years after the publication of The Blue Fairy Book, the series’ ethnographic rhetoric was familiar to both child and adult readers, and Rudyard Kipling satirizes this rhetoric in The Jungle Book (1894). This collection of short stories begins with a preface in which “The Editor” thanks his sources, amongst whom are native informants, a recently deceased herpetologist, and the tantalizingly anonymous sources from whom he learned of “the adventures of Mowgli … at various times and in various places.” This impressive list also includes talking animals such as “the scholarly and accomplished Bahadur Shah, baggage elephant 174 on the Indian register” and “his amiable sister Pudmini” and “a member of the recently disbanded Seeonee [Wolf] Pack” – who, it should be noted, is also an ethnographer, as he provides “most valuable data” not on his fellow wolves, but “on people, manners, and customs” – as well (33). Metaleptically conflating the roles of author and editor in order to position himself as a character in the text, Kipling signals that the stories in The Jungle Book are fictional, and, paradoxically, increases the readers’ willingness to suspend their disbelief regarding that same fictionality: in an imaginary world where animals talk, it is not unbelievable that they might have stories to tell.

The metaleptic practice of treating fictional stories as real folklore did not end with the Victorian era. J.K. Rowling’s The Tales of Beedle the Bard is a companion to the Harry Potter series (1997-2007) that also conveys the folklore of a fictional group (here, witches and wizards rather than talking animals). Beedle is central to The Deathly Hallows (2007), the series’ seventh and final instalment. The recently deceased Albus Dumbledore has willed his copy of Beedle to Hermione Granger (106), who realizes that the enigmatic rune at the top of each of the book’s pages also appears in Dumbledore’s 147

letters to Gellert Grindewald and on a mysterious tombstone in Godric’s Hollow (319-20). This leads to the discovery that the rune represents the Deathly Hallows and that “The Three Brothers,” one of Beedle’s stories, “is,” as Xenophilius Lovegood explains, not only “a children’s tale, told to amuse rather than to instruct,” but a corrupted “refer[ence] to three objects, or Hallows, which, if united, will make the possessor master of Death” (333). Though it is Harry who uses these objects in order to defeat Voldemort once and for all, it is Hermione’s archival research and translations that lead to his archeological discoveries and eventual triumph, a plot point that is not entirely unlike Andrew’s co-opting of Nora’s work. More to the point, the publication of Beedle outside the world of the text in which it first appears metaleptically blurs the boundary between fantasy and reality by enabling readers to conduct their own folkloric inquiries into the relationships between what Ron Weasley calls “all these old stories” (Deathly Hallows 114) and the other Harry Potter volumes, thereby re-framing the series as a whole.

Just as Beedle enters our world, our world enters Beedle: in an introductory note, Rowling positions herself as the editor of the collection and “occasionally insert[s] an explanation of a term or fact that might need clarification for Muggle readers” (xvii) in the text itself. This metaleptic preface also troubles the gendered norms endemic to the genre of folk- and fairy-tale collections. Beedle’s title page tells readers that these wizards’ fairy tales are “Translated from the original runes by Hermione Granger” (iii), who reverses genre conventions by making the literary labour of a male source legible to her audience. Each story is followed by “Professor Dumbledore’s insights, which include observations on wizarding history, personal reminiscences and enlightening information on key elements of each story” (xv), which seems to follow the generic model of female translation framed by male analysis. However, it is Granger’s name, not Dumbledore’s, that shares the title page with Rowling’s (iii), thereby highlighting — rather than eliding — a woman’s substantial intellectual contributions to this book. 148

Indeed, because his notes were discovered and published after his death, which Rowling calls “the tragic events that took place at the top of Hogwarts’ Astronomy Tower” (xv), Dumbledore’s scholarship entirely is mediated by women. Rowling tells readers,

it was a surprise to discover a set of notes on The Tales of Beedle the Bard among the many papers that Dumbledore left in his will to the Hogwarts Archives. Whether this commentary was written for his own satisfaction, or for future publication, we shall never know; however, we have been graciously granted permission by Professor Minerva McGonagall, now Headmistress of Hogwarts, to print Professor Dumbledore’s notes here. (xiv)

Rowling claims authority over the text by asserting that she is both translator (into a Muggle idiom) and editor of these stories. Neither Rowling not Dumbledore indicates that Beedle’s tales are based on oral sources, and Beedle himself does not adopt an explicitly feminine narrative voice, suggesting that the appropriation of women’s and peasant voices is less common in the folk- and fairy-tale collections of the wizarding world than in its Muggle counterparts; Rowling’s observation that the stories “resemble our fairy tales” (xi) but feature heroines with much more agency (xii) supports this reading.51 Furthermore, Beedle’s male voice is translated by Granger, a woman,

51 Conversely, Rowling’s more recent metaleptic practices are not subversive; they are undeniably racist. I refer here to the “History of Magic in North America” (2016) that was published on Pottermore, “the global digital publisher of Harry Potter and J.K. Rowling’s Wizarding World,” in advance of the film Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (2016). The metaleptic relationship between “History” and reality is convoluted: the film that the “History” contextualizes follows the adventures of Newt Scamander as he works on its eponymous textbook, a volume that was first mentioned in Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (1997) that was, like Beedle the Bard, subsequently published as a metaleptic companion to the series (2001). Further complicating this relationship is Rowling’s neocolonial attempts to integrate First Nations history into her own “History.” Writing on her blog Native Appropriations, Adrienne Keene highlights the most problematic aspects of Rowling’s text, critiquing it for “centering Europeans, calling brutal colonizers benign ‘explorers,’” and erasing the identities of “Native peoples and communities and cultures [that] are diverse, complex, and vastly different from one another” by referring to them as “The Native American community.” Furthermore, Keene writes, Rowling appropriates the Navajo tradition of the skin-walker, “rewriting … Traditions that come from a particular context, place, understanding, and truth [as] ‘misunderstood wizards.’” Finally, according to Rowling, European wizards introduced wands to North America; as Keene points out, “basically she’s demonstrating Eurocentric superiority here — the introduction of European ‘technology’ helps bring the Native wizards to a new level. AKA colonial narrative 101.” 149

interpreted by Dumbledore, a man, and re-translated and re-interpreted by Rowling, and so this collection both privileges women’s translations and inverts the conventional framing of female voices by a male narrator in folk- and fairy-tale collections. This may or may not be a belated response to the now-infamous suggestion by Rowling’s publisher that she use her initials so that prospective readers would think that Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone was written by a man. The Tales of Beedle the Bard suggests that the authoritative, academic male voice that frames so many folk- and fairy-tale collections is as much a fiction as the stories themselves.52

Nostalgia and Editorial Authority

The Strange Story Book poses a similar challenge to the gendered narrative of the storytelling scholar. Where in previous Fairy Books Andrew’s prefaces affect readers’ experiences of the stories that follow them, Nora’s preface functions as a meta-paratext that reframes the series as a whole. By nostalgically equating her late husband with the fairy-tale characters who populate the Fairy Books, Nora metaleptically reframes what her readers thought was reality as fiction, suggesting that Andrew’s editorial role was, in fact, merely another story in the series. A contemporary review of The Strange Story Book in The Independent nostalgically recounts the narrative of the series’ composition that Andrew establishes in his prefaces, telling readers,

For twenty-five years Mr. and Mrs. Lang have searched the literature, folk lore and legendry of the world for stories of wonder, magic, faery and imagination and each year a beautifully illustrated volume has appeared. These books form a complete library on the subject for children and this

52 Rowling published her recent foray into detective fiction, The Cuckoo’s Calling (2013), under the pseudonym Robert Galbraith. Outed by The Sunday Times only two months after the book’s publication, Rowling suggested that it was her post-Potter fame, rather than her gender, that prompted this attempt at anonymity: “It has been wonderful to publish without hype or expectation, and pure pleasure to get feedback under a different name.” This may be related to the fact that reviews of Rowling’s first post-Potter novel, The Casual Vacancy (2012) invariably mentioned the Harry Potter series as often as they did the work under consideration. 150

volume, which concludes the series, is quite as beautiful and delightful as its predecessors. (357)

According to this review, the “library on the subject” of “wonder, magic, faery and imagination” that the Fairy Books “form” is doubly “complete”: it is comprehensive and, as this review indicates, the series has ended. Stewart argues, “to have a representational collection is to have both the minimum and the complete number of elements necessary for an autonomous world” (On Longing 152). Moreover, “The collection is not constructed by its elements; rather, it comes to exist by means of its principle of organization” (155).53 The “principle of organization” to which Stewart refers is inseparable from a collection’s spatiality because, if the collection is, as Stewart claims, ultimately “a form involving the reframing of objects within a world of attention [to] and manipulation of context” (151), then “the space of the collection is a complex interplay of exposure and hiding, organization, and the chaos of infinity” (157). She writes, “The collection relies upon the box, the cabinet, the seriality of shelves,” and to this list of containers that generate meaning for and from their contents, the previous chapter adds the paratexts of each individual Fairy Book and the series to which these volumes belong. Because a collection “is determined by … [its] boundaries” (157) both classificatory and physical, it is the reader’s sense of the doubly-complete Fairy Book series as a comprehensive, “hermetic world” that enables Nora to claim “authority” (152) over it: she who defines the boundaries of a collection defines the collection itself.

Exemplifying Stewart’s claim that “the collection replaces history with classification, with order beyond the realm of temporality” (151), Andrew repeatedly claims authority over the Fairy Books as his prefaces re-frame historically, geographically, and culturally diverse stories as collectively representative of humanity’s evolutionary past, thereby eliding the temporal differences between them (Smol 177). However, though Nora acknowledges the series’ imperial project in the preface to The Strange Story Book,

53 This statement reflects Derrida’s maxim, “the technical structure of the archiving archive also determines the structure of the archivable content”; in other words, “archivization produces as much as it records” (17). 151 writing of Andrew, “Everything to do with the ideas and customs of savages interested him,” it is her late husband, not her informants, that she explicitly situates in the past here. Musing that “perhaps if some of you go away by and by to wild parts of the world, you will make friends with the people whose stories you may have read in some of the Christmas books” (x), Nora indicates to readers that the worlds of (at least some of) these stories are still immediately accessible. Andrew, on the other hand, is inaccessible not merely because of his recent passing, but because he properly belongs to the allochronic fairy-tale realm over which he claims dominion in the preceding twenty-four Fairy Book prefaces.

Nora’s preface is thus emblematic of what Sara Hines identifies as the later Fairy Books’ enactment of “the twentieth-century’s nostalgia for Victorian England” (53), and it positions the Fairy Books as what Stewart would call “souvenirs” of readers’ childhoods. According to Stewart, our memories of our early years are not recollections of “a childhood as lived”; rather, what we “voluntarily remembe[r]” is “a childhood manufactured from its material survivals,” and the nostalgia they evoke enables us to reconstruct “the past …from a set of presently existing pieces” (On Longing 145). That Nora casts the Fairy Books as these “presently existing pieces” is evident as she addresses her preface not to “TO THE CHILDREN” to whom this volume will be gifted and read, but to those (former) children who remember the birth of the series. The Strange Story Book thus saves its readers from the fate of John Darling, who, despite his time in Neverland, becomes a “bearded man who doesn’t know any story to tell his children” (Barrie 173); in other words, it helps them access select parts of their own childhoods long after they’ve grown up.

Reflecting, “It is so long since Beauty and the Beast and Cinderella and Little Red Riding Hood came out to greet you in the ‘Blue Fairy Book,’ that some of you who wore pigtails or sailor suits in those days have little boys and girls of your own to read the stories to now, and a few may even have little baby grandchildren” (vii), Nora laments that “a whole new world of wheels and wings and sharp-voiced bells has been thrown open, and 152 children have toy motors and aeroplanes which take up all their thoughts and time” (vii). Here, she encourages her readers to metaleptically collapse the boundaries between the Fairy Books and their own childhoods by positioning the former as a metonym for the latter. Furthermore, her reframing of “twenty-five years ago” (xi) as “the long long ago” (vi) enables “the collection” — both volume and series — to become, as Stewart puts it, “the place where history is transformed into … property” (xiii), i.e., into souvenirs. Nora’s preface therefore hints at the possibility that The Strange Story Book and its siblings might help readers access what Raymond Williams defines as a “golden age”; that is, “a myth functioning as a memory” (43). Here, nostalgia functions metaleptically by eroding the boundaries between fact and fiction and past and present simultaneously, dispatching the real Andrew Lang to an imagined fairyland that is both a part of and apart from readers’ childhoods.

Employing the convivial orality that characterizes the tone of all of the Fairy Books’ stories, Nora both points to her authorship of the series and narrativizes her late husband as she asks her readers, “Do you love ghosts? So did he, and often and often he wanted to write you a book of the deadliest, creepiest ghost-stories he could find or invent, but he was afraid: afraid not of the children of course, but of their mothers” (ix). This does not mean, however, that he wished to fill the Fairy Books with inappropriate material; rather, he “thought over every one of the twenty-five, for fear lest a story should creep in which he did not wish his little boys and girls to read” (vii).54 By describing these readers as “his,” Nora imbues her husband with an avuncular quality that, in combination with his playful interest in the supernatural and Peter Pan-like fear of “mothers,” endears him to readers whose childhoods have been shaped by the Fairy Books.

Nora never refers to Andrew by name, instead calling him “the man” (vii, viii, xi), giving this sketch of him a fairy-tale like quality. This man, Nora tells us, was kind and

54 Though the Langs never produced a book of ghost stories, Margaret Bryant notes, “this last book … does include one or two ghost classics” and “spirit stories … culled from the myths of the Tlingit Indians” (xviii). 153

imaginative, “loved fairies” (xi), and “never could resist a cat” (viii).55 She recalls that “he like[d] old things better than new” (viii), and “was,” she explains, “born when nobody thought of travelling in anything but a train — a very slow one — or a steamer. It took a great deal of persuasion to induce him later to get into a motor and he had not the slightest desire to go up in an aeroplane — or to possess a telephone” (vii-viii). Because he could “shake off the fetters of the outside world and sever [himself] from its noise and scramble,” he could “catch the sound of a fairy horn or the rush of fairy feet” (xi). By suggesting that her late husband, like the childhoods of her adult readers, now belongs to a pre-technological world that can only be accessed through the Fairy Books that bear his name, Nora emphasizes the constructedness of Andrew’s role as a storytelling scholar- editor who is perfectly suited to guide children into fairyland even as she preserves his legacy, thereby claiming credit for her own work without disparaging her late husband.

This re-narrativization of Andrew’s role in the series is supported by the book’s frontispiece, an undated and previously unpublished photograph of Andrew in his fishing gear. (See fig. 8.) The frontispiece participates in at least two Victorian photographic discourses: as Jen Cadwallader and others have noted, photographic ephemera were an integral part of Victorian mourning traditions (Cadwallader 13-14), while the replication of Andrew’s signature — “Yours very truly, A. Lang” — beneath the photograph evokes the Victorian mania for celebrities’ photographs (Waller 348-56) and autographs (388-89). In addition to serving as a memento of a deceased celebrity, the photograph in question occupies the place normally occupied by one of H.J. Ford’s illustrations, which

55 Both documentary and textual evidence support this claim. In an undated letter to Anna Hill, the Langs’ newest pet merits more description than Arthur Conan Doyle’s apparently impressive cocaine intake at a recent social event. Andrew writes, “We have a lovely Persian kitten. I named him the Master of Gray, but he prefers Pickle the Spy. The maids probably call him Fluffy.” Andrew’s ailurophilia is also apparent in the preface to The Red Book of Animal Stories (1899), in which he challenges the gendered norms surrounding preferences for particular types of animals and admonishes young male readers:

If this book has any moral at all, it is to be kind to all sorts and conditions of animals — that will let you. Most girls are ready to do this, but boys used to be apt to be unkind to Cats when I was a boy. There is no reason why an exception should be made as to Cats, and a boy ought to think of this before he throws stones or sets dogs at a cat. … If anything in this book amuses a boy, let him be kind to poor puss, and protect her, for the sake of his obedient friend, ANDREW LANG. (xii) 154

indicates that “Andrew Lang” is one of the tales that Nora will tell (see fig. 9).56 Importantly, photographs are, relative to other portraiture technologies, uniquely suited to re-inscribe their subjects. As Jonathan Crary explains, in the nineteenth century,

The photograph becomes a central element not only as a new commodity economy but also in the reshaping of an entire territory on which signs and images, each effectively severed from a referent, circulate and proliferate. … To understand the ‘photography effect’ in the nineteenth century, one must see it as a crucial component of a new cultural economy of value and exchange, not as part of a continuous history of visual representation. (13)

By commodifying Andrew’s image, then, this frontispiece functions as a sort of logo, reinforcing the status of the words “Andrew Lang” as the literary brand under which the Fairy Books have been produced. However, by virtue of its reproducibility, the photograph also displaces the person Andrew Lang from his original context — that of author-editor — and thus allows Nora to re-present him as a textual element of the series instead.

Indeed, in Camera Lucida, Barthes writes that a photograph is not “a ‘copy’ of reality” but “an emanation of past reality” (89) that is necessarily inaccessible from the viewer’s historical position; thus, a photograph “is never … a memory … but … actually blocks memory, quickly becomes a counter-memory” (91). The frontispiece’s counter-memorial work extends beyond capturing the “past-reality” of a now-deceased man; this photograph also encourages viewers to remember Andrew as not the author-editor of the Fairy Books, but as one of their stories. This frontispiece thus supports the preface’s nostalgic project: according to Susan Sontag, the “talismanic use of photographs express a feeling both sentimental and implicitly magical: they are attempts to contact or lay

56 Andrew was not the only Victorian children’s author to be photographically memorialized. For example, in 1873, Margaret Gatty’s photograph and an accompanying eulogy were published by her daughter Julia Horatia Ewing in Aunt Judy’s Magazine (1866-85), which Gatty founded (Knoepflmacher 387). 155 claim to another reality” (12); here, that “magical … reality” is the viewer’s Victorian childhood, and Andrew is the “talisman” — or, in Stewart’s terms, the “souvenir” (145).

The Strange Story Book’s visual and textual rhetoric, however, does not appear to have had much of an effect on reviewers. Though contemporary reviews of The Strange Story Book also use fairy-tale language to eulogize Andrew, they still give him the bulk of the credit for the composition of this volume and of the rest of the series. The Athenaeum laments that The Strange Story Book is “alas! the last volume of ‘The Fairy Book Series,’ which has proved an annual feast of good things for countless children” because “the man who thought out every one of them is no more, and the present book appears posthumously” (471). Though its review is titled “MRS. LANG’S STORIES,” the Spectator also focuses on Andrew’s contributions to the Fairy Books, telling readers that “Mr. Lang … loved to prepare full measure,” and so “enough stories to fill this year’s ample volume had been chosen and worked upon while the happy collaboration” between the Langs “was still possible” (692). In the New Statesman, Margaret Bryant calls Andrew a “kind magician,” writing that she is “properly grateful” (xviii-xx) for this volume composed of what remained in the “storehouse of that spiritual adventurer and master of tale-telling … Andrew Lang” (xviii). Aside from her discussion of ghost stories, Nora offers Andrew no such credit, instead claiming editorial authority for herself as she occupies the paratextual spaces once reserved for her late husband.

Paratextual and Textual Imperialism

The Strange Story Book is the only Fairy Book that paratextually indicates Nora’s collector-editor role in the series. A note following the book’s title page tells readers that “Mrs. Andrew Lang desires to give her most grateful thanks to the Authorities of the Smithsonian Institution Bureau of American Ethnology for permission to include in her Christmas book the Tlingit stories collected by Dr. John R. Swanton” (v). This acknowledgment is the only note of its kind throughout the series, as translators and 156 sources are credited in the closing lines of Andrew’s prefaces. In The Yellow Fairy Book (1894), for example, he writes, “the Red Indian stories are copied from English versions published by the Smithsonian Bureau of Ethnography, in America” (xi). Both acknowledgments (wrongly) suggest that the stories these volumes contain are unaltered; however, Andrew’s acknowledgment reinforces his status as an anthropologist-editor who is kind enough to thank those in his employ, whereas Nora’s acknowledgment is located before the preface, foregrounding her research and encouraging readers to think of her as a scholar in her own right.

Nora does not thank the Bureau of American Ethnology (BAE) because Andrew passed away before he could do so, but because it was she who corresponded with them. Nora wrote to the BAE on January 4, 1912 to “obtain … permission” to adapt “the interesting stories of the Tlinglit” for “her Xmas book of 1913.” The “stories” to which she refers here are contained in Swanton’s Tlingit Myths and Texts, published as the BAE’s Bulletin No. 39 in 1909. She received “the desired permission” to use these from F.W. Hodge, “Ethnologist in Charge,” who granted it “with pleasure” (23 Jan. 1912). Though it is possible that Andrew suggested these stories to Nora, it is more likely that this correspondence indicates her familiarity with current ethnographic literature: she claims authorship of this as-yet-untitled volume, initially writing about herself in the third person and calling this “her Xmas book” and later “my book” in her letters to Hodge (31 January 1912). That she conducted this research before Andrew’s death proves that The Strange Story Book was not, as Bryant presumes, pieced together from the tales remaining in Andrew’s “storehouse” (xviii). This also suggests the extent of Nora’s participation in the research and collection, as well as the translation and adaptation, of the stories in the Fairy Books.

This confident assertion of her own capabilities is a stark contrast to the domestic language with which Nora’s work is described in the other Fairy Books’ prefaces; for example, Chapter Three highlights the differences between Andrew’s description of Nora’s work for The Brown Fairy Book (1904) and his portrayal of that volume’s other 157 contributors. Recent scholarship has discussed the rhetorical relationships between gender, domesticity, and empire; for example, considering the preface to The Brown Fairy Book, Hines writes, “The Fairy Books … effectually allow British readers to collect, possess, and display the empire through ownership of ‘outlandish native stories’” that “have been collected, translated, and edited … to be read from the safety and security of the British home” (54). This is nearly the inverse of what Janet C. Myers defines as “portable domesticity,” that is, the processes and results of transplanting middle-class British culture — including the fairy tales that Jacobs recalls hearing during his youth — to Australia in the nineteenth century. She explains,

Antipodal domesticity became an attractive arena for refashioning emigrant identity because it was both portable and flexible enough to be co-opted by emigrants and settlers seeking affiliation with an emerging middle-class group. As a result, domesticity provided a source of cohesion within the heterogeneous emigrant populations. (8)

“By examining its portability,” Myers “call[s] attention to the constructedness of domesticity, identifying how it was shaped and disseminated in deliberate and highly specific ways in order to serve the needs of the empire” (8). The Fairy Books, conversely, are a portable empire: networks of imperial power have enabled the relocation of the stories in the Fairy Books from their original cultural and geographical contexts to each Fairy Book and to the collection as a whole.

The series thus makes visible the extent to which, as Anne McClintock writes, “Domesticity denotes both a space (a geographical and architectural alignment) and a social relation to power” (34). Though Nora’s work is subordinated to her husband’s through its rhetorical association with gender, manual labour, and housekeeping, this same work is integral to the construction of each Fairy Book as a site of imperial encounter. Because the Fairy Books’ textual appropriations are reinforced by their paratextual anthropology, they sit at the crossroads of what Anne McClintock calls 158

“scientific racism — embodied in anthropological, scientific, and medical journals, travel writing and ethnographies” and “commodity racism,” which encompasses “the specifically Victorian forms of advertising and photography, the imperial Expositions and the museum movement” and “converted the narrative of imperial Progress into mass- produced consumer spectacles” (33). Andrew’s prefaces are more explicitly racist than Nora’s translations and adaptations, but she is nonetheless complicit in the series’ colonial project; that she is also responsible for The Strange Story Book’s imperialist paratexts illuminates both the extent of this complicity and the metaleptic relations between the Fairy Books’ framing and their contents.

This imperialist agenda is echoed by Nora’s contribution to another widely read subgenre of Victorian children’s literature, the geography primer or ‘geography.’ In X Marks the Spot: Women Writers Map the Empire for British Children, 1790-1895, Megan A. Norcia identifies “a sizeable imperial tradition in which women writers penned geographies that marshaled history, religion, economics, and anecdotal evidence to establish the social and cultural supremacy of England” (2). In The British Possessions, the second volume of her Geography, Physical, Political, and Descriptive: For Beginners (1881), Nora’s attitude toward colonized populations oscillates between condescension and explicit racism. For example, she tells readers, “in Labrador, and along the coasts bordering the Arctic Ocean, live a short, ugly race called the Eskimos, who also inhabit the neighbouring great island of Greenland” (212); meanwhile, indigenous Australians are “often called the lowest of savages; but probably they do nothing which our own ancestors did not do long ago, and they are clever in their own way” (177). She does, however, frankly acknowledge the Palawa (Tasmanian) genocide in this same discussion: “Most of them have died of European diseases, of cold, and in consequence of ill- treatment by the settlers. It is in Queensland that they chiefly survive. Probably they will soon die out, as they have already done in Tasmania” (177). Though thankfully history has proved her wrong, The British Possessions indicates that Nora was well-versed in contemporary discourses surrounding the possibility of human extinction, a threat that the 159

Victorians had been aware of since at least the 1830s, when humanitarian efforts to protect colonized subjects began to emerge. Most notably, the Aborigines’ Protection Society (APS) was founded in 1837 (Brantlinger 86-87) and “In 1909 … merged with the Anti-Slavery Society, which continues to work on behalf of indigenous peoples around the world” (88). However, many anthropologists and ethnographers saw the Palawa genocide as a scientific loss rather than as an ethical failure (Stocking 280); meanwhile, British novelists tended to focus on the possibility of extinction at home. As Gillian Beer and others have pointed out, Darwin’s The Descent of Man, and Selection in Relation to Sex (1871), specifically its “transfer from ontogeny to phylogeny,” profoundly influenced Victorian thought; accordingly, concern for “the future of the human race” is central to

George Eliot’s and Thomas Hardy’s “rereading of traditional fictional topics” (Beer 199). Nora’s own rhetoric appears to be more closely aligned with anthropological than novelistic discourses; however, as I discuss in the previous three chapters, these fields are, in the period under consideration here, often mutually influential. Indeed, The British Possessions demonstrates what Patrick Brantlinger, writing about James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans (1826), calls a “racist but elegiac understanding of savagery” (67), a rhetorical position that, as the rest of this section argues, characterizes The Strange Story Book as well.

Although The Strange Story Book does not predict the disappearance of the Tlingit, it does similar cultural work insofar as Nora reifies the colonial myth that Thomas King in The Inconvenient Indian: A Curious Account of Native People in North America calls “The dying Indian.” This synecdochal figure, King explains, appeared in film and literature and “was simply worn out, … was well past his ‘best before’ date, ... had been pulled under by the rip tide of western expansion, drowned, and thrown up on the beach to rot” (35). Such misrepresentations met resistance from, among other groups, the early twentieth-century Pan-Indian Movement, which encouraged cross-national solidarity and advocated for political and social change. In the same year that The Strange Story Book was published, the actor Chauncey Yellow Robe, a prominent member of the movement 160 who was “a Lakota from the Rosebud reservation” in South Dakota, spoke at “the third annual conference of The Society of American Indians in Denver” regarding the cultural impact of Western films and Wild West shows of the sort popularized by William “Buffalo Bill” Cody:

We see the Indian. … He is pictured as the lowest degree of humanity. He is exhibited as a savage in the motion picture theater in the country. … We see a monument of the Indian in New York Harbor as a memorial of his vanishing race.

The Indian wants no such memorial monument, for he is not yet dead. The name of the North American Indian will not be forgotten as long as the rivers flow and the hills and the mountains shall stand, and though we have progressed, we have not vanished. (qtd. in King 36)

Nora’s investment in the myth of the “dying Indian” becomes evident through the comparison of two versions of a Tlingit story, “Kāhā’sĥ, the Strong Man” (289-92) and “Blackskin” (387-89) to her own version, “Blackskin” (151-61), which pushes Swanton’s contemporary Tlingit informants into a nostalgic, indeterminate past.

“Kāhā’sĥ” is a story about a man who is bullied for “urinating in his sleep” until a personification of Strength endows him with so much physical power that he can break off a tree branch that the other men have nicknamed “the tree-penis” (290). He then kills two sea lions on a hunt and is fully accepted by his community (291). Swanton collected two versions of this story while conducting field research in Alaska: one is an untitled iteration told in English by Katishan, a chief in Wrangell who, Swanton writes, “has been a church member and shows a moralizing tendency … [but] … is supposed to have a better knowledge of the myths than anyone else in Wrangell.” The other, “Kāhā’sĥ,” was narrated by Dekinâ’ku of Sitka, who “is … a church member but his stories appear to be entirely after the ancient patterns” (1); Swanton’s assurance of ‘authenticity’ here resembles those allochronic works of Andrew’s that I discuss in Chapter One. Neither of 161

these Tlingit intermediaries is mentioned in The Strange Story Book, an ironic erasure given Nora’s protectiveness of her own right to recognition as an author.

Katishan’s version of the story is much longer than “Kāhā’sĥ,” involves several talking animals, and, perhaps, unsurprisingly given its teller’s “moralizing tendencies,” ends with his protagonist, here named Blackskin, lecturing his compatriots about the importance of kindness to the other members of his community. Nora’s version, called “Blackskin,” is more similar to Katishan’s than to Dekinâ’ku’s, which, given the presence of the “tree- penis” in “Kāhā’sĥ” and moralizing of the original “Blackskin,” is perhaps understandable. Cultural elements of both versions of the story are lost in translation: the protagonist and the other characters “bath[e] for strength” — that is, swim to become stronger — in the Tlingit versions, whereas Nora’s Blackskin is believed to be dirty because the others never see him bathe, “but in reality he was cleaner than any of them.” Nora locates “Blackskin” in “a land far away,” telling readers that this story takes place “In an Indian town on the North Pacific Ocean” (151). Katishan’s story names the town, Takjukan, in which it occurs because his interlocutors would probably know where this was, and Dekinâ’ku’s does not mention the story’s geographic setting at all. He is more interested in time than in space: the story is set when the Tlingit “had no ammunition” (290). The word “ammunition” is significant here because it locates the story in a time before the Tlingit acquired guns; that is, the “golden age” of this story is the period before European invasion. By eliding this temporal distinction, Nora neutralizes the real-world impact of colonialism; in King’s words, “In Beckett’s play, as everyone knows, Godot never arrives. In the Native version, Europeans never leave” (79). Nora encourages her readers to imagine that the Tlingit exist in, if not the literal past, an anthropological past where their traditions have remained unchanged. This metaleptically relocates the Tlingit to a Neverland even more improbable than the one ruled by the boy who wouldn’t grow up.

As this temporal manouvering suggests, Nora’s rewriting of Tlingit myths and legends uses the same colonial rhetoric that characterizes Andrew’s appropriations of her own 162

work. In colonial fiction, according to Freedgood, “When the everyday is strange, fiction can’t function without a domesticating apparatus” (403). In the introduction to “The Adventures of Fire-Drill’s Son” (249-56), readers learn that “in … [Tlingit] stories you will often find the Raven playing the part of friend and helper, just as the Fox does in Japan, and Brer Rabbit in ‘Uncle Remus’” (249). This comparison both explains this unknown figure and highlights Nora’s familiarity with a geographically diverse range of folktales. Meanwhile, in “The Story of Djun” (139-45), Nora’s adaptation of the Tlingit “Djīyīn” (182-86), an unspecified bird who assists the orphaned heroine becomes a “canary” (144, 145, 146), a species not indigenous to the Tlingit territory at Wrangell, Alaska. Such domestication of even the smallest textual details is characteristic of colonial texts: by redefining appropriated narratives according to imperial cultural norms, Freedgood argues, such “metalepses … make possible an ontological flexibility that contributes to the imagining and the undertaking of the work of empire, again and again” (403). In The Story-Time of the British Empire, Sadhana Naithani writes that often stories were collected by folklorists who saw themselves “as entertainer[s]” charged with “the narration of exotic stories from faraway lands” and “as creator[s] of archives of knowledge that would further create knowledge and also influence state policy” (20); that is, as storytelling scholars. This suggests the extent to which the adulterated folktales of colonized populations were essential to the establishing of what Thomas Richards terms “the imperial archive.” Richards, following Benedict Anderson’s definition of the nation of as an “imagined community” (6), details Victorian efforts to “par[e] the Empire down to filing cabinet size” so that the British public could conceive of the Empire as an “extended nation” that was knowable and therefore controllable (3).

Nora was not the only colonial editor to employ this methodology and, in so doing, ignore the lived experiences of colonized populations. In her study of “the portrayal of the British in the lore of the nineteenth-century Indian folk,” Naithani argues that the incorporation of colonization into traditional narratives was often elided by “British collectors of Indian folklore.” These collectors’ material interest in the “administrative 163 implications” of imperial ethnography requires the erasure of the storytellers’ “colonial reality,” in which the British are violent and disruptive (“An Axis Jump” 184). Some of these stories critique not only the British, but imperial ethnography itself. For example, in a story about “Dinapurwala Sahib, or gentleman from Dinapur, … An obviously fantastic action plot is woven into a network of realistic means and ends” (185). This story’s antagonist is an Englishman who “has a magic stick with which he entices unfortunate travellers on dark nights and chops off their heads with a pair of shears” because “he has a contract from Government for procuring heads for some of the museums” (qtd. 185). As this example indicates, “Instead of being passive bearers of a repertoire of tradition, the narrators emerge as self-conscious subjects whose narratives performed multiple functions in social communication. They were carriers of change and growth; as such, they did not possess live traditions so much as have a live relationship with tradition.” Because the use of traditional and archetypal images to define contemporaneity as well as to intervene in its processes” falls outside imperial understandings of colonized subjects as less culturally evolved — and incapable of cultural evolution without British intervention, which they gratefully accept — such stories tend to be excluded from imperial folklore collections (187), including The Strange Story Book.

Reframing History: Queering the Storytelling Scholar

Many of the stories in The Strange Story Book are addressed directly to the reader, and Nora’s use of the second-person “you” creates familiarity between reader and text. Here, however, the woman telling these stories is not ventriloquized by a male collector, but rather has collected these stories herself, thereby maintaining the narrative effect of a kindly woman storyteller even as Nora asserts her authority over the text. For example, her version of “Rip Van Winkle” (49-62) ends with reminiscence about “the wonderful actor [Joseph] Jefferson,” whom, Nora writes, “none of you are old enough to remember” (62). It seems that by “none of you” Nora means her child and adult readers alike: 164

Jefferson debuted his interpretation of the character on the London stage in 1865, before many of even the Fairy Books’ first generation of child-readers were born, and this interjection recalls Nora’s prefatory address “To the Children” (vii) raised on the series.

Another narratorial interjection is also directed to these now-grown children, but it is more concerned with contemporary issues than with nostalgia. At the beginning of “Blind Jack of Knaresborough” (116-28), the story of an eighteenth-century man blinded in infancy by smallpox, we learn that “in those times, before babies were vaccinated, smallpox was a most terrible disease and very few lived through it without being marked in one way or another” (116). The vaccination of infants against smallpox was made compulsory in Britain by the Vaccination Acts of 1853, 1867, and 1871 (Durbach 59); these were amended to account for conscientious objectors by the Acts of 1898 and 1907 (Durbach 58). Nora, who was born in 1851, likely would have met or have heard accounts of people “marked in one way or another” by smallpox, and her comments on the correlation between “vaccination” and the reduction in effects of this “most terrible disease” might have been a response to the 1907 Act, passed about five years before her correspondence indicates that she was working on The Strange Story Book.

History informs the collection in other ways as well. Elizabeth Freeman argues, “It may be crucial … to complicate the idea of horizontal political generations or waves succeeding each other in progressive time with a notion of ‘temporal drag’” that reaches back into “the movement time of collective political fantasy.” Temporal drag in both senses that Freeman intends the term — that is, as the past’s pull on the present and as “a way of connecting queer performativity to disavowed political fantasies” (65) — are evident in The Strange Story Book. Here, the “political fantasy” in which Nora engages centres on the recognition of her successful performance of a traditionally male role. Her publication of the Fairy Books under the name “Mrs. Andrew Lang” when her other works were credited to “L.B. Lang” is likely due to both the generic conventions of children’s literature and public perceptions of the Langs’ collaboration, but this shifting nomenclature can also be read as her efforts to position herself as a female Andrew Lang, 165 her husband’s counterpart and equal. Accordingly, Nora’s pantheon of characters who reject restrictive gender norms are positioned both as non-traditional role models for the girls reading The Strange Story Book and as Nora’s own precursors. As what Gale Eaton calls a “Juvenile biography,” the book belongs to what “is in some ways a conservative genre … trying to provide good role models for young readers” (2). At the same time, as a feminist biographer, Nora, as Janet Beizer puts it, “attempt[s] to retrieve a hypothetical lost tradition” (57n) not unlike the one Virginia Woolf mourns in A Room of One’s Own (1929). This enterprise is not wholly unproblematic: as Lynne Huffer argues, “the reconstruction of a specifically female heritage of writing … is necessarily based on a structure of nostalgia that, rather than displacing traditional paradigms of literary authority, in fact reinforces and repeats them” (13). Indeed, The Strange Story Book’s historical characters are iconoclasts whose differences enable them to succeed in a misogynist world, and Nora does not mount a sustained challenge to her own era’s coding of authority — narrative or otherwise — as masculine.

I should note here that The Strange Story Book was not Nora’s only foray into literary biography for children. The Gateway to Shakespeare (1908; republished as The Approach to Shakespeare in 1925) a reward book published by Thomas Nelson, combines seven of Charles and Mary Lamb’s adaptations — The Tempest, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, As You Like It, The Merchant of Venice, King Lear, Macbeth, and Romeo and Juliet — with “biographies of Shakespeare and of Charles and Mary Lamb that combine facts with Romantic speculation” about Shakespeare’s childhood (Richmond 93).57 Most of the Lambs’ biography focuses on Charles, perhaps because, according to Nora, “We need not tell the sad story” of how “Charles lost his mother, and his poor sister Mary became quite unfit to take care of herself at times” (20).58 Despite this focus on Charles, however,

57 Similarly, in The Gateway to Tennyson (1910), Nora prefaces adaptations of Tennyson’s poetry with a life of the poet.

58 This “sad story” is probably inappropriate for Nora’s young readers. According to Jane Aaron, “on 22 September 1796 … Mary Lamb … killed her mother with a knife stab to the heart; the accumulated strain of nursing a senile father and a bedridden mother, while also maintaining the family through her needlework, had exacerbated a psychological disorder.” Though Mary would spend the rest of her life in and out of institutions, Charles assumed responsibility for the bulk of her care (para. 2). 166

Nora’s biography of the Lambs prefigures her essay, “Trials of the Wife of a Literary Man” (1912), which I discuss in Chapter Three. She explains, “though Charles now has most of the credit for the stories, it was Mary who really did most of the work” (21). Indeed, current scholarship agrees that Mary is indeed responsible for about two-thirds of the siblings’ jointly-authored work (Aaron para. 3).

Velma Bourgeois Richmond calls The Gateway to Shakespeare Nora’s “finest achievement” (92), though she “wonders about the response of child-readers to … [Nora’s] anti-romantic, if not acerbic, evaluation” of Shakespeare’s marriage. This volume is a testament to Nora’s editorial as well as her biographical talents. “An unusual feature is the combination of Lamb’s retellings with substantial quotations after each tale” (94); according to Richmond, “the addition of well-chosen selections from the plays … give[s] longer life to The Approach to Shakespeare by appealing to different ages” (99). That these “different ages” likely included the “adults” who “were,” Richmond concedes, “perhaps amused” by Nora’s version of Shakespeare’s marriage (94) further supports my earlier argument about Nora’s facility for paratextual cross-writing.

The Strange Story Book’s biographical project is even more complex. Nora’s interest in George Sand, who, in addition to writing under a male pen name, famously smoked in public, dressed in men’s clothing, and was passionately devoted to women’s rights, is evidenced by the adaptation of four childhood incidents from the latter’s autobiography, Histoire de ma vie (1854) for The Strange Story Book. The stories themselves say nothing of Sand’s radicalism, but their very inclusion in the collection is significant. According to Ehnenn, “the citing/rewriting of convention, history and famous female figures … is a key strategy for …female … writers who sought to articulate their lives … and goals within new modes of scholastic [and] artistic… expression.” Though Ehnenn writes here about “female collaborative writers” like Michael Field (Katharine Harris Bradley and Emma Cooper) and the connections between their re-writing of Sappho and their “loves” and “erotic” modes of expression (18), her claims about the social and artistic utility of “famous female figures” can be applied to The Strange Story Book as well. By adapting 167 the Histoire, Nora indicates that she is a reader of “the celebrated writer who called herself George Sand” (“Pets” 162), inviting comparisons between them.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning claims Sand as a literary peer as well. Amy Billone, who characterizes Sand as the “single exception” to Barrett’s dislike of other women, reads Barrett’s two sonnets “To George Sand” as expressing the tensions between the poet’s appreciation for Sand’s “pure genius” and her anxiety about what she saw as the impossibility of the woman artist (577). For example, Barrett’s “Stanzas Addressed to Miss Landon and Suggested by Her ‘Stanzas on the Death of Mrs. Hemans’” (1835) engage much more critically with the work of another living woman writer. Brandy Ryan argues that in this poem, Barrett contributes to “an elegiac dialogue that set in place a poetic economy of … what they value and the idea of value as it distinctly relates to their position as women poets” (249-50). Significantly, according to Ryan, “Unlike Hemans’ and Landon’s elegies for dead women poets, which offer an emotional understanding and sympathy between the writing poet and the dead poet, the dialogue between Barrett and Landon discloses a conflict in value”; moreover, Barrett “calls into question the fundamental value of elegy. The dead can no longer benefit from the poet’s work; the living poet cannot fulfill her obligation to the world if she focuses so insistently on the dead” (265). Barrett’s response to Landon and her sonnets to Sand can be read together, then, as a commentary on what she values (and does not value) in her colleagues’ work.

In “A Recognition,” the first of her sonnets on Sand, Barrett urges her subject’s “woman- heart” (11) to “Beat purer … and higher, / Till God unsex thee on the heavenly shore” (12-13), an imperative that, Billone argues, expresses Barrett’s hope that the physical and creative limits of the female form can indeed be transcended (591). Margaret Morlier, meanwhile, reads the biblical, classical, and Miltonic allusions of Barrett’s sonnet as evidence of the poet’s belief that “there is an element of historical contingency in heroism” (324) and her desire to create such a “(con)text of heroism” for Sand (330). Perhaps by including Sand’s stories in The Strange Story Book, Nora is 168

looking to the past not to elegize it, but to create a context of female authorship for herself.

Analyzing biographies of famous women intended for girls, Eaton notes that “clothing” is a recurring motif (20). Although Nora does not discuss Sand’s unconventional dress, the relationship between what characters wear and the themes of “appearances, the private versus the public, and embeddedness in or isolation from community” (20) that Eaton identifies in her own focal texts surface in The Strange Story Book as well. Nora includes two stories about early modern figures who were assigned female at birth but socially and professionally performed male roles, Hannah Snell and Catalina De Erauso. Perhaps unsurprisingly, The Strange Story Book does not critique Snell or Erauso’s enthusiastic participation in their nations’ imperial enterprises, but instead focuses on their bravery. The first of these stories, “Young Amazon Snell” (33-43) sees its heroine dress as a man, take to the sea, and, after detailing the exposure of her sex, leaves her creatively and socially fulfilled, “her petticoats discarded for ever — singing to … [a] fashionable audience … the songs with which she had delighted for many months the crew of the ‘Eltham’” (43). The ending of the second of these stories, “The Adventures of a Spanish Nun” (295-312), is more ambiguous. Like Snell, Erauso joins the military in search of adventure, and her biological sex is discovered. All ends well, however, and she is lauded for her bravery and receives “the permission of the Pope … to wear on all occasions the uniform of a cavalry officer, together with a sword and spurs” (312).

Significantly, both women contributed to the preservation of their own legends: in addition to orally regaling audiences with tales of her exploits, Snell, who was “unlettered,” detailed her adventures to “Robert Walker, a London newspaper printer,” who published The Female Soldier in 1750 (Dugaw 38), and Erauso’s autobiography De la Monja Alferez (The Lieutenant Nun) was first published in 1829. However, perhaps due to the difficulty of ascertaining the precise degree of authority Snell and Erauso asserted over these texts, Nora does not mention them. Nora also erases Erauso’s

170

However, when Nora qualifies the story’s opening proverb, what seems to be a defence of Andrew could just as easily be an assertion of her own abilities. She writes, “here and there, even in our own day, we meet with some gifted person who seems to be able to do anything he desires” (286). The events of the story reinforce this claim. Drawing on his woodworking skills, artistic ability, knowledge of classical mythology, and expertise in “what is called ‘Natural History’” — that is, the anatomies of “hedgehogs, lizards, tadpoles, locusts, snakes, and many others” — the young Leonardo adorns a shield with an image of “the head of Medusa … so terrible that he almost felt frightened” (290). Here, the multi-skilled production of a composite work is the true mark of a genius.

Thus, “The Boyhood of a Painter,” like Nora’s eulogy for her husband, can be read as metaleptic commentary on collaboration and creativity. This reading is supported by the story’s intertextual connection to Walter Pater’s essay “Leonardo Da Vinci,” first published in the Fortnightly Review (1869) and later reprinted in Studies of the History of the Renaissance (1873): the central event of “Boyhood” can be found in the “Leonardo” essay, wherein Pater refers to the apocryphal “story of an earlier Medusa, painted on a wooden shield” (60) included in Giorgio Vasari’s Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects (1550). According to Pater, this story “is perhaps an invention; and yet, properly told, has more of the air of truth about it than anything else in the whole legend. For its real subject is not the serious work of a man, but the experiment of a child” (60). Nora’s “Boyhood” shares this Wordsworthian approach to biography, as her young Leonardo is clearly the father of the man who is remembered as “Chief among … [the] ‘Universal Geniuses’” (286) of his era. However, in addition to accepting Pater’s challenge to produce a “properly told” version of this anecdote, incorporating “The lizards and glowworms and other strange small creatures which haunt an Italian vineyard [and] bring before one the whole picture of a child’s life in a Tuscan dwelling, half castle, half farm” (Pater 60), Nora also challenges Pater’s positioning of Leonardo’s genius in relation to the work of his collaborators. For Pater, the material realities of Leonardo’s 171

life and the extent to which those works attributed to him were collaborative are less important than the aesthetic effects of these works. Therefore, with regard to Leonardo,

Antiquarianism has no more to do. For others remain the editing of the thirteen books of his manuscripts, and the separation by technical criticism of what in his reputed works is really is, from what is only half his or the work of his pupils. But a lover of strange souls may still analyse for himself the impression made on him by those works, and try to reach through it a definition of the chief elements of Leonardo’s genius. The legend, corrected and enlarged by its critics, may now and then intervene to support the results of this analysis. (57)

Ultimately, Pater is less interested in the individual students who produced, in whole or in part, those works misattributed to Leonardo than he is in the continued relevance of these works to Leonardo’s reputation. Noting that “attribution is a historically bound and changing concept,” Jonah Siegel explains that Pater’s essay was written during a major methodological shift in the field of art history: “New methods of analysis along with the increasing value placed on scarcity made it more interesting and important not to swell the pages of the catalogues, but to reduce the number of works ascribed to a celebrated artist of the past” (“Schooling Leonardo” 133). Therefore, Siegel writes, Pater “engages the works of Leonardo’s students as manifestations, ultimately, of Leonardo’s own genius” (142). This produces a complex vision of the relationship between collaboration and genius, as “The works of Leonardo’s scholars — Luini, Menzi, even the less highly regarded Caprotti (Salai) — become visible in Pater’s essay, in ways that they are not in the current accounts of art history”; however, “the artists themselves are understood as masterpieces by Leonardo da Vinci” (150), who, according to Pater, saw himself as their

creator. As I discuss in Chapters One and Two, Pater’s own influence is, of course, evident in the works of his students, and it resonates throughout Andrew’s attempts to contextualize his own literary productions in relation to others’. 172

Throughout The Strange Story Book, Nora editorially subverts the Paterian model of “collaboration … that involves a more unbalanced set of relationships than such a term should probably encompass, one that involves a disturbing relation to power on the one hand and to self-effacement on the other” (Siegel 150). However, it is Leonardo’s story, and not those of his students, that she includes in the collection; in fact, “Boyhood” does not mention these men at all. Instead, Nora briefly chronicles Leonardo’s apprenticeship to Andrea del Verrocchio, who “never touched paint any more” after realizing that the boy’s work was superior to his own. She conjectures that “though it is always hard to find ourselves thrown into the shade, probably Verrocchio’s renunciation of painting lay deeper than mere envy. Why should he do badly what another could do perfectly?” (289). Textually, this incident establishes the extent of Leonardo’s talent; metatextually, it tempts one to speculate about why Nora’s degree of involvement in the Fairy Books rapidly expanded until she was “almost wholly” responsible for the series. Though the similarities between the names of “Andrea”/“Leonardo” and “Andrew”/“Leonora” are coincidental, the focus here on a subordinate who is more talented than his “master” may not be.

Conclusion

Significantly, Erauso’s story, and not Leonardo’s, is the last in The Strange Story Book. Nora ends this story by telling readers that after her adventures, Erauso “remained in Spain, leading a quiet life, and feeling, if the truth be told, terribly dull.” After ten years, Erauso joins the army for “an expedition to South America” and disappears somewhere between a rowboat full of officers and its destination, “the best inn” of “the port of Vera Cruz” (312). The final lines of the story — “‘Well, but where has she gone?’ Ah! that no one knew—and what is more, no one ever did know!” — are also the final lines of the book. In The Strange Story Book, Nora in some ways continues to occupy the domestic role she has held throughout the series; “Mrs. Andrew Lang” eulogizes her beloved 173 husband and collaborator and creates a nostalgic space for parents and grandparents who wish to pass on something of their own childhoods to the next generation. However, as the metaleptic relations between the book’s text and paratexts indicate, Nora, like Erauso, has not ceded control over her own story. 174

Conclusion

Though I’ve argued that Nora deserves full credit for her contributions to the Fairy Book series — and shown some of the ways in which she attempts to claim this credit — I don’t think that the Langs’ literary careers can ever be completely disentangled, and nor do I think that they should be. The work of each was influenced by the other, through conversation, collaboration, and, from the 1880s onward, by the gap between their public reputations. This dissertation is not only the story of a marriage; it is also the story of two interrelated legacies and what they can tell us about the reasons we canonize some authors while forgetting others.

I’m going to end with another story that, I think, provides an additional perspective on my central concerns. On Boxing Day, 1908, Andrew wrote to Haggard bemoaning the possibility that, as he puts it, “I shan’t be remembered for anything, unless it is Totems!” Given that he had previously, in the Violet (1901) and Crimson (1903) prefaces, complained about the series having eclipsed his other publications, this claim was almost certainly made tongue-in-cheek. However, given my interest in the Langs’ legacies, I would be remiss not to analyze this letter further. First, a definition: totemism was classified by Victorian anthropologists as an aspect of “animism,” a term that Tylor defines in Primitive Culture (1871) as the religious belief that non-human entities, such as plants, animals, and household objects, have souls (1: 425-27). We can see Tylor’s influence in “Mythology and Fairy Tales” (1873), wherein Andrew claims that animal stories grow out of religious practices characterized by “the selection of one object as the protector of a stock” (631). By 1898, however, Andrew believed that totems were objects of reverence but not worship, writing to Tylor, “I don’t believe Totems have much to do with religion whatever” (22 Oct. 1898). Five years later, he published Social Origins and Primal Law (1903), a book that he refers to as “my Social Origins, or Why I May Not Marry My Grandmother” in a letter to Haggard (17 Feb. 1902). Here, he theorizes that totems developed into group names — for example, a family that was protected by a lion totem was ipso facto socially differentiated from a family protected by a crab totem — in 175 order to guarantee exogamy. In that book’s “natural sequel” (vii), The Secret of the Totem (1905), he concludes that totemism gave rise to the emergence of surnames, which leads him to argue in favour of “the great importance of names in early society” (viii). Though this work on totems is, contrary to Andrew’s letter to Haggard, now mostly forgotten, its influence can be tracked to psychoanalytic theory. In Totem and Taboo (1918), Sigmund Freud cites Andrew’s “nominalist” position as “the most noteworthy theory … [that] explain[s] how animal names come to be applied to primitive tribes” (144). Employing the same recapitulatory logic that, as I discussed in Chapter Three, equates the Victorian child with the colonized subject, Freud applies Andrew’s work on names to the unconscious, concluding that the individual’s “name is one of the main constituents of his person and perhaps of his psyche” (145).

Andrew’s lifelong interest in totems is therefore, in essence, an interest in stories: the stories humans tell about the world around them, the stories we tell about ourselves and about our communities, and what these stories might tell us about humans as a species. The letter I’ve cited above thus further illuminates the extent to which both Andrew and Nora’s careers enact what Cannon Schmitt calls “savage mnemonics: a form of memory that redefines what it is to be human (as well as modern, civilized, and British) in relation to the past, and specifically those pasts — historical, cultural, personal, and … evolutionary — conceived of as savage” (3). These “pasts” are invoked again and again by the Langs: the historical, cultural, and personal in relation to the readerships to which they appeal and the literary communities they build for themselves; what they and their Victorian colleagues saw as evolutionary in their respective efforts to establish their ethnographic expertise. My study of these invocations has demonstrated, I hope, that the ways in which a name might be a brand, “like Bovril” (MS-38255), is a story worth telling.

185

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