British Nineteenth-Century Literature and Images of the Past
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Active Distance: British Nineteenth-Century Literature and Images of the Past Katja Elisabeth Lindskog Submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 2014 © 2014 Katja Elisabeth Lindskog All Rights Reserved ABSTRACT Active Distance: British Nineteenth-Century Literature and Images of the Past Katja Elisabeth Lindskog How did British nineteenth-century literature articulate its relationship to the past? In Past and Present (1843), Thomas Carlyle introduces the Middle Ages through a description of what he believed the collar of a serf would have looked like, dwelling on the shine of the brass as it would have stood out against the green of the forest, as if it were a painting to be evaluated aesthetically for its color palette rather than part of a controversial defense of medieval feudalism. In Adam Bede (1859), George Eliot compares the eighteenth-century setting of her novel to a realist painting, pointing out the visual details that would appear unfamiliar to her contemporary readers, such a “mob-cap” or an old-fashioned spinning- wheel. These moments may appear like intermittent, typically Victorian examples of intrusive editorializing that risk repelling readers from engaging with the world of the past. But my dissertation shows that Carlyle and Eliot are part of a large and important body of Victorian historical texts that seek to engage their reader closer with their evocation of the past through the visual imagination. Romantic historiography had introduced the idea of seeing the past “in the mind’s eye”, and Victorian writers frequently asked their readers to explicitly treat the past as if it were itself an image. My dissertation argues that a tradition emerged during the nineteenth century which sought to develop that language of vision for a particular purpose: to observe the striking distance, and differences, between the past and the present. And the effect is not one of detachment but its opposite: historical distance is the connecting device that ties the reader to the text, across Victorian historical works. My dissertation moves through the Victorian period broadly conceived, from 1820 to the 1890s, and across genres of novels, poetry and non-fiction prose. This breadth of scope is a consequence of my argument. Many critics treat, for instance, Thomas Macaulay’s constant shifts between past and present as a feature of his idiosyncratic style, or Elizabeth Gaskell’s minute descriptions of Napoleon-era uniforms as distinctive of the genre of realism. But I show that Victorian literature that deals with the past needs to be understood across styles and genres, in the broader cultural context of their era’s fascination with historical distance. Throughout the nineteenth century, the emphasis on the gap between past and present serves to engage, rather than repel, the reader’s imaginative investment in the world of the past. The distance between the past and the present works to immerse the Victorian reader more fully in the imagined past, thereby cultivating a more actively critical engagement with history. Table of Contents Acknowledgements ii Dedication iv Introduction 1 Chapter One: “The Brass Collar and the Glass Carriage: Thomas Carlyle Looks At the Past” 23 Chapter Two: “The Poetry of ‘Well-Known Things’: William Morris and Absent Images” 68 Chapter Three: “Optical Illusions: George Eliot’s Romance of Distance” 108 Chapter Four: “Ghost Histories: Vernon Lee and the Art of the Past” 151 Bibliography 191 Appendices 203 i Acknowledgements My advisors – Nicholas Dames, Erik Gray and Sharon Marcus – have in every way exceeded expectations of how perceptive, gracious, incisive, reasonable, kind and just plain wise a dissertation committee can be. Nicholas Dames combines dazzling intellectual virtuosity with abundant patience and generosity. Erik Gray offers unswerving enthusiasm and encouragement, while he also always pushes me to do better, leading by example. Sharon Marcus is like a one-person cure to all the world’s writing ills. She sees to the heart of the argument every time, and makes me want to see it too. The three of them are a wonder. At Columbia, we have a wonderful group of graduate students and faculty gather regularly in the Nineteenth-Century Colloquium; I owe much of the early inspiration for my project to the thoughtful and exciting discussions that are still ongoing there. Particular thanks go to participants past and present Deborah Aschkenes, Anna Clark, Dehn Gilmore, Abigail Joseph, Sarah Minsloff, Olivia Moy, Ben Parker and Daniel Wright. I’m grateful to teachers and mentors of the past, because they opened the doors that mattered: Josephine McDonagh, Philip McGowan, Jon Mee, Helen Small and Andrew Teverson all helped to make my rather unlikely dreams become a reality. My father liked to quote P.G. Wodehouse’s dedication to his step-daughter Leonora “without whose never-failing sympathy and encouragement this book would have been finished in half the time.” Dad could relate, times five. He is no longer with us, but it’s safe to say that without him my dissertation would not only be unfinished, but hardly exist at all: any thanks and blame for getting me into this whole literature game in the first place must go to Runo Lindskog. ii My mother Ingrid has been a source of constant enthusiasm, support, intelligent questions and some crucial end-game moments of domestic assistance. There are no signs any of that will change upon my completion of the PhD. So love, thanks and future apologies to her. My siblings Björn, Maria, Mattias and Toffe with their families deserve a mention here, because they’re extraordinary people, and I’m quite fond of them. And I can always count on them to find my sunglasses. I’m grateful to Aliya, Blainey, Keith, Janice and Sam for expanding my idea of family in the best possible ways. They’re a home away from home. I’m lucky to be continually inspired by Deborah Aschkenes, Cecilia Beretta, Célia Charpentier, Annie Cotton, Jennifer Davis, Deborah Friedell, Lucy Hornigold, Sara Jangfeldt, Elisabeth Jansson, Helena Lambert, Sarah Minsloff, Emilie Nyman, Johanna van Rooij, and Sira Stampe Villadsen. All of them are brilliant people, which makes it even more remarkable that they are also such loyal and loving friends. And the equally exceptional Jess Fenn and Lytton Smith: I look forward to creating happy writing memories together for many years to come. I owe thanks to Amanda, Annelie and Sofia who turned up, pitched in, and made it not only possible, but a pleasure, to get things done. Samuel Ingemar was, if I’m honest, of no help whatsoever to the process of thesis-writing, but he more than makes up for it by being a complete and utter joy. Finally, this dissertation belongs to Joseph. You’re not just my true north, you’re the whole compass. iii For Joseph North iv Introduction It has become a critical commonplace to consider the nineteenth century an era of historical curiosity and discovery. From the perspective of the present, Victorian Britain’s interest in the past appears such a dominant characteristic of its culture that to point to its importance threatens to seem redundant. But even though we know a concern with the past is crucial to nineteenth-century British culture, my dissertation suggests there are nevertheless rather large, basic questions about its literary elements that remain unanswered. What characterizes the particular Victorian sense of the past that we encounter in the period’s writings? How did British nineteenth-century literature articulate its relationship to the past? My dissertation offers answers to the questions raised above by addressing the ways in which British nineteenth-century literature engages the reader’s visual imagination to evoke the past. Romantic historiography introduced the idea of seeing the past “in the mind’s eye” and Victorian writers of all genres subsequently asked their readers to “look” at scenes of the past as if they were viewing an image. In fact, Victorian writers frequently treat the past itself as if it were an image. Rosemary Mitchell, who calls the “historical curiosity” of nineteenth century Britain “unprecedented in the Western world”, also thinks that the Victorians helped to build – and pass down to us – a “historical culture in which the visual was as significant as the textual.”1 I argue that a tradition emerged during the nineteenth century that sought to imagine the past in the reader’s “mind’s eye” for a particular purpose: to observe the striking contrast, and consequent distance, between the past and the present. From Walter Scott’s gentle mockery of eighteenth-century dress fashion in Waverley, through the pre-Raphaelites’ worship of medieval architecture, and all the way up to late-Victorian 1 Rosemary Mitchell, Picturing the Past: English History in Text and Image 1830-1870 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 2. 1 authors’ fascination with rapidly changing landscapes and art forms, British nineteenth- century writers are concerned with the historical distance between the past and the present – and the ways that distance can be evoked in the reader’s visual imagination. In historiographical studies, there has been a modest but noticeable upsurge of interest in the concept of historical distance in the last decade, due in large part to Mark Salber Phillips’ interdisciplinary efforts to engage scholars of art, historiography and literature on the subject. He explains the idea of historical distance through its development in the nineteenth-century: Since the late eighteenth century at least, Europeans have seen some sort of distancing as bound up with historical knowledge. Yet the same condition of estrangement also produces a strong countercurrent, encouraging a widespread desire to recapture a feeling of historical intimacy and connected tradition […] a genuine encounter with the past must trace a path from initial recognition of alterity to some form of insight and comprehension.