MEN OF LETTERS, WRITING LIVES

In this fascinating new study Trev Broughton explores developments within Victorian auto/biography and asks what they can teach us about the conditions and limits of male literary authority. She focuses on two case studies from the period 1880–1903:

• the auto/biographical theories and achievements of Sir Leslie Stephen, one of the century’s most revered exponents of the written life; and • the debate surrounding ’s account of the marriage of Thomas and Jane Welsh Carlyle.

The author examines the proliferation of the professions with a vested interest in the ‘written life’; the speeding-up and institutionalization of the Life-and-Letters industry; and the consequent spread of a network of mainly male practitioners and commentators. She argues that these elements all contributed to a new ‘auto/biographical’ subjectivity. Men of Letters, Writing Lives will be of great interest to students and scholars of literature, cultural history, gender, and auto/biography. Trev Broughton teaches Women’s Studies and Literature at the University of York, specialising in auto/biography. Her previous publications include Women’s Lives/Women’s Times: New Essays on Auto/ Biography (edited with Linda Anderson) (1997) and The Infernal Desires of Angela Carter (edited with Joseph Bristow) (1997). MEN OF LETTERS, WRITING LIVES

Masculinity and Literary Auto/ Biography in the Late Victorian Period

Trev Lynn Broughton

London and New York First published 1999 by Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2005. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001 © 1999 Trev Lynn Broughton All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Broughton, Trev Lynn, 1959– Men of Letters, Writing Lives: masculinity and literary auto/biography in the late Victorian period. Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. English prose literature—19th century—History and criticism. 2. Men authors, English—19th century—Biography—History and criticism. 3. English prose literature—Men authors—History and criticism. 4. Great Britain—History—Victoria, 1837–1901—Historiography. 5. Stephen, Leslie, Sir, 1832–1904. 6. Froude, James Anthony, 1818–1894. 7. Biography as a literary form. 8. Masculinity in literature. 9. Autobiography. PR788.B56B76 1999 98–30505 820.9'492–dc21 CIP

ISBN 0-203-16841-0 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-203-26361-8 (Adobe eReader Format) ISBN 0-415-08211-0 (hbk) ISBN 0-415-08212-9 (pbk) FOR ROBIN CONTENTS

Acknowledgements vi

PART 1 Stephen’s Stephens 1 Introduction: ‘Some little employment’: letters, Lives 3 and Leslie Stephen 1 On the wire: Leslie Stephen, Life-writing and the art of 39 forgetting 2 Missing her: the Leslie Stephens, Anny Ritchie and the 57 sexual politics of genre

PART 2 Froude’s Carlyles: anatomies of a controversy 77 3 Dust-clouds and dissonances: married life as a literary 79 problem 4 Froude: the ‘painful appendix’ 109 5 ‘Revelations on ticklish topics’: impotence, biography 135 and Froude-Carlyle

Notes 167 Bibliography 191 Index 205 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am indebted to the following for, in various proportions, advice, help and encouragement: David Amigoni, Linda Anderson, Vicki Bertram, John Bicknell, Joseph Bristow, Betty and Keith Broughton, Julie Charalambides, Aileen Christianson, Norma Clarke, Richard Collier, Joanna de Groot, Christien Franken, James Hammerton, Robin Hart, Dayton Haskin, Ludmilla Jordanova, Nicole Ward Jouve, Ann Kaloski, Hermione Lee, Jude Nixon, Jane Rendall, Anne Skabarnicki, Pat Spallone, Liz Stanley, Ruth Symes, John Tosh, Dale Trela, Jean Wall, Roy Wallington and Sheila Wright. Mr Wilson Huck of Thomas Butler and Sons, Solicitors, Broughton-in- Furness, provided invaluable bibliographical assistance with the legal aspects of Chapters 3 and 5; Neil Johannessen of the British Telecom Museum responded swiftly and thoughtfully to calls for help with Chapter 1; Lesley Hall of the Wellcome Institute was, as always, a fund of knowledge on matters medical-historiographical. The members of the VICTORIA discussion group were entertaining and apparently omniscient fellow-travellers. John David and Karen Young provided a retreat in the early stages of this project, and Jean Hodgson helped out with reviving games of Scrabble; Michael and Christine Cass of Arbutus House, Clapham, Yorks, were generous and tolerant hosts in the last phase. For stimulating discussion and early responses to my work I am grateful to the ‘Auto/Biography’ Study Group of the British Sociological Association; the Women’s Studies work-in-progress group at York University; the participants of the ‘Women’s Lives/Women’s Times’ Dayschool (University of York, 1991); the delegates and organizers of the ‘Carlyle at 200’ Conference (Memorial University, Newfoundland, July 1995); the ‘Gender and Autobiography’ Conference (University of Edinburgh, April 1996); the ‘Literature and Legality’ Conference (University of the West of England, June 1996). vii

I would like to thank the editor of the journal Auto/Biography for permission to reproduce parts of my essay ‘The D.N.B.: The Gendering of a National Monument’ in my introduction; the chapter ‘Missing Her’ first appeared in Trev Broughton and Linda Anderson (eds) Women’s Lives/ Women’s Times (SUNY Press 1997); I am grateful to Indiana University Press and the journal Victorian Studies for permission to reproduce a revised version of ‘Married life as a Literary Problem’; and to the editors of Carlyle Studies Annual for ‘Froude: The Painful Appendix’. A version of ‘Ticklish Topics’ appears by kind permission of The Journal of the History of Sexuality (© 1997 University of Chicago, all rights reserved). Passages from Sir Leslie Stephen’s Mausoleum Book, ed. Alan Bell, appear by permission of Oxford University Press. Extracts from Leslie Stephen’s letters to Charles Eliot Norton appear by permission of the Houghton Library, Harvard University. viii Part I

STEPHEN’S STEPHENS 2 Introduction ‘SOME LITTLE EMPLOYMENT’

Letters, Lives and Leslie Stephen

I This book is driven by curiosity about the relationship between late Victorian developments in the writing of Lives and the history of gender. In particular, it asks what we can learn about the conditions and limits of literary authority, especially male literary authority, from two closely connected phenomena: the professionalization of biography as exemplified in the writings of Sir Leslie Stephen, first editor of the Dictionary of National Biography, and the controversy generated by James Anthony Froude’s work on Thomas and Jane Welsh Carlyle. For many years I have been puzzled by this question: why did Leslie Stephen, connoisseur and revered exponent of the art of Life-writing, never write his own Life? Stephen balked at the prospect of self-disclosure so volubly and so insistently that the prospecting and the balking appear to be two parts of a single action. The closest he came to overcoming this reluctance was in the pages of what became known to his heirs as the Mausoleum Book. This handwritten album of reminiscences, appended to a meticulous ‘calendar’ of his late wife’s correspondence, is written in the form of a letter to her children. It begins: 22 Hyde Park Gate, 21 May 1895 I am about to try to write something for my darling Julia’s children: George Herbert, Stella, and Gerald de l’Etang Duckworth; and Vanessa, Julian Thoby, Adeline Virginia and Adrian Leslie Stephen. I can as yet think of nothing but the beloved wife who died on 5 May, scarcely more than a fortnight ago. I have been going over old letters and putting themin order. They have revived many old thoughts and memories of the past. Although I am, as far as I know, in good health physically, I do not yet feel equal to taking up my old tasks again. Yet as I am strong enough for some little employment, I think that I 4STEPHEN’S STEPHENS

cannot do better than to try to fix for myself and you some of the thoughts that have occurred to me. (Bell [1895] 1977:3)1

The ‘little employment’ Stephen chose was to write an account of the events leading up to his second widowhood. The main body of the text is a searingly painful story of love and loss. Thereafter, the album consists of jotted memorials: records of family events, personal achievements and, above all, more deaths. The epithet Mausoleum Book is apt in many ways, not least because, as Stephen himself noted with some consternation, the narrative eventually degenerated into a ‘series of obituary notices’ (101). To ’s children, however, the nickname may have accumulated harsher overtones. The album may have come to represent a version of Victorianism from which they were in flight. It exuded the melancholy self- importance of a passing generation. It was redolent, moreover, of the grim atmosphere of a home in mourning: a home whose grief-stricken head made known his paternal resolutions, his hopes and fears, by letter. Stephen’s letter to his family is partly an apostrophe to the future and to his children as adults. Adrian, the youngest, was only twelve when his mother died. Their mother, Julia Prinsep Stephen, had left few recognizably literary remains.2 This, in Stephen’s view, was fitting. The Mausoleum Book would supply a frame for her letters; more importantly it would insist that her memory should properly survive not in her writing but in the memories and conduct of her descendants, the beneficiaries of her care, and in her husband’s records of her life as mother, wife, muse and benefactress.3 The impression Julia had made on others would outlive her: would outlive, furthermore, the mere worldly achievements of her husband. Yet the album was also intended to be read during Stephen’s own lifetime: it was addressed both from and to the 22 Hyde Park Gate of 21 May 1895. This transmission of letters from one realm of the house to another can be seen as a way of gendering space, regulating and remarking boundaries. As ‘Virginia Hyman has commented, the Stephen household had for some years reversed the conventional post-industrial pattern. ‘[S] ince Stephen worked at home and Julia was often away, his was the constant presence in the home’ (1983: 205). As a fiat issuing from that haven within a haven, the father’s study,4 Stephen’s letter tohis family both problematized the much-vaunted ‘separation of spheres’ and reconstituted in interesting ways the vivid emotional architecture of the Victorian professional home.5 In effect the Mausoleum Book does not so much grant—or deny—its readers access to the private life enacted at Hyde Park Gate as attempt to INTRODUCTION 5

dictate the conditions and meaning of privacy itself. Stephen frets at great length about the uses to which his letter might be put:

I am so much of a professional author that I fear that what I am about to say may have the appearance of being meant rather for a book than for a letter. That, however, will be accidental if it happens—at any rate it will be unintentional. I am writing to you personally, my beloved children—for you are all beloved children to me—and I want simply to talk to you about your mother. What I shall say, therefore, is absolutely confidential between you and me. I mean to speak freely of things which are not only confidential now but which must always continue to be confidential. I have a sort of superstitious dislike (or is it the reverse of superstitious?) to giving any orders about what is to happen after I am dead. I think that the living should settle all things without having their hands tied. Consequently I will not say positively that I forbid you to make any use of this when I am dead. Indeed it might possibly be worth while for somebody to look through what I have written and make some use of it, if anything at all has to be said about me. I intend however that this document shall remain absolutely private among us eight as long as I live. I mean further to write in such a way as to put out of the question any larger use of it than I have indicated, even after my death. Having said so much, I leave the whole matter to you. (Bell [1895] 1977:3–4)

The passage is a bewildering mixture of pellucid simplicity and extreme, hairsplitting prevarication. Nothing, surely, could be more amiably straightforward, more natural, than a wish to talk to one’s children about the mother they have so recently lost. Yet Stephen, a professional Life- writer of nearly two decades’ experience, ties himself in mesmerizing knots in the attempt. He quibbles over his own motives (will his manuscript look publishable by accident or merely unintentionally? Is his attitude to its fate superstitious or the reverse of superstitious?); he veers from reasoned hope to resignation; he exhorts and cajoles where he might, like his late father-in- law WilliamMakepeace Thackeray, ‘positively forbid’ any attempt at a biography of himself.6 For all his insistence that he would speak ‘freely’, ‘privately’ and ‘personally’ (the word ‘confidential’ appears three times in swift succession), a counterimpulse careers inexorably from ‘some little employment’ to ‘professional author’ and hence towards ‘larger use’ and the not-at-any-cost-to-be-thought-of ‘book’. And if, by any chance, ‘anything at all has to be said about me’, a discreet footnote volunteers Frederic W. Maitland, his protégé and nephew-in-law, as the ‘only living person who could say anything to the purpose at present’ and who ‘understands me’. 6STEPHEN’S STEPHENS

The footnote goes on to warn that even Fred Maitland would only be able to write ‘a short article or “appreciation” or a notice in a biographical dictionary. No “life” in the ordinary sense, would be possible.’ Fair enough, perhaps: the understandable precautions of a realist who, having spent many years commemorating both great and ‘third-rate’ lives for the Dictionary of National Biography, knew he could hardly expect to escape the fate he had meted out so liberally to others.7 In a final twist (and with another sidelong glance towards Maitland) Stephen alerts his readers to two further sources of information about himself. For an indication of the ‘general character’ of the ‘external circumstances’ of their father’s early life, the children might consult his biography of Sir James Fitzjames Stephen, his brother. For an account of his own life at Cambridge, they could turn to his biography of Henry Fawcett, his closest friend at the time. For now, Stephen will just ‘fill up a gap or two’(4–5). The Mausoleum Book does not extend a free hand to Fred Maitland any more than it ‘leave[s] the matter’ of publication ‘entirely’ to Stephen’s heirs. Its readers are immediately faced with a blizzard of caveats and cautions:

I wish to write mainly about your mother. But I find that in order to speak intelligibly it will be best to begin by saying something about myself. It may interest you and it will make the main story clearer. Now I have no intention of writing autobiography except in this incidental way. One reason is that my memory for facts is far from a good one, and that I really remember very few incidents which are at all worth telling. Another reason is that I could give you none of those narratives of inward events, conversions or spiritual crises which give interest to some autobiographers. I was amused lately by reading Horatio Brown’s life of Symonds, virtually an autobiography, and reflecting how little of the same kind ofinternal history could be told of me. My mental and moral development followed a quiet and commonplace course enough. I do, indeed, remember certain facts about myself. I could give a history of some struggles through which I had to pass—successfully or otherwise: but I have a certain sense of satisfaction in reflecting that I shall take that knowledge with me to the grave. There was nothing unusual or remarkable about my inner life; although I may also say that without a knowledge of the facts to which I have referred, nobody could write an adequate history of my life. As the knowledge is confined to me and will never be imparted by me to others, it follows that no adequate history of my life can ever be written. The world will lose little by that. (Bell [1895] 1977:4) INTRODUCTION 7

The original intention to ‘speak simply’ about Julia Stephen has shifted to a more qualified wish to ‘write mainly’ about her. For the intelligibility of the ‘main story’, the story of their mother, will rest on the children’s knowledge of their father. As this book will demonstrate, the late nineteenth century saw significant upheavals in what was understood by the ‘main story’ of a Life: upheavals in which issues of gender, sexuality and literary authority were implicated. To sum up, the Mausoleum Book presents itself as an account, though not a formal biography, of a wife. It is intended to demonstrate the influence of that wife on the writer, her husband. It is not, however, the husband’s autobiography, nor should it be used as such by any putative biographer. Indeed, no one would be able to write the husband’s Life because they would lack certain vital materials. Those materials relate primarily to, on the one hand, incidents he cannot recall, and on the other, spiritual struggles he alone can recall, the narration of which would characterize and might enliven a true autobiography, but which in his case will remain secret. Whether these secrets and silences, so elaborately and repeatedly flagged, matter or not, Stephen leaves his children to decide. Both an invitation to and a refusal of biography, the Mausoleum Book presents its readers with the challenge of enigmatic surfaces and the promise of hidden shallows in a way more reminiscent of one of Browning’s dramatic monologues than of a ‘high’ Victorian Life and Times. Why should a professional biographer such as Stephen have become so exercised by the prospect of writing about his married life? Why did an account of his own life seem to him a prerequisite for the task of writing about his wife? And why did Stephen feel the need to enmeshhis own posthumous reputation in so copious a web of disavowal? These are among the leading questions of this book.

II It has become a cliché of auto/biographical studies that bourgeois modes of subjectivity, or properly of literary subjectivity, conditioned and impelled the ‘rise’ of biography and autobiography in the nineteenth century. There have been many accounts of this subjectivity and its relationship to narrative, but Regenia Gagnier’s thumbnail sketch will suffice:

a meditative and self-reflective sensibility; faith in writing as a tool of self-exploration; an attempt to make sense of life as a narrative progressing in time, with a narrative typically structured upon parent/ child relationships and familial development; and a belief in personal creativity, autonomy and freedom for the future. (Gagnier 1990:39) 8STEPHEN’S STEPHENS

In so far as they cleaved to prevailing stories about this subjectivity, histories of literary Life-writing have offered narratives, either triumphalist or elegiac, of the development of individualism, the birth (and sometimes death) of ‘the author’ as a cultural category, and of the evolution of, and evolving ways of interpreting, the modern ‘self’ (Weintraub 1978; Fleishman 1983; Peterson 1986). Until recently, the primary subject of these narratives has almost invariably been assumed to be male unless proven otherwise (and sometimes even then). Either this propertied, implicitly white, explicitly male subject was accepted unquestioningly as the rightful owner and author of the genre, fashioning it in his own image and according to his own criteria of success, or else his control of it has been taken to be a problem: a problem for the aesthetics of Life-writing and/or for those subjectivities disqualified, by virtue of gender, class or ‘race’, from access to representation. In either case, the domination of the written Life by men of letters has generally been taken for granted. Where they have not been ignored altogether, other voices—the voices of working- class men (Vincent 1982), of middle-class and working women (Jelinek 1980, 1986; Swindells 1985) and of ethnically marginalized and/or colonized subjects (Smith and Watson 1992: xiii–xv) have been portrayed as at best constrained, at worst repressed by (and thus in need of rehabilitation from) a ‘mainstream’ understanding of how a Life should go. While the identification of this unproblematically masculine, bourgeois life-story has enabled commentators to call, more or less successfully, for alternative maps of the auto/biographical corpus, it has had both theoretical and practical shortcomings. First, there is a certain circularity in the attribution of great Lives to great subjects, since the marks of greatness have a tendency to migrate between the two. Hence Lives are read for the insights they afford into the narrative priorities and personal myths of eminent men of letters, and as the templates of Victorian prestige; in turn the typologies so derived come to define the ‘classic’ Life. This mesmerizing de Manian revolving door is to some extent structural to the texts themselves, and is one of the ways Romantic myths of authorship generated at the end of the eighteenth century come to have such a strong hold on popular conceptions of the literary vocation at the end of the twentieth.8 More pertinently, this circularity has had a centrifugal effect on auto/biographical studies, rigidifying a canon of frequently cited texts, and casting much Life-writing—including not only overtly counter-hegemonic narratives but also popular best-sellers and even, in some cases, non- standard Life-writing by or about canonical authors—into literary- historical darkness.9 INTRODUCTION 9

This realization has important implications for feminist and post- colonial critics, for whom the canonical life has been something of a stalking-horse. There has been a strong recuperative tendency in recent auto/biographical scholarship: an insistence that alternative myths and narratives of selfhood needed to be appended to or even substituted for the dominant history of Life-writing to take account of ‘other’ (relational, fragmentary, non-linear etc.) ways of experiencing and—by arguable extension—narrating lives. This project has succeeded in bringing to light an inexhaustibly rich seam of cultural activity—from African-American slave narratives to Anglo-Indian missionary tales, and from Latin-American political testimonios, to the Lives of British suffragettes—otherwise in danger of omission or erasure from the historical record (Stanton 1987; Smith 1987; Benstock 1988; Brodzki and Schenck 1988; Bell and Yalom 1990; Neuman 1991; Smith and Watson 1992; Ashley et al. 1994). Taking for granted the existence of normative Lives, such accounts typically demonstrate the ingenuity and resourcefulness of subjects excluded from, yet often bound to engage with, that norm’s assumptions about value and meaning. Neither the literary-historical nor the political impact of this enterprise can be exaggerated. At the same time, however, it has in some ways reinforced the paradigmatic, unmarked status of canonical narratives so that ideals such as autonomy, transcendence, authenticity, subjecthood, authority,literary heroism, expertise, self-possession and so on have gone unquestioned and unchallenged. My point, then, is not that individualist, writerly, goal-centred, self-important Lives were rare, but that their intertextual valences were not as straightforward, their influence as irresistible, nor their relationship to male power as direct as is commonly supposed. What are we to make, for instance, of the Mausoleum Book’s bizarre preamble, and of the palette of emotions and desires on which Leslie Stephen draws?10 Stephen elsewhere called the book ‘a little treasure’ (Bicknell 1996: II 444), and certainly his opening pages are shot through with cloying sentimentality. Nor can it be denied that there are elements of manipulativeness and ill-concealed amour propre in Stephen’s apologetics. But there is also harrowing grief, violent love and radical uncertainty about what he should say and to whom. All this seems very remote from the ‘mealy mouthed’, decorous style of English biography famously deplored by Carlyle and supposed to be dominant in the nineteenth century. Nor does it square with Stephen’s freely acknowledged expertise as a writer of Lives. Is Stephen’s scuffle with the conventions and etiquette of Life-writing an isolated case; an exception to the rules by which biography and its practitioners were routinely governed? If not, how does it modify our understanding of the history of the genre? 10 STEPHEN’S STEPHENS

And what of Stephen’s circumspection, his almost obsessive vigilance over the terms of his own posthumous reputation? Does he secretly find in the possibility of biography, of Life after death, a saving grace—a glimmer of hope on an arid secular horizon? Or is its likelihood an irritating reminder of his own foibles, compromising both to self-esteem and manly autonomy? The writing of Lives was not only one of his professional credentials, it was also a kind of family tradition stretching back to 1819, when his grandfather James Stephen began a volume of Memoirs ‘for the use of his children’.11 Biography was in any case an inescapable feature of Stephen’s day-to-day existence at this time: he had been seeing the proofs of his Life of Sir James Fitzjames Stephen through the press as recently as 20 April, and could not think of the book without remembering Julia’s ‘interest and…pride in it’ (Bicknell 1996:II 445). His work for die Dictionary of National Biography linked him horizontally to a generation of historians and literary scholars trained (many of them by him) in the art of biography, and vertically to robust biographical pedigrees a century old and longer. Think of Froude’s biography of his mentor (1882–4) and Carlyle’s of Schiller (1823–4), or Lang’s of Lockhart (1897), Lockhart’s of his father-in-law Sir Walter Scott (1836) and Scott’s of Dryden (1808), topursue just two of a myriad Life-lines that span the Victorian period and beyond.12 For most of the century, literary sons, sons- in-law, nephews, admirers and intellectual protégés, and, more rarely but increasingly, daughters, wives and nieces produced biographies as part of the fabric of social obligation. By the end of the period, however, the role appears to have become less a direct extension of trusteeship and more a means of regulating and profiting from what Richard Sennett has called the ‘market exchange in intimate relations’ ([1977] 1988:8). Stephen spent much of his working life at the forefront of these developments, earning a substantial proportion of his income from biography and its by-products, while remaining more profoundly immersed in the traditional obligations of literary kinship than was perhaps convenient. Set in such contexts, his concern about the fate of his memoir looks less precious, less paranoid and more like an occupational hazard. Even so, further questions arise. How did living within such a dense grid of biography shape the subjectivity of a man of letters? How was that subjectivity gendered? Conversely, how did a literary subjectivity lived in and between ‘public’ and ‘private’ spaces— spaces at the time both aggressively demarcated and fiercely disputed— affect Life-writing as a cultural practice? Broadening the intertextual field in which Lives are written and read, and acknowledging the existence and historiographical salience of women as authors and subjects of auto/biography, permits us to consider the possibility that, far from being a male domain to which women have had INTRODUCTION 11 no or restricted access, Life-writing has been contested terrain. In Victorian Britain, at least, debates over the nature and value of autobiography and biography as recognizable genres were of a piece with struggles over the construction of gender, class and nationality—which is no more than to say that identities and representations are theoretically inseparable. It should be possible, therefore, to trace the operations of gender in Life-writing by and about canonical male authors as well as by and about women. This means looking at the Victorian Life in new ways: looking beyond the aesthetics of the ‘classic’ text and construing even literary auto/biography as a broad realm of cultural production and reproduction. Certainly it means looking beyond the ‘images of men’ and ‘images of women’ present in Life-writing. Instead we must attend to the strategies Life-writers deploy to manage difference: difference within as well as between genders; within as well as between genres. Leslie Stephen’s hesitance over what to do about his wife’s Life is a good starting-point. Do we dismiss as mere lipservice Stephen’s stated—though consistently waylaid—intention to commemorate his wife? Ifnot, how would such an intention nuance the masculinist history—and historiography—of Life-writing? ‘Feminine influence’ was a familiar trope to early Victorian Life-writers, and could be safely consigned to a chapter on childhood (mother’s tender care), to an admiring Dedication to a grieving widow and perhaps to a human interest chapter on ‘Domestic Ties’. But the Life of a wife, mother or sister, addressed candidly and in earnest, would surely test the biographer’s narrative resources to the limit. Though it was unlikely ever to displace the central story of Victorian achievement, might not the exigencies of a woman’s story have made a difference to the practice of biography? Is it possible to talk of the influence of women on the literary Life-writing of Victorian men? Taking my bearings from the Mausoleum Book, then, and from the puzzles posed to me by Stephen’s dithering, I have attempted to consider late nineteenth-century Life-writing as a social and cultural activity rather than exclusively as a literary event: as context and intertext rather than simply as text. Of course, it could be argued that Leslie Stephen’s mode of self-disclosure was bound to be too special a case to be representative of anything: even his staunchest admirers concede that, though lovable in many ways, he could be difficult, hypersensitive, and was frequently overbearing in private life. Yet he was also, demonstrably, the doyen of late Victorian biography, and, as editor of the DNB, standard-bearer and standard-setter of a national project of self-accounting. It is this combination of personal defensiveness and public boldness that makes Stephen so absorbing a figure to the historian of Life-writing, and one of the arguments of this book is that the self-deprecation and the self-assertion 12 STEPHEN’S STEPHENS may be two sides of the same socio-cultural coin. Here, however, I claim no more than that if Stephen expounded the theory and practice of Life- writing to an emergent generation, he also exemplified the ideological contradictions of the genre(s) played out across a single late Victorian subjectivity.

III Coming across George Ives in the Authors’ Club in 1892, Oscar Wilde is said to have asked ‘Why are you here among the bald and the bearded?’ (Ellmann 1987:364). It is a question I have often asked myself, worried lest to study the Lives of men of letters be to squander energy on an already oversubscribed topic. Why reread Leslie Stephen’s Life when one could reread ’s? And what of those existences, still for the most part ‘hidden from history’, which the Lives of the eminent—Stephen’s and Woolf’s—help to obscure? Why grapplewith Stephen’s attitudes to Life- writing when, as Woolf herself pointed out, ‘no lives of maids…are to be found in the Dictionary of National Biography’? (Woolf 1938:296 n.36). Yet it is precisely this acknowledgment of obscured lives—of actual life stories needing to be valued, of possible life stories waiting to be written— that compels me to return to the Memoirs of the so-called Eminent Victorians. Just as her reading of the diaries of Hannah Cullwick, maid of all work, enabled Liz Stanley to ask new questions about the life, and writings, of Cullwick’s patron and eventual husband Arthur Munby (Stanley 1992:167–71), so I hope to suggest that the testimony of those whose Lives he did not care to write may yet have inflected Leslie Stephen’s auto/biographical theory and practice, and could enhance our own understanding not only of the history of Life-writing, but of the mechanisms of celebrity, authority and scandal of which it formed, and still forms, a part. Julia Swindells spells out the political dimension of this return to the patriarchal text succinctly: ‘Whilst the men have undoubtedly been over- exposed, has it been to the type of critical argument which would show and challenge the intricate workings of male claims to authority?’ (1995:5) My contention is that close attention to, say, Stephen’s Mausoleum Book—to the context it invokes and to the collectivity of readers it imagines for itself —may help us to understand the conditions and the limits of his rhetorical power, and is thus a valid, even a vital task for the historian of gender. Oscar Wilde’s interrogation of Ives, however, was not pure devil’s advocacy, although Ives’s overt campaigning for homosexual rights was in some ways antipathetic to Wilde’s own modes of sexual dissidence (Dollimore 1991:39–80). Rather, it was intended to bounce off the walls of the club and into the ears of an eavesdropping audience. In the guise of a INTRODUCTION 13

difference of opinion, in other words, Wilde strove to implicate both Ives and his auditors in the open secret of their sexual difference. For Wilde was not saying, ‘Why are you here among the men’, but ‘Why are you here among these men: the dull, solemn, respectable, elderly Men of Letters’. He was staking out the possibility of another literary masculinity—decadent, ironical, iconoclastic—the more subversive for being already a member of the club. It is impossible not to be impressed by Wilde’s bravado, especially as three years later another scene of provocation, in another gentleman’s club, the Albemarle, was to set in motion the events that led to Wilde’s conviction and imprisonment for gross indecency. So epochal, so shattering does Wilde’s sentence now appear, catalysing not just a generation, but a society, into the patterns of homophobic and homosexual identification we now recognize, rightly or wrongly, as thedecisive parameters of modern sexuality, that it is easy to overlook the continuities of gender, class and homosociality that made the Victorian gentleman’s club so resonant a setting for both bald-and-bearded clannishness and Wildean mischief. Leslie Stephen’s Mausoleum Book was penned in the summer of 1895, at a time when even a grieving widower in his study could scarcely have ignored the popular furore surrounding the Oscar Wilde trials, nor the shadow of homosexual panic they cast (Cohen 1993). On the surface Stephen’s text appears innocent of the scandal playing itself out only a short distance from Hyde Park Gate. Yet the garrulous way in which the Mausoleum Book performs its privacy, its irony, its knowingness, is curiously reminiscent of the club as Wildean mise-en-scène. The auto/biographical culture Stephen himself had helped to create took on many of the lineaments of the late Victorian metropolitan club, and as such existed at the cusp between bourgeoisdomestic and élite-homosocial knowledges. The DNB, as we shall see, was a club of sorts, engendering its own forms of homosociability as well as its own attenuated versions of family. An old boys’ network is liminally present in the Mausoleum Book, too, in the genial intertext Stephen establishes for his own undertaking: Dictionary-work; the Lives of Henry Fawcett and Fitzjames; the putative efforts of Fred Maitland. As will become clear, an even more palpably Wildean atmosphere is evoked by Stephen’s reference to the publication, a few weeks earlier, of the biography of another friend: ‘I was amused lately by reading Horatio Brown’s life of Symonds, virtually an autobiography, and reflecting how little of the same kind of internal history could be told of me.’ The incongruity of this allusion rests partly in Stephen’s amusement; whatever else it is, the Mausoleum Book is seldom gay. But Stephen was not alone in deriving a quiet chuckle from the appearance of Horatio Forbes Brown’s John Addington Symonds: it had prompted wry remarks 14 STEPHEN’S STEPHENS and raised eyebrows throughout literary London. Symonds had begun his autobiography in 1889 for two overlapping reasons: to offer himself as a case history for the new sexologists (he had already collaborated closely with Havelock Ellis, contributing his own life history as Case XVII to the volume Sexual Inversion)13 and to gain a hearing, as an ‘invert’, on behalf of inversion. His aim had been to gain sympathy for others like himself: the ‘not ignoble victims of a natural instinct reputed vicious in the modern age’ (Symonds [1889] 1984:183). ‘You see,’ he had written, ‘I have never “spoken out”’ (Grosskurth 1964:277). The manuscript he had produced was thus sharply different from the Life-writing with which the Victorian literary world was familiar: not only as a moving and detailed study of homosexual subjectivity within an increasinglyhomophobic society, but, with its emphasis on dreams, fantasies and formative sexual experiences, as an exploration of consciousness at a time when histories of conscience were the biographical order of the day. Needless to say, the text which made Stephen smile even in his grief was not Symonds’s homosexual apologia but the version with which Brown, his biographer, had thought fit to replace it: a ‘pious and workmanlike memorial’ (Smith 1970:14) in which Symonds’s militantly frank narrative had been smothered with sufficient anecdote and correspondence to throw the ignorant off the scent, and which had then been brutally cut, probably by self-appointed censor Edmund Gosse. By these means, the emphasis was ingeniously shifted from Symonds’s sexual history to his moral and spiritual conflicts, with the result that, as one witness put it: ‘[t]he proofs, already bowdlerized, were completely emasculated, so that frank “Confessions”, which might have made some little stir in the world (indeed that was generally expected), emerged as pure commonplace.’14 The published version was thus characterized by the systematic curtailment of Symonds’s sophisticated sexual psychology into the more conventional, but equally sophisticated language of honest doubt, moral quest and spiritual conversion. Where, for example, Symonds had narrated his arrival at ‘Stoical acceptance of my place in the world, combined with Epicurean indulgence of my ruling passion for the male’ ([1889] 1984: 173), Brown’s Symonds combined stoicism with ‘epicurean indulgence’ full stop ([1895] 1903:254). One of Brown’s rare authorial interpolations gives a sense of the narrative structure to which he had aspired. It also illustrates the febrile tone to which such a structure lent itself and which in this instance Stephen and many of his contemporaries seem to have found diverting:

This terrible and lonely communing of his spirit face to face with the widest abstractions which his intellect could compass, seems to me to INTRODUCTION 15

contain the essence of Symonds’s psychological quality. He had carried speculation in the abstract, and the audacious interrogation of the Universe, to their utmost limits. It was inevitable that, if he survived the strain, he would ultimately abandon the vacuum of abstractions in which he was stifling, for the concrete world of men and things about him. (Brown [1895] 1903:256)

Brown’s biography abounded in literal, and literal-minded, echoes of that style of Life-writing initiated by Thomas Carlyle much earlier inthe century. Like Carlyle’s Diogenes Teufelsdröckh, hero of ([1833–4] 1987), Brown’s Symonds confronts, endures and moves beyond ‘entire negation’ to something approaching a stoical acceptance of the ‘concrete world of men and things’. (Teufelsdröckh, we remember, ultimately made his name as a ‘Professor of Things in General’.) The assumption that the coherence of an autobiographical subject—and hence the success of a Life— depended on the construction and resolution of a highly schematic narrative of ‘conversion’, whether secular or spiritual, had and still maintains a powerful hold on the aesthetics of the genre (Fleishman 1983).15 It is perhaps not surprising that, as an agnostic, Stephen should wish to challenge that hold, and that aesthetic. Yet his repudiation here of Brown’s Symonds, and of the kind of subjectivity it purports to represent, seems at once overdetermined and ambiguous. Other early readers, who, like Stephen, had counted themselves among Symonds’s friends, expressed similar reservations. Noting sundry nods and winks between Henry James and Edmund Gosse, both of whom were certainly aware of Symonds’s ‘passionate subterranean crusade’ on behalf of homosexuals, Phyllis Grosskurth, Symonds’s twentieth-century biographer, goes on to quote a bewildered T.E. Brown:

I confess that I had not known Symonds. That is, I had not known what an important part of his life was borne by the sceptical agony, or rather agonising…. I fancy I can recollect a different Symonds, full of enthusiasm for favourite authors, outspoken, critical, of course, but brimming with love for those he preferred. What has become of this rapture? I think it was the normal mood, & the other the abnormal. (Grosskurth 1964:322)

Margaret Oliphant, struggling in January 1895 to complete the narrative of her own Life, recorded a strikingly similar response to Stephen’s and T.E.Brown’s: 16 STEPHEN’S STEPHENS

I have been reading the life of Mr Symonds, and it makes me almost laugh (though little laughing is in my heart) to think of the strange difference between this prosaic little narrative, all about the facts of a life so simple as mine, and his elaborate self-discussions. I suppose that to many people the other will be the more interesting way, just as the movements of the mindare more interesting than those of the body, or rather of the external life. (Oliphant 1990:99)

‘Good Mr Symonds,’ she sighed, ‘a pleasant, frank, hearty man, as one saw him from outside! God bless him!’ (81) Branded by (what Oliphant calls) its ‘strange difference’ from the acceptable life, Brown’s Symonds had worked so hard to appear authentically ‘inner’ that it had neglected the salutory marks of exteriority. From the responses of these early readers an intriguing set of distinctions begins to materialize: Ultimately Brown’s Symonds succeeded in performing to the point of excess the conventions of auto/biographical depth and interiority. In a sexual-political atmosphere in which the notion of the commonplace was taking on the ideological burden of the normative, the man of letters was in danger of being despoiled of that heroic aspect which justified the production of, and guaranteed the market for, the Lives of writers. This loss of hard-won cultural capital can be felt in the changing—though not necessarily diminishing—role of inner struggle as a marker of masculine authority, and in increasingly fraught disavowals of the necessarily intimate relationship between the narrator and the subject of the literary Life.16 Challenged either to reject the conventions or reject the Symonds such conventions had produced, commentators such as Stephen, Oliphant and T.E.Brown hovered uncomfortably between diagnosing the problem as too much and too little knowledge: between admitting ‘I did not know this man’ and asserting ‘I knew him better’. As my discussion in Part 2 of the fate of Carlyle’s biographer James Anthony Froude will show, this anxiety INTRODUCTION 17

about the proper bounds of biographical knowing was at the heart of much late Victorian Life-writing, and was responsible for producing and reproducing the ideology of the ‘set Life’. In his preface to the second edition of Symonds, Horatio Brown apologized for the gloomy impression his narrative left, quoting the view of a schoolfriend, Gustavus Bosanquet, that Symonds ‘gives an entirely wrong account of himself, describing himself as an unlovable, unclubable boy; he was anything but this’ ([1895] 1903: vii). Twenty years later, in a supplementary volume, Brown was still apologizing Symonds’s battle with his dypsychia had been fought but never finished; the resultant ‘introspective diathesis’ inevitably appeared morbid to a public convinced that ‘in the region of psychology, scepsis is sepsis’ (1923:viii–ix). As if responding to the objections of Stephen, Oliphant, T.E.Brown and Bosanquet, he stressed Symonds’s vitality, elasticity, physical courage and joie de vivre. He concluded this preface with Symonds’s comment on a portrait of himself: ‘I would like to go down to posterity with that apprehensive yet courageous look upon the wrinkled features. It has the merit of psychological veracity, this photograph’ (x). Still, Brown was missing the point: to (appear to) care about one’s image was suspect in itself. The literary biographer’s task had long been, in part, to contain and manage the literary remains of his or her subject so as to preserve them from the taint of self-consciousness. In the late Victorian era, the growing suspicion cast over the expression of ‘morbid’ introspection and over the temperament of the ‘genius’, meant that this regulatory function underwent a new twist. Brown fatally lacked the knack of balancing interiority with externality, and of providing an inobtrusive backdrop of commonplace fact—of robust friendships, quiet domesticity, cheerful, self-forgetful work—against which the drama of genius might safely be enacted. This lack of compositional equilibrium alone was enough to raise suspicions about both Symonds’s wisdom as self-historian and his choice of friends. In other words, without uttering a word about Symonds’s homosexuality, Brown’s biography impugned Symonds’s homosocial continence. Even so, it is worth noting that the sexual politics of Symonds’s crusade remained subterranean. Although it is scarcely plausible that friends such as Oliphant and Stephen should not have guessed the ‘secret’ of Symonds’s sexuality (Symonds had written extensively on homoerotic themes, and after his death Swinburne had attacked him in print as ‘the Platonic amorist of blue-breeched gondoliers’ [Smith 1970: xxii n.]), their qualms were expressed in terms of questionable genre rather than sex. Only our own retrospective knowledge, the tone of their protestations and Oliphant’s hastily corrected appeal to the testimony of ‘the body’ justify us 18 STEPHEN’S STEPHENS in considering the bemused reception of the biography as an instance of gender trouble. That it was sononetheless is confirmed by Stephen’s Some Early Impressions (1903), in which yet again the aestheticism and studious self-contemplation of Brown’s Symonds forms a pretext for muscular self- assertion on Stephen’s part:

[Symonds at Davos] was keenly interested in all manner of literary and philosophical questions, and ready to discuss them with unflagging vivacity; he was on cordial terms with the natives, delighted in discussing their affairs with them over a pipe and a glass of wine, and not only thoroughly enjoyed Alpine scenery aesthetically, but delighted in the athletic exercise of tobogganing Far from libraries, he turned out a surprising quantity of work involving very wide reading, as well as distinguished by an admirable literary style. His weakness was perhaps his excessive facility; but no man ever encountered such heavy disadvantages with greater gallantry. His remarkable biography [i.e. Brown’s] contains some revelations of an inner life which would not suggest this side of him. Readers would hardly expect to find that the aesthetic philosopher had the masculine vigour which made him the most buoyant of invalids. (Stephen [1903] 1924:148–9)

Where Brown’s volume had emphasized Symonds’s over-wrought conscience, his finely tuned sensibility and his humanism; where Symonds himself had focused on the origins and consequences of his homosexuality and on the democratizing effect on him of sexual contact with working- class men (Symonds [1889] 1984:276 and passim; Bristow 1995:138–41); Stephen chose to play up an entirely bluffer John Addington Symonds. Building on his cryptic aside in the Mausoleum Book, Stephen counters Brown’s efforts by arming Symonds with the full kit of late Victorian heterosexual manliness: chivalry, ingenuity, industry, tenacity, athleticism. His Symonds, in explicit contrast to Brown’s—and oblique contrast to Symonds’s own—is a jovial pipe-smoking ban viveur with the common touch. The itch such tributes scratch was, as we have seen, the survival of Symonds’s own testimony in the form of letters and memoirs. Published at length if not in full by Brown, these documents bore witness to a luxury of self-consciousness, an extravagance of inner life. In however diluted and censored a form, such evidence posed a direct affront to the late Victorian ideology of manly reserve. Tellingly in an otherwise enthusiastic sketch, Stephen concedes the ‘excessive facility’ of hisfriend’s literary powers.17 As we shall see in Chapter 4, the accusation of facility was frequently levied INTRODUCTION 19

against another notorious biographer, Froude, and figured prominently in the debate about his work on Carlyle. In an economy of meaning in which effort and reserve (think labour and capital) were frequently mystified as ends in themselves, writing should not come too easily, especially when that writing was by and about men. Yet as a biographer and hence as a professional reader of autobiography Stephen could not help but be captivated by Symonds’s self-probings, however he might lament their publication. One of Stephen’s most endearing traits as a critic is his consistent refusal to moralize away the complex voyeuristic pleasures of the self-revealing text.18 His Mausoleum Book lucubrations suggest that, though compromising to his memory of his friend, for Stephen, Symonds’s ‘revelations of an inner life’ were both a source of fascination and a hostage to fortune. It is possible, therefore, that Stephen’s own auto/biographical moods swing on an eroticized Wildean axis of epistemological pleasure and danger. According to Joseph Bristow, Stephen’s gesture towards Brown’s Symonds in the Mausoleum Book suggests that ‘a respectable patriarch must publicly insist that certain facts about his life have to remain unrecorded because…a man’s homosexual/private life has been written down elsewhere’. Bristow is right, I think, to infer that the existence of Symonds’s testimony—whether locked in the vaults of the London Library or encoded in the labyrinthine self-analyses of Brown’s hypersensitive aesthete—breached ‘a much-needed silence about male sexuality in general’ and that Stephen’s repugnance had as much to do with the supererogatory expression of desire per se as with the sexual identity, closeted or otherwise, of his good friend (Bristow 1995:130– 31). Yet the distinction this interpretation assumes between a public sphere mediated by published records and a private sphere characterized by unpublished and unpublishable writings needs qualifying. What Stephen’s narrative seems to affirm is that certain discursive spaces—the club, the professional father’s study and biography itself—exist precisely to adjudicate the boundaries of, and hence themselves help to construct, the so-called separate spheres enjoined by compulsory heterosexuality. In this way late Victorian Life- writing produces, even as it discredits, the privacies it purports to protect. This is its mainspring, the locus of its pleasures and dangers. As such, of course, it operates analogously to the notorious Labouchere Amendment of 1885 which, by criminalizing acts of ‘gross indecency’ between men in private as well as in public, fostered an atmosphere in which the policeman, the blackmailer and homosexuality as a dissident identity all thrived. 20 STEPHEN’S STEPHENS

Did literary Life-writing undergo the ‘crisis of masculinity’ we associate with the Wildean fin de siècle? Certainly it responded, though not always directly, to that cluster of interrelated changes we attribute to the late Victorian period: feminist challenges to gender relations, fears about the collapse of the Imperial project, and the convulsive tightening of attitudes to the body, sexuality and sexual difference. In other ways, however, Life- writing, like the gentleman’s club, had long functioned as a highly regulated site of masculine pleasure and exchange, and as such anticipated and to some extent contributed to the crisis of the 1890s. As we shall see in Part 2, the ‘sexualization’ of masculine biography did not follow on in a straightforward way from, say, the publications of Havelock Ellis, or the 1880s debate about marriage, or the Wilde trials, though it shares genealogies with all these.

IV The claim that notions of the self and representations of a Life are implicated in the workings of capital, state and hetero-patriarchy is not new, though the realization that Life-writing might best be understood as a social rather than a personal form has lagged behind. One reason for this has been the bifurcation along gender lines we have noted in the study of Lives. If classic (i.e. usually male, bourgeois, literary) texts and selves are regarded as paradigmatic, exemplary or even transcendent of social values, while marginal (often female) texts and selves are read for the ways in which they are at odds with those values, then the mutually constitutive relationship between notions of ‘self’ and of ‘society’ may be occluded (Swindells 1995:1–7). Another reason has been an assumption—the result in part of unreflexive territorial battles between ‘literary’ and other disciplines—that certain modes of candour and authenticity are transhistorical tokens of aesthetic prestige and/or ethical purity (Gilmore 1994:ix–x; Marcus 1995) at the expense of, for instance, ritualized, collective, coded or interlocutionary inscriptions of a life or lives. A good example of both these critical tendencies can be found in Paul Murray Kendall’s chapter on Victorian Life-writing in The Art of Biography (1965). Kendall sees the nineteenth century as a time when the flood of great English biographies dwindled, after a Romantic efflorescence, to a trickle of noteworthy texts. In the earlier category he cites Scott’s Life of Dryden, Southey’s Lives of Nelson and Wesley, Moore’s Byron, Lockhart’s Life of Scott. After 1840, he claims, the ‘procession thins out’ to Carlyle’s Sterling (a ‘slight’ work); Mrs Gaskell’s Charlotte Brontë; Trevelyan’s Macaulay; Froude’s Carlyle; Forster’s Dickens: a ‘mere handful of titles over a span of sixty years. And we end withMorley’s monumental, that is, INTRODUCTION 21

stone-cold, Life of Gladstone’ (103).19 Kendall attributes this decline to Victorian reticence:

In the Victorian Age, what was known to be important in a life had become enormously enlarged; but what was permissible to acknowledge had shrunk to the innocuous, padded with didactic observations. Whereas life-writing demands candor, candor is the essential condition of its being, the age insisted on a simulacrum of life, and the more famous the man, the more varnished the exemplum: the husband, devoted; the father, loving; the citizen, public spirited; and the gentleman, Christian. (Kendall 1965:104–5)

In this climate, he argues, biography was ‘silenced’ and what he calls ‘pseudobiography’ took its place. Fostered by the arrival of the steam press, the spread of literacy and the burgeoning of ‘domesticated’ periodical journalism, the pseudobiography ‘hid the Victorian heart’ as securely as whiskers hid the Victorian face. That this shift represents a feminization of biography is implicit throughout Kendall’s analysis: ‘Just as the age enjoyed vast meals, long sermons and heavy whiskies, it consumed with relish the marmoreal two-volume pseudobiography, commissioned, sometimes written, by the widow’ (105). Even this concession leaves a great deal unaccounted for, and Kendall must resort to the idea of a displaced or repressed biographical drive to explain what remains:

There is no question that Victorian biographical energies were turned to all manner of industrious busy-work, of varying worth, from the classifying of information, to the large-scale accumulation of materials: Lives of the Lord Chancellors; Lives of the Lord Chief justices; The English Men of Letters series; The Dictionary of National Biography; Camden Society, Early English Text Society, and other ‘Society’ publications; reports of the Royal Manuscript Commission…. Nothing like such extensive biographical excavation had been known before—awareness driven underground to mine for ore. (Kendall 1965:109)

The trajectory of Kendall’s argument leads him to the rather absurd conclusion that the more monumental the project (Morley’s Gladstone or his Men of Letters series) the more clandestine the impulse behind it. Yetif this is wildly off-beam as an explanation of the DNB, it does seem uncannily apt as a description of Stephen’s crypto-Mausoleum. The task, 22 STEPHEN’S STEPHENS

then, must be to make sense of the coincidence, historically, of Froude and Morley and the dutiful biographical widows; of the Mausoleum Book and the DNB; to make sense, to put it another way, of Leslie Stephen. Partly as a result of the perceived inadequacy of accounts which relied upon an embattled auto/biographical ‘impulse’ to explain the changing fortunes of Life-writing, we have witnessed a return, in the 1990s, to what Thomas Carlyle in 1832 called the ‘sociality’ of man’s (sic) engagement with the biographical ([1832] 1869:51). This has involved, on the one hand, renewed attention to its uses20 as a medium of cultural exchange, pedagogy and political contestation (Swindells 1995), and on the other, an examination of the roles auto/biography, and attempts to distinguish its constituent parts, have played in wider socio-cultural formations such as liberalism, nationalism and professionalization. So, for example, Martin Danahay (1993), Leigh Gilmore (1994) and David Amigoni (1996) have adapted and developed Bakhtin’s notion of discourse as in potentially reciprocal relationship between speaker and imagined social audience, arguing that studies of Life-writing have hitherto failed to illuminate ‘with whom many men were discursively engaged—neither whom they were addressing, ultimately, nor whom they were not’ (1994:5). Certainly, the patient reconstruction of shifting and mutually activating constituencies can enable us to collapse the ‘embarrassed distance’ at which some Victorian Lives now appear to stand from the controversies they engendered (Amigoni 1996:137). Liz Stanley, for her part, draws on the techniques of feminist cultural politics to observe Life-writing as ‘ideological accounts of lives which in turn feed back into everyday understandings of how “common lives” and “extraordinary lives” can be recognised’ (1992:3). In common with other contemporary xcommentators, Stanley argues that individuals’ lives and behaviours are more intelligible when ‘located through their participation in a range of overlapping social groups’. She also notes the interplay of biography and autobiography in the evolution of individual Lives (214). Regenia Gagnier, influenced by so- called Critical Legal Studies, adopts a ‘pragmatic’ approach to representations of subjectivity, which, ‘[i]nstead of evaluating the truth of a statement…considers what it does. Thus pragmatism seeks to locate the purpose an autobiographical statement serves in the life and circumstances of its author and readers’ (1990:4). Meanwhile in their work on, respectively, nineteenth-century autobiographical criticism and Victorian biography, Laura Marcus (1994) and David Amigoni (1993) have attempted to revive the social dimension ofLife-writing by relocating it within on-going battles between the emergent disciplines of literary criticism and, in the former case, the social sciences; in the latter, history. In these disputes, Marcus notes, auto/biography figures variously as a topic for INTRODUCTION 23

study, as a resource and as an epistemological issue (1994:9–10). Other scholars have attributed Victorian anxieties about biography and autobiography to the professionalization of letters and the development of literary celebritism (Poovey 1989; Hamilton 1993); to the passing of copyright legislation in 1842 and the consequent intensified pressure on the widows and children of well-known authors to commission (or write) a biography as part of their management of a literary estate (Hamilton 1993:vii, 144);21 and to the congealing of the Victorian cult of respectability and the ideology of individualism (Kijinski 1991:213– 15). Stefan Collini has contextualized the conception and compilation of the original DNB, along with similar large-scale biographical projects such as John Morley’s ‘English Men of Letters’ series, within an important phase in the construction of ‘Englishness’. Such enterprises, he claims, were part of the evolution of new forms of nationalism based on cultural specificity and historical continuity rather than, as before, on the cult of imperial might (Collini 1991:311–74; Erben 1993). While all these new ways of thinking about Lives will prove to be relevant to the auto/biographical theories, practices and debates discussed in this book, they do not, either separately or together, unsnarl the rhetoric of the Mausoleum Book, nor exhaust the fears and desires so profusely unleashed by my other case study, the publication of Froude’s Carlyle. However, a significant consequence of this shift of focus has been a relaxation of efforts satisfactorily to define the various genres of Life- writing, in favour of an investigation of the role such efforts might themselves play in legitimating and challenging what counts as knowledge, truth and authority. Whether they function as history of ideas, literary criticism or sociology of knowledge, what these approaches have in common is a concern to historicize and repoliticize, not only privileged signifiers of expertise, but also categories such as privacy, experience and the personal, in a way that attends to the relations of power within which such categories operate.22 In effect they ask what connections are being forged, and more importantly what repressed, by the ‘and’ in ‘Life and Times of (Broughton and Anderson 1997:xi). Accordingly, my interest here is not in ascertaining whether the Mausoleum Book is ‘virtually an autobiography’ or only ‘incidentally’ an autobiography, nor whether it represents an ‘adequate history’ ofeither Leslie Stephen or his wife. Instead, I wonder what was at stake in Stephen’s efforts to construct and control such boundaries. I have suggested that one of the stakes was heterosexual masculinity, and how, if at all, to represent it. If the soul-searching and spiritual tumult of Brown’s Symonds could perform so faithfully the routines of auto/ biographical subjectivity without finally securing the masculinity of its 24 STEPHEN’S STEPHENS subject, what future was there for Life-writing as a manly endeavour? Would the particular character of late Victorian masculinism, with its emphasis on virtuoso athleticism and virtuoso reserve, prove fatal to male self-history? Was biography a viable alternative? Certainly, the ‘epic’ history of the DNB resounds with the language of manly endeavour, and both Leslie Stephen, and his successor as its editor Sidney Lee, tended to view biography as an expression of national ‘virility’ (Lee 1911:4). That Stephen invested so liberally in the biographical while only ever flirting with the autobiographical may indicate that the threshold between the two had come to mark, for him, one of the limits of homosocial propriety. Yet flirt he did, suggesting that the first person was too pleasurable or too powerful a vantage point to yield up entirely. This should give us pause. For an explicit ideology of masculinity, such as that framed by the idea of ‘manliness’ or of ‘national virility’, may not necessarily give directly on to the scene of male power. This is one of the reasons why, until recently, studies of Victorian manliness and gentlemanliness have as a rule been curiously unhelpful as explorations of gender (Newsome 1961; Girouard 1981; Vance 1985; Hilton 1989). John Tosh makes the point that the best-publicized ideologies of masculinity may, paradoxically, provide least insight into the workings of gender within society, precisely because of men’s social power: ‘As a general rule, those aspects of masculinity which bear most directly on the upholding of that power are least likely to be made explicit. More specifically, men have seldom advertised the ways in which authority over women has sustained their sense of themselves as men’ (Tosh 1994:184).23 For Stephen, as for many of his contemporaries, the act of reminiscing about others was inextricable from the process of remembering the self, even if such memories arose only to be repudiated or belittled. Yet both acts, in this case, were compromised: personal disclosure because it threatened manly self-containment, and biography because its positivist valences seemed ill-matched to the topic ‘wife’. Of the recent studies of the Victorian Life, Martin Danahay’s A Community of One (1993) comes closest to accounting for Stephen’s genre-trouble as a gendered predicament. Like many theorists of the sociality of Life-writing, Danahay sees his subject, autobiography, not as an empiricallyobservable genre with its own rules and conventions, but as a way of understanding the author’s perceived relationship to his/her text. The autobiographical ‘figure of reading’, he argues, can be distinguished from the instances of personal utterance that preceded it by its adherence to the philosophical, legal and social sanctions implicit in the idea of a title page (39–41). Following De Man and Foucault, Danahay argues that a title page assumes the existence of an ‘author’ as an economic category and the possibility of copyright; INTRODUCTION 25 hence it defines the text as ‘the property of a single, unique and identifiable individual’ (41). Unlike earlier self-historians such as Augustine or Bunyan, the modern literary autobiographer does not see the didactic force of imitability as the cardinal virtue of the confessional text, attempting instead to distinguish his or her own self from that of all other writers. In order to capitalize upon the surplus value so generated, the autobiographer asserts his or her individuality at the expense of shared values. In the face of the loss of community this involves, the autobiographer strives to ‘discover, or perhaps create, his or her own social context. …Autobiography is founded on the basis of the redefinition of community as society and the creation of a space for the autonomous individual’ (46). At the same time, however, the autonomous individual, bent single-mindedly on the selfish pursuit of its own self-refinement, represents a potential source of anarchy and social disruption. Hence the pattern Danahay discerns in mid-nineteenth-century representations of the masculine subject:

The exclusive concentration on the inner workings of a single mind came increasingly to seem dangerously like narcissism or solipsism, so that by the Victorian era writers such as Carlyle, Arnold, and Mill followed an explicit programme of anti-self-consciousness; that is, they deliberately tried to repress the self in favor of what they saw as wider social claims on the individual. (Danahay 1993:19)

Implicated as they are in the ideology of masculine autonomy and individualism, however, these authors—in so far as they identify themselves and are identified as authors—can only invoke ‘social claims’ in terms dictated by that ideology. Theirs can never be a real, interdependent community, only a misrecognition of society from the vantagepoint of the (ideal of the) autonomous self. For this reason, autobiographies ‘reduce the social horizon to the interplay of a self and an other’ (14), and in doing so construct the world around an artificialdichotomy between ‘inner’ and ‘outer’ realms. To fulfil this misrecognized vision, a lost lover or some other fantasized, feminized image of unalienated labour is invoked to represent the ‘excluded principle of the social’ (3). The debate rehearsed in autobiography between inner and outer, between self and other is, he notes, ‘irreconcilable except at the level of faith. Once you have accepted the premise of an inner as opposed to an outer experience, only a magical fusion can reconcile the two’ (26–7). This leap of faith, this magical fusion, is what Danahay, after Carlyle, denominates ‘anti-self-consciousness’. The autobiographer appears to turn outward towards his ‘other’, only, in effect, to intensify the illusion of his own inwardness: ‘The paradoxical 26 STEPHEN’S STEPHENS nature of this effort is captured in the term [anti-self-consciousness],…since it is an attempt to use the self to overcome the self. Self-consciousness is not denied but reinforced by anti-self-consciousness’ (29).24 Stephen’s ambivalence about the biography of Symonds—his desire both to claim and to reject the quality of inwardness so extravagantly afforded by Brown’s text—offers a crude example of this curious figure of mind. So too do Stephen’s symptomatic gestures of self-effacement, and in particular his almost invariably self-serving accounts of Julia his wife. Although his text is to serve as a gloss on their correspondence to each other during courtship and marriage, providing ‘an authentic record of the most interesting part of my [Stephen’s] life’ (Bell [1895] 1977:50), Stephen seldom quotes from Julia’s letters. When he does so, it is usually to illustrate the depth of her devotion to him, and to show how the fact of their love resolved on a spiritual plain their sense of alienation from the world: ‘The letters written in April represent an early stage. She already loves me tenderly; she dreams of me and thinks of me constantly; and declares that my love is a blessing which lightens the burthen of her life’ (51). ‘My darling says in one of her early letters that my love of her is as great a miracle to her as any of the miracles in which I declined to believe’ (95). In many ways, then, the Mausoleum Book richly confirms Danahay’s observations. In its all-too-self-conscious professions of ‘anti-self- consciousness’; in its validation of masculine autonomy in the guise of a celebration of interdependence; in its laboured disavowal of the self apparently in favour of, but actually at the expense of, a virtually voiceless feminine ‘other’ (Julia); and in its translation of social connections into metaphysical bonds of love, Stephen’s text enacts the dynamics of Danahay’s bourgeois subject almost to the point of parody. Almost, but not quite. Stymied by the conditions of his own subjectivity, Stephen’s plan to commemorate Julia is nevertheless poignantly fulfilled. For once, though only once, Stephen quotes directly and atlength from one of his wife’s letters. Here she reflects on the death of her first husband and her widowhood:

‘You see, dear’ (she says, before our marriage), ‘though I don’t feel as if life had been hard or as if I had not a great deal in it, still it has been different from yours and from most people’s. I was only 24 when it all seemed a shipwreck, and I knew that I had to live on and on, and the only thing to be done was to be as cheerful as I could and do as much as I could and think as little. And so I got deadened. I had all along felt that if it had been possible for me to be myself, it would have been better for me individually; and that I could have got more real life out of the wreck if I had broken down more. But there was INTRODUCTION 27

Baby to be thought of and everyone around me urging me to keep up, and I could never be alone which sometimes was such torture. So that by degrees I felt that though I was more cheerful and content than most people, I was more changed.’ (Bell [1895] 1977:40)25

It is an extraordinary passage for Stephen to bring to his children’s attention. Julia has achieved the ‘cheerfulness’ of the anti-autobiographer, but not through the struggle with and triumph over the self that marks the anti-self-conscious subject. Rather, she emerges, however briefly, as what I have called elsewhere a ‘failed martyr’ (Broughton 1993). Denied, as a new mother, the luxury of ‘breaking down’, denied even the time and space for self-communing, Julia emerges not into Danahay’s autobiographical ‘community of one’, but into a space of critical difference: she ‘got deadened’ yet is ‘more changed’. The trope of survival, of continuation despite the self, links Julia intertextually to that small company of Victorian women writers who wrote self-histories: to (1877) and Annie Besant (1893), for instance. It links her to , whose heart-rending cry after the death of her last surviving child in 1894 was suppressed by her editor in 1899:

This morning I said I was dead and felt nothing, now I am all wildly alive, suffering and aching and hardened in my sins, but of my mind not my body, my body is well, well, the horrible thing. I could turn to and work or write a love story or draw or skate or walk a mile— anything, anything—but my burden is more than I can bear. (Oliphant 1990:86)

In turn, Stephen’s decision to represent Julia’s consciousness in this way links him—alone in his study, bereaved but ‘strong enough for some little employment’ for the sake of his family—to those faithful widowbiographers so despised by literary history. Bringing Julia back to life is the task Stephen, as husband and now as Life-writer, sets himself. As we shall see in Chapter 2, his strategies are often self-defeating, his efforts misplaced and his results uneven. In this sense he conforms to the Danahayan pattern. Yet the Mausoleum Book is the more fascinating for the failure of Stephen’s efforts to contain and manage the various significant others in his life. His success, ultimately, is less in his own terms than in Julia’s: in allowing her, if only for one brief, shattering paragraph, to be ‘by’ herself. We do not need to appeal to the idea of an ‘autobiographical impulse’ to affirm the difference women’s personal writings made to the Victorian 28 STEPHEN’S STEPHENS masculine Life (Amigoni 1996:136). Lives were written and read dialogically, and the very existence of women’s testimony tended to disconcert the ‘community of one’. Their testimony took many shapes, from personal correspondence to published memoir, from political activism to courtroom deposition. The majority of these interventions survives in highly mediated, often discontinuous forms, forms not obviously recognizable, and certainly not easily legible, as ‘Life and Times’ in the high Victorian sense. Yet it seems clear to me that the proliferation of new modes of Life-writing in the late nineteenth century, and the accompanying anxiety about what ‘autobiography’ and ‘biography’ could and should be, were in part a product of women’s challenges to their ascribed role as forgotten benefactor, redeemer and muse.

V We have seen how Danahay’s model of a solipsistic masculine self, though helpful, falls just short of Stephen’s Mausoleum Book subjectivity if only because it cannot account for the disruptive effects of ‘other’ voices. Furthermore, Danahay’s slightly earlier focus means that his model cannot encompass changes Stephen himself helped to pioneer in the 1880s in the relationship between Life-writing and gender. By the time of writing, the Dictionary of National Biography had become a fact of literary life: a fact with enormous consequences for the status and practice of biography. For the span of its active existence, the DNB installed what we might call an ‘auto/biographical mentality’ within a significant swathe of the (mainly but not exclusively University-) educated élite. The new premium on biographical wherewithal—information, skills of historical scholarship, knowledge of genealogy—not only enhanced the cultural capital associated with membership of the ‘aristocracy of intellect’; it also accelerated the chase for resources, subjects and reputations. The phenomenon of ‘birds of prey’ circling over the remains of the literary dead had long been familiar; the difference wrought by the DNB was that they now hovered by appointment, as routine, and took their victims in strict alphabetical order. This atmosphere exacerbated what Andrew Lang called the biographer’s ‘general sense of injury’ (1897:II 3) in the face of potential and actual rivals for the ‘truth’, and attenuated the autobiographer’s sense of self- determination. In this context, auto/biographical subjectivity was frequently dispersed across heterogeneous understandings of genre, as well as across multiple and sometimes contradictory versions of the family. By the end of the century, in effect, autobiography was seldom just a ‘figure of reading’, rather it was a transferential relationship: a figure of reading and being INTRODUCTION 29 read. Stephen’s concern for his fate should he ‘die before the dictionary reaches [his] name’ is simply an acute expression of a more general apprehension. Of course, to interpret the Dictionary as an instrument of paranoia one has to read against the grain of DNB legend, which has, understandably, stressed its positive and positivist complexion. Michael Erben’s recent claim that the DNB is ‘the single finest achievement of nationally representative collective biography ever produced’ is indisputable. Celebrating this ‘monument to Victorian industry and urbane scholarship’ (1993:121), Erben recounts the story of wealthy publisher George Smith, whose combination of business acumen, affability and literary taste led him to give vital early support to many struggling writers (most famously to Thackeray and the Brontës); whose dream was to make a lasting contribution to English literature by defraying the vast expense of a great national reference work; and whose friendship with and employment of Leslie Stephen as editor led to one of the most impressive collaborations between commerce and art in literary history. This story has become part of the mythology of Victorian letters, and most descriptions of the Dictionary as a social practice and as an institution take their keynotes from its ‘heroic’ genesis in generosity, industry and team work. Contemporary tributes to Smith emphasized his contribution to an idea of national identity independent of, or rather disarticulated from, party, sect or state: a form of orchestrated anti-self-consciousness. Chapter 1 will examine the ethics and aesthetics of Dictionary work from Stephen’s point of view. His extraordinary achievement as editor,however, was to some degree the result of his success in maintaining a reputation for liberality and fairness—indulgence even—towards the views and idiosyncrasies of both contributors and their subjects, however unsympathetic he might find them personally. As Fred Maitland pointed out, this suggested a broad—even pluralist—conception of the kinds of opinion that ‘might fairly claim to be national’, even if the result reflected ‘the confusion of the national mind’ (1906:368). This reputation for irreproachable fairness extended to Stephen’s own Dictionary writing, which was acclaimed as a model of judiciousness and grace. If a man’s life was worth writing, so the afterdinner joke went,

let Mr Leslie Stephen survive him. Let them imagine what a glow Mr Leslie Stephen would cast over his vices—(laughter)—so that posterity would say, ‘What a charming fellow this man must have been in spite of his faults!’ (Laughter) Then his virtues would have been reproduced in such pleasing colours that they would have said, 30 STEPHEN’S STEPHENS

‘What a noble fellow this man must have been! What might he have done if he had had greater opportunities!’ (Anon. 1894:10)

Such traditions are as interesting for the light they cast on the DNB as a collective fantasy, as for the insights they provide into Stephen’s editorial expertise. The image of Stephen training a generation of scholars ‘in the Dictionary, by the Dictionary, for the Dictionary’ enabled commentators to visualize the enterprise in the familiar imagery of the homosocial: ‘just as [Stephen] “made” the Trinity Hall boat that “went head”, though he was a poor oarsman, so I believe that he would have “made” a good historical crew even had he been a poor historian’ (Maitland 1906:366–7). Sporting and military metaphors abound in authorized versions of DNB history, and in many ways this is a viable representation of what we might call Dictionary ambience. The public face of the DNB—the face presented at public events and in the press—was overwhelmingly masculine, upper- middle-class, university-educated and steeped in the higher journalism of the day. Addressing the group of prominent (male) contributors at the Jubilee dinner, Edward Maunde Thompson quipped that: ‘They might be quite sure that whilst they had been talking to their friends they had been taking mental notes of what they had said, with a view of some little anecdote to be handed down to posterity.’ When he entered the room, his speech went on,

he noticed certain glances directed towards him, and he involuntarily directed certain glances towards those whom he observed. As he sat down a peculiar glance proceeded from the eye of the Dean of Westminster, such as he had not seen since the days when he sat under his lash. (Laughter.) He meant when he sat under his eyelash in the fifth form at Rugby. (Renewed laughter.) He also saw a truculent glance proceeding from the eye of Sir Theodore Martin. He was sure that they had all found the same thing as they sat by their neighbours. A man looked into the face of a man and said, ‘shall I have your life or will you have mine?’ (Laughter.) They did not address their friends with the conventional courtesy of the highwayman, ‘Your money or your life,’ but it was, ‘Your life, and I will make money by it.’ (Anon. 1894:9–10)

The dinner, and Thompson’s speech, attest to the self-conscious deployment of a gratifying image of Dictionary culture as united and self-selecting: the spectacle of two generations of a public school, Oxbridge and clerical élite meeting with a common national purpose. We sense the strong element of INTRODUCTION 31

clubability and the homosocial—even faintly homoerotic—satisfactions of DNB involvement: satisfactions cut across by the disreputable fact that money changed hands between members of the club. Finally we sniff the collective paranoia generated by a notion of national identity and pride based on the past, and, by extension, on the dead. As one wit put it, the DNB was ‘Who’s Who (the undertaker intervening)’ (‘Stephen and Lee’ 1901:4). The ‘grand storehouse of national reputations’ may have been a monument to Victorian endeavour and British achievement, but like many another grand edifice, it had defensive as well as commemorative functions. Although most of the DNB business papers and letters were destroyed after George Smith’s death in 1901, the production of the Dictionary was a huge, well-organized cultural event lasting over ten years, and as such it was extensively discussed in the periodical press and in private correspondence. Because of this, it has been possible to reconstruct many of the editorial practices adopted by the Dictionary team, including how they arrived at a list of candidates, and what criteria they developed to narrow down that list into a manageable and representative set of names for inclusion. For the first volume, the ‘A’s, existing reference works were scoured for possible names (encyclopaedias, for instance, and the results of preliminary research on an earlier, abandoned dictionary under the auspices of publisher JohnMurray) and a list was agreed among the team (the editors and their assistants). For subsequent volumes, a preliminary selection of about a thousand names was mooted in the periodical the Athenaeum and further suggestions and emendations were solicited from its readership. (A characteristic anecdote is of a list for inclusion of fourteen hundred hymn-writers sent by a clergyman.) The results were then boiled down again by Stephen and his successor Sidney Lee, and matched with relevant experts (Maitland 1906; Fenwick 1989, 1990). Some of their criteria were explicit and commonsensical. To summarize, entrants had to be dead, had to have been ‘real’ rather than legendary, and had to qualify as ‘noteworthy’. As a general rule, this meant that they had to have done more than just write a book about something. Lee spoke of operating an ‘Aristotelian’ definition of potential eminence, arguing that no man’s life should be admitted to a collection of national biography that did not present at least one action that was ‘serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude’ (Lee 1896:24). ‘No statistics are needed,’ he added, ‘to prove that women’s opportunities of distinction were infinitesimal in the past, and are very small compared to men’s— something like one to thirty—at the present moment’ (28). That there is something cyclical about this definition of distinction should not surprise us: 32 STEPHEN’S STEPHENS

Victorian women were not expected to achieve the sort of recognition which DNB entry requires. Scholarship, creativity, preeminence and fame were not the realm of the angel in the house, and personal qualities, the feminine ideal, were not the stuff of a work of reference. (Fenwick 1994:23)26

Flexible in many other ways, the Dictionary necessarily remained tied to historically specific, and profoundly gendered assumptions about work, effort, achievement, heroism and sacrifice. Such assumptions informed the myth of the Dictionary as well as its contents. The DNB, so the narrative went, was the outcome of an epic struggle in which Stephen triumphed over impossible deadlines, quelled the ‘insane verbosity’ of contributors, curbed the pedantry of antiquarians and rooted out the errors and lies of impostors, finally working himself into an early grave. Stephen’s own Dictionary rhetoric, faithfully preserved by his biographer, casts it as a monster: a ‘diabolical piece of machinery, always gaping for more copy’ (Maitland 1906:394). That the Dictionary was the result of a giant donation of essentially selfless but innately heroic labour—on the part of Stephen himself, and on the part of theteam as a whole—was very much part of its mystique. (In their preface to DNB spoof Lives of the ’Lustrious, the editors proudly boast that ‘No pains have been taken by the editors to make this Dictionary at once authoritative and exhausting’ [‘Stephen and Lee’ 1901:3].) The effect of this narrative of selfless labour, intentionally or not, is to distract attention from other aspects of the Dictionary as a production: biography as paid work, for instance, or as negotiated text. Gillian Fenwick’s invaluable bibliographical work on Leslie Stephen, and on the DNB and its Supplements, disaggregates this bland public image, and, by affording us access to the micropolitics of Dictionary work, enables us to glimpse its seamier side. This version finds the editorial team, Stephen and his coadjutor and successor Sidney Lee, and the legions of contributors they co-ordinated, bumping up against recent developments in a range of fields: the regulation of intellectual property through the passing and enforcement of copyright acts; the increasing specialization of research inside and outside the reformed universities; the employment of women as ‘typewriters’, and so on. George Smith’s philanthropy and Leslie Stephen’s selfless devotion to the task are important parts of the story, but Fenwick reveals much more that deserves investigation. For one thing, Fenwick’s research indicates that a considerable number of the more prolific DNB writers made ‘something of a living’ from the project (Fenwick 1994:8). For another, her work throws up a fascinating array of quantitative data concerning the role of women in the project: the numbers of entries by women along with their subjects, INTRODUCTION 33

dates and so on; the number about women, and their historical spread; the number of entries on women by men; and the occupational breakdown of female entrants. Of the 696 contributors to the first series of the Dictionary and its 1901 Supplements, forty-five were women. From circumstantial evidence, Fenwick argues that in at least one case (that of Elizabeth Lee, Sidney’s sister) a female contributor may have published under the name, and perhaps the guidance, of a male relative (1994:5–6). For the most part the female contributors, as we might expect, seem to have been responsible for the Lives of personal connexions: titled ladies memorializing titled ancestors, or close female relatives of Dictionary men offering the Life of a distinguished woman of their acquaintance. Thus, Stephen’s wife Julia ‘did’ her aunt, the photographer Julia Margaret Cameron, and, as we shall witness in Chapter 2, his sister-in-law Anny Thackeray Ritchie undertook Elizabeth Barrett Browning. But there are tantalizing exceptions to this pattern: Mary Bateson wrote 108 entries, Elizabeth Lee at least 81, Lydia Miller Middleton 207, Kate Norgate 44, Bertha Porter 156, Mrs A.Murray Smith 81 and Charlotte Fell-Smith astaggering 231. Some women contributors were professional writers in fields other than biography; some specialized in biography; most wrote one or two Lives only. Fenwick’s evidence suggests that female contributors were by no means a unified group or community, and as far as I can establish, women did not attend most public Dictionary functions. Unlike the self-conscious networks of male contributors, women contributors conformed to no standard profile. Some were self-educated, others had attended one or other of the new schools and colleges for women. Only a very few seem to have had feminist allegiances. When one considers that Stephen’s insistence on ‘brevity, scholarship, punctuality and businesslike precision’ was said to have provided the first induction in research skills to a generation of future professors of history (Maitland 1906:370), one is bound to ask, not why so few women, but how so many women—women who were, as far as we can tell, often relative strangers to publication—were emboldened to offer their time and effort to the Dictionary, and to submit to Stephen’s exacting editorial scrutiny. Fenwick’s calculations show that women wrote proportionately fewer of the articles on women than did their male counterparts. From this Fenwick infers, with evident reluctance, that

the majority of women who wrote for the Dictionary did not do so because they felt passionately about women in history or about their female contemporaries. Most women contributors wrote only a few articles, and those articles were on men. (Fenwick 1994:6) 34 STEPHEN’S STEPHENS

Disappointing as this pattern might be from a feminist perspective, Fenwick’s work nevertheless provides an intriguing three-dimensional diagram of the gendered construction of eminence in the late Victorian period: three-dimensional in that it charts not only who designed, and who executed, that construction, but also who was so constructed, and by whom. More importantly, it helps us map some of the ways these planes— the aesthetic, the ethnographic and the historiographic—were, and were not, linked along gender lines in the (re)writing of Englishness. If there was such a thing as Dictionary culture, then, it was profoundly and asymmetrically gendered. More men wrote for the DNB, and at greater length, than women, and the vast majority of their subjects were male. Until the early years of the twentieth century, the editorial team was also male. What was clearly for men mainly a homosocial experience among a relatively uniform, if geographically dispersed, élite, was for women a predominantly heterosocial process. Spread more thinly both in terms of geography and numbers, women contributors tended to focus on male subjects, often male relatives, dealt with men as sponsors and editors, and wrote according to masculinist biographical paradigms. It is worth pointing out, for instance, that both the editors regarded ‘private affection’ for one’s subject—such as one might have for a relative—as a serious disadvantage in the writing of biography (Lee 1911:16). Given their structurally eccentric relation to the project as a whole, it is remarkable that these women undertook what was often their only—though sometimes their first—foray into print in such a very public medium. It was perhaps because Dictionary work was so intensively mediated by men that it appealed to inexperienced women writers. Whereas an eminent male historian such as T.F.Tout could opine of a female contributor (in this instance Newnham academic Mary Bateson) that she was ‘unduly modest in postponing continuous literary composition’, spending instead ‘many years in editing, calendaring and compiling’ (DNB Supp. 2 I:111), a middle-class woman may have been inclined to find safety in the supposed ‘modesty’ of Dictionary work. Indeed she was more likely to say, as Lady Huggins did of another DNB writer Agnes Clerke, that ‘[Clerke] understood that the half may be better than the whole; that the art of doing, consists, greatly, in—not doing’ (Huggins 1907:7). Huggins went on to sketch the credentials of a new kind of ‘special worker’:

Their mission is to collect, collate, correlate, and digest the mass of observations and papers—to chronicle, in short, on one hand; and on the other, to discuss and suggest, and to expound: that is, to prepare materials for experts, and at the same time to inform and interest the general public. (Huggins 1907:16–17) INTRODUCTION 35

Contributing to the DNB involved much calendaring, compiling, collecting, collating, correlating, digesting and editing: tasks commonly seen as inferior, because auxiliary, to the processes of literary composition. For this reason, it may have been seen as a form of professional activity compatible with ideologies of middle-class femininity. That such work, however modest, helped to forward an explicitly patriotic endeavour may also have enhanced its appeal. Ironically, Stephen as editor was continually immersed in such tasks, and many of his essays strive to reclaim them as manly (see Chapter 1). And as a commentary on a calendar of a correspondence, the Mausoleum Book itself could not but appear a demure handmaiden of biography.

VI This book investigates the dialectical relationship between late nineteenth- century developments in Life-writing and changing forms of cultural authority, especially in so far as that relationship illuminates the way hegemonic masculinities work. John Tosh has argued convincingly that ‘masculinity, considered as a social status, demonstrated in specific social contexts’ rather than as ‘a set of cultural attributes’, depends on the public affirmation of male power in three interconnected areas: home, work and all- male associations. By the first he means a man’s ability to set up and provide for his own household, and his authority over the conduct and labour of its inhabitants, paid and otherwise. The second involved, in the nineteenth century, not only the power to maintain an appropriate standard of living for oneself and one’s dependants, but also an ideal of self-determination and freedom from patronage. And the third, all-male associations, embodied ‘men’s privileged access to the public sphere, while simultaneously reinforcing women’s confinement to household and neighbourhood’ (Tosh 1994: 184–6). More importantly, he claims that ‘the precise character of masculine formation at any time is largely determined by the balance struck between these three components’ considered as a linked, and inherently unstable, system (187). Tosh notes a shift between the early Victorian period, when, for the middle classes, the ‘ideology of domesticity raised the profile of home life far beyond its traditional place in men’s lives, and hence posed in an acute form the conflict between the private and public constituents of masculinity’, and the two last decades of the century, when ‘domesticity was increasingly associated with ennui, routine and feminine constraint’. The results, he suggests, are detectable in a renewed interest in homosocial activities such as sport and gentlemen’s 36 STEPHEN’S STEPHENS clubs (188). The point of this configuration is that increased stress on one area of masculine authority, whether by its proponents or opponents, could lead to stress in the other(s), and hence to shifts in the character—and experience—of male power. This triangular way of thinking about masculinity seems to me a way out of the impasse characteristic of much work on Victorian men: the tendency to see gender only in locations where women are specified presences (such as the domestic sphere); never in the places which appear to exclude them yet are often the ‘bastions’ of male power (public schools, for instance); and only in contested sites (such as the workplace) in so far as they are, explicitly, contested by women. As paid work, usually conducted within a heterosexual domestic context yet conforming to a fantasy of homosociality, Life-writing by and aboutmen of letters offers abundant scope for a study of literary masculinity along the lines Tosh sketches. So, for example, Stephen’s opening gambit in the Mausoleum Book both enacts and alludes to several different understandings of the term ‘Life’, from the hefty Life and Letters à la Brown’s Symonds, to the brief Dictionary entry and the informal reminiscence. The very fluency with which Stephen deploys these terms and the distinctions they embody is a marker of his expertise in a rapidly expanding field. Another such marker is his ability to regulate the circulation of biographical information—both within the family and between the family and putative biographers. Such credentials secure his rights as breadwinner and head of household, while proclaiming his domination of his profession, and hence, by extension, his merits as potential biographee. At the same time, however, we find Stephen struggling to balance his conscious mastery as biographer with the anti-self- consciousness required of him as private autobiographer and clubable friend. As Tosh notes, however, his model’s emphasis on social status poses a number of challenges to the historian of gender. One is the problem of relating any given constellation of masculine ideals to the subjective identity of men as mediated by conscious and unconscious experiences (such as those associated with having, or lacking, gendered parents), and as informed by the contestatory dynamics of hegemony. Another, related problem is that of conceiving of ‘the relation between the discursive and the social when dealing with structures of power that often remained hidden’ (Tosh 1994:194–8). For these reasons I have found it useful, while keeping in mind this tripartite understanding of masculinity, to supplement it with paradigms derived from the study of literary texts: with Mary Poovey’s account of masculinity as narrative outlined in Uneven Developments (1989), for instance, and with Eve Sedgwick’s re-working of the idea of gender relations as ‘erotic triangles’ (1985). I am assisted, too, INTRODUCTION 37 by the inherent complexity of the phenomenon under discussion. As we have seen in the opening of the Mausoleum Book and the fêting of the DNB, the scene of Life-writing dramatized both the subjectivity incurred in the transaction of auto/biographical contracts, and the pressure exerted by that subjectivity on the social construction of authority. The need to relate the social to the subjective has informed my decision to juxtapose the auto/biographical writings of Leslie Stephen with the controversy generated by Froude’s work on Carlyle. As Chapters 3–5 reveal, Stephen, like most literary Life-writers at the turn of the century, found himself mesmerized by the fall from grace of the ‘Sage of Chelsea’. Thomas Carlyle was the archetypal self-made man ofletters, whose heroic celebration of work, and whose trajectory from a household of rural artisans to metropolitan artistic and aristocratic circles, and from relative poverty and obscurity to fame and influence, had made the story of his life seem indestructibly poetic. Yet after his death in 1881, Carlyle’s reputation deteriorated amid a squabble over whether ‘he had any right to indulge in the delight of a witty wife, and yet indulge in his idiosyncrasy of only having one cheap servant’ (Ellen Gully, quoted in Ireland 1891:221). Plunged into grief and remorse after Julia’s death, Leslie Stephen found himself weighing many of the issues of domestic accountability and propriety that had obsessed Carlyle in his own widowhood, and which now kindled the debate around his biography. I would suggest, however, that the analogy between the Froude-Carlyle controversy and the Mausoleum Book is more fundamental than mere similarity of mood, theme or circumstance. The struggles over gender, class, profession and homosociality we shall see played out at a social level in and through the Carlyles’ biographies condition Stephen’s auto/biographical ‘I’, so that the tensions and generic revisions accommodated by the controversy as a whole are here enacted as subjectivity. Leslie Stephen’s writings exemplify at the level of individual subjectivity what the Froude-Carlyle controversy was suggesting of middle- class masculinities more generally: that Life-writing was as much about improvising gender identities as it was about commemorating manly men.

VII Neither Stephen’s express wish for privacy, nor the fact that his children respected it, need discourage us from circumventing that privacy by regarding it as socially shaped and historically conditioned. As we have seen, the Mausoleum Book’s injunctions to confidentiality contained loopholes, and those loops linked both the text, and the injunctions, to specific social practices (the writing of obituaries; the transmission of wills, estates and trusteeship; the commissioning of literary biography; the giving 38 STEPHEN’S STEPHENS

and receiving of paternal advice) as well as to prevailing beliefs about reputation, discretion, eminence, expertise and authority. These in turn linked Stephen’s intimate, grief-stricken ejaculations to debates about professionalism, nationalism and the family. The ‘private’, in other words, was even then contingent upon, and only provisionally separable from, the ‘public’. For the record, however, this was the fate of the Mausoleum Book. Shortly after Sir Leslie Stephen’s death in 1904, Frederic Maitland was granted access to the ‘document’ about whose fate, ten years earlier,Stephen had been so perplexed. Maitland was to be undeterred by all the disapproving hints or by the supposed lack of materials for a Life. The five hundred pages of his Life and Letters of Leslie Stephen (1906) contributed substantially to the already considerable volume of articles, appreciations and notices about his mentor. What is more, the Life and Letters is perfectly recognizable as the very ‘set Life’ against which Stephen had claimed to be so implacably opposed. Sensing, no doubt correctly, the presence of a gauntlet behind the Stephen’s muffler, Maitland dipped into the Mausoleum Book while researching his biography and quoted from it as cautiously as Stephen could have desired; so did Noël Annan for his 1951 Leslie Stephen; so did Stephen’s grandson Quentin Bell when writing the Life of Virginia Woolf for the (Woolf-founded) Hogarth Press in 1972. Maitland’s Life and Letters was issued by Stephen’s stepson’s publishing house Duckworth and Co.; the Hogarth Press in turn reissued Stephen’s reminiscences Some Early Impressions in 1924. The Mausoleum Book itself was sold to the British Museum for the benefit of the London Library in 1973 (Bell 1977:v) and was finally published in full in 1977. Until then, Stephen’s memories were kept more or less where he wanted them: in the family. BIBLIOGRAPHY

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