Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Alison Searle: "Emergence & Interaction"

Alison Searle
Anglia Ruskin University

Letters: Emergence, Interaction, Transcendence

1> Virginia Woolf, commenting on Dorothy Osborne’s letters, observes that had she lived in another century she would have written a novel. The spiritual concerns of Richard Baxter’s devotional treatise, The Saints’ Everlasting Rest, are informed by his affection for and correspondence with his congregation in Kidderminster during the Civil War and, in turn, have important parallels with his later manuscript and published letters to various women amongst the English gentry. These examples raise the issue of cross-fertilisation between genres: here, more specifically, I wish to explore the various ways in which the letter fed into, or flowed out from, other genres such as the printed epistle, the novel and the devotional treatise. In mid-seventeenth-century Britain letters were becoming an increasingly popular form of self-expression and communication. In this paper I will analyse various aspects of the letter as a genre, focusing on its emergence, its interaction with other genres and the seductive promise of transcendence which it embodied. Letters inevitably raise the issue of audience or reception: is the letter directed to the addressee, to the one who receives it, to those who read it, or to the numerous individuals who may later peruse it in printed form? Such ethical concerns cannot be adequately treated within the constraints of this paper. Rather, I will pursue a gender-inflected analysis of the letter as a genre in mid-seventeenth-century Britain, focusing on the letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple, and the correspondence of the Puritan minister, Richard Baxter, with Katherine Gell, Jane Jones and Anne, Countess of Balcarres.

2> Kevin Pask has argued that the 1650s represent a key moment in the development of the private letter: a new concept of intimacy or interiority; and, paradoxically, the emergence of ‘literature’ and the ‘public sphere’ as viable intellectual and social concepts. He situates the letters of Dorothy Osborne at the centre of his argument: they demonstrate ‘a new level of literary accomplishment brought to the exploration of self and intimacy. In these texts a new kind of public suddenly begins to articulate its own distinctiveness.’
[1] In an observation akin to that of Virginia Woolf’s, Pask suggests that Osborne’s letters ‘mark a sea change in literary history: the genre of the familiar letter discovering its potential as a mode of intimacy that will mark the new conceptual universe of literature.’[2] Brigitte Glaser makes a related, though slightly different, point in her analysis of the self and autobiographical forms of writing in the period. ‘The experience of civil strife, of familial and domestic upheaval, possibly of exile and the threat of poverty, and undoubtedly of great uncertainty and fear surely amount to ample reasons for a preoccupation with the self.’ Glaser is uncertain whether to attribute the rise in autobiographical genres ‘to a personal crisis in the individual writer’s life or to the general contradictions and instabilities of the time,’ but she is positive that the political turbulence of the period forced writers to ‘revaluate their existence’ and suggests that autobiographical writing in a variety of genres (including the letter) may ‘have been motivated’ by the desire of writers ‘to reconstruct their existence and to rebuild their shattered or stunted lives.’[3]

3> Letter-writing was a fraught practice for individuals during the Interregnum and Restoration in Britain: theoretically it can be construed as an experience simultaneously limiting and liberating. A person’s gender, or their political or religious beliefs, could impose significant constraints on their freedom of action and ability to communicate with others, depending on the domestic situation they found themselves in, or the government that happened to be in power at a particular time. Writing letters offered the opportunity to circumvent the constraints of patriarchal power (whether this was at the level of the family or state) and to forge relationships or influence others through a personal medium with potentially powerful resonances in the public sphere. But it could also implicate one in a communication network, a physical trail of words forging interpersonal commitments, which was dangerously open to interpretation as rebellion against familial authority or political subversion. These inherent tensions acted as a catalyst for the threats, fears and upheaval which Glaser captures so vividly in her analysis.

4> Such intersections between the personal and the public find poignant expression in Osborne’s letters to Temple. In a moment of despair she draws a direct correlation, observing that her heart is ‘like a Country wasted by a Civill warr, where two opposeing Party’s have disputed theire right soe long till they have made it worth neither of theire conquest’s, tis Ruin’d and desolated by the long strife within it.’
[4] This is a famous instance but the affinity between the public ‘contradictions and instabilities of the time’ and ‘personal crisis’ can be demonstrated in the lives of other women justifying Glaser’s general observation. Jane Jones, a correspondent of Richard Baxter, was married to a minister who was evicted from his position as Vicar of King’s Somborne and Rector of Elvetham in 1662. However he later conformed and at the time Jones wrote to Baxter in 1676 he was Rector of Heveningham and Vicar of Ubbeston.[5] Jones was therefore within the fold of the Established Church when she wrote. Like Osborne she was confronted with a political and religious crisis in the public sphere which threatened her love of ‘Beauty and ordre’ and precipitated a personal spiritual predicament that prompted her to write to Baxter. In 1675 ‘being Alarumed by the face of things that the romish Religion was Braking [on] us like A Deluge I streight concluded that trying times were Approacheing.’ The reference here is probably to the coming Exclusion Crisis, and concerns about the Catholic beliefs held by Charles II’s designated successor, James, Duke of York. Serious illness had brought her to the ‘Brinke of Eternity.’ She feared that the ‘pitt had binn Ready to shut its mouth upon mee as I was musing I found A great Reluctancy Against that Darke silent Dormitory which turnes its inhabitant to Loathsome Rottenesse and Putrification.’ In a previous interview with her, Baxter had ‘Most Courteously granted’ permission to write. She frankly reveals her doubts about Puritan doctrinal beliefs concerning the relationship between the Father and the Son in the divine plan for human salvation, along with her ‘selfe detestation’ for entertaining such thoughts. She concludes: ‘S[i]r you will perceive by what I have written that I am upon the wrack my heart and Life my thoughts and Actions are almost nothing but contradictions Among them selvs.’ Like Osborne, though the contours of the personal and emotional situation were different, Jones traces the impact of public events which engender private distress and communicates this in epistolary form to Baxter her ‘Souls Anatomiste.’[6]

5> Seen from this perspective the letter occupied a liminal space between personal and intimate spaces and the public sphere broadly defined. This positioning had both political and generic implications for Osborne and Baxter’s epistolary praxis and the manuscripts they produced. Sara Crangle notes that in the seventeenth century ‘the letter came to frame both internal, private, as well as external, public space.’ The act of inscription itself implies readership and Osborne and Temple wrote at a time when ‘there was an increasing demand for the publication of private letters’; they feared exposure not only to their families, but also ‘a very conceivable exposure to a much larger audience.’
[7] Osborne’s letters offered her the opportunity to communicate, fostering a relationship that could lead to the public act of marriage. However, they were also an inescapably material object that rendered her vulnerable to the perpetual surveillance and antagonism of her father and brother. This becomes apparent, for instance, in Osborne’s observation that her brother had attempted ‘soe severe a search’ for her correspondence with Temple in order to learn ‘to what degrees’ their friendship had grown thinking ‘hee may best informe himself from them.’[8] It is evident that Osborne was constrained in very particular ways by her gender. In a patriarchal society her father, brother and other family members exercised a degree of power that threatened at times to limit, or entirely obstruct, the freedom and opportunities for communication that letter-writing promised. Similarly, despite Baxter’s considerable authority and influence as a male author and pastor, his refusal to conform to the Restoration Anglican settlement (1662) defined him as a religious dissenter. His convictions placed him in a vulnerable social and political position that in many respects mirrored the limitations Osborne faced within her male-dominated domestic environment. He could no longer converse freely with international scholars and there was always the possibility that his letters would be opened, or that fraudulent epistles would be written in his name, with the intention of having him convicted as a political dissident. His epistolary manuscripts are thus, in important ways, as adversely shaped by the threat of surveillance and exposure as Osborne’s.[9]

6> However, while the liminal position of letters between public and private spaces can be viewed as negative from a political perspective, it can be seen as a most positive development from a literary angle. The flexibility and indeterminacy of the epistolary genre facilitated its interaction with other literary forms and enabled it to act as a catalyst in the development of new genres, especially the novel.
[10] The public presence of women’s letters and later of women writing epistolary novels can be seen in the fact that the letter was the first genre to be effectively feminised (controversial, disparaging or inaccurate as this categorisation may have been).[11] Pask observes that the ‘vitality’ that Osborne brings to her letters anticipates the transformation of the term literature and also of conceptions of the public sphere. By embracing ‘the domestic and quotidian’ and valorising prose as a medium of expression her letters bring ‘into the public agora that which was previously shrouded in the privacy of the household.’[12] This is supported by Crangle who follows Woolf’s definition of letters ‘as a form of literature...distinct from any other’; she insists on treating Osborne’s ‘work...as a narrative’ and Osborne ‘herself as an author.’[13] Crangle offers a persuasive analysis of the intimate audience shaping Osborne’s letter-writing;[14] this is further complicated by the fact that her manuscript letters were published for a general readership several centuries after she wrote them.

7> When considering Baxter’s correspondence, the relationship between manuscript letters and other genres is more pressing and contemporary. His devotional classic, The Saints’ Everlasting Rest (1651), focusing on the duty of believers to meditate upon heaven, was written as a result of his experiences as a Civil War chaplain and may in some senses be viewed as an extended pastoral epistle to his congregation at Kidderminster (from which he had been separated by the war). His primary extant correspondence with a woman, letters sent to Katherine Gell in Berkshire during the 1650s, overlap in important ways with his treatment of tender consciences susceptible to doubts, fears and a lack of assurance of salvation in A Christian Directory (1673).
[15] But the most obvious example of the way in which Baxter’s correspondence with women fed into other genres can be seen in his letters to Anne, Countess of Balcarres, and her daughter. In ‘The Epistle Dedicatory’ (25 August 1661), which frames his published work The Mischiefs of Self-ignorance, and the Benefits of Self-acquaintance, Baxter represents the Countess as a model in the art of self-examination.[16] A postscript follows (1 November 1661) which demonstrates that for Baxter print did not have its own decorum. Having heard that the Countess is ‘under the afflicting hand of God’ he pens her a pastoral epistle – identical in style to those he sent in manuscript to other women – seeking to give comfort and closely identifying with her affliction as ‘Your Brother and companion in tribulation, and in the Kingdom and Patience of Jesus Christ.’[17] The movement from the Countess’s patronage of him as a preacher, to offering pastoral counsel, to publication in print and the desire to spiritually nourish a wider audience through the written word is seamless and, for Baxter, unproblematic. In a similar way he incorporated his letters to the Countess’s daughter (seeking to convert her back from Catholicism to the Protestant faith of her childhood) and to Barbara Lambe (the wife of a Baptist minister), alongside many others, as documentary evidence constituting discrete narrative units within his autobiography.[18]

8> In the seventeenth century letters held out an inherent and seductive promise to embody a type of communion that transcended the limitations of space and time. The physical distance they implied could be liberating for women: Katherine Gell for example was willing to write to Baxter of her spiritual struggles because she was ‘altogether astranger’ to him.
[19] However, the attraction of this epistolary medium, whether deployed in manuscript or print (as Baxter did in his postscript to the Countess of Balcarres), was double-edged. It provided the opportunity for the development of an otherwise impossible relationship in the case of Osborne and Temple; it enabled Baxter to continue to provide pastoral counsel to men and women throughout Britain following his suspension from public ministry within the Church of England in 1662. But this theoretical ‘transcendence’ of the letter as a genre was in many senses illusory or at least constrained by the sordid realities of patriarchal power, for Osborne, and the coercive cultural discourses of the Restoration state for Baxter. The complex interpenetration of public and personal spheres in the medium of the letter was both enabling and prohibitive: it fostered an amorous relationship, provided the opportunity for extensive pastoral influence and encouraged a form of prose discourse that fed into and generated other genres, including ultimately the novel. It also exposed its practitioners to surveillance and, in Baxter’s case, to potential imprisonment. The publication history of both Osborne and Baxter’s letters is complex and varied, but it further demonstrates the liminal position of the letter between public and personal spaces and the critical role played by diverse audiences in the interpretation and appropriation of correspondence in early modern England.
_____

Notes

[1] K. Pask, ‘The Public Sphere and the Concept of Literature,’ Criticism, 46.2 (2004), 243.

[2] Pask, ‘The Public Sphere and the Concept of Literature,’ 243.

[3] B. Glaser, The Creation of the Self in Autobiographical Forms of Writing in Seventeenth-Century England: Subjectivity and Self-Fashioning in Memoirs, Diaries, and Letters (Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag, 1999), 27-28.

[4] K. Parker, ed., Dorothy Osborne: Letters to Sir William Temple, 1652-54 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), 160.

[5] N. H. Keeble and G. Nuttall, Calendar of the Correspondence of Richard Baxter (Oxford: Oxford University Press), Vol. 2, 187.

[6] Dr Williams’s Library (DWL), MS 59.III.204-205. I am grateful to the Trustees of Dr. Williams’s Library for permission to quote from the manuscripts in their possession.

[7] S. Crangle, ‘Epistolarity, Audience, Selfhood: The Letters of Dorothy Osborne to William Temple,’ Women’s Writing, 12.3 (2005), 434.

[8] Parker, ed., Letters, 119.

[9] R. Baxter, Reliquiae Baxterianae (London, 1696), II, 441.

[10] This, of course, has been well-documented in research into the origins of the novel and, more particularly, in explorations of the epistolary novel. See for example J. G. Altman, Epistolarity: Approaches to a Form (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1982); T. O. Beebee, Epistolary Fiction in Europe, 1500-1850 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999); K. A. Jensen, Writing Love: Letters, Women, and the Novel in France, 1605-1776 (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1995); J. Bray, The Epistolary Novel: Representation of Consciousness (London: Routledge, 2003).

[11] Again this is a commonplace in literary scholarship. See for example J. Daybell, Women Letter-Writers in Tudor England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006); M. A. Favret, Romantic Correspondence: Women, Politics, and the Fiction of Letters (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993); E. C. Goldsmith, ed., Writing the Female Voice: Essays on Epistolary Literature (Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1989); R. Perry, Women, Letters and the Novel (New York: AMS Press, 1980); S. Wiseman, Conspiracy and Virtue: Women, Writing and Politics in Seventeenth-Century England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006).

[12] Pask, ‘The Public Sphere and the Concept of Literature,’ 252.

[13] Crangle, ‘Epistolarity, Audience, Selfhood: The Letters of Dorothy Osborne to William Temple,’ 435.

[14] Crangle, ‘Epistolarity, Audience, Selfhood: The Letters of Dorothy Osborne to William Temple,’ 436-40.

[15] See J. Brouwer’s argument in Richard Baxter’s Christian Directory: Context and Content (Cambridge University PhD Thesis, 2005).

[16] R. Baxter, ‘To the right Honourable Anne Countess of Balcarres, & c.,’ The Mischiefs of Self-ignorance, and the Benefits of Self-acquaintance (London, 1662).

[17] Baxter, ‘To the right Honourable Anne Countess of Balcarres, & c.: Postscript’.

[18] Baxter, Reliquiae Baxterianae.

[19] DWL, MS 59.V.216.

_____

Alison Searle is a postdoctoral research associate on the James Shirley Project at Anglia Ruskin University, Cambridge. Her research interests include seventeenth-century British literature; trans-Atlantic Puritan literary traditions; theories of the imagination; the relationship between literature and theology; and the epistolary genre. She has published articles on Shakespeare, John Bunyan, Richard Baxter, Samuel Rutherford, Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë, J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis.
_____

APPOSITIONS: Studies in Renaissance / Early Modern Literature & Culture, http://appositions.blogspot.com/, ISSN: 1946-1992, Volume One (2008): Genres & Cultures

Emily Bowles Smith: "Corporeal Intelligibility"

Emily Bowles Smith
Lawrence University

“Our print . . . still remain on the prest greens”: Corporeal intelligibility and the nature of the press in Aphra Behn’s Love-Letters between a Nobleman and His Sister

1> Early in Aphra Behn’s novel Love-Letters between a Nobleman and His Sister (1684-1687), Silvia (the sister from the novel’s title) writes to her lover Philander:

“I threw myself down on that bank of grass where we last disputed the dear but fatal business of our souls: Where our prints (that invited me) still remain on the prest greens: There with Ten Thousand sighs, with remembrance of the tender minutes we past then, I drew your last Letter from my Bosome; and often kist and often read it over, but oh, who can conceive my Torment, when I came to that fatal part of it, where you say you gave your hand to my sister, I found my soul agitated with a Thousand different passions, but all insupportable, all mad, all raving; sometimes I threw my self with fury on the ground, and I prest my panting heart to the cold earth, then rise in rage and tear my hair.” (13-14)

2> Here Behn sets up a dense network of images related to print culture. She uses the word prints once as a noun and prest twice, once as an adjective and a second time as a verb, thereby setting up a vocabulary that she deploys in the novel and that she develops throughout her writing more broadly.

3> As the first woman to earn her living by the pen, Behn was peculiarly and particularly invested in defining the profession of authorship and, as I hope this paper suggests, she often did s by imagining authorship as a part of a fluid continuum of terms related to practices characteristic of the intersecting categories of manuscript, performance, and print. Because my focus here is on her novel Love-Letters—a text that appeared in print during Behn’s lifetime—I will look almost exclusively at the final category that I just mentioned, that of print literature, but I hope that some of the elliptical features of my argument point others in the direction of manuscript and performance.

4> Wendy Wall has explained that, in Elizabethan slang, “to ‘undergo a pressing’ is to act the lady’s part and be pressed by a man, an act here associated with the loss of authorial virginity” (1). Douglas A. Brooks pushes this point even further, noting that “the pen was essentially housebound; the press, on the other hand, appeared in public much too often” (5). In relation to Behn, the impact of such highly dichotomized terms is self-evident: Far from housebound, she was publicly available and accessible through her popularly performed plays, her widely circulated manuscript and print poems, her scurrilous broadsides, and her novels, which ranged in subject matter from Love-Letters to Oroonoko (1688), or from sexual intrigue to slavery. Like her early modern predecessors and her Restoration male contemporaries, Behn was quick to capitalize on the images of the pressed female body, the promiscuous text, and other images engendered by the basic metaphoric relationship between the printing press and the sexual press. Because of her gender, she was uniquely able to ply these metaphors with corporeal implications. Her depictions of the author’s body are always already inscribed with the qualities she appends to femaleness, including sexuality, seductiveness, pleasurability, along with features that she draws from a more encompassing continuum of sexualities, such as autoeroticism and other possible effects of the pen or what Behn terms the “masculine part” (217) in her preface to The Luckey Chance (1687).

5> In approaching her printed works, we might easily single out images of the prest body as the promiscuous body, as the aforementioned passage suggests. But this same passage also and more subtly draws our attention to Behn’s fear of and interest in the semi-permanence of corporeal inscription. For her, the press of the printer like the press of a man’s body is as much a source of impermanence as it is of lasting impressions.

6> Along these lines, we might think of the importance of the interaction between writing surface and writing instrument, particularly as Elizabeth Grosz has imagined it in Volatile Bodies. According to Grosz, “the kind of texts produced depends not only on the message to be inscribed, not only on the inscriptive tools—stylus, ink—used, but also on the quality and distinctiveness of the paper written upon” (191). For women writing for the print publication from the Restoration and on into the late eighteenth century, the “quality and distinctiveness of the paper written on” was largely outside of their control—a lack of authorial agency that would not have been felt, for example, by Margaret Cavendish’s stepdaughters Jane Cavendish and Elizabeth Egerton when they compiled a presentation copy of their manuscript writings during the Interregnum or by other women whose works circulated primarily in manuscript volumes. In some ways depictions of highly stylized but natural writing surfaces seem to function as a form of compensation for this transformation of medium, and also as a way of suggesting that medium and meaning cannot exist independently. In the texts that I examine here—two of Behn’s poems and her novel Love-Letters—Behn experiments with the relationship between surface (parchment, envelope, page, tree, grass) and instrument (pen, knife, body, bodies) in such a way as to draw our attention to the continuum of legible materials capable of encoding and embodying meaning.

Unsatisfied nymphs and the impermanence of the press

7> Before turning back to the passage that I quoted at the outset of this paper, I want to look briefly at a similar image in Behn’s premature ejaculation poem The Disappointment (printed in John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester’s Poems on Several Occasions in 1680 and reprinted with variations in Behn’s Poems upon Several Occasions in 1684) and in A Paraphrase on Oenone to Paris (1680), her translation for John Dryden’s compilation of translations and paraphrases based on Ovid’s Heroides. In the penultimate stanza of The Disappointment, Behn writes:

“Like Lightning through the Grove she hies,
Or Daphne from the Delphick God,
No Print upon the grassey Road
She leaves, t’instruct pursuing Eyes.” (13.1-4)

8> The lines are fraught with the language of print culture, but Behn’s emphasis is on the absence of print rather than its presence. This is interesting, first, because for many years The Disappointment was attributed to Rochester. Although Behn could not have guessed this problem of attribution, the fact that the printed poem was erased from Behn’s canon until fairly recently adds a modern twist to the lines. The second, and probably more intentional, point that I want to mention about these lines involves Behn’s maneuvering between Cloris’s missing print and her own print authorship. To leave behind a “Print upon the grassey Road,” Cloris would have instructed him of her whereabouts—a subtle nudge, I think, at the sort of publications that were expected from and acceptable for female writers, which would have included a variety of didactic books, some hinging on housework (like Hannah Wooley’s many books) and others on religious behavior (such as the mothers’ manuals that Dorothy Leigh and others wrote during the Renaissance, primarily for posthumous publication). But she leaves “No Print,” and Behn—reveling in her moment of embodied textuality and sexuality—acknowledges that she shares Cloris’s sentiments: “The Nymph’s Resentments none but I / Can well Imagine or Condole” (14.1-2). She does not want to leave behind the sort of print that would satisfy Lysander but instead offers her own authorial imprint: a poem about the failure of masculine desire, the evasiveness of a sexually desiring and desirable female, and the power of the prest and pressing female author.

9> Behn uses an absent or missing print to convey Cloris’s unsatisfied desire. The woman who has not been prest leaves “No Print upon the grassey Road.” By contrast, in Oenone the grass bears the graphic traces of the sexual press. Oenone mourns the loss of her lover by remarking on the continued legibility of their sexual encounters, noting how “the dear Grass, as sacred, does retain / The print, where thee and I so oft have lain” (184-85). In this couplet, Behn strikes an unexpected balance between sexual infidelity and textual permanence. Love, which Oenone thought was lasting, vanishes long before the print of her and Paris’s bodies on “the dear Grass.”

Silvia and the “prest greens”

10> Silvia diverges markedly from Cloris because she is compulsively drawn to the imprint that she and Philander have left behind on the grass. Like Oenone, she wants to read and reread the “prints [that] still remain on the prest greens.” Although there is no realistic possibility that the grass would retain the impressions of Silvia and Philander’s bodies, Silvia fetishistically imagines that their forms have left something lasting on the ephemeral surface of the grass. For Silvia, as for Oenone, “the prest greens” designate a site and surface inscribed with sexual desire and devotion; the ephemeral matter remains legible to both of these betrayed women long after their lovers have strayed.

11> Her sheer naïveté about the nature of print and of the press is made manifest when Philander uses the same language to talk about his desire for Calista, Silvia’s replacement in the final parts of the novel. He writes to Octavio that he “laid me down just on the print which her fair body made, and prest, and kist it o’re a thousand times, with eager transports, and even fancy’d fair Calista there” (176). Again Behn uses the words print and prest, here with a decidedly autoerotic turn: Philander “laid me down” on the site of the “print which her fair body made, and prest,” imagining Calista there but actually pressing the earth alone. In this moment of a masturbatory encounter with the print marketplace, Philander “found the paper with the Song which I have sent you” (176)—this is a poem found nowhere else in Behn’s published works. The press here is ephemeral, promiscuous, and autoerotic, but it is also generative in a way that it never is for Silvia, who rereads the prints on the grass but never discovers poetry.

Conclusion

12> Behn’s varied depictions of the grass as a surface on which the print and the press interactively leave marks of female desire, sexuality, and shame show how the “prints [that] still remain on the prest greens” elaborate metaphorical relationships related to print culture in ways that make the female body corporeally intelligible but that also perpetuate and publish male infidelity, female shame, and other key features of the misogynist economy of the print marketplace that were so often the subjects of Behn’s critiques. Throughout her works, Behn imagines external inscriptive surfaces as continuing rather than containing the contours of the body. The grass, the trees, and in her plays more urban surfaces like the prostitute’s sign bear traces of the body and suggest that, for Behn, to be a woman in print is a surface phenomenon that necessitates a complex interplay between the body as an agent but also a site of inscription and the variety of inscriptive surface that extend the body’s parameters. Her works indicate her fascination with the medium of print and also her awareness that print—like other forms of surface pressing—embodies the female author’s desire for corporeal intelligibility.
_____

Works Cited

Behn, Aphra. The Disappointment. In The Works of Aphra Behn, volume one, edited by Janet Todd, 65-69. London: William Pickering, 1992.

---. Love-Letters between a Nobleman and His Sister. In The Works of Aphra Behn, edited by Janet Todd, volume 2. London: William Pickering, 1993.

---. The Luckey Chance: Or, An Alderman’s Bargain. In The Works of Aphra Behn, volume 7, edited by Janet Todd, 209-84. London: William Pickering, 1996.

---. A Paraphrase on Oenone to Paris. In The Works of Aphra Behn, volume one, edited by Janet Todd, 12-19. London: William Pickering, 1992.

Brooks, Douglas A. “Introduction.” Printing and Parenting in Early Modern England, edited by Brooks, 1-28. Burlington: Ashgate, 2005.

Grosz, Elizabeth. Volatile Bodies: Toward a Corporeal Feminism. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994.

Wall, Wendy. The Imprint of Gender: Authorship and Publication in the English Renaissance. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993.
_____

Emily Bowles-Smith is a visiting assistant professor at Lawrence University. She has published on Aphra Behn, Frances Brooke, and Margaret Cavendish. Her book, Triumphant Bodies: Sexual-Political Conquest in Women’s Published Writing, was published by Cambridge Scholars Press in 2007.
_____

APPOSITIONS: Studies in Renaissance / Early Modern Literature & Culture, http://appositions.blogspot.com/, ISSN: 1946-1992, Volume One (2008): Genres & Cultures

Brian Yost: "Visual and Ideological Revolt"

Brian Yost
Texas Tech University

Visual and Ideological Revolt: The Divided Carnivalesque in The Revenger’s Tragedy

1> Court society, as portrayed in The Revenger’s Tragedy, has descended into a state of moral decay ruled by the unchecked appetites and illicit desires of its royal inhabitants. Aristocracy lives beyond legal consequence, able to bend the structure of society to meet its physical and material cravings. From the judicial court’s first appearance during Junior Brother’s rape trial, the legal health of the dukedom is in question; the judge must point out that through royal abuses of the system, “judgment itself / [is] condemned and suffer[s]” (1.1.58-59). Vindice, the play’s primary revenger, is the product of the corrupt state of law and justice. He resorts to private revenge against the Duke, who poisoned his fiancée “because [her] purer part would not consent / Unto his palsy lust” (1.1.34-35). In his vengeance, Vindice not only operates outside the ordinary social framework of Renaissance society, but also adopts a subversive aesthetic, producing grotesque images of death and violence to mock and denounce the appetites of the powerful. He, however, falls victim to his aesthetic production of revenge by allowing it to become an all-consuming appetite like the lust filling “the spendthrift veins of [the] dry duke,” and although he succeeds in destroying the members of the court whom he perceives to have so severely wronged him, his own life is undone as well (1.1.7). In Vindice’s self-destructive retribution, the play’s author is able to critique both the corrupt ruling society and the practice of revenge. In contrast to Vindice’s destructiveness, the author uses the play’s living women to suggest a more humane system in which, through grace and mercy, renewal and regeneration are possible.

2> Critics have characterized Vindice as “a heroic revenger who uses the body of a woman in the execution of justice to uphold … ideas of chastity,” a defender of “the bodies of chaste women” in an attempt to justify his brutality (Robertson, 215, 216). Perceived in this simplistic manner as a chivalrous defender of chastity and virtue, Vindice’s revenge can be seen as deriving from adherence to “a righteous, native, anti-humanistic, Christian conservatism” (Tricomi, 103). Such analyses, however, overlook the unstoppable violent inertia of his aesthetic. Vindice’s obsessive wrath transforms Gloriana from “the bright face of [his] betrothed lady” to an “ornament, [a] shell of death” (1.1 16, 15). She is no more than the fetishized object of Vindice’s disgust at courtly opulence. Both her skull and his lingering attachment to it are the “sallow picture of [his] poisoned love,” destructive, rotted forces he intends to use to direct society “to serve God” (1.1.14, 3.5.55). The scope of his action expands beyond his control, turning from private revenge of a personal wrong to the emergence of a public vigilante figure attempting to impose Justice on the entire court as Vindice responds to Antonio’s rash sentencing of an unfortunate noble:

“FOURTH NOBLE: Heart, ‘tis a lie!
ANTONIO: Let him have bitter execution….
VINDICE: New marrow!” (5.3.86-88)

3> As a moralistic figure, Vindice is also disturbingly adept at deception. His willing adoption of the role as “the play’s principle ‘coiner,’” of false identity and use of these roles to further abuse Castiza and Gloriana, the defenseless and honorable women he champions, conflicts with any possible endorsement of religious morality (Neill, 150). Vindice dons the mask of woman’s revenger in order to promote the ideological agendas of the state, supporting the belief that women need male protectors. In disguise and out he publicly reinforces women’s status as physical property, “but made to go to bed and feed” echoing officially approved court attitudes as seen in Antonio’s response to his wife’s suicide (1.1.132). Woman’s destruction through male sexual violence is opportunity for elevation of personal male honor, a belief system which allows “Violent rape/ [to play] a glorious act,” for Antonio, “a miracle at last:/ That being an old man, I’d a wife so chaste” (1.4.3-4, 76-77).

4> Mikhail Bakhtin described medieval Carnival feasting as a space in which common and oppressed classes of society could create “temporary liberation from the prevailing truth and from the established order…hierarchical rank, privileges, norms, and prohibitions” through celebrations alternative to those officially ordained by church and government (Bakhtin, 45). Vindice’s exultation, “the violence of [his] joy,” at the excessive brutality surrounding his actions and the persistent lingering upon images of bodily death and material consumption serves to create a Carnivalesque spectacle for the benefit of the author’s audiences as he massacres the ruling class body. The playwright, through his use of grotesque bodily imagery, does not create a simple religious or moral message, rather his “nameless Duke’s nameless realm is really Bakhtin’s lower bodily stratum: a world ruled by carnal appetite and carnal aggression” (3.5.27, Lindley, 45).

5> Carnival is a time of feasting, a celebration of bodily life in which the people constructed their own world and hierarchical order through grotesque manifestations “not [of] the isolated biological individual…but [of] the collective ancestral body of all people” (Bakhtin, 47). Similarly, Vindice uses Gloriana’s skull to create a symbol of the moral decline of the Duke’s realm, visually condemning all the court in their moments of physical sin and directing them to a morality of the past, when Gloriana was a beautiful, chaste and living woman in contrast to the horror of her present decay:

“It were fine, methinks,
To have thee seen at revels, forgetful feasts,
And unclean brothels; sure ‘twould fright the sinner
And make him a good coward, put a reveler
Out of his antic amble,
And cloy an epicure with empty dishes.” (3.5.89-94)

6> Her body illuminates, through its grotesque shock, the moral corruption of the court brought about not simply by “too much public indulgence” but through “changes in society [which] have made sin fashionable” (Mehl, 118). Vindice uses the senselessness of Gloriana’s death to comment on the transformation of the ancestral land of the people into tokens of courtly pandering as “Fair meadows [are] cut into green foreparts” and “Lands that were mete by the rod, that labor’s spared;/ ….Are cut to maintain head-tires” (2.1.220, 225, 228). The people dismember their inheritance, their productive land, to clothe the skeletal bodies of greed and lust. State, or courtly celebrations, in opposition to the radical freedom of Carnival, “sanctioned the existing pattern of things and reinforced” their validity (Bakhtin, 45). Vindice vilifies this established order for allowing the privileged to indulge in “sinful baths of milk, when many an infant starves” (3.5.85). Despite this harsh criticism, as Vindice focuses his actions on destroying the bodies participating in the acts, he engages in many of the Court’s destructive appetites, consuming its “noble poison” (1.3.179). His revenge aesthetic kills the public body, further removing it from the generative forces displayed in the grotesque realism of Carnival.

7> Vindice is socially alien to the court yet through his acting becomes intimately tied to its daily life, accepted not only by Lussurioso, but by the Duke, the nobles and his own family. As an illegitimate child, Spurio occupies a similar space within court society, only capable of definition “as his mother’s son…a challenge to the patriarchal order” (Neill, 150). Spurio, like Vindice, feels wronged by “the sin of feasts, drunken adultery” and plots single-mindedly towards the fulfillment of his wish that “all the court were turned into a corse” (1.2.190, 36). The two want only to see the death of present aristocratic rule without a vision of what will succeed their destruction. Vindice’s cause perhaps appears more righteous than Spurio’s in that he ostentatiously aligns himself with the weak and oppressed. However, as Vindice “quickly turn[s] into another,” dominated by his lust for violence, he reveals his own selfish appetite (1.2.135). He is unable to control his attraction to the possibility of imposing his own code of morality and justice upon the public. While more obviously morally reprehensible, Spurio executes his revenge entirely within the scope of offending courtly life. His revenge contaminates only his own family; the community at large remains inviolate.

8> The similarity between Vindice’s and Spurio’s revenges against the established hierarchy demonstrates a common motive along with their shared target. Spurio desires to eliminate the Duke and his sons in order to validate his ability to rule and reclaim a birthright stolen by “[t]he sin of feasts, drunken adultery…Impudent wine and lust” (1.2.190, 192). The murder of his father and family would create for Spurio a legitimate place within society. Vindice loses his original identity when he “murders” the body of the Duke disguised as his alter-ego. This murder destroys the identity he originally possessed along with any pretense to separation from the values of his creation, Piato; he enters “so far into deceit that he is the man he pretends to be. To put on the role of Vindice again is to put on a new disguise” (Coddon, 130). Jonathan Dollimore notes that as with other “malcontented rebels,” the sense of dispossession, …injustice…or thwarted ambition…adds up to the same thing: a desperate bid for reintegration” (Dollimore, 116). Vindice is not only enraged by his fiancée’s murder, the Duke also slighted his father’s aspirations as Hippolito, servant to the court, reminds him at his death: “our lord and father/ Fell sick upon the infection of thy frowns, / And died in sadness” (3.5.171-173). He died pining for the petty attentions of the ruling class. Following the massacre of the entire male court, Vindice makes a final attempt at reintegration to court society by pandering to Antonio, the new ruler of the land. The brothers abandon Gloriana’s and Castiza’s causes to explain their actions as “all done for the best , my lord./ All for Your Grace’s good,” (5.3.114-115). Vindice’s dramatic shift in allegiance unmasks his inner character; he only differs from the court aesthetically. He is able to abuse Gloriana’s body and deceive his mother and sister because his primary concern is “with the aesthetics rather than the ethics of revenge” (Finin, par. 3). The various masks Vindice creates mirror Bakhtin’s emphasis on Carnival’s reversal of identity without leading “people out of the existing world” (Bakhtin, 45). The ideological expectations of court society so thoroughly mold Vindice’s thoughts and actions that he is only able to lead in a new and identical reign, ensuring the continuation of the unjust system for another generation. He has only destructive potential as Antonio notes, “My good?...You that would murder him would murder me” (5.3.123-125).

9> Vindice’s total investment in the dukedom’s official male power and misogynistic discourse undermines any chance of his creation of a manifestation of Carnivalesque revolution. His revolution is limited to the creation of no more than a mask to cover the ugly truth. Vindice’s “bony lady” cannot conjure the regenerative essence of Carnival for the simple reason that she is dead and rotten, as the playwright suggests patriarchal authority to be (3.5.120). Castiza and Gratiana’s interactions are less dependent upon the grotesque imagery that fills the scenes involving the court and conform to a more traditional aesthetic. This stands in contrast to Carnival’s typical obsession with images of the material body and its functions. The actual imagery employed is not as essential to the essence of Carnival as is the subversive resistance to dominant discourse. In this regard, Castiza’s turn from the sexually violent grotesque court idiom to a more religious or everyday idiom constitutes this act of resistance. Castiza, although in frequent contact with court society, resists seduction to extravagance and promiscuity. She responds to what she sees as a degraded society with an oath to “put anger in [her] hand,/ And pass the virgin limits of [her]self/ To him that next appeared in that base office,” whereas Vindice became “his sin’s attorney” in order to maintain the honor of his word (2.1.32-34, 35). Castiza is willing to move beyond the limits society places upon her identity, taking responsibility to protect her “virgin honor” rather than become another “precedent for wives,” the only masculine endorsed means for her to secure her honor (4.4.153).

10> Castiza’s name, like those of the other characters of the play, provides her identity: chastity and purity. Gratiana’s attempted pandering deeply offends the core of her daughter’s being. According to the standards of the court, were the two men, Castiza would pursue violent revenge against her mother for the offence. Instead, she becomes in appearance exactly what her mother had foolishly advised, a daughter she “shall not wish…to be more lascivious” (4.4.110). Through the production of the desecration of her sacred chastity, Castiza creates an alternative judiciary and symbolic discourse in which she is able to uncrown her mother, previously crowned vile panderer by her brother. The discourse of disguised submission to motherly advice and male sexual appetite symbolically destroys the “crystal tower” of Castiza’s purity without damaging her essence; she need not assume a false name. Through this symbolic death and resurrection of purity, Castiza puts the real body and real relationship to trial finding them worthy of redemption and inscribing upon Gratiana her namesake, grace (4.4.153).

11> Castiza and Gratiana’s reconciliation occurs in isolation from all other characters as it promotes a morality in conflict with the patriarchal honor code of the court tied to physical retribution. In the feminine discourse the two women establish, words provide sufficient means to resolve disputes and make reparations. Lamenting her errors, Gratiana tells Castiza, “I spoke the words, and now they poison me. / What will the deed do, then?” (4.4.137-138). Physical punishment and revenge can only add to “the rape of [the play’s] good lad[ies]” the added injury of “death on death” (5.3.107-108). Gratiana’s words serve as her own poison, one whose effects she can wash away with a change of heart and actions. Castiza fulfills Vindice’s wish, “Sister, you’ve sentenced most direct and true; / The law’s a woman, and would she were you,” reinventing the execution of justice with feminine discourse (1.1.114-115). In addition to her embodiment of purity, she offers the promise of new social life, “a rare phoenix” (1.3.98). Through purity, mercy and grace, the two are able to escape the demise of all involved with the Duke’s family and rise from the phoenix ashes to suggest a way of life resistant to currently permissible cruelties.
_____

Works Cited

Bakhtin, Mikhail. “Rabelais and his World.” Literary Theory: An Anthology. Eds. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. First Edition. Malden, Massachusetts: Blackwell Publishers, 1998. 45-51.

Coddon, Karen. “’For Show or Useless Property’: Necrophilia and The Revenger’s Tragedy.” Revenge Tragedy. Ed. Stevie Simkin. Basingstoke, England: Palgrave, 2001. 121-139.

Dollimore, Jonathan. “The Revenger’s Tragedy: Providence, Parody and Black Camp.” Revenge Tragedy. Ed. Stevie Simkin. Basingstoke, England: Palgrave, 2001. 107-120.

Finin, Kathryn. “Re-Membering Gloriana: ‘Wild Justice’ and the Female Body in The Revenger’s Tragedy.” Renaissance Forum: An Electronic Journal of Early Modern Literary and Historical Studies 6.2 (2003) : 34 pars. 28 February, 2007 <
http://www.hull.ac.uk/renforum/v6no2/finin.htm>.

Lindley, Arthur. “Abattoir and Costello: Carnival, The Revenger’s Tragedy and the Mental Landscape of Revenge.” AUMLA: Journal of the Australasian Universities Language and Literature Association, 2002 Nov; 98: 45-54.

Mehl, Dieter. “Corruption, Retribution and Justice in Measure for Measure and The Revenger’s Tragedy.” Shakespeare and his Contemporaries: Essays in Comparison. Ed. E.A.J. Honigmann. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1986. 114-128.

Middleton, Thomas. 2002. “The Revenger’s Tragedy.” English Renaissance Drama: A Norton Anthology. Ed. David Bevington, Lars Engle, Katharine Eisaman Maus & Eric Rasmussen. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2002. 1297-1370.

Neill, Michael. “Bastardy, Counterfeiting, and Misogyny in The Revenger’s Tragedy.” Putting History to the Question: Power, Politics, and Society in English Renaissance Drama. New York: Columbia University Press, 2000. 149-165.

Robertson, Karen. “Chastity and Justice in The Revenger’s Tragedy.” Sexuality and Politics in Renaissance Drama. Eds. Carole Levin and Karen Robertson. Lewiston, NY: Mellen, 1991. 215-236.

Tricomi, Albert. “Economic and Social Alienation in The Revenger’s Tragedy.” Anticourt Drama in England: 1603-1642. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1989. 102-109.
_____

APPOSITIONS: Studies in Renaissance / Early Modern Literature & Culture, http://appositions.blogspot.com/, ISSN: 1946-1992, Volume One (2008): Genres & Cultures

* * * REVIEWS * * *

Kathleen Ahearn: "Astell: Reason, Gender, Faith"

Kathleen Ahearn
University of Denver

Book Review

William Kolbrener and Michal Michelson, eds., Mary Astell: Reason, Gender and Faith, Ashgate (Burlington, VT, 2007), 230 pp. ISBN: 978-0-7546-5264-9. $99.95 (USD).

1> A quotation on the inside jacket of Mary Astell: Reason, Gender and Faith refreshingly characterizes Astell as “not merely a proto-feminist but a major figure of the early modern period.” That prominent scholars featured within this edition advance oppositional viewpoints concerning Astell’s conservative politics, the impact of Anglicanism on her feminism, and her relationship to the egalitarian principles associated with the Enlightenment attests to the veracity and timeliness of such a characterization. This volume manages, however, to move beyond arguments concerning the conservative/radical dichotomy of Astell’s polemics by presenting essays that resituate her corpus vis-à-vis history (especially in relationship to Whig/Tory politics) and philosophy (especially in relation to Descartes) so that new avenues of inquiry, such as Astell’s ambiguous relationship to women dissenters of the Civil War period, may also be considered. In this manner the volume helps to nudge Astell into the “major figure” category where she clearly belongs.

2> At least two prominent scholars, Sharon Achinstein and Hilda L. Smith, offer diametrically opposing viewpoints concerning Astell’s early feminism. Achinstein argues that contemporary scholars misread Astell’s work by anachronistically privileging secularism over theology, thereby eliding the importance of obedience, otherworldliness, and what Achinstein terms a “master/slave” orientation toward God. Achinstein goes so far as to claim that, “one would be hard pressed to call [Astell’s brand of egalitarianism] feminism” (24). She is not alone in expressing this doubt. Anne Jessie Van Sant offers a similar, though tempered, view when she argues that Astell held an “extreme commitment to obedience,” at the same time that she “was profoundly committed to women’s equality” (129). Van Sant attempts to resolve this paradoxical riddle by focusing on, “the contemporary opposition between law and equity;” whereby, because of her theological commitments, Astell falls on the conservative side of the law/authority vs. the equity/individual divide (129). Van Sant concludes, however, that Astell “simply accedes to the injustice, schooling her audience not in any potentially remedial practice, but rather resignation” (137).

3> Hilda Smith, by contrast, argues that Astell “did not fully dismiss egalitarian and democratic principles, even given her royalist and Tory politics” (195). She makes her point by separating Astell’s politics from her commitment to women’s betterment, a cause, she claims “that mattered most to her” (195). Smith briefly alludes to the influence of Cartesian epistemology on Astell’s feminism, stating that “she always saw her proposed retreat for women as founded primarily upon philosophical principles” (197). Further, Smith claims that Astell’s feminism may be described as not just idiosyncratic but “radical” when read in light of, “the liberating nature of serious intellectual and philosophical engagement” that Astell proposed as an alternative to courtship and marriage as “the end of their [women’s] existence.” (198, 199). E. Derek Taylor offers a refreshing (and long overdue) perspective on the debate about whether Astell should be characterized as a radical or a conservative thinker when he notes in his essay that, “even if we conclude that Astell is a contradictory philosopher, we would do well to consider what good company she keeps” (183). Taylor goes on, however, to discern a “remarkable degree of consistency” with respect to the epistemological underpinnings of her educational theory (188). And he joins with other scholars in this volume who extract Astell’s complex epistemological stance/influences from underneath Locke’s long shadow, since before doing so “we have failed to identify the more appropriate context for her educational thought” (188).

4> Mark Goldie, like Taylor, debunks the notion that “Astell is assumed to have Locke permanently in her sights and constantly to be antagonistic towards him,” a long held assumption in Astell studies that Goldie ties to the mistaken tendency among feminist scholars to “retain Locke as the presiding ideologue of the Revolution” (69). The resulting misreads of Astell’s work center around what Goldie characterizes as commonplace, Tory propaganda within Astell’s pamphlets (especially Reflections Upon Marriage) that have been misinterpreted as direct attacks on Lockean social contract theory. Rather, Goldie convincingly demonstrates that Astell was most likely stirred to “vehemence” in Reflections on Marriage as a result of having read a misogynist passage within a little known (to contemporary audiences) Lockean text entitled The Paraphrase. This finding supports his claim that Astell was far more concerned with Locke’s “materialism and Socinianism” than his politics (85). Melinda Zook’s essay illuminates Astell’s feminism within the context of her Tory politics. She compares Astell’s and Aphra Behn’s treatments of “noisy dissenting women,” demonstrating that Behn’s characterizations were consistently contemptuous and geared toward entertainment, while Astell’s depictions were equivocal since, as Zook points out, she “found the boldness of these women both attracting and deeply disturbing” (111, 110). Hannah Smith, by contrast, privileges Anglican influences over feminist leanings by aligning Astell’s work with a long tradition of Anglican sermons/pamphlets pertaining ostensibly to manners but that were really geared toward, “preserving the spiritual monopoly of the Church” (47). With this context in mind, Smith contradicts Goldie when she concludes that, “all her work was, in some way, political” (47).

5> Two essays in the collection shed new light upon the trope of martyrdom in Astell’s prose and poetry. William Kolbrener demonstrates that a shift in Astell’s “design of friendship” from “censure and correction” (i.e. martyrdom) to redemption and reciprocity occurs between Letters and the first Serious Proposal (49). Kolbrener points out that this shift corresponds to Astell’s alignment with an earlier Platonist metaphysics that “asserts congruity between spirit and matter,” whereby female friendship may become emblematic of divine love/perfection as opposed to a stepping stone (via rejection/dissatisfaction) toward it (62). Contrary to Achinstein’s claim that Astell’s thinking lacks relevance to contemporary feminism, Kolbrener’s nuanced study discerns a link to the contemporary notion of the role of female friendship in empowering women. Along similar lines, Claire Pickard’s essay demonstrates that martyrdom in Astell’s early volume of unpublished poems corresponds both to a conventional “idealization of the wronged Stuarts” at the same time that it offers “a non-material solution to the problems of gender inequality” (116). Furthermore, Pickard discerns within the body of Astell’s small collection of poems the emergence of an assertive, aspirational poetic persona that couches ambition in religious terms and that communicates an ethic of feminine “self-belief”—otherwise termed the “worthy character of the speaker”—that Astell will carry forward polemically and philosophically into her next, more pragmatic publications (119, 121).

6> Only two essays in this edition approach Astell directly as a philosopher. Jacqueline Broad broaches the conservative/liberal ‘problem’ in Astell studies by emphasizing in one of the first articles of its kind the influence of Descartes’s ethical theory of judgment on her second Serious Proposal. Previous studies (including Hilda Smith’s in this volume) have tended to gloss Descartes’s influence on Astell’s feminism and her educational theory by emphasizing his method of reasoning while bypassing the influence of his final publication, The Passions of the Soul, to which she dedicates an entire chapter. Broad argues that Astell was less inspired by Descartes’s paradigm of radical doubt than by his theory of judgment, which had practical applications in reforming women’s daily lives and their characters. She concludes with the novel assertion that “Astell’s writings show that radicalism is not a necessary outcome of Descartes’s philosophy” (179). Eileen O’Neil’s essay similarly emphasizes Astell’s “steadfast orthodox Cartesian views” when she argues with an earlier assertion by Taylor that Astell realigned herself with Norris’s occasionalist stance that she had previously rejected in order to shore up an attack on Locke’s theory of thinking matter. O’Neil argues, however, that Astell’s particular brand of body/mind causation (inspired more by Descartes than Henry More) allowed her to “maintain the real distinction of soul and body” and to argue that these two distinct substances could interact while not “jeopardizing arguments for the immortality of the soul” (162, 163).

7> Hilda Smith writes that “it is crucial to see Astell’s feminist works as expressing an integrated vision that incorporates her political values and intellectual interests, as well as a gendered analysis of social and cultural politics” (199). I tend to disagree that we must seek out and even force (as some essays within this collection do) such consistency. Yet, paradoxically, surface contradictions that have puzzled and sometimes misled scholars in the past have, within this collection, led to enriched and refined understandings of Astell’s “tripartite vision” that encompasses her politics, philosophy and early feminism.
_____

APPOSITIONS: Studies in Renaissance / Early Modern Literature & Culture,
http://appositions.blogspot.com/, ISSN: 1946-1992, Volume One (2008): Genres & Cultures

Daniel Cadman: "Staging Ireland"


Book Review

Stephen O’Neill, Staging Ireland: Representations in Shakespeare and Renaissance Drama, Four Courts Press (Dublin, 2007), 208 pp. ISBN: 978-1-85182-989-7. $65.00 (USD).

1> Recent scholarship has firmly established Ireland as a significant historical context to many early modern literary texts, particularly the works of Shakespeare and Spenser. Stephen O’Neill’s monograph, the first in a series of volumes from the Four Courts Press entitled Ireland: Literature and History, concentrates upon representations of Ireland and the Irish in both canonical dramatic texts—such as three Shakespearean history plays (2 Henry VI, Richard II and Henry V) and Christopher Marlowe’s Edward II—as well as in a selection of non-canonical works including, among others, George Peele’s The Battle of Alcazar and the collaborative history play, Sir John Oldcastle. The study therefore focuses upon the period between 1588 and 1599, an era that O’Neill defines as a ‘key point in a long history of English settlement, colonization and conquest in Ireland’ (14). Indeed, the period saw the onset of the Nine Years War, an event that placed Ireland extremely high on the Elizabethan political agenda. The book also confines its interests to the dramatic literary genre, concentrating solely on theatrical representations of Ireland and the Irish. The theatre, argues O’Neill, was ‘an enabling cultural site, where contemporary ideologies were confronted and, crucially, questioned’ (13). Therefore ‘representations of Ireland and the Irish in the drama can be attended to as a series of topical allusions that have multifarious ideological functions’ (13). The selection of period and genre is therefore quite deliberate. Theatre acted as a significant means of articulating certain ideologies during a period of considerable unrest in Ireland, as the author goes on to demonstrate.

2> The plays are considered in chronological order of their performance, thereby representing what O’Neill calls ‘the evolving nature of dramatic figurations in Ireland’ (21). The first chapter considers two texts that emerged in the late 1580s, a period in which, as the author concedes, Ireland seemed ‘relatively peaceful’ (25). Events such as the trial and execution of Mary, Queen of Scots and the threat from the Spanish Armada meant that Ireland was somewhat marginalized in terms of political priorities. The first text scrutinised in this chapter is The Misfortunes of Arthur, a play produced by a group of students, including Thomas Hughes and Francis Bacon, and presented to the court in 1588. The play’s portrayal of the disastrous consequences of Arthur’s leniency towards the rebellious Modred has often been interpreted by critics as a means of commending the Queen’s decision to execute Mary, Queen of Scots by providing a glimpse of the possible outcome of a more lenient approach. However, O’Neill marginalizes this reading and instead prefers to contextualise the text with debates that were being initiated at the time about the apparent recalcitrance of the Irish population and the need for tougher control over them. Of particular interest in this section is the discussion of one of the play’s dumb shows in which an Irishman appears in a manner which provides an obvious visual allusion to the popular image of the Irish kern. The presence of the kern onstage acts effectively as a shock tactic, highlighting the view that a lenient policy towards Ireland could allow the population to rebel against English authority. The Battle of Alcazar, on the other hand, is one of the two plays in the study to dramatise a particular event from relatively recent history: the story of Captain Thomas Stukeley, the Catholic adventurer who planned an invasion of Ireland as a starting point for the Spanish conquest of England. Dramatising this story therefore capitalises upon contemporary fears about Ireland’s military potential for Spanish invaders. This chapter provides a clear indication that events from the mythical past, as well as recent occurrences, were appropriated in order to dramatize affairs in Ireland, even before it was perceived as such a problem to the Elizabethan government.

3> The second chapter focuses upon three history plays (Shakespeare’s 2 Henry VI and Richard II and Marlowe’s Edward II) and considers the extent to which they were shaped by spatial anxieties about Ireland. Though no scenes in any of the plays take place in Ireland it nevertheless remains a significant space in each of the texts. As the location for the implementation of York’s plot and the source of the army he requires in 2 Henry VI and as one of the realms to which Gaveston is exiled in Edward II, Ireland becomes associated with rebellion and threats to English national identity. In Richard II, meanwhile, it is the king’s decision to take personal charge of events in Ireland that allows the return of Bolingbroke and his subsequent seizure of the crown to take place. As O’Neill comments, Richard’s decision to leave for Ireland is ‘the originating moment of his downfall’ (104). All three plays indicate the potential domestic impact that events taking place in Ireland could have in England. Despite the absence of any speaking Irish characters and the lack of any actual scenes taking place in Ireland, O’Neill has demonstrated that Ireland is a significant context to the three history plays, each indicating that Ireland was both ‘a symbolic space through which England could be examined’ (115) and ‘also a space where the limits of English identity and power are encountered’ (115-6).

4> A play which shares its subject with chapter one’s The Battle of Alcazar is the sole focus for the third chapter. Unlike most of the other plays in this study, Ireland ‘constitutes an onstage location that forms a significant part of the dramatic action’ (118) for Captain Thomas Stukeley. As well as its presence as the location for much of the play’s action, there are also a number of Irish characters, some of whom are assigned utterances in Gaelic dialect. This is complemented by the play’s attempts to dramatise scenes from recent history, such as English attempts to counter Shane O’Neill’s presence in the town of Dundalk in 1566. For O’Neill the Gaelic dialect is particularly significant, as it ‘at best signifies an incomplete conquest, at worst an unsettling hybridity’ (142) and acts as a reminder that ‘even the most ideologically static of texts on the Elizabethan problem of Ireland contains faultlines’ (142). While the text seemingly endorses the policies of the Elizabethan government, the inclusion of key elements (such as the hybrid dialect of the rebels) hints that the colonial campaign in Ireland has either failed or at least remains incomplete.

5> The final chapter concentrates upon two texts that emerged in 1599, the year which, according to the author, marked the ‘apotheosis’ (144) of the crisis in Ireland thanks to the momentum gained by the Earl of Tyrone’s campaign. The absence of Irish references in the folio edition of Henry V, an absence that raises the question of censorship, is suggestive of the dangerous ground on which references to affairs in Ireland were situated at the time. Henry V and Sir John Oldcastle, the two texts considered in this chapter, are also linked by brief, but significant, encounters with a stage Irishman. The presence of Mackmorrice in Henry V, a figure over whom much critical ink has already been spilt, and Mack Chane in Sir John Oldcastle may address issues of racial difference and otherness, but, as O’Neill argues, in both cases these anxieties find no closure. O’Neill comments that Oldcastle, like Henry V, ‘bears the burden of its present rather [than] exerting control over it’ (190). Both texts address, but ultimately fail to subvert, the questions of national identities raised by the presence of their Irish characters. O’Neill’s attachment of such importance to the year 1599 is affirmed by the differences between the quarto and folio versions of Henry V. The absence of the choruses, one of which famously contains a reference to Essex’s Irish campaign, along with many of the play’s Irish references in the quarto version indicate the potential volatility of debates about Ireland at this point in time.

6> O’Neill makes pertinent use of contextual material relating to Ireland and skillfully links them to the primary texts considered by his study, and appropriates a broad range of considerations—including such significant contexts as national identities, colonialism and the effects of possible dramatic censorship. The study is also notable for its appropriation of non-canonical texts, a trope that reveals the real extent to which the theatre acted as an outlet for political comment. The volume builds upon scholarship by the likes of Andrew Hadfield, Willy Maley and Andrew Murphy, and shares its concentration upon the Nine Years War period with Christopher Highley’s Shakespeare, Spenser and the Crisis in Ireland. O’Neill’s volume, however, remains distinctive for its approach to dramatic representations of the Irishman and specific references to campaigns on Irish soil. The end product is an insightful and persuasive study of the ways in which dramatic texts were shaped by English political maneuvering in Ireland. Staging Ireland marks a significant contribution to the substantial body of critical material examining the importance of affairs in Ireland upon early modern literature.
_____

Daniel Cadman is currently in the first year of his doctoral research degree at Sheffield Hallam University, where he also earned his BA and MA degrees. His main interests include early modern closet drama and the literature of the Sidney circle.
_____

APPOSITIONS: Studies in Renaissance / Early Modern Literature & Culture, http://appositions.blogspot.com/, ISSN: 1946-1992, Volume One (2008): Genres & Cultures

Gerald Chapman: "Burke on Shakespeare"

Gerald Chapman
University of Denver

Book Review

Scott L. Newstok, ed., Kenneth Burke on Shakespeare, Parlor Press (West Lafayette, Indiana, 2007), 307 pp. ISBN: 978-1-60235-002-1. $32.00 (USD).

1> Kenneth Burke seems always in rediscovery, justly so. The last five years alone produced two collections of private letters, one of them with William Carlos Williams, an edition of the late essays (1967-1984), an edition of the late poems (1968-1993 the year of Burke’s death), and publication of all the prose fiction gathered for the first time and introduced by Denis Donoghue. Last year added an edition of all the literary reviews and an extension of the philosophic canon in Essays Toward a Symbolic of Motives, 1950-1955 in which William Rueckert, the doyen of Burke studies, pieced together what remains among Burke’s papers of an unfinished third book of the Motivorum trilogy. Now Scott Newstok has made available for the first time Kenneth Burke on Shakespeare, a project that Burke himself long intended. In addition to the magisterial “Othello: An Essay to Illustrate a Method” (1951), the long essay of which Burke was most proud, as well as “Coriolanus—the Delights of Faction” (1966), Newstok brings together all the scattered essays, lectures, or chapters on Shakespeare, some hard to find. While glancing at other plays, they engage directly all the major tragedies, two comedies, and Venus and Adonis. He also has found a previously unpublished lecture “Shakespeare Was What?” and extensive unpublished typescript notes on Troilus and Cressida and Macbeth. In several footnotes he quotes alternative draft passages or omissions from the essays as published. Finally, if that were not riches enough, Newstok has appended more than fifty pages of Additional References, every comment on Shakespeare large or small in Burke’s published writings from 1921 to the 1980’s. This is lasting scholarship, a book for the permanent shelf.

2> In his own introduction, entitled “Renewing Kenneth Burke’s ‘plea for the Shakespearean drama,’” Newstok explores the place of Burke in Shakespeare criticism and at the same time queries just what character of mind accounts for the surprising omnirelevance of Burke to so many diverse perspectives as Harold Bloom and Edward Said, Stanley Cavell and Joel Fineman, Marjorie Garber and Jonathan Goldberg, René Girard and Frank Kermode (a footnote continues a list of over 40 Renaissance literary scholars).

3> Born the same year as Faulkner, Burke belonged to “the first apprentice generation,” in Hugh Kenner’s discerning phrase, of American Modernist writers whose “homemade worlds” hammered out a new poetic. His ambition as poet and fiction writer, though never entirely abandoned, was displaced sometime in the 1930’s when he discovered his métier as a systematic philosopher exploring concretely how language as “symbolic action” constructs all the dramas of the human animal. Long before his death at ninety-six, he loomed for many as one of the great experiencing natures in the American 20th-Century, a voice of passionate integrity and counter-statement in a line from Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman, and William James. And throughout his long journey Burke turned repeatedly to Shakespeare as mentor and paradigm of intelligence working at the height of known possibilities with language. In a lecture on A Midsummer Night’s Dream he marveled at “the wondrous constructive rationality of the word, so masterfully embodied in Shakespeare’s blithe dramaturgic schemings,” “the astonishing rationality” even in A Midsummer Night’s Dream “with which he put together his things of the imagination . . . . For what he believed in above all was the glory of the trade [of playwrighting] itself, which is to say, the great humaneness of the word, and the corresponding search throughout the range of all its aptitudes.” If this is bardolatry, it is a practical kind. “Shakespeare’s theater is, from start to finish, a masterful enterprise in the arts of persuasion,” he remarks in an essay on Coriolanus, but persuasion that belongs to a poetics of playmaking, not to politics. Burke is nonpareil as a rhetorician detecting how Shakespeare slyly maneuvers the expectations and sympathies of an audience. But his larger goal lifelong is more philosophic: theoretical formulation of just what went on in Shakespeare’s productive consciousness as he arrived at decisions for the texts as we have them.

4> For a sample of originality and experimentation, consider the essay “King Lear: Its Form and Psychosis” (1969), announced as a sequel to the earlier essay on Coriolanus. Remembering how as a young man he had been “shaken to the roots” when he first saw the tragedy in performance, Burke, now seventy-two, asks why such intense catharsis from a play of so many absurdities, which he lists. Often in discussing tragedy Burke touches base with Aristotle in the Poetics and the Rhetoric, but now he also cites Tertullian’s theological dictum credo quia absurdum for an “aesthetic analogue”: It is “precisely by straining our credulity to the limits” accompanied by a preposterous speed-up of events onstage that Shakespeare maneuvers his audience, as if in ritual, to an “attitude of complete surrender” to belief in the mystery of the tragedy, which is about surrender, abdication of identity, relinquishment of authority even over oneself. The essay proceeds in stages of increasing philosophic generality. Moving on from aesthetic particulars, Burke stipulates that a play by Shakespeare, as if by recipe, taps into a “social psychosis” that his audience in the outside world inhabits and believes to be reality, and that intelligent Shakespeare, who thoroughly understands it, can transform into pleasure for the stage. “Psychosis” is of course a provocative term, even puckish, but has no easy equivalent: in the essay on Coriolanus it is a “set of ethical quandaries” pervading some “unresolved tension typical of a given social order (or of life in general).” Since the 19th century, for example, a technological psychosis has accelerated throughout the modern world. A hierarchical psychosis underlies the class conflicts between privileged and underprivileged in Coriolanus but also, more gently, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. A Judeo-Christian psychosis energizes The Merchant of Venice. In Othello is a psychosis of love as spiritual ownership, implicit for example in monogamous love when a beloved is felt to be property. And Lear is founded upon a “psychosis of authority pure and simple” in which representations of identity and loyalty are distributed through “a spectrum of differentiated roles.” As Burke remarks elsewhere, Shakespeare knew “even more thoroughly than Plato, how any given idea would behave, when translated . . . into a scattering of personalities.” The temptation to treat Shakespeare’s incomparable characters, say Cordelia or Kent or even Oswald, as “living people” overlooks the fact that they also are “derived” from one another to meet requirements of the plot: the more you study them, the more they dissolve into “the functioning of the work as a whole.” Generalizing one step higher in the essay, Burke pursues Shakespeare’s working consciousness to a philosophic universal prior to drama as such or any social order, what in several essays he terms “the paradox of substance”: “the puzzle at the basis of all drama, as it is in life” that our personal identity, yours and mine, is “indistinguishably woven” into extrinsic things: offices (such as kingship or general of the army), situations, relationships, events, with which we become “identified.” When such identifications are stripped away, or proved a lie, we can find ourselves like Lear, like Othello, peering “over the abyss into the region of pure abstract loneliness.” Or put another way, a whole cast of characters is needed if Lear or Othello is to “be himself” in the play.

5> This is the halfway mark of the essay. Having arrived at a root belief and perception that Shakespeare “must have had” when he started a play, Burke now executes a stunning volte-face. Starting himself from the paradox of substance, and holding in view the “socio-psychotic situation” that he knows the end-product will explore, and drawing in concepts of tragic ritual, scapegoat, catharsis elsewhere discussed, Burke “generates” one by one the dramatis personae, themes, and plot of King Lear just as, by a sequential logic of requirement, Shakespeare might have thought them out step by step as he worked (“as if Shakespeare had said to himself” so and so, and then so and so). Burke calls his method, which he applies to plays elsewhere and for which he owns the patent, “prophesying after the event” (from another theological term vaticinium post eventum). There is no substitute of course for reading the last half of his essay in all its astonishing detail.

6> The many challenging books, including a spate of recent ones, on Shakespeare’s “thought” or Shakespeare as “thinker” are rarely the work of philosophers, Stanley Cavell excepted. Burke is a unique philosophic voice, and a common experience of his readers is to be startled by a sudden leap of theoretical formulation that opens and leaves open-ended a whole new line for possible thought. While illuminating Shakespeare’s texts with imaginative intimacy and fresh attention, Burke is also “doing” philosophy as he goes: Shakespeare is not just a subject for investigation, but a leading partner in discovery.
_____

Gerald Chapman, Professor of English Emeritus, University of Denver, scholar of Renaissance and 18th-century English studies, Department Chair for twelve years, has also taught at Northwestern, Harvard, and the University of Texas.
_____

APPOSITIONS: Studies in Renaissance / Early Modern Literature & Culture, http://appositions.blogspot.com/, ISSN: 1946-1992, Volume One (2008): Genres & Cultures

Katherine Heavey: "Shakespeare’s Names"

Katherine Heavey
Durham University

Book Review

Laurie Maguire, Shakespeare’s Names, Oxford University Press (Oxford, 2007), 256 pp. + vi. ISBN: 978-0-19-921997-1. $60.00 (USD).

1> In Shakespeare’s Names, Laurie Maguire’s abiding argument is that “names matter; and names are matter”. She seeks to prove that names, in Shakespeare and elsewhere, are often “material entities capable of assuming lives and voices of their own”. To this end, she divides the book effectively between a general discussion of names and naming in the early modern period and beyond, and more focused discussion of specific kinds of names in Shakespeare’s plays: patronymics, names weighted by the mythological past, diminutive or nicknames, and even place names. Frequently, her points about Shakespeare’s names are profitably illustrated either by reference to more modern works or authors who use names and naming in analogous ways, or to specific performances of Shakespeare’s plays which, she argues, have particularly important points to make about these names.

2> In the general survey that comprises Chapter One, Maguire begins by pointing to the centrality of names, from antiquity to the present day—she points out that to have no name is to be bizarre, is to be unknown. At the same time, though, she points to the power that can, paradoxically, spring from namelessness. Her use of the classical character Odysseus and the folkloric Rumpelstilzchen as two examples of the power of anonymity demonstrates the range of examples consistently employed throughout the book, and suggests the extent to which Shakespeare’s Names may be of use to scholars and students interested in a more general theory of naming. Maguire points to texts as diverse as The Jew of Malta, The Rape of the Lock, The Miller’s Tale and Macbeth to show how critics have linked characters’ identities, and their importance within their texts, to how soon their name is introduced, how often it is used, and indeed if it is known at all. She then engages with what she shows to be a perennial debate about the relationship between name and identity. Maguire notes the power inherent in naming, and goes on to argue that deliberately generic names imply (and/or create) a loss of character identity. However, she argues “Shakespeare’s drama eschews onomastic predestination. Instead, Shakespeare shows characters struggling with onomastic inheritance, trying through deeds to thwart or merit the associations of their label”.

3> Focusing on Romeo and Juliet in Chapter Two, Maguire points to the pair’s desperate attempts to escape the power of their (parentally-imposed) names. She uses Robert Le Page and Gordon McCall’s bilingual Canadian production (1989-90) to illustrate language’s central role in conflict, suggesting that the clash between the Montagues and Capulets becomes a clash of two cultures, not just of two families, as illustrated by the play’s constant code-switching. Despite this production’s interest in heightening the conflict through use of language, though, Maguire argues that Shakespeare, finally, envisages some kind of too-late solution to the pair’s tragedy, a suggestion that they have finally escaped their families’ control. Noting the final lines, “Never was a story of more woe / Than this of Juliet, and her Romeo”, she argues that, in “the play’s concluding focus on the personal rather than the patronymic, Shakespeare and Verona take a step closer to onomastic purity”.

4> In her discussion of mythological names, Maguire takes Helen of Troy as an example of a name that would have needed little explanation (indeed, though it is needed now, she points to the qualifier “of Troy” as needless tautology in the early modern period). Herself using deliberately contentious and emotive names as comparisons, Maguire argues that the associations “Helen” evoked in the period would be as immediate as they were negative: “As Adolf Hitler and Saddam Hussein function in today’s culture, so Helen functioned in the Renaissance: a byword for sexual appetite or disaster or both”. However, focusing on A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Maguire attempts to show Shakespeare’s efforts to recreate Helen through Helena. Here, Helena is the sexual predator, rather than the object of desire, and indeed she even complains at length about her own ugliness, until, as Maguire notes, Puck’s error creates the helpless desire (and the resultant male competitiveness) that her name implies. Turning to All’s Well That Ends Well, Maguire notes that Shakespeare has changed the name of his source’s female protagonist to Helena, and argues “Given the associations of Helen, the choice is neither innocent nor careless”. In fact, she argues convincingly that Helena is again a sympathetic reworking of Helen, once more the pursuer rather than the pursued. More problematically, though, Maguire sees Cressida in Troilus and Cressida as a similar remodelling of Helen and her situation. Moreover, while she acknowledges that Helen is represented unsympathetically in this last play, Maguire points to Helen’s closeness to Paris, and his fond renaming of her as “Nell”, as evidence of a positive relationship between the pair. Here, perhaps, a more detailed discussion of Helen’s names would have been profitable: for example, a consideration of Paris’ attempts to rename her, to make her unequivocally his, and removed from the “Helen” who is a constant source of discussion and debate throughout the play.

5> In Chapter Four, her consideration of the “diminutive name”, Maguire argues that by using a diminutive name for someone, or by using many names for the same character, we render them unknowable. Focussing on The Taming of the Shrew, she points to how the diminutive (“Kate” for “Katherine”) can be either affectionate or demeaning: significantly, Petruchio calls her Kate in an attempt to ingratiate himself into her family, but later ignores the heroine’s specific request that he call her Katherine. Maguire argues that critics and editors tend to follow Petruchio’s example. Katherine herself complains that the men in the play reject her attempts at self-definition by calling her Kate, and Maguire contrasts this realisation with Christopher Sly’s assertion of his own name and identity in the face of others’ confusion. As she has done previously, Maguire then turns to a consideration of a specific performance: the 2006 Oxford Shakespeare company production of the Shrew. Maguire notes that the actor playing Sly had to play multiple parts, which were sometimes onstage simultaneously, and accordingly found himself interacting with empty space, meant to represent another character. Pointing to the audience’s necessary suspension of disbelief here, Maguire argues that such blanks and uncertainties implicate the reader and/or spectator in their consideration of the play, its names and identities.

6> In her closing chapter, “The Place Name: Ephesus”, Maguire considers Shakespeare’s intriguing and significant alteration of his source (Plautus’ Menaechmi) in The Comedy of Errors. She notes that the introduction of a second set of twins exponentially increases the potential for confusion (and specifically mistaken identity). Once again, Maguire points to the deliberate confusion or occlusion of women’s identities in Shakespeare: the courtesan, named in Plautus, here is anonymous (and here, it seems, anonymity does not bring power). Significantly, she argues that in changing the location from Epidamnus to Ephesus, Shakespeare deliberately recalls the motifs of witchcraft and confusion that were associated with Ephesus, and of the manifold divisions in historical Ephesus (between Greeks and Jews, Christianity and magic, trade and religion). Maguire points to the confusion and instability that seems perpetuated, rather than comfortingly resolved, at the play’s conclusion, and links this to its location: “the play” she concludes “could not have happened in Epidamnus”.

7> Maguire’s book constitutes a compelling account of a range of Shakespeare’s plays and the significance of names therein. The combination of close readings and accounts of recent productions proves useful, and a detailed consideration of the issues of identity, disguise, confusion and ownership, which Maguire finds to be utterly entangled with Shakespeare’s names and naming, proves both entertaining and thought-provoking.
_____

APPOSITIONS: Studies in Renaissance / Early Modern Literature & Culture,
http://appositions.blogspot.com/, ISSN: 1946-1992, Volume One (2008): Genres & Cultures