How Novels Think: The Limits of Individualism from 1719-1900

HOW NOVELS THINK

HOW NOVELS THINK

The Limits of Individualism from 1719–1900

NANCY ARMSTRONG

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY PRESS

NEW YORK

COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY  PRESS

Publishers Since 1893

New York  Chichester, West Sussex

cup.columbia.edu

Copyright © 2005 Columbia University Press

All rights reserved

E-ISBN 978-0-231-50387-7

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Armstrong, Nancy, 1938–

How novels think : the limits of individualism from 1719–1900 / Nancy Armstrong.

   p.   cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 0–231–13058–9 (cloth : alk. paper)—

ISBN 0–231–13059–7 (pbk. : alk. paper)—ISBN 0–231–50387–3 (e-book)

1. English fiction—19th century—History and criticism.  2. Individualism in literature.  3. Literature and society—Great Britain—History—19th century.  4. Literature and society—Great Britain—History—18th century.  5. English fiction—18th century.  6. Didactic fiction, English—History and criticism.  7. Ethics in literature. I. Title.

   PR868.1615A76 2006

   823'.809—dc22

2005053782

A Columbia University Press E-book.

CUP would be pleased to hear about your reading experience with this e-book at [email protected].

In memory of Homer Obed Brown

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Introduction. How Novels Think

1. How the Misfit Became a Moral Protagonist

2. When Novels Made Nations

3. Why a Good Man Is Hard to Find in Victorian Fiction

4. The Polygenetic Imagination

5. The Necessary Gothic

Notes

Index

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My lifelong skepticism about the truth of individualism no doubt inspired this book, and writing it was far from an individual venture. It could not have happened without the generosity of Rey Chow, who sent me to Jennifer Crewe, the very best of editors. She in turn persuaded me to make a book-length argument out of a series of talks on the novel I was delivering at a number of universities during the period from 1999 to 2004.

These being precisely the years I served as chair of English at Brown University, I relied on conversations with my graduate students to figure out most of what I wanted to say. That I did come to understand the overarching argument of my research during this period is owing to the remarkable group of new scholars with whom I worked closely, including Carolyn Berman, Frank Christianson, Lois Cucullu, Nick Daly, Amanda Emerson, Jen Fleissner, Jonathan Goldman, Jared Green, Avak Hasratian, Cole Heinowitz, Ivan Kreilkamp, John Marx, Lisa O’Connell, Caroline Reitz, Jen Ruth, Jason Solinger, Ezra Tawil, Cynthia Tolentino, Annette Van, and Eugenia Zuroski. Without the persistent ingenuity of my research assistant, Sian Silyn Roberts, I would still be lost in the library, looking for the edition of a novel I cited or tracking down the exact title of an article I read a year or two ago.

I am equally indebted to the junior faculty hired and in three cases tenured during my years as chair: Timothy Bewes, Stuart Burrows, Jean Feerick, Olakunle George, Arlene Keizer, Daniel Kim, Rolland Murray, and Ravit Reichman. The extraordinary diversity of their projects and the infectious energy with which they discuss ideas put the lie to those who would cast the future of the humanities in doubt. My kitchen cabinet—Mutlu Blasing, Jim Egan, Phil Gould, Bill Keach, Kevin McLaughlin, Ellen Rooney, and Barbara Herrnstein Smith—turned the ordinary trials of a chairmanship into a group triumph.

I am blessed with good friends. Of my kin group in the profession, those imaginary interlocutors who wrote this book along with me are too numerous to name. I must single out Dan Cottom, John Kucich, Deidre Lynch, Pam Morris, Kathy Psomiades, Cliff Siskin, and Jennifer Wicke for seeing me through moments of uncertainty in the production and publication of the manuscript.

Len and Maude sustain the illusion of my autonomy.

Oak Bluffs, Massachusetts

May 2005

INTRODUCTION

HOW NOVELS THINK

Painted in 1780 and 1781 by Sir Joshua Reynolds, the portrait reproduced on the cover and as the frontispiece of this book illustrates the paradox that I will spell out over the course of five chapters. This image of Master Bunbury was quickly enveloped in a fantasy that permanently pinned an identity to the distinctive image of an otherwise nondescript boy. Although art historians still quarrel over which of two Bunbury brothers he actually was, the older or younger, the kind of identity I have in mind for this individual has little to do with birth. The transformation that secured a new kind of identity for the subject of Reynolds’s painting began as an anecdote and was repeated over the next two centuries. In order to account for the portrait’s curious expression, the slightly open mouth and wide-eyed stare, the anecdote has it that Reynolds told stories as he painted the boy who sat listening—spellbound—on a grassy knoll in front of a tree. Here, in miniature, is the modern subject.

According to eighteenth-century epistemology and moral philosophy, the modern subject came into being as it took in sensations from the outside world and, of that material, composed first the ideas and then the judgment and moral sense that gave it a self-enclosed and internally coherent identity. Thus we see in this painting, as opposed to Reynolds’s portraits of distinguished men and women, a decisive shift of the viewer’s attention away from the surface of the subject’s body, traditionally read as the sign of his position in the world. More than perhaps any other Reynolds portrait, the painting of young Bunbury invites the viewer to speculate on the interior life animating the individual whose motion has been arrested by storytelling. The debate over whether Reynolds painted the first or second Bunbury son has taken second place to the psychological question of what would produce such an expression on the child’s face. With the help of an anecdotal explanation, that expression invites us to imagine ourselves in his place, wearing much the same expression.

The fact that Bunbury’s image provided the outward and visible signs of a unique state of mind also called attention to the painter.¹ In 1781 the Gazetteer reported what soon became the salient facts of the portrait. Young Bunbury was so vivacious that Sir Joshua could not have settled him in any steady posture if he had not told him an entertaining story, which fixed his attention.² This story traveled with the image to the Royal Academy exhibition of 1781, where poet and philosopher Dr. James Beattie declared it one of the two best portraits by England’s most celebrated painter and described it as a Boy, supposed to be listening to a wonderful story (quoted in Dorment, British Painting, 294). Horace Walpole was reported to have found the portrait charming (quoted in ibid., 296). Nor has the deterioration of the bituminous paint over time diminished either the painting’s power to recall the anecdote or the anecdote’s power to reanimate the image. Offering modern testimony to the story’s ability to shift the source of the boy’s uniqueness back onto the painter is Richard Dorment’s speculation that it may not be fanciful to see in the woods darkening behind Henry and the (gnarled?) tree trunk to the left, an evocation of the slightly scary settings usual in fairy stories (ibid., 294). Given that Henry Fuseli, the well-known painter of nightmares, was Reynolds’s contemporary and occasional interlocutor, it strikes me as entirely plausible that Reynolds did in fact coax this expression from the lad by telling him frightening stories. True to the gothic sensibility, the sensations to which the boy’s facial expression is attributed did not arise from actual objects. Born of stories, these sensations came from somewhere in the foreground—already charged with emotion—to arrest the movement captured in his rumpled clothes and open shirt.

Let us assume that stories did move the subject of Reynolds’s painting, even while they fixed his body to a place. For the purposes of this book, I would also ask you to assume that the well-lit natural landscape to the left of the tree trunk, where objects behave as objects should—a world in continuity with our own—as no less fictional than the dark and apparently phantasmagorical background on the right. I plan to read the familiar terrain of realism as the other side of the gothic, as if the two existed in a mutually defining relationship. In so enclosing painter, subject, and spectator entirely within a world of fiction where each exists as an individual to others, this way of reading the image provides what I consider a useful model for the mutually constitutive relationship between novelists and their protagonists during the period when Reynolds painted this portrait, a period when novels were acquiring the power to endow their readers with individuality as well.

This book argues that the history of the novel and the history of the modern subject are, quite literally, one and the same. The British novel provides the test case. It came into being, I believe, as writers sought to formulate a kind of subject that had not yet existed in writing. Once formulated in fiction, however, this subject proved uniquely capable of reproducing itself not only in authors but also in readers, in other novels, and across British culture in law, medicine, moral and political philosophy, biography, history, and other forms of writing that took the individual as their most basic unit. Simply put, this class- and culture-specific subject is what we mean by the individual. To produce an individual, novels had to think as if there already were one, that such an individual was not only the narrating subject and source of writing but also the object of narration and referent of writing. To produce an individual, it was also necessary to invalidate competing notions of the subject—often proposed by other novels—as idiosyncratic, less than fully human, fantastic, or dangerous. The result was a cultural category and a bundle of rhetorical figures that were extremely fragile and always on the defensive yet notably flexible and ever ready to adapt to new cultural-historical conditions.³

THINKING UP THE INDIVIDUAL

To put conceptual flesh on this hypothesis, we might think of the human body much as John Locke thought of the human mind: as a cabinet or storehouse emptied of all innate qualities and waiting to be furnished with information from the world.⁴ This evacuation of the body’s intrinsic value raises the question of how and under what conditions such a body could accrue social and economic value. Much as the mind, in Locke’s theory, acquired information through sensations of the world and then converted those sensations into ideas against which it measured subsequent sensations, so the body, in the fiction of Daniel Defoe and other eighteenth-century novelists, acquired social experience and converted those encounters with the world at large into self-restraint and good manners. The appearance and behavior of the body consequently came to serve as outward and visible signs of the knowledge acquired and judgment developed from firsthand experience. By midcentury, the same body displayed the individual’s capacity for sympathy as well.

But not all fictional characters could become the protagonists of a novel. In order to qualify, a character had to harbor an acute dissatisfaction with his or her assigned position in the social world and feel compelled to find a better one. In contrast to the subject of his painting, Sir Joshua Reynolds was just such a person. The eleventh son of an improvident schoolmaster, he became the first president of the Royal Academy of Arts and gained a knighthood. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that Reynolds marked the difference between painter and subject by capturing the boy’s restless energy in the stationary pose of a genre reserved for people of distinction. Reynolds then reanimated the portrait with a kind of life that called attention to the painter, as if to say that the painting added the elements of individuality to its traditional subject matter.⁵ Novelists had to figure out the rhetorical means of generating dissatisfaction with the available social possibilities before they could create a human subject with the restlessness to grow—over time and in successive stages—both more complete as an individual and more worthy in social terms.⁶ Novels thus gave tangible form to a desire that set the body on a collision course with limits that the old society had placed on the individual’s options for self-fulfillment, transforming the body from an indicator of rank to the container of a unique subjectivity.

To put it another way, the novels to which I want first to call attention add something new to the attributes that tradition had attached to the positions composing eighteenth-century British society. This rhetorical additive—whether it manifests itself as restlessness, ambition, or eroticism—effectively dislodges the protagonist from an assigned position, pitching him or her into a field of possibilities where, as Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe (1719) frequently reminds us, one runs the risk of becoming nothing at all. In that it strives to resolve a discrepancy between the individual’s idea of, say, love or justice and the material conditions that he or she encounters, this supplement behaves in the manner Locke ascribes to desire when he writes: "The uneasiness a Man finds in himself upon the absence of any thing, whose present enjoyment carries the Idea of Delight with it, is that we call Desire, which is greater or less, as that uneasiness is more or less vehement."⁷ In theory, this is all well and good, but how, one must ask, did such uneasiness change the way one understood the relationship between one’s self and a world that initially failed to provide the conditions for happiness?

It was at this point that Enlightenment philosophy left off and fiction took over. We find the eighteenth-century novel characteristically unwilling to adjust the subject completely to the social world into which he or she was born. On the other hand, Defoe was clearly in the majority when he assumed that one could not simply adjust the world to accommodate the individual, not if that individual came from the same rung of the social ladder as either Crusoe or Moll Flanders (1722). Defoe found his answer in the picaresque form, which allows protagonists to move out of the hierarchy that initially defines them and into a new field of social possibilities, where they can find a place that accommodates their needs and abilities. Of course, only individuals whose wit, will, ability, and desire exceed those appropriate to the position to which they were born can achieve such mobility. Their exception to the social rule at once individuates these protagonists and makes them exemplary of individuals in general.

Where Samuel Richardson also drew on the picaresque tradition for the literary means of moving his protagonists from one position to another within the social order, he could not very well allow his morally scrupulous heroines anywhere near the same physical mobility that Defoe gave Crusoe and Moll. Pamela (1740) is imprisoned in her seducer’s country estate, and Clarissa’s (1747–48) movements are choreographed by Lovelace to put her in increasingly compromising positions until she lands in Mrs. Sinclair’s establishment. To generate the kind of dissatisfaction essential to making a modern protagonist, Richardson came up with another way of driving a wedge between interiority and social position. Pamela’s letters reveal her genuine displeasure with Mr. B’s sexual advances, her determination to resist him so long as he tries to turn her into a kept woman, and thus her possession of a sensibility befitting a lady. It is literacy alone that transforms her from an object he can forcibly possess into a self-possessed subject who can consent to his offer of marriage. Embodying the core fantasy of the early novel—that writing makes the individual—Pamela writes herself into existence as the wife of a wealthy landowner. Looking back from Pamela at Crusoe and Moll, we can see that their extraordinary adventures could have done little to make them exemplary had they not possessed the means of authoring their respective stories. They were in this sense alone truly exceptional. Each could inscribe him or herself in writing as an object, or body, separate and apart from the subject that inhabited that body, and put that body through a sequence of moves to enhance its social value. Thus they perform what the Lockeans could only theorize: the possibility that a new form of literacy could provide something on the order of a supplement capable of turning an early modern subject into a self-governing individual.

If the novels of Jane Austen (1811–18) represent the perfect synthesis of desiring individual and self-governing citizen, they also mark the moment when that synthesis crumbled under the threat of social rebellion, the rioting of dislocated farm workers, the amassing of unemployed laborers in the industrial centers of England, and any number of social factors that sorely challenged the fantasy of a society composed of self-governing individuals. The first two decades of the nineteenth century also saw the first attempts at canonizing a tradition of fiction, as Anna Laetitia Barbauld, William Mudford, and Sir Walter Scott went to work compiling editions of English novels and writing critical introductions to justify their selections. That his project authorized his generation of novelists becomes evident as Scott calls special attention to the fact that, with Austen, a style has arisen, within the last fifteen or twenty years, differing from the former [styles of all previous novels] in the points upon which interest hinges; neither alarming our credulity nor amusing our imagination by wild variety of incident, or by those pictures of romantic affection and sensibility, which were formerly as certain attributes of fictitious characters as they are of rare occurrence among those who actually live or die.⁸ The novelist who relied on exotic situations and extravagant emotionalism for audience appeal would be found lacking under the new standard. At the same time, Scott is quick to add, the novelist who presumed to follow in Austen’s footsteps and try his hand at the art of copying from nature as she really exists in the common walks of life would necessarily place his composition within that extensive range of criticism which general experience offers to every reader (231). There was now a generic standard by which to measure novels past and future.

As Homer O. Brown points out, the distinction Scott makes between Austen and her predecessors is the very same distinction that he makes between the novel and romance.⁹ Austen’s novels mark the simultaneous modernization of the individual and maturation of the novel. Her protagonists whose changes of heart make small but important differences within a circumscribed community of country gentry, their hangers-on, and their dependents were being read alongside the protagonists of Scott. As the author of historical novels that were shaped by and helped to shape a British nation, he found it necessary to distinguish his own novels from romance. In so doing, Scott no doubt was also interested in distancing himself from gothic fiction. During the period between 1788 and 1807, according to Robert Miles, the gothic represented about 30 percent of the market share.¹⁰ Precisely when its conventions were being consolidated, then, the novel was again heading off in at least two directions, and the figure of the individual appeared to be still very much up for grabs. There was tension both within the tradition Scott sought to establish and between that tradition and the fiction he sought to exclude. Given this double pressure on his generic standard, the novels that reveal the formal exigencies of this moment are not Austen’s so much as those novels that could not perform her magical reconciliation of individual demands with those of the larger community.

Scott’s Waverley (1814) and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818) are equally intent on defending the norms of citizenship from the encroachments of individual desire. Waverley’s desultory education in his uncle’s library encourages him to see the violence of the Highlanders through the heroic lens of romance. The monster’s encounter with Milton’s Satan and Goethe’s Werther gives him the means of aggrandizing his assault on the innocent members of Frankenstein’s family. As shaped by eighteenth-century novelists, the novel had a very different task in mind when it exploited the supplementary potential of writing. Indeed, education in both Waverley and Frankenstein cultivates forms of individualism so extravagant that they must be destroyed in the name of humanity. But such a renunciation of its signature trope is not something that novels, being novels, could perform without a serious struggle. Both works consequently bear the scars of their moment in history, as they transform extraordinary forms of individualism into subhuman forms, a threat at once to family and nation. There is no question that the world is much better off once Fergus MacIvor and Frankenstein’s monster have been relegated to romance and gothic literature, respectively. Nevertheless, such figures do not pass quietly into historical oblivion. Having invested affect and aesthetic value in qualities of the human subject that exceed the limits of any modern social position, Scott and Shelley leave us in a world that borders on the lifeless when emptied of the grandiose individuality their novels must condemn.

Victorian novels make the turn against expressive individualism a mandatory component of the subject’s growth and development. To create an individual, however, still requires the novel to offer an interiority in excess of the social position that individual is supposed to occupy. In the novels that appear during the second half of the nineteenth century, the desire to adjust the dynamic of the community to one’s notion of it disrupts the community as a whole. Accordingly, signs of excess have to be disciplined, that is, observed, contained, sublimated, and redirected toward a socially acceptable goal. To become an individual under these circumstances, the subject must still surmount the limits of an assigned social position. This is only the first step on the path to individuality, however, and a false step at that. In a novel like Dickens’s Great Expectations (1860), we find that individualism is by nature aggressive and expresses itself in cruelty toward the very people whom one should cherish. Cruelty becomes productive in this scenario, as it serves to wear away the protagonist’s desire, reconcile him or her to a substitute, and channel the energy of individualism toward socially productive ends. I plan to read the sequence of transformations constituting such novels as a series of displacements driven not by the individual’s restless energy so much as by an imperative to close the gap between self and social position without disturbing what appears to be a dangerously fragile social order. The result is a radical reformulation of the individual as a subject layered by successive displacements. This subject is necessarily divided against itself, as the desire essential to that subject’s growth and development comes to pose a threat to its individuality. The protagonist of Victorian fiction does not become an individual on the basis of what and how intensely he or she desires; individuality depends on how he or she chooses to displace what is a fundamentally asocial desire onto a socially appropriate object. This process yields the internally conflicted subject produced by the novels that F. R. Leavis celebrates as constituting the great tradition.¹¹ Something very much like this process also yields the multilayered consciousness of psychoanalysis.

Indeed, an argument can be made that