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OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 28/10/2016, SPi
N O V E L P O LI TI C S
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OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 28/10/2016, SPi
Novel Politics
Democratic Imaginations in
Nineteenth-Century Fiction
I S O B E L A R M S TRO N G
1
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3
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP,
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© Isobel Armstrong 2016
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First Edition published in 2016
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OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 28/10/2016, SPi
Acknowledgements
viii Acknowledgements
this book at the universities of Loughborough, Leicester, Sheffield, Sussex,
Southampton, Oxford, and Chawton Library in England and Johns
Hopkins University in the USA. On every occasion the comments
I received were invaluable and I thank the many questioners unknown
to me for their contributions.
My nephew, Colin Burrow, shared his scholarly knowledge of the
classics and helped materially with technological expertise. My polymath
husband, the late Michael Armstrong, always came to the rescue with
information and ideas whenever I was stuck. I mourn his loss and thank
him for a lifetime of challenge and discussion. Exuberance is beauty.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 28/10/2016, SPi
Contents
I. DEMOCRATIC IMAGINARIES
1. Genealogies 3
Introduction 3
Codifying the Arboreal Family 8
Felix Holt 16
x Contents
Illegitimate Children: Daniel Deronda—Master and Slave
and the Politics of Recognition 162
Philosophical Peripeteia 174
Bibliography 265
Index 279
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PART I
DEMOCRATIC IMAGINARIES
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1
Genealogies
INTRODUCTION
1
Franco Moretti, Atlas of the European Novel 1800–1900. London and New York:
Verso Books, 1998, p. 20. Throughout the book the first reference to a text is given in the
notes, with subsequent references in parentheses in the text.
2
Fredric Jameson, ‘Afterword’, in A Concise Companion to Realism, ed. Matthew Beaumont.
Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010, pp. 279–89, p. 280. Jameson follows up this argument in
detail in Antinomies of Realism. London and New York: Verso Books, 2013.
3
See Simon During, Against Democracy: Literary Experience in the Era of Emancipations.
New York: Fordham University Press, 2012. During’s serious and challenging book is
joined by a larger contingent of French writers, represented in Giorgio Agamben and others,
Democracy in What State (2009), trans. William McCuaig. New York: Columbia University
Press, 2012.
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4 Novel Politics
through accounts of crisis or conflict. An ‘epochal transformation’ from
the overarching world order of ‘modernity’ to another, ‘postmodernity’,
has meant the displacement of ‘the grand narratives of emancipation and
enlightenment (including, notably, the “grand narrative” of capitalist his-
tory) [which] are not merely arguable or susceptible to criticism, but have
become definitively obsolete.’4 A ‘struggle-based’ (p. 12) model of politics
has given over to a more wary account of cultural difference and the
complexities of colonial discourse. Arguably, not merely postcolonial studies
but the whole field of criticism has become warily responsive to the
obsolescence of such grand narratives—including those critics working in
the tradition of Marxist criticism itself, those from whom I have just quoted.
A book that reads for a democratic imagination in the nineteenth-
century novel encounters an inhospitable critical environment. Neverthe-
less I aim to undo the readings characterized above. The book describes
the principles of a radical reading through a consideration of six novels of
illegitimacy. It takes up illegitimacy as a heuristic device for examining its
challenge to cultural norms, exclusion, social abjection, and perceived
inequity.5 Three novels of bearing illegitimate children and three novels
of being one are case studies in the second part of this book—Walter
Scott, The Heart of Midlothian (1818), Elizabeth Gaskell, Ruth (1853),
George Moore, Esther Waters (1894), Jane Austen, Emma (1815), Wilkie
Collins, No Name (1862), and George Eliot, Daniel Deronda (1876).6
4
Neil Lazarus, The Postcolonial Unconscious. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2011, p. 14.
5
My heuristic task has benefited from the considerable research on illegitimacy, both in
terms of historical documentation and the fictional representation of illegitimacy in nineteenth-
century novels, by Jenny Bourne Taylor and others. See Jenny Bourne Taylor, ‘Received, a
Blank Child: Charles Dickens, John Brownlow and the London Foundling Hospital—
Archives and Fictions’. Nineteenth-Century Literature, 56. 3. (2001) 293–363; ‘Bastardy and
Nationality: The Curious Case of William Shedden and the 1858 Legitimacy Act’. Cultural
and Social History, 4. 2. (2007) 171–92; ‘Bastards to the Time: Legitimacy and Legal Fiction in
Trollope’s Novels of the 1870s’, in The Politics of Gender in Anthony Trollope’s Novels, ed.
Regenia Gagnier et al. Burlington, VA and Farnham: Ashgate, 2009, pp. 45–60. See also, Alysa
Levene, Thomas Nutt, and Samantha Williams, eds., Illegitimacy in Britain 1700–1920, 3rd
edn. Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2005; Ginger Frost, Living in Sin: Cohabiting as Husband and Wife
in Nineteenth-Century England. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2008; Margot
C. Finn, Jenny Bourne Taylor, and Michael Lobban, eds., Legitimacy and Illegitimacy in
Nineteenth-century Law, Literature and History. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010.
6
The editions of the six novels are as follows: Walter Scott, The Heart of Midlothian, ed.
Claire Lamont. Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press, 1982; Elizabeth Gaskell,
Ruth, ed. Angus Easson. London: Penguin, 1997, rev. 2004; George Moore, Esther Waters,
ed. Hilary Laurie. London and Rutland VT: J. M. Dent, Charles E. Tuttle, 1991, rev.
1994; Jane Austen, Emma, eds. Adela Pinch and James Kinsley. Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2008; Wilkie Collins, No Name, ed. Virginia Blain. Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1986; George Eliot, Daniel Deronda, ed. Edmund White. New York: The Modern Library,
Random House Inc., 2002.
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Genealogies 5
Part I sets out the ways we might think about democratic imaginations
and the novel. Part II is a reading of the six novels through a poetics of
democratic imagination that is both formal and discursive.
The family is an invariant element of the novel of this era, but it is
defined through its other, illegitimacy. The family entity, dictating codes
of exclusion and entitlement, hierarchy and class, and constantly shifting
the boundaries of inclusion and exclusion, depends for its stability in civil
society on a definition of illegitimacy, by which it is underpinned. Illegit-
imacy becomes a nexus for a democratic imagination because it challenges
cultural certainties, but its significance is greater than this, as the philo-
logical history of the word demonstrates. Its reverse reflection, ‘legitim-
acy’, OED’s etymology reminds us, coming into Middle English from
Latin, is formed from lex, the law. The dictionary’s definition of ‘illegit-
imate’ (deriving from the sixteenth century) stresses this: ‘Born to parents
who are not lawfully married, not entitled in law to full filial rights.’ The
general meaning of ‘illegitimate’ is emphatically associated with the law:
‘not in accordance with or authorized by law; not in accordance with a
rule’. Not simply spurious, the illegitimate is defined as one without legal
identity, outside the law, outside heredity, a being without biological
parents. The law assumes that it can arbitrate over biology, when in fact
the law and biology are not parallel systems, but it ensures that illegitimacy
is always an irritant to itself and its systems. Nevertheless the law is
powerful enough to render the illegitimate an outsider and by extension
stateless, a non-subject. The illegitimate body belongs to no one, has no
roots. Thus illegitimacy and the radical—that which cuts to the root of
things, reconceptualizes roots—come together as a challenge to the demo-
cratic imagination. It has to think through the claims of the illegitimate ab
initio, going to the extreme limit of social space to do so and even to the
limits of species being. For once you are placed outside the law your status
as a fully human being can be questioned.
The law complicated this status further in the nineteenth century: it
abandoned the illegitimate to legal non-being and at one and the same
time exercised a coercive definition of its subjecthood. After the new Poor
Law of 1834, the illegitimate mother could no longer claim financial
support from the father on the grounds of paternity—paternity always
being uncertain—and instead the new law ruled that economic relief for
the mother must be assigned to the parish of her birth.7 It was a blow both
for and against patriarchal power. For, because it released the father from
7
For an astute account of the post-1834 standing of illegitimacy and its implications for
the culture as a whole, see Irene Tucker, A Probable State: The Novel, the Contract, and the
Jews. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2000, pp. 108–13.
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6 Novel Politics
responsibility for his casually conceived offspring; against, because it
erased him. In so far as the mother was solely responsible for the child
deemed self-evidently hers, this ruling endorsed matrilineal power; in so
far as it forced her into social and legal isolation it created a new kind of
category of negative matrilineality. Though Thomas Malthus seems
uncharacteristically generous to the illegitimate mother, marking the
gender-driven injustice that ensures that a woman may be ‘almost driven
from society for an offence which men commit nearly with impunity’, he
was quick to point out that the ‘offence’ of illegitimacy meant that the
woman and her children must ‘fall upon the society for support’.8 As for
the illegitimate child, in the second volume of Principles of Population he
insisted that ‘after the proper notice has been given, they should on no
account whatever be allowed to have any claim to parish assistance . . . The
infant is, comparatively speaking, of no value to the society’ (vol. 2,
p. 141). This was amended to ‘little value’ in 1806, a change that makes
little difference. If the child was deemed to have parents at all, that parent
was its literally de-graded mother. It was severed from its birthplace, with
no roots in a locality, uprooted both biologically and topographically. This
outsider status, a double outsider status for mother and child, is why
illegitimacy in the novel was for writers and is for us as readers a test case
for radical thinking.
What does democratic imagination mean in this context? John Dewey
described democracy as ‘more than a form of government; it is primarily a
mode of associated living, of conjoint communicated experience . . . the
widening of the area of shared concerns, and the liberation of a greater
diversity of personal capacities’.9 Pragmatism’s Hegelian heritage, and
Dewey’s seeming tendency to naturalize democracy as a form of life
without political foundations, have earned him some sceptical readings.
The usefulness of his formulation is that it points to an egalitarian way of
life that implicitly refuses the taxonomy of legitimate and illegitimate. But
it also points to a problem that I have to confront my readers with from
the start. When uncoupled from its strict political meaning, the achieve-
ment of a universal franchise, the semantics of ‘democratic’ are unspecific.
It is nevertheless the best word I can find. It may seem inappropriate to a
century where full democracy was never achieved, and whose leading
intellectuals—Carlyle, Mill, Arnold—it is only too well known, resisted
8
T. R. Malthus, An Essay on the Principle of Population (1803), ed. Patricia James.
London: 1989, vol. 1, p.324.
9
John Dewey, Democracy and Education. New York: Macmillan, 1916. Quoted by
Mary Emma Harris, The Arts at Black Mountain College. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press,
1987, p. xx.
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Genealogies 7
the franchise. But as will be seen, I am not writing of novels whose politics
are restricted to the franchise. I am speaking of the ‘democratic’ in a wider
sense that collocates a number of meanings that on their own would be
insufficient—egalitarian, radical, a life in common, comprehending an
inclusive human species being. Its negative connotations are equally
important: refusal of hierarchy and authoritarianism, repudiation of
what I will later term the deficit subject, the subject that falls outside
accounts of the fully human, consigned to bare life. A democratic imagin-
ation emerges through praxis in novels, through the capacity to image
states and conditions, not through discursive definition. The common
good, what it means to be human in the company of others, are concepts
democracy strives to define. The meaning of democracy is always in
process. It is an open term, perpetually demanding a new content.
Inevitably ‘democratic’ risks a fiduciary element when it enters expos-
itional language just as it risks essentialism. Despite this risk I am com-
mitted to it and to the need for testing out the integrity of its meaning in
different contexts. As we know, democratic societies can always commit
atrocities; but the democratic ideal remains a creative possibility. Recently
Simon During produced an impressive taxonomy of six forms of conser-
vatism, and argued that ‘Particular ideas or values are not conservative by
nature; they are conservative as historically situated and intended.’ He
adds that conservatism’s ‘structural tendency is to support hegemony’.10
This suggests that locating a conservative text involves reading for hegem-
ony as much as attending to the historical situatedness of the text. By the
same token locating a democratic text means frankly reading for the anti-
hegemonic. And reading for a democratic imagination acknowledges
Adorno’s principle: ‘The greatness of works of art lies solely in their
power to let those things be heard which ideology conceals’.11
A democratic imagination initiates a critical inquiry that belongs
equally to the themes and to the poetics of the novel, where it is possible
to see a social imaginary working formally and discursively. The corollary
of this argument is that the novel of the long nineteenth century is deeply
experimental. To attempt to discover a democratic aesthetic in the expli-
citly ‘political’ novel is to look in the wrong place, for two reasons: first,
the modern category of ‘social problem’ too often preordains a limited
thematic reading that iterates the conservative default model; second, the
10
Simon During, Against Democracy. Literary Experience in the Era of Emancipations.
New York: Fordham University Press, 2012, p. 45.
11
Theodore Adorno, ‘Lyric Poetry and Society’, in Critical Theory and Society: A Reader,
ed. Stephen Eric Bronner and Douglas MacKay Kellner. New York and London: Routledge,
1989, pp. 155–71, p. 157.
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8 Novel Politics
historical nineteenth-century writer was often hostile to the ballot, and the
mechanics of the ballot are not where political energy lies. As a starting
point the place to look is the prevalence of genealogy in the novel of this
time. Why genealogy? Because it is about the law of exclusion. It is
committed to hierarchy. It turns on the law. It is governed by the status
of biological descent rigidly defined, by roots. Genealogy is established
through the law of the father and implicitly on the transmission not only
of biological identity but also of property, frequently designated as own-
ership of land. Nevertheless the genealogical imperative in the British
novel of the long nineteenth century is extraordinarily self-conscious and
deconstructive in its awareness of the protocols of inclusion and exclusion,
of the new codifications of lineage, privilege, and class in print culture’s
encyclopaedias of the aristocracy, and of the old Enlightenment project of
determining affiliative roots, wedded increasingly with a Darwinian read-
ing of inherited characteristics. To question genealogy is to question the
law, the lex on which it is founded, and thus a whole value system and
relations of power.
12
Carla Vasio and Enzo Mari, Romanzo Historico. Milan: Milano Libri Edizione, 1974.
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Genealogies 9
Sooner or later the narrator lets the reader know the genealogy of his or
her main characters. Here are two examples that occur right at the start of
novels from the end and the beginning of the century respectively. ‘Throw
up your chin a moment, so that I can catch the profile of your face better.
Yes, that’s the D’Urbeville nose and chin—a little debased.’ In one of the
most self-conscious acts of genealogy-making, Hardy, at the end of the
century, treated the conventions of a long tradition of antiquarian research
into family origins with open irony. He begins the first chapter of Tess of
the D’Urbevilles (1891) with an extensive genealogical initiation: a scholar
clergyman and amateur philologist tells John Durbeyfield he is ‘the lineal
representative of the ancient and knightly family of the “D’Urbevilles”’,
who go back to the Norman conquest: though its inherited characteristics
are now ‘debased’.13 The myth of degeneracy goes hand in hand with the
notion of ‘pure’ lineage—hence the wry force of Tess as a ‘pure’ woman.
The tragedy unfolds from there. For the hypothetical affiliation of the
Durbeyfields with ‘Sir Pagan D’Urbeville, that renowned knight who
came from Normandy with William the Conqueror’ (p. 13), is not
incidental to the plot, though the clergyman shrugs off his information
as ‘useless’. Hardy makes the germ of the tragedy lie in the obsession of
certain forms of nineteenth-century historicism and linguistic research
with ‘tracing back’, with roots, and the model of the arboreal family
tree. He exposes its essential illogic. If widely dispersed affiliations are
eligible as ‘family’, when do relations of affinity terminate? When do we
effectively cut them off ? The brutal answer is, when poverty takes over.
The root of the tragedy is in its concern with the legal fiction of roots.14
Such genealogical irony is just as evident at the beginning of the
century, where one might expect less scepticism. Jane Austen offers
information immediately in Mansfield Park (1814): ‘About thirty years
ago, Miss Maria Ward of Huntingdon, with only seven thousand pounds,
had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of Mansfield Park, in
the county of Northampton, and to be thereby raised to the rank of a
baronet’s lady’.15 That ‘good luck’ deconstructs in just two words both
aristocratic lineal entitlement and meritocracy as a basis for privilege.
Genealogies call up whole power structures and formations. When, later
in the novel, we come to the realization that Sir Thomas is a slave owner
13
Thomas Hardy, Tess of the D’Urbevilles, ed. Simon Gatrell. Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1988, chapter 1, p. 14.
14
See Hans Aarsleff, The Study of Language in England. Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1967; Stephen G. Alter, Darwinism and the Linguistic Image: Language, Race, and
Natural Theology in the Nineteenth Century. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999.
15
Jane Austen, Mansfield Park, ed. Kathryn Sutherland. London: Penguin Books, 2000,
chapter 1, p. 5.
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10 Novel Politics
on his Antigua estate, retrospectively the ‘luck’ of marrying into wealth
and status takes on an even sharper political and legal edge. We wonder
about the shallowness of this new slave-owning wealth, its pretence of
heredity: what were Sir Thomas’s antecedents? All we know is that his
activities have been sanctioned by a—new?—baronetcy. Significantly his
house is ‘modern built’, a fashionable Palladian construction, we assume,
testifying to recently acquired status.
The genealogical imperative receives bracing deconstructive mockery in
Thackeray’s account of an aristocratic pedigree. Lord Steyne’s monster
pedigree in Vanity Fair (1848) gleefully lists the empty functions on which
his ancien régime aristocratic capital is based. A depthless, scintillating
array of mere names undermines his claims—a Whig myth of descent—to
belong to an organic history dating from the Druids. Here the Steyne
genealogy is a series of titles, where entitlement is tautologically invested in
titles. These are not a chain of signifiers but a discontinuous list that
reiterates power:
. . . the Most Honourable George Gustavus, Marquis of Steyne, Earl of Gaunt
and of Gaunt Castle, in the Peerage of Ireland, Viscount Hellborough, Baron
Pitchly and Grillsby, a Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, of the
Golden Fleece of Spain, of the Russian Order of Saint Nicholas of the First
Class, of the Turkish Order of the Crescent, First Lord of the Powder Closet
and Groom of the Back Stairs, Colonel of the Gaunt or Regent’s Own
Regiment of Militia, a Trustee of the British Museum, an Elder Brother of
the Trinity House, a Governor of the White Friars and D.C.L.16
Thackeray, like Hardy, is mordantly aware that the credentials of lineage
are the preserve of upper class groups (though punningly the Most
Honourable Gustavus propagates a stain on family history that goes
unnoticed by the upholders of privilege). Thackeray was more than
aware of that prestigious codification of aristocratic lineage, Burke’s Peerage,
initiated in 1826 by John Burke. Vanity Fair refers to Burke and twice
to his predecessor and rival, Debrett, whose records derived from John
Almon’s The New Peerage of 1769. Such pretentious documentation is also
sinister in this text: Sir Pitt Crawley as Baronet is entitled to wear the ‘blood-
red hand’ (9, p. 123) on the escutcheon of his coat of arms, a reminder that
the category of baronet originated in bloodshed and the necessity to raise
money for war in Ulster. Debrett’s was an elite manual for the privileged,
but Burke’s labour of genealogical documentation was ceaseless: he went
beyond the aristocracy to codify that lesser group of gentry that fell just
16
William Makepiece Thackeray, Vanity Fair, ed. J. I. M. Stewart. Harmondsworth:
Penguin Books, 1968, chapter 64, p. 753.
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Genealogies 11
below hereditary entitlement. He embarked on A genealogical and heraldic
history of the commoners of Great Britain and Ireland enjoying territorial
possessions or high official rank, but uninvested with heritable honours
(1833–8), a work that continued to be updated to the 1960s. He also
edited The Patrician: A monthly journal of history, genealogy, antiquities,
heraldry. His son, Sir Bernard Burke, continued the work of exclusive
social taxonomy with A genealogical and heraldic history of the landed
gentry of Great Britain (1886). The earliest genealogical society was
actually American, the New England Historic Genealogical Society,
founded in 1845. English genealogists preferred to document the elite,
such as Walford’s County Families (1860). This zeal for documenting
family privilege was clearly part of a general movement of codification
that saw the first Census of Great Britain take place in 1801. However,
the Burke records were a new nineteenth-century project of hierarchy
and exclusion, a new form of genealogical law-making. It is significant
that this intensification of the codification of the aristocracy happened
at the time when the agitation for political reform that culminated in
the Reform Act of 1832 was under way.
The supreme fiction of aristocratic genealogy is one thing. Details of
family, fortune, and descent appear, less dramatically than in the examples
here, but no less certainly in virtually all fictional texts of the period
documenting upper and middle class family. The act of construction
and the act of questioning run parallel. We hear from Trollope on the
first page of He Knew He Was Right (1869) that Louis Trevelyan had
married Emily Rowley, daughter of Sir Marmaduke, governor of the
fictitious tropical Mandarin islands, who at fifty possessed an income
(and eight daughters) no larger than the £3,000 a year his twenty-four-
year-old son-in-law could realize on his inherited wealth. It is Trollope
who exposes the functions of genealogy when one of his personae, Mr
Wharton, in The Prime Minister (1876) speaks of Ferdinand Lopez, a
character whose origins are unknown, as a man without ‘belongings’.17 He
does not mean ‘belongings’ as property, but the record of birth and
affiliation that affirms your legal and social status. Your genealogy
‘belongs’ to you and shows others where you belong. Without its guar-
antee of family history you have no identity or standing.
Thus, as important as the provenance, status, and wealth of such
figures, is the fact that they belong to a recognized history of biological
law. The politics of genealogy are subtle: George Eliot is careful to relate
that Dorothea, in Middlemarch (1872) is descended from a ‘Puritan
17
Anthony Trollope, The Prime Minister, ed. David Skilton. London: Penguin Books,
2004, chapter 5, p. 44.
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12 Novel Politics
gentleman who served under Cromwell’, not only registering the
unusually intense social feeling that Dorothea expresses, and that a mod-
ern reader might miss, but also making sure of a gendered understanding.
Women are ‘lineal’ descendents as well as men.18 Daniel Deronda is
uncomfortably aware of the Mallinger family tree from a boy, uncertain
of his part in it, an illuminated document that is brought out to show off
the longstanding aristocratic Mallinger lineage when Grandcourt and
Gwendolen visit. Genealogies in the novel register almost impersonally
criteria for expanding or contracting the limits of social inclusion and are
sensitive to the nuances of groups and formations and the changing
configurations of class hierarchy. Sir Marmaduke belongs to a new profes-
sional bureaucracy invested in colonial governance, and Dorothea is affili-
ated to a proud minority tradition of Puritan gentry-republicans reaching
back to the Civil War. It is no wonder she castigates her wealthy compat-
riots (with radical feeling rarely taken seriously either by her fictional
contemporaries or by readers) for living complacently in their ‘great houses’,
from which they should be whipped (p. 31).19 Daniel Deronda’s Sir Hugo
Mallinger, on the other hand, is a Whig grandee, a formation conspicuous
in nineteenth-century fiction. These fictional characters’ understanding of
social experience, class, and status, is often determined by the ways they can
see beyond their own conditions—or not. Mallinger, over-confident but in
some respects correct, is convinced, for instance, that political reform will
not substantially change the aristocratic and elite class structures of England
or make a ‘serious difference’ to them.20
If characters do not belong to such established groups their place in
provincial life is carefully localized. The lineage of Elizabeth Gaskell’s ‘fallen’
woman in Ruth (1853) is an example. Significantly this is a matrilineal
account. ‘Ruth’s mother had been the daughter of a poor curate in Norfolk,
and, early left without parents or home, she was thankful to marry a
respectable farmer a good deal older than herself ’.21 As Ruth’s mother slips
down the social scale in the move from being the daughter of a professional
man and gentleman to becoming the wife of a country farmer, so Ruth slips
further, in less than a generation, by joining the labouring poor and becom-
ing a seamstress on the deaths of her parents. The precariousness of class and
status and its material power to order lives is poignantly understood.
18
George Eliot, Middlemarch, ed. Rosemary Ashton. London: Penguin Books,
2003, chapter 1, p. 7.
19
Thanks to Barbara Hardy for reminding me of Dorothea’s vehemence.
20
George Eliot, Daniel Deronda, ed. Edmund White. New York: The Modern Library,
Random House Inc., 2002, chapter 69, p. 721.
21
Elizabeth Gaskell, Ruth, ed. Angus Easson. London: Penguin Books, 2004, chapter 3,
p. 33.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 28/10/2016, SPi
Genealogies 13
The point of emphasizing the genealogical imperative in the novel is
that genealogy enables us to probe details of origin that have been set up
with purposive deconstructive design. Genealogy is the place in the novel
that exposes origins and indeed the myth of origins in such a way that one
cannot say that ideology is going on behind the novel’s back. What we
encounter is a sharply critical self-consciousness where class and status are
reimagined. It is where we will find the self-conscious markers of a
democratic imagination. It is where the notion of a default conservatism
has to be substantially complicated and revised.
There are two ways in which the genealogical imperative manifests itself
in the novel: direct and indirect. Sometimes writers introduce problems of
class and privilege openly: Trollope’s Cousin Henry (1879) deals frankly
with the contradictions and artifice of primogeniture. But many novelists
leave details to be deduced, often exposing a dubious entitlement or
problematic family history that points to the precariousness of the social
order and its constructedness. In contrast to Mansfield Park, Austen uses
the indirect deployment of genealogical matter in Emma (1815). We hear
that Emma is handsome, clever, and rich, but later that the Hartfield
estate is a small ‘notch’ in the Donwell land. From this we deduce the
relative brevity of the Hartfield family’s ownership of wealth, and its
possibly dubious and parvenu origins in comparison with the longstand-
ing history of the Tory landowning Knightleys—in the non-stop com-
mentary that initiates her acquaintance with Emma, the upstart Mrs Elton
remarks that both her own sister’s Maple Grove and Emma’s abode are
‘modern’ houses, which doesn’t augur well. The grounds of Emma’s
genealogical snobbery and her eugenic commitment to ‘blood’ become
curiously problematical. After her hysterical response to Elton’s proposal
of marriage, adding the taint of trade to its insult, her fear of sexuality, of
her own and others, hides behind a sense of entitlement that becomes
suspect and euphemistically uncertain: though the Woodhouse fortune
does not come from ‘landed property’, Emma tells herself, in a revealing
moment of free indirect discourse, they have been settled in Hartfield for
‘several generations’ (number unspecified), they are of ‘a very ancient
family’ (how ancient unspecified), with an income not from land but
‘from other sources’ (unspecified).22 If an income did not originate in land
in the early nineteenth century, it is hard to see where else it could have
come from except from inward trade or outward trade with the colonies.
Some critics characterize this income as stocks and bonds, but stocks and
bonds have simply transformed the vulgar income derived ultimately from
22
Jane Austen, Emma, eds. Adela Pinch and James Kinsley. Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2008, chapter 16, p. 108.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 28/10/2016, SPi
14 Novel Politics
trade into a more distant form of it. To whom do those words, ‘hand-
some’, ‘clever’, ‘rich’, belong? Are they the internalized vocabulary of
privilege to which Emma has been early acculturated? In any case, they
cannot remain unquestioned.
Family history is bound up ideologically with the broader movement of
history. In a very different novel, Wuthering Heights (1847) the same
indirectness is at work, but we can still deduce a significant genealogy
for the Earnshaw family. Lockwood, the fact-gathering urban outsider
who fancies himself as an amateur anthropologist, visits Wuthering
Heights. He sees the date, ‘1500’, over the door of the farm-house, and
‘grotesque’ carvings of griffins and ‘shameless’ (illegitimate?) little boys in
its stone lintel, with the name, ‘Hareton Earnshaw’ inscribed there.23 The
year 1500 takes the Earnshaw family back to the reign of Henry VII, and
to the establishment of Tudor power after the Wars of the Roses. It’s even
possible that the origin of the (presumably Yorkshire) Heights was a grant
of land awarded for a part in this conflict. Perhaps the Earnshaws earned
something. Emily Brontë places the Heights at the junction of two great
historical upheavals, these wars, and the coming of Protestant England
under Henry VIII. The ‘shameless’ carvings that clearly make Lockwood
uncomfortable about his sexuality are not remnants of medieval iconog-
raphy: early modern putti were part of the influx of renaissance art into
England at this time, a movement that continued into the Elizabethan era.
Emily Brontë’s accurate, though slightly early placing of putti in this
location, suggests that she knew of the revival of putti through what is
sometimes termed the Victorian renaissance revival.24 The 300-year-old
Earnshaw family was once cultured and upwardly mobile, it seems, but now
its isolation has forced it in upon itself, though always with libido and
aggression to spare. Its ossification as a farming family without the entrepre-
neurial talent of the rentier practices of Thrushcross Grange has declassed it.
Its introversion makes it a prey to another cultural phenomenon of mod-
ernity, romantic love, and the compensatory hubris of the romantic subject
that creates its own terms for existing in the social world. The carvings, stone
remnants from another era, point to an enduringly ‘shameless’ erotic
23
Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights, ed. David Daiches. London: Penguin Books,
1985, chapter 1, p. 46.
24
The putto, revived in quattrocento art, arrived in England as part of the so-called
Northern Renaissance in approximately 1500, and interest in putti reappeared in the
nineteenth-century revival of renaissance art. See Charles Dempsey, Inventing the Renais-
sance Putto. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2001. See also Hilary
Fraser, The Victorians and Renaissance Italy. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 1992; Katherine
Wheeler, Victorian Perceptions of Renaissance Architecture. Aldershot and Burlington VT:
Ashgate, 2014.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 28/10/2016, SPi
Genealogies 15
unconscious at Wuthering Heights, where romantic love depends on pos-
session, on being possessed, and on possession of the other. Passional
possession and material possession become hopelessly entangled.
Emily Brontë’s historical and political insight is so deeply and pro-
foundly embedded in her text, and so indirectly, that its implications and
indirectness require teasing out. This embeddedness appropriately rounds
off these detailed examples of the genealogical imperative because the
critique of the law of exclusion engaged by the democratic imagination
occurs in this narratologically embodied way. It is immanent. The demo-
cratic imagination comes into being through praxis. It is a critical project:
it does not pursue a finite agenda or preordained plan. Yet it is sustained
by a purposive imagining of the constructed fragility of social forms and
how they could be otherwise.
Unwillingness to read this kind of indirectness and its purposiveness is
the reason why the genealogical imperative and the centrality of the family
to the novel is frequently seen as a limiting factor, a concern with domestic
values that is taken as evidence of the conservative default mode, an elite
middle class idiom. An extreme form of such criticism has aligned the
novel with an Englishness that is in identity with the nation and an
ideology of power and hierarchy on the assumption that the family
affiliations and credentials so carefully mapped in fiction are a microcosm
of the nation state and its authority. In turn the nation state comes to be
envisaged as an extended family. We have seen Franco Moretti’s reading of
the novel: for Terry Eagleton the novel is the literary form most typical of
the bourgeois culture that is both agent and shaper of the nation state.25
(Moretti and Eagleton have been joined by more open critics who are re-
reading the working class novel, and who see mainstream fictions as
canonical, realist, and middle class.)26 These critics belong to a strong
tradition of Marxist criticism and take up what can fairly be expected to be
a predetermined position. Yet in his impressive Nation and Novel (2006),
even such a subtle and less aligned critic as Patrick Parrinder is inclined
to bring the novel and its family themes under the rubric of the
nation state: taking up Benedict Anderson’s model of the imagined
community, he writes that ‘if the novel is a representation of an imagined
community, then so, as many recent writers have argued, are our ideas of
25
A view best represented in Terry Eagleton’s Heathcliff and the Great Hunger. Oxford:
Wiley, 1995.
26
See in particular Ian Haywood, Working Class Fiction (Writers and their Work).
Tavistock: Northcote House Press, 1996; Ellen Bayuk Rosenman, ‘The Virtue of Illegitimacy:
Inheritance and Belonging in The Dark Woman and Mary Price’, in G. W. M. Reynolds:
Nineteenth-Century Fiction, Politics, and the Press, eds. Anne Humphreys, Louis James.
Aldershot and Burlington VT: Ashgate, 2008, pp. 213–26.
Exploring the Variety of Random
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412 APPENDIX. an excellent opportunity for sending out at
the same time a collection of living plants and seeds, with the view
of ascertaining precisely the effects produced upon such things
during a long sea voyage, as well as of introducing to Clxina some of
the best flowers, fruits, and vegetables, which are cultivated in
Europe. For this purpose they ordered some glazed cases to be
prepared, and filled with such kinds of fruit-trees and ornamental
plants as were likely to succeed well in the climate of China, and be
of use both to the Chinese and to the foreio:n residents. They were
made fast on the poop of the vessel, and we sailed from England on
the 1st of March, 1843. The Aveather during the early part of the
voyage was cold, dull, and wet, and the plants grew very little until
we reached the latitude of Madeira, which we saw on the 13th of the
month. The thermometer averasfcd 62° Fahr. at this time in the
shade, and the plants feehng the effects of the sudden change of
temperature, began to grow with great rapidity, completely filling the
cases in a few days with young shoots and leaves. This took place
before we reached the equator. The vines, peach-trees, and figs
seemed quite at home ; the roses also grew fast and began to
blossom, but evidently in an atmosphere which was too hot and
close for their constitution, and in a short time their leaves began to
suffer from pressure against the damp glass, in the same manner as
we frequently see plants in crowded hothouses in England. " About
this period, — that is, when we were in the vicinity of the equator, —
the thermometer averaged 77° in the shade, and Avas frequently
higher in the night than during the day. From the condition of the
plants at this stage of the voyage, it was evident that a most
important point in the preparation of cases is always to select
specimens which are strong, healthy, and well-established ; weak
plants, in many instances, are sure to perish, because the stronger
kinds overgrow them, keeping them from the light and air, and
APPENDIX. 413 preventing thein from forming stems and
leaves for their support. " We passed the longitude of the Cape of
Good Hope in the beginning of INIay ; but, in order to have the
advantage of westerly winds, we kept well south in lat. 38°, where
the thermometer ranijed from 55° to 65° Fahr. This change was
evidently a most trying one for the plants, which, after having grown
rapidly when sailing through warmer climates, and having filled the
cases with weak, half-ripened wood, were now suddenly checked by
dull weather, and a temperature which was comparatively low.
Mildew and other fungi now" attacked them, and most of the leaves
which were in contact Avith the glass were rotted by the damp. " It
was curious to remark the similar effects which were produced upon
animals and plants by this change of temperature ; both suffered
more from comparative than from actual cold. A few weeks before
this, the plants began to grow most rapidly in a temperature about
the same as that in which they were now suffering from cold ; in
fact, they grew considerably then in a temperature several degrees
lower. The very same effects were produced upon my own feelings,
as well as upon those of the other passengers in the ship. We felt
the heat much in lat. 33° or 34° N., with a temperature of 58° and
60°, and were then putting on our thin white clothing; while with the
same warmth on the south side of the line we felt cold, and were
obliged to resume our thick, warm dresses. "Having kept in the same
degree of latitude all along from the Cape until we reached the
islands of Amsterdam and St. Paul's, in the Indian Ocean, we then
stood northerly, in the direction of Java Head. The temperature, of
course, gradually increased as we sailed northwards, but the
excitability of the plants was, in a great measure, gone, and even
when we reached the Straits of Sunda, where, owing to the
proximity of land, it was much warmer than it had been under the
line in the Atlantic
414 APPENDIX. Ocean, still they grew again in a slow and
languid manner, and the shoots were Avcak. It is these rapid
changes from summer to winter, and from winter to summer, which
destroys so many plants in a long voyage round the Cape, to or from
India or China. " AVhen we reached Ilong-kong I found that most of
the plants were alive, although some of them were in a very
exhausted state. Some olive trees which I took out were as healthy
and green as the day we started ; vines, pears, and figs also stood
the voyage remarkably well. The soil, although it had received no
water for four months, was nearly as moist as when we left England,
Avhich proved the closeness of the cases. "Having described what
actually takes place during a long sea voyage, I shall now proceed to
give some instructions relating to cases, packing, shipping, and
general management, which, I trust, will be useful to those
interested in such matters. " Glazed Cases. — ' Ward's Cases,' or air-
tight cases as they are commonly called, are so well known in all
parts of the Avorld, that a minute description of them here is
unnecessary. They are not, strictly speaking, air-tight, but they are
so close that the moisture cannot escape, and therefox'e if the soil
be well watered before the case is closed, the moisture is retained in
sufficient quantity to support plants during a voyage to or from the
most distant parts of the world. When the sun shines, evaporation
goes on in the usual way, but the vapour finding no outlet,
condenses on the glass and wood of the cases, as well as upon the
leaves of the plants, and in the evening again falls down like dew
upon the soil. In this manner the vapour goes on forming and
condensing, according to the heat of the weather during the voyage,
without much actual loss, providing the cases are tightly made. "
After this explanation, any one will be able to see that it is of the
greatest importance to have the cases made of well-seasoned wood,
which is not liable to si3lit or open
APrENDIX. 415 at the joints when exposed to the hot sun
of the tropics. If this happens, the plants will either perish from
drought, or sea-water will probably be admitted, whieh is equally
fatal to vegetable life. " Another defect in the construction of many
of these cases is the shortness of their feet. The bottom of the case
should always be at least six inches raised from the deck of the
vessel. Washing decks is the first part of the sailor's business every
morning at sea, and they are not generally very particular as to
where they throw the water. If the feet of the plant-case are shorter
than six inches, there will not be sufficient room for the sailors to
dash the water below it, and consequently both the bottom and
sides will stand the chance of being washed every morning as
regularly as the decks. In the course of a four or five months'
voyage, the salt Avater is certain to find its way into the soil, Avhich
it then saturates, and destroys the roots of the plants. I have no
doubt that this is one of the reasons why plants generally arrive in
such bad condition from India and other parts of the world, for I
have frequently seen the soil of such cases in a complete puddle
when they come to hand in England. " Plants, Soil, ^c. — I have
already noticed the great importance of choosing strong, healthy
plants, which are not liable to be overgrown or to damp off during
the voyage. I found that grafted plants were also more liable to
suffer than others, as one or two of my young scions died, while the
stocks remained healthy enough. " The soil of the cases should be at
least nine or ten inches in depth. After the plants are put in, each
case should be placed perfectly level, and liberally supplied with
water. It is much better if this can be done ten days or a fortnight
before the plants are to be sent off, so that they may be well
established in their new quarters. During this time they can have
frequent waterings ; and then, when the soil has filled up all the
crevices in the cases and becomes firm, it may be fastened down
with
416 APPENDIX. cross bars of wood. A little moss, where it
can be obtained, is an excellent thing to sprinkle on the surface, as it
both helps to keep the earth down, and at the same time prevents
evaporation from going on too rapidly. This mode of packing applies
to shrubs and trees ; orchids, or air-plants, require different
treatment. As the latter do not draw much nourishment from the
soil, there is no occasion to have so much of it in the cases ; indeed,
a large body of damp soil is very apt to rot the plants. Two or three
inches is quite sufficient. As these plants are generally found
growing upon trees, the best Avay is to cut the portion of the branch
on which the plant grows, and send it home with the plant upon it.
In the majority of cases it is a bad plan to pull the root off the wood,
if the plants are to be sent in glazed cases and exposed to a sea
voyage for five or six months. When I despatched some cases filled
with Phalainopsis from Manila, I had them made with only one
glazed side, the other was wood. After packing the bottom of the
cases full of plants I nailed a great number to the wooden side, and
from the number which arrived in good order in this country the plan
must have answered the purpose. It is well known that many of
these air-plants require so little nourishment from the soil, that they
may be sent home in common packing-cases if the voyage does not
occupy more than six Aveeks, or even two months, such as from the
West Indies or South America. The above remarks, with regard to
air-plants, therefore, only apply to long voyages, such as from India
or China to this country. " Sliips and sliipping Plants. — When the
vessel is about to sail, the cases should be closed firmly, and the
joints must be made perfectly tight. Narrow strips of canvass dipped
in a boiling mixture of tar and pitch, and put on the outside of the
joints, answer the purpose admirably, and should always be used
where there is any difficulty in making the joints close. Large vessels
with poops are the best for plants, and should always be preferred
where
APPENDIX. 417 there is any choice, as their decks are
higher, and consequently less liable to be washed by the sea. The
poop, either in small or large ships, is the best place for the cases to
be placed : in small vessels they should either be put there or not
sent at all. The main or mizen top is sometimes recommended ; but
most captains object to have such heavy articles placed so high
above the decks. " In 1841 or 1842 the Horticultural Society received
a case of plants by the ' Emu,' from Van Diemen's Land, the whole of
which were dead when they reached this country. As I haj^pened, in
1843, to go out to China by the same vessel, I made some inquiries
of one of the officers regarding the treatment this case had received
on board during the passage home. He candidly told me that they
had considered it too much in the way when on the poop, and had
sent it forward near the bows. When, therefore, the vessel was ' on
a wind,' or had a heavy head sea to contend with, she shipped a
great quantity of water over the bows, and of course deluged the
poor plants. This at once accounted for the bad order in which the
case had been received. I should, therefore, recommend botanical
collectors, and those individuals who are in the habit of sending
home cases of plants from the far distant East to their friends in
Europe, to obtain a promise from the captain that the cases shall
remain upon the poop of the vessel during the Avhole of the voyage.
If they are sent forward, or even placed upon the quarter deck, the
contents are sure to be destroyed. It is also the best way to ship the
cases in the usual business manner, taking a bill of lading for the
same, with the freight payable in England, or in any other place to
which the ship may be bound. " Unless there is some one on board
who understands the cultivation of plants, the cases should never be
opened from the time they are shipped, until they arrive at their
destination. The only directions I was in the habit of giving when I
took the plants on board were the following : * Do not move them
from the poop ; never allow them to E E
418 APPENDIX. be opened ; should any accident happen to
the glass, repair it immediately, either with glass, or, where that
cannot be had, a piece of thin board will answer the purpose ; in
stormy weather, when there is any probability of spray coming over
the poop, throw an old sail over the eases ; and, lastly, iiever allow
the sailors to throw a drop of loater over them when they are
tcashing decks in the morning.'' These directions are short, easily
understood, and easily acted upon. " Treatment during the Voyage.
— When the botanical collector returns with his plants, or when
there is any one on board of the ship who understands their
management, the cases may be opened and the plants examined
from time to time with the most beneficial results. In order that
those who are going out or returning from the East may understand
how this is best done, I shall detail, shortly, my own practice during
the voyage home, and its results. " Eighteen cases were packed in
the manner I have already recommended, and taken on board of the
* John Cooper,' then at anchor in the bay of Hong-kong. As it was in
the end of the year, the monsoon was fair down the China Sea, and
wc reached the island of Java in eleven days. After passing the
straits of Sunda, we had variable winds for a week or ten days, and
then got into the southeast trades. In these latitudes the weather is
generally settled and fine, the sea is smooth, and the vessel is
wafted gently onward in her course towards the Cape of Good Hope.
In ordinary circumstances, therefore, it is perfectly safe to open the
cases frequently during this part of the voyage. Those under my
care at this time were made with sliding-doors at each end, so that I
could give air and get my hand in, without unscrewing the sides.
These slides were drawn out almost every day in the morning after
decks were washed, and on very fine days the side-sash of each
case was unscrewed, and the plants fully exposed. At these times all
the dead or damping leaves were removed, and the surface of the
soil dressed and cleaned. I always made it
APPENDIX. 419 a rule never to leave any of them open at
niglit, however fine the night might appear to be. " This mode of
treatment was carried on until we be";an to get near to Madagascar.
As bad weather is generally experienced off this island, I made all
the cases as tight as possible with putty, and never opened them
again until we got round the Cape. After the 'Cape of Storms' is
passed, the mariner generally gets again into fine weather, and, with
a fair south-east trade wind, runs direct for St. Helena. Knowing that
I would be able to procure a supply of fresh w^ater there, I exposed
the plants as much as possible every day, in order that all the
dampness might be removed, and that the young wood which was
then formed on many of the i^lants might be well hardened. When
we anchored at St. Helena, I took care to give the soil as much fresh
water as it could take in, and then screwed the sashes down again.
The weather continued fine, and the winds fair until we reached the
equator. During this time the end slides were generally open every
day. " When near the equator, we again got into variable winds,
having run out of the trades, and were frequently deluged with
heavy rains. At these times I was in the habit of opening the sashes
and allowing the plants to receive a refreshing shower, which did
them a great deal of good. In circumstances of this kind, however,
great care should be taken that the water does not come doAvn out
of some of the sails which have been exposed to the salt spray of
the ocean, as it would then be impregnated with salt, and would
probably injure or destroy the plants. I notice this more particularly
as an accident of the kind nearly hajDpened to myself. " After
coming through the ' variables,' we got what are called the north-
east trade winds, and steered for the Western Islands. As the
weather was now bad, and the vessel ' close-hauled,' that is, sailing
very near the wind, we often had a considerable quantity of spray
coming over the deck. Before coming into this weather, I took care
to E E 2
420 APPENDIX. have the cases again perfectly closed ; the
end slides now had often to remain closely shut down, not only on
account of the spray, but also on account of the saltness of the air,
which would doubtless have been very deleterious. After having
three or foiu" weeks of this weather, we got at last into smooth
water in the English Channel, where, as the weather was fine, I
again o])ened the cases and found them in excellent order. No
detention taking place at the docks, the cases were immediately
conveyed to the garden of the Society at Chiswick. The following
numbers will show the results of this shipment : — Number of plants
put into the cases in China - 250 reported in good condition when
landed - - - - 215 which died during the voyage - - 35 " In a
communication from Mr. Livingstone of Macao, read to the Society in
1819, and published in the third Volume of the Transactions, it is
stated that at that time only one plant in a thousand survives the
voyage from China to England, and supposing, on an average, that
plants purchased in Canton, including their chests, and other
necessary charges, cost 65. 8d. each, consequently each surviving
plant must have been introduced at the enormous expense of
upwards of 300/. The result which I have given above will show,
however, that we have made some improvement in the introduction
of Chinese plants since the days of Mr. Livingstone."
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