Sulpicia

 

     Sulpicia’s poems may be read in the original with English translation and notes on the Perseus site at https://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.02.0071.  Other translations are available at https://people.uncw.edu/deagona/lit/Sulpicia.pdf (by Lee Pearcy) and https://www.classicscorner.org/translation (by seventeen-year-old Sarah Freeman).

 

 

     When discussing Sulpicia, consideration of her gender is inescapable due to the simple fact that very little survives of women’s writing from the ancient Roman world.  A good many texts which we know once existed have vanished: Cornelia’s letters, Agrippina’s memoirs, Hortensia’s speeches, poems by Catullus’ Clodia, even a later Sulpicia whom Martial praised, all these are lost [1].  It is therefore no wonder that the mere fact of a competent female Latin poet has attracted considerable interest, particularly in recent decades. 

     Her obscurity was long compounded by the fact that her elegies were folded into the Corpus Tibullianum, which includes texts by poets other than Tibullus [2].  The six poems now considered to be Sulpicia’s follow a group of five on the same love relationship called the “Garland of Sulpicia” or the Cerinthus-Sulpicia cycle, the authorship of which is uncertain.  One might write a meaningful study of the interference of non-aesthetic elements into literary evaluation by charting critics’ reactions to the Sulpicia poems once their female authorship had been accepted.  Some critics found the poems weak, with sexist critics using terms with gender associations such as naïve and emotional, while feminist readers found the poems asserting their own feminism.  Those who, consciously or not, think little of female writers are slow to recognize Sulpicia’s debts to earlier elegiac conventions while more sympathetic readers consider her allusions and literary debts substantial and sophisticated.  The present intention is largely descriptive, acknowledging the issue of gender in a context of Roman patriarchy but then proceeding without value assumptions either positive or negative from a woman as writer.

    Most love poetry – one need only think of the blues – deals with difficulties or disappointment in romance.  The first of the poems attributed to Sulpicia (Tibullus 3.13) instead expresses fulfilment.  In the opening phrase “love has finally come” (Tandem venit amor) the relationship seems accomplished and mutually satisfying.  The poet has, it seems, like Sappho, invoked the goddess of love, but here her success seems explicit.  The obstacle is only others, those who might not approve of the couple, the sort of meddlers called “serveriorum” and “malus” in Catullus 5 and “curioso” in Catullus 7, like unsympathetic parents in New Comedy and Romeo and Juliet or the “jealous ones” of Occitanian verse. 

     The tension of individual desire in a context of social conventions is present throughout this verse from the first line’s mention of pudor to her later concern at busybodies reading her love notes and the final declaration that she is glad to sin (pecasse), having found a satisfyingly mutual relationship signified by the closing phrase suggesting both lovers are worthy (“cum digno digna fuisse ferar”).  Poetry and the goddess have contributed to the temporary triumph at least of a personal love which brings an island of joy in a less than ideal world.

     The threats to a love relationship become specific in the second lyric 3.14 (or Sulpicia 2) in which the lover’s uncle insists she spend her birthday on his country estate when she would prefer to be with her beloved in Rome.  While the birthday poem (or γενεθλιακόν) was a recognized genre [3], it is here, rather than a celebration, a lament about the interfering uncle [4]. 

   In this case the poet’s intrusive relative is a prominent Roman, Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus, a general and author (whose works are lost) and a significant patron of the arts like Maecenas.  He was particularly close with Tibullus and the poet known as Lygdamus, though he knew Horace and Ovid as well.  A powerful man, his authority over Sulpicia is unquestioned.  Yet she resists the excursion, preferring Cerinthus’ company and saying that the country estate Is cold (frigidus) and too rural (agro), unfit for a girl (puella).  The more conventional Latin praise of the rural life evident in, for instance, Martial 10.47 or Horace’s  Epode 2, is altogether lacking;  Sulpicia’s preference is for the city.

     The third poem, a pendant to the second,  indicates that Sulpicia’s wishes prevailed and she is able to observe her birthday with her lover.  The tone is especially intimate as the elegy is cast in the form of a letter to Cerinthus.

     The fourth reveals a different obstacle to love: Cerinthus is spending time with a courtesan.  The ambiguities about propriety in the first poem return here to describe a frivolous infidelity on the part of her beloved.  She pretends it is her family’s concern about reputation rather than her own jealousy that makes her angry.  She suggests that she deserves better as the daughter (filia Servi) of Servius Sulpicius Rufus the distinguished jurist, a student of Cicero when young and consul in maturity.  Invective similar to that used in iambic poems appears here in phrases like “obscure bed” (ignoto toro)  and “whore” (scortum), yet Sulpicia maintains her pose of superior composure, resisting being put into an absurd (inepta) situation.  Her anger nonetheless betrays her passion.

     In the fifth poem Sulpicia is ailing and wonders whether recovery would be worth it, since Cerinthus is behaving in a thoughtless manner.  Thoughts of suicide enter her mind as lovesickness complicates a physical illness.  She appeals to her lover as a petitioner, just as countless courtly love poems address the woman in a similar manner.

     The final poem associated with Sulpicia finds her again complaining of inattention, but blaming herself, suggesting the ruminations occasioned by the anxiety of love.  She regrets having pressed Cerinthus, fearing that she has alienated his affection further in taking a standoffish approach, what the troubadours were to call daunger.

     Considered together, Sulpicia’s poems present the reader with a picture of a love relationship consistent with elegiac conventions which anticipates the love poetry of the High Middle Ages.  While one of her poems seems to celebrate love’s fulfilment, frustration -- with her uncle, her lover, and herself -- is the more common theme.  Far from writing about lust, Sulpicia is primarily concerned with a mutually affectionate relationship, and repeatedly expresses anxiety about her lover’s emotional commitment, only to question her own gambits in trying to retain his devotion.  Some would regard this delicacy, along with the social limitations suggested by her uncle’s authority over her and her lover’s option of a purchased sexual partner, as indicative of her femininity, but such judgements have no effect on evaluation nor do they constitute a protest against ancient Roman patriarchal values. 

     If the judgement of Kirby Flower Smith in calling her an “amateur” whose primary gift is “simplicity” and who “writes from a full heart” is prejudiced, Ezra Pound’s claim that to translate her forty lines would be worth ten years of one’s life is at least hyperbolic [5].  As a woman writer of love elegies, she is neither a naïve imitator of male models nor is she a standard bearer for women’s rights.  The six poems attributed to Sulpicia constitute a satisfying pocket drama, complicated by the tensions between insistent passionate love on the one hand and limitations in one’s society and in one’s partner or oneself on the other. 

 

 

 

 

1.  They are known only because they are mentioned in other people’s writing: see Cicero Brutus 58.211,  Tacitus (Annals 4.53.3) and Pliny (Naturalis historia 7.46) for Agrippina, Valerius Maximus (8.3.3) and Quintilian (De institutione oratorio 1.1.4-8) for Hortensia.  A scholiast quotes two iambic lines of the later Sulpicia (sometimes called the satirist) in a manuscript known only from a citation in a fifteenth century edition of Juvenal.  Martial praises her in 10.35.

 

2.  They had long been known as Tibullus 3.13-3.18, but are today  sometimes identified as Sulpicia 1-6. 

 

3.  Among Latin examples of the genre are Tibullus 1.7, and 2.2, Propertius 3.10, Ovid, Prop. III 10, Ov. Tr. III 13, V 5, Pers. 2, Mart. VII 21, 22, 23, IX 52, 53, and X 24.

 

4.  An uncle is similarly an obstacle to love in Horace Odes 3.12.

 

5.  For Smith, see The Elegies of Albius Tibullus (1913). Pound’s comment is in “Horace,” in The Criterion 9 (1929-1930), reprinted in Arion 9 (1970). 

Those Curious Collective Nouns

 

     The examples here are largely, but not entirely, included in Lipton’s An Exaltation of Larks.  Like Lipton, I do not use the Middle English since entertainment rather than philology or literary criticism is my goal. 

 

     We commonly use collective nouns: a bunch of keys, a row of houses, a group of lakes.  The majority of such terms are readily transferable in reference; one might equally speak of a bunch of flowers, a row of beans, or a group of actors.  Some are narrower in usage, including many which have to do with animals: a herd of cattle, a pack of wolves, a pride of lions.   There are herds of various beasts, but all are plant-eating mammals.  Pack may be used of other animals, but is strongly associated with wolves, and pride is used exclusively of lions.  Certain of the collective nouns are similarly specific to a certain species, but in addition seem unusually artful, sometimes a bit precious.  The best-known of this class is probably “a murder of crows,” which seems quaint enough to be suspicious.

     Many of these collective nouns refer to animals, and they strike the reader as self-consciously clever because many were indeed invented as a special fanciful vocabulary in the late Middle Ages.  Familiarity with these neologisms was then an index of how au courant a courtly pretender might prove to be.  Though all words have a sort of poetry, especially for readers who know their etymologies, these terms, mostly to do with hunting, were from the first showpieces, meant to impress and amuse.

     James Lipton’s book An Exaltation of Larks (1968) listed many of this special variety of collective nouns, bringing widespread publicity to a somewhat obscure linguistic phenomenon and demonstrating that the imaginative appeal of these neologisms had survived the centuries.  Though I saw the book everywhere back then, I never read it, taking it for a novelty gift, presenting these overly cutesy terms with quaintly old-fashioned illustrations.  I thereby missed until today reading Lipton’s well-informed introduction which provides a satisfying explanatory background.

     Often applying a new meaning to an existing word (“a prickle of porcupines” or “a skulk of foxes”), these morsels of wit were recorded in “courtesy books,” manuals laying down the rules for genteel behavior and sometimes in specific lists of “terms of venery,” a word rarely used today and easily confuised with its exact homograph which in fact has an altogether different meaning and origin.  One “venery” is derived from Latin venari, “to hunt,” the source as well of the English term venison, which once referred to the flesh of any large animal.  (The other venery, with roots in Venus, the goddess of love is the one Benjamin Franklin had in mind when he advised his [illegitimate] son, “rarely use venery but for health or offspring.”)

     Since the reliefs of royal hunts in Assyria and Egypt, nobles whose business was war had whiled away months of peace by practicing their equestrian and archery skills in hunting.  (Compare the brandishing of firearms by today's neo-fascists.)  Killing beasts is a mark of power as is killing people, but in time the bloody pastime of hunting had acquired an aesthetic dimension.  One was to behave with savoir faire even in butchery.  In Gottfried’s Tristan when King Mark first encounters the hero, he is impressed by two of Tristan’s accomplishments.  He notes that Tristan uses “words polished and well-chosen,” and is besides such a skilled and innovative practitioner in cutting up a deer that the king immediately offers to make him master of the hunt.  Both skills prove him “courtois.”

     Manuals began to appear to teach aristocrats and those who wished to be aristocratic the prized qualities of cultivation, elegance, and sophistication.  Best-known of such volumes was Castiglione’s The Courtier (1528) which defined the ideals of behavior that marked a true nobleman, including skill at loving women, playing music, making witty conversation, dressing well, and a host of other “aesthetic” accomplishments.  Castiglione was far from the first to compose such a self-help guide.  The earliest in England is the Book of the Civilized Man by Daniel of Beccles, also known as the Liber Urbani, which appeared circa 1200.  The “terms of venery,” of which a few, including a special vocabulary for animal droppings, had been printed earlier, for instance in William Twiti’s L'Art de vénerie (1328), gained popularity with The Book of St Albans (ca. 1452).  This volume, which contained essays on hawking and heraldry as well as hunting, included seventy collective nouns.  This book anticipated Emily Post in that it was written by a woman, Dame Juliana Berners.  Later writers copied and expanded her list and in 1595 Gervase Markham republished the St. Albans book with his own comments as The Gentleman's Academie, in 1595, bringing its content a new audience.

     The terms of venery and associated collective nouns illustrate several significant aspects of what might be called linguistic sociology.  They exemplify the employment of words not in common usage to establish a subculture, in this case the feudal ruling class, the nobility.  Just as inner city youth use a distinctive jargon, scholars ornament their monographs with currently fashionable academic jargon, and military people signal their vocation with a special argot, courtiers made lexical choices that testified to their identity as cultivated members of the ruling class.

     Apart from this social function, the terms are witty after the manner of other artful uses of language, such as riddles, jokes, and poetry.  Some suggest similes.  A pod of seals is so named due to the resemblance between a group of animals, especially when slumbering on the beach, and a pod of peas.  A group of whales is a gam, the word used as well for a social encounter of two ships in the open sea.  A “siege of herons” is so named because of the animals’ patient observation of shallow waters watching for prey.

     Many sorts of metonymy are represented.  A “slate of candidates” is current yet today, though few are aware that it was first used because of politicians’ names being displayed on slates in front of town halls. 

     Some are so familiar that they make little impression.  We know a “swarm of bees” “host of angels.”  Mysteries may yet linger about even well-known expressions.  “Bevy” is first recorded in the fifteenth century describing either quails or women, apparently derived from French bevée, perhaps from the birds frequenting ponds and the ladies drinking parties.  A "school of fish” may be a corruption of “shoal” (=shallows) or may have independently arisen from school meaning classroom.   

     Sometimes the word has shifted in sound or become obsolete so that its origin is not evident, as in “a clowder of cats” said to derive from the word cluster.  “A singular of boars” oddly contradicts itself, as the French sanglier is derived from Latin singularis porcus, a lone hog, used for a solitary individual wild boar.  A “kindle of kittens” sounds very cute with its source in the Middle English kindlen, to give birth and “covey of partridges” from the Latin cubare, to lie down, describing nesting habits. 

     The sound of doves strikes many as sounding sad.  This is the source not only of the name “mourning dove” but of the collective “a dule of doves” from the French deuil (lamenting).  Similarly, a “murmuration of starlings” refers to the sound made by the swarming of the birds.  Hair-splitting definitions were sometimes propounded.  While a “committee of vultures” is at rest, a “kettle” of them is in flight, and a “wake” of them is feeding. 

     Among the amusing social terms, describing people rather than animals, are the unimaginative doctrine of doctors and school of clerks and the somewhat more amusing “sentence of judges” and “draught of bottlers.”  Others are more pointedly satirical: a “superfluity of nuns," an “impatience of wives,” and a “disworship of Scots,” not to mention the strong but clumsy “abominable sight of monks.”  One might speak also of “a riffraff of knaves,” “a squat of daubers” (those who repair hedgerows and fences), a “diligence of messengers” (from which the coach called a diligence derives its name), and a “skulk of thieves” (a collective they share with foxes).  Perhaps the funniest, though it is somewhat obscure is an “incredibility of cuckolds.”

     Lipton quotes an exchange from Sir Nigel, a novel by Arthur Conan Doyle set in the fourteenth century that imagines the social context in which these terms of venery were significant.  A certain experienced knight, Sir John, quizzes Nigel on his knowledge of this special vocabulary, telling him that “no man of gentle birth” would fail to know these terms, but that “none can say that they know [them] all.”

      Finally, the modern enjoyment in resurrecting these words indicates a taste for the curious and antiquarian similar to that of over-educated Victorian clergymen, people who do rubbings of old gravestones, even the proprietor who calls his store Ye Olde Something Shoppe. The popularity of Lipton’s book in the ‘sixties suggests that era’s sympathy for unfettered imagination.  And what other motive might there be for you, dear reader, to have spent a few moments with this brief disquisition?  The wits of over half a millennium ago are, it seems, entertaining still. 

Sins Against Love in Horace Odes 3.11

 

 

 

 

A new translation of Horace Odes 3.11:

 

 

 

O Mercury, from whom Amphion learned his skill

to build Thebes’ walls with stones by music moved,

from lyre of tortoise shell let songs sound forth

through strumming well-tuned strings.

 

Once silent and unwanted but now dear

to holy shrines and rich men’s groaning boards –

sing forth your song till Lyde’s stubborn ear

will turn this way and hear

 

who like a mare of three years old will play

and frisk on open plains and take no part

in mating, up to now she boldly thinks

herself too young for love.

 

You lead the tiger and the woods themselves.

swift rivers halt their flow for you,

Cerberus, monstrous Underworld guard,

will yield to your sweet song.

 

Tityos and Ixion brightened then.

The urns of the Danaean girls

stood dry, their watery load had had drained away,

their holders held by verse.

 

May Lyde contemplate the virgins’ crime,

their guilt there marked by all their urns,

whose water drained as fast as it went in.

This was their punishment

 

and thus the guilty after death still pay.

Those sinners (how could they have been more vile?)

who with sharp iron blades did take

the lives of their own mates.

 

Just one of many honored marriage vows,

proved false to her own father’s treachery

and won acclaim, a faithful bride renowned

for ages yet to come.

 

“Get up!” she told her youthful mate,

“Get up or else you’ll sleep a lengthy sleep

you don’t see coming.  Flee my sire

and sisters who mean ill,

 

and who like lions seizing calves – alas! –

one at a time while I, more mild in heart,

will neither wound you nor will I aim

to hold you in durance.

 

My father may confine me with cruel chains

for mercifully having spared my mate

or he may banish me and make my home

remote Numidia.

 

Run off as far as feet and winds can carry you

while night and Venus aid your flight.  Run off

while still you can and see my sorry fate’s

recorded on my tomb."

 

 

 

     Reading certain Horatian odes resembles contemplating a box by Joseph Cornell.  One sees in his Ode 3.11, for example, a meticulously constructed elegant little arrangement of objects or images attractive in itself but elusive in meaning with the context enhancing the connotative tendency of each element.  Part of what lends Horace’s references their rich suggestiveness is the fact that, apart from the mentions of Lyde, apparently a friend of the poet, the ode takes place entirely in the mythic realm.

    The poem is curiously doubled and self-reflexive.  The author seems to have intentionally introduced obscurities and contradictions.  To begin with, the poem has two themes, each accorded roughly equal space.  The first is self-reflective, the enchanting power of song, illustrated by Amphion’s music with which he razed the walls of Thebes, by the social prestige of poetry in religion and symposia, and by mythic references to the power of Orpheus’ playing to charm not only nature but even Cerberus and the sufferers in the underworld.  In a form of sympathetic magic, by claiming supernatural power for poetry the writer thereby predicts the success of this particular verse. 

     The claim of art’s persuasiveness provides a bridge to the second theme, the proper management of erotic energy.  The poet condemns mythic figures that offended against love –Ixion, and Tityos and, most prominently, the Danaean women who killed their spouses, all toward the end of convincing Lyde of the value of marriage and a conventional family life.  Horace provides a little horror show to reinforce poetry’s teaching by indicating the penalties for spurning the natural destiny of maturation in married love.  Stanza five, which would be a digitally animated sequence in a film, presents a luridly threatening Cerberus, a shocker itself, but also a reinforcement of the poet’s admonitions later.  The reader then is introduced to the theme of proper love relations with glimpses of the punishment in Hades of two others who had offended against marriage, Ixion by attempting adultery with the worst of all possible choices, the wife of the king of the gods, and Tityos for having attempted to rape Leto at the behest of that same goddess. 

     This theme is supported as well by the story of the Danaïdes and of Hypermnestra’s saving her husband Lynceus.  There could scarcely be a less dutiful wife than one who murders her mate, and the reference seem overdone for the speaker’s message to the young Lyde.  The poem, though a sort of love advice, is more concerned with propriety than with eros, but even in this simple normative recommendation of marriage, it is hardly straightforward.  To begin with, the name of Lyde, the woman to whom the ode is addressed, has confused some readers.  The name is used for a ἑταίρα by several poets.  It is the name of Antimachos’ mistress and the title of his elegiac poem upon her death.  Athenaeus 13.597 mentions another courtesan of the same name and Horace himself mentions a ἑταίρα of the name in 2.11.  (Another reference in 1.23 is less certainly a courtesan, but there Lyde’s characterization in part resembles that in 3.11.)  Considering that the lesson the poet implores her to hear is to prepare for a respectable marriage and the role of a dutiful wife, this could hardly be a message for a courtesan.  The use of Hypermnestra as his exemplum is problematic in any event, though she was a spouse to Lynceus and with him founded the Danaid line that led to Perseus.  Having been coerced unwillingly  into marriage, she is inappropriate as a model bride, however loyal a wife she proved to be.    

     Horace’s Lyde is said to behave like a young filly playing in a field, active and healthy, while resisting the subjugation to a husband that would come with marriage.  This characterization makes inevitable the picture of her as a teen-aged girl, wholly inexperienced in love and dubious about relationships, perhaps the daughter of a friend.  She sounds very like Daphne in Ovid who (in Golding’s translation) hated “as a haynous crime the bonde of bridely bed,” but instead enjoyed sporting about the wild mountains: “unwedded Phebe doth she haunt and follow as hir guide,” but, of course, her lack of interest in men is there caused by Cupid’s intervention.  Daphne has been struck by his anaphrodisiac iron arrow, while Apollo’s desire has been enflamed by a golden one.

    For all the structural play, irony, and semantic disjunctions, the thematics of the ode persist.  Horace’s boasts about the power of poetry resemble the claims of poets from the revelations of shamans in archaic times to Wallace Stevens “Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction,” but here they are hobbled as it were by the incongruities of the poetic argument.  Lyde is a misleading name and Hypermnestra an ill-fitting example of ideal marriage.  Such slippage renders the poet’s claims faintly ironic, while the hellish horrors seem exaggerated and out of place.  Naive and shy, Lyde is even less likely than the average wife to commit murder as the Danaïdes had done  

     Still at base the ode does represent a social consensus endorsing monogamous marriage as the fundamental building block of society.  Without such stabilizing institutions, violence and force would prevail, suggested by the multiple murders of Aegyptus’ sons  and the apparition of Cerberus.  Attitudes in support of marriage include the notions of respectability and propriety added to the age-old advice govern by an elder generation to the younger one just coming of age, “It is time to grow up now and act like an adult.”  The frightening pictures of the hellish dog and the torments of the condemned are nothing but the superego of a patriarchal system enforcing order through terror.

     These meanings are present in the ode, but they jostle one another uneasily.  Self-questioning, they feature cracks and flaws.  Yet the structure of the whole, the arrangement of symbolic objects from the world of myth, placed precisely to react against one another, is well-balanced so that all the elements of the problem of married love are included: not just the young woman’s reluctance to form a household, but also coercion from parents (Danaus and Aegyptus) and uncontrolled lust (in the figures of Ixion and Tityos).  The entire system of the universe, it is suggested, supports the marriage institution, assuring a sorry fate for those who defy their proper role and destiny.  Horace’s essentially poetic gifts are fully displayed as he renders what amounts to an admonition to behave in a dynamic field of competing demands of the ego: Amphion’s drive for power, Lyde’s desire to cling to childhood, the destructive lust of Ixion and Tityos, the coercive parental demands, the murderous potential of the reluctant wives, and the fidelity of Hypermnestra.  All these passions are on full display, while the reader hears nothing whatever of the joys of either nuptial or illicit love-making.  Who but Horace could build such a dynamic semantic field while simply recommending the most ordinary behavior?

Radicalism in Form and Content in Dos Passos’ The 42nd Parallel

 

 

     The three novels of John Dos Passos’ U.S.A. Trilogy on my shelves had not been opened in decades, but I was not the only reader neglecting their author.  As far back as 1961 critic John Wrenn opened his biography of Dos Passos by asking “What’s happened to John Dos Passos?” [1]  Many are now unfamiliar with the writer whom Sartre lauded as “the greatest writer of our time” and the work that Edmund Wilson said “may well turn out to be the most important that has yet been produced by any American of Dos Passos’ generation” [2].  A novel which was named to the Modern Library’s list of the one hundred most important novels of the twentieth century has for many little more than historical interest.

     Whatever his own merits, Dos Passos’ reputation may have suffered from a double-edged extra-literary handicap.  He was most certainly a leftist writer of the ‘thirties, though some critics strive to play down his political engagement [3].  Oddly, though vulgar Marxist criticism abounds today under a variety of methodological names and artists are held to a politically defined standard of behavior even in their personal lives, the proletarian novels of the Depression are at a discount in the literary marketplace, due in part to the tendency toward reductive simplistic portrayals by some leftist fiction writers.  Today’s taste is likely to reflect a counterbalancing preference for experimental avant-garde techniques such as those very different strategies employed by, say, Gertrude Stein, Vladimir Nabokov, and James Merrill.  A reader with a taste for elegant obscurity is unlikely to tolerate tales of put-upon workers. 

     Furthermore, Dos Passos’ innovations which so impressed early readers of the U. S. A. trilogy strike the twenty-first century reader as shallow.  To Alfred Kazin, who wrote the introduction  to my 1969 Signet classic edition, he was alone among his cohort in his exploitation of “radical technique, the language of Joyce, and ‘the religion of the word’” [3].  According to Kazin Dos Passos confronted the nastiness of modern capitalism not with social protest but with art.  His energy arises not from social protest and the hopes for a better world but from an aesthete’s Lost Generation “disenchantment” and a resulting retreat into aestheticism.  Similarly, he was primarily to Wrenn the creator of “brilliant technical innovations” [4].

     A contemporary reader may find it strange to see Dos Passos classed with Joyce as an experimenter.  It is true that The 42^nd Parallel is not a linear narration; it is, rather five people’s stories provided a chapter at a time, interspersed with brief biographies of culturally significant figures such as Debs, Big Bill Haywood, and Thomas Edison, and two other sorts of passages.  The first of these, “The Camera’s Eye,”  probably the basis for Kazin’s mentioning Joyce, contains autobiographical sketches done in a very loose stream-of-consciousness (all in lower case to emphasize the self-consciously experimental character of the writing).  The second, “Newsreel,” contains fragments from the Chicago Tribune interspersed with popular song lyrics and other materials, reminiscent of techniques in Eliot’s “The Wasteland” or Pound’s Cantos. 

     The principal characters are defined in terms reflecting economic class.  Thus Mac is a lumpenproletarian Wobbly with the interests of the entire working class in mind while J. Ward Moorehouse is a public relations consultant seeking only his own enrichment.  Likewise, most of the featured historical figures are politically significant: on the one hand there are two socialists (Eugene Debs under the title “The Lover of Mankind” and Big Bill Haywood) and two representatives of Progressive formations (William Jennings Bryan and Robert LaFollette).  Balancing these Americans who sought to benefit the masses are profiteers like the notoriously anti-union Andrew Carnegie and pioneer imperialist in Mesoamerica Minor Keith [5]. 

     While this arrangement of the text into four kinds of writing would ideally coalesce into a unified vision by the novel’s end, the memoirs (“The Camera’s Eye”) have very little relation to the main narratives and the “Newsreel” sections often seem even more tenuously linked to any governing pattern that would lend each fragment significance.  They sometimes approach incoherence in themselves.  Following the headlines “PLUMBER HAS HUNDRED LOVES” and “BRINGS MONKEYS HOME,” for instance, one reads “missing rector located losses in U. S. crop report let baby go naked if you want it to be healthy if this mystery is ever solved you will find a woman at the bottom of it said Patrolman E. B. Garfinkle events leading up to the present war run continuously back to the French Revolution.”  The verbal sequence scarcely seems to hang together. 

     The most consistent themes are clearly the injustice of capitalism and the appeal of the socialist alternative.  The reader might well regard Dos Passos as engagé.  He supported Sacco and Vanzetti and was active in the First American Writers Congress of 1935 which had been organized by the Communist Party-dominated League of American Writers.  His visits to first the Soviet Union and then later to Spain did sour him on Stalin’s Comintern, and though he then lived long enough to support Joseph McCarthy, Nixon, and Goldwater, there can be doubt about his active support for a revolutionary alternative in his youth. 

     Critics had, at least since Hauptmann’s The Weavers, questioned whether an entire class or nation can be a satisfactory narrative subject.  Balzac had sought to present an encyclopedic panorama of French society in his Comédie humaine, but his canvas was sufficiently large to allow an accumulation of complex and individualized portraits, while Dos Passos’ characters remain shallow, with neither any single portrait nor the group substantial enough to support novelistic length.  There is little structural patterning in the design of The 42^nd Parallel and indeed in the trilogy as a whole, little in the way of governing image systems or productive ambiguities.  Once Dos Passos’ formula is determined, its completion is largely a matter of filling in the blanks.  Such matters of aesthetic evaluation are not subject to positive proof; at best they accurately convey subjective impressions, but they are quite real in the reading experience and can be decisive in determining a book’s worth.

     The widespread opinion among critics that the quality of Dos Passos’ fiction declined after the U. S. A. trilogy is surely justified, but perhaps the author’s chef d’oeuvre itself may have been overvalued due to its once-fashionable combination of progressive politics and avant-garde literary technique (particularly when the technique is considerably more digestible than, say, Finnegan’s Wake).  Dos Passos deserves, without a doubt, a place among those writers of his era who took to depicting the lives of ordinary Americans.  Following the nineteenth century local color writers like Bret Harte and Sarah Orne Jewett and the next generation such as Sherwood Anderson and Edgar Lee Masters, an efflorescence of leftwing authors, many with Midwestern associations, succeeded.  Nelson Algren is quite correct when he said in 1951  “there has hardly been an American writer of stature who has not come up through the Chicago Palatinate.” [6]  Among the authors he may have had in  mind are Frank Norris 1870-1902, Upton Sinclair, Theodore Dreiser, Floyd Dell, Jack Conroy, James Farrell, and Richard Wright.  While Dos Passos may no longer be considered an artistic genius, as some had thought when U. S. A. was first published, he has a secure place in an important lineage.  The 42^nd Parallel remains worth reading, though I am not motivated to reread its two companion volumes which seem to provide only more quantity of the same content. 

 

  

1.  John Dos Passos, p. 2.

2.  See Sartre’s "John Dos Passos and 1919," reprinted in Literary and Philosophical Essays (1955), translated by Annette Michelson, p. 103 and Wilson’s “Dahlberg, Dos Passos and Wilson,” The Shores of Light, p. 449. 

3.  Alfred Kazin, for instance, in his introduction to the Mentor paperback goes to lengths to defend Dos Passos against the charge of social conscience, saying that he is erroneously assumed to be a “left-wing novelist,” whereas he has in fact always been “detached from all group thinking.”

4.  The 42^nd Parallel, vi.

5.  John Dos Passos, p. 8. 

6.  Three innovators are also included: Thomas Edison, August Steinmetz, and Luther Burbank who might be taken to simply signify technical progress. 

7.  In Chicago: City on the Make, p. 11.  “There has hardly been an American writer of stature who has not come up through the Chicago Palatinate.”  Surely thinking of Frank Norris 1870-1902, Upton Sinclair 1878-1968, Theodore Dreiser 1879-1945, Floyd Dell 1887-1968, Jack Conroy 1899-1990, James Farrell 1904-1979, Richard Wright 1908-1960.  At the same time a cohort of leftist writers, mostly Jewish, such Michael Gold, Max Eastman, and Josephine Herbst, were active in New York City.

Food Taboos

 

     Among the magical strategies people have used to influence unpredictable and uncontrollable elements of life are the observation of taboos.  Often such rules govern the boundaries of the body, with anxiety focused around, on the one hand, materials cast out of the body such as  excrement and the trimmings of hair and nails and, on  the other, food, drink, and medicine taken into the body.  According to Frazer among taboos none “are more numerous or important than the prohibitions to eat certain foods.” (24)

     One of the most widespread food taboos is that against eating meat.  Often rational bases are provided for vegetarianism, and one may well justify a meat-free diet on the grounds of health or the prudent use of resources, though probably the most common explanation is ethical, based on a reluctance to cause pain to other living things.  This moral objection seems weak, though widespread.  Apart from salt everything we eat is organic, and if one does not kill animals, one kills plants.  Further, carnivorous animals are common and presumably blameless.  The necessity that life can live only on life is clearly encoded in nature and is thus for those of theistic sensibilities part of God’s way and for others simply natural.  Were I to die in an open field, in less than a minute insects would begin to gather to dine on my remains, to be followed by scavengers and immense populations of bacteria.  As long as one breathes, and indeed no less afterwards, the cycle of birth and death is inescapable. 

     Indeed, in general food taboos are fundamentally symbolic rather than functional, more likely to be justified by scriptural mandate rather than by practical motives.  Various degrees of vegetarianism are practiced by nearly all Jains and many Seventh Day Adventists, while about a third of Hindus eschew meat, as do substantial numbers of Buddhists and Sikhs, as well as some Rastafarians, Baháʼís, and members of the Nation of Islam.  Past vegetarian cults include Pythagoreans, Manichaeans, and Mazdakist Zoroastrians [1]. 

     Each of these sects could cite authority for their practice.  Some Christian vegetarians would point to Genesis 1:29–31 and Isaiah 11:6–9 as evidence that God originally prescribed vegetarianism (though their carnivorous confrères might counter with Acts 10:10-15 which seems to declare that no meat is ”unclean”).   Buddhist and Jain traditions are more decisive with explicit recommendation  of a meat-free regime, while the Hindu attitude characterizes a meat-free diet as characteristic of spiritual seekers and Brahmins [2].

     Among the best-known food taboos is the Jewish and Muslim prohibition against pork, based on Leviticus 11:7-8 [3].

And the swine, though he divide the hoof, and be clovenfooted, yet he cheweth not the cud; he is unclean to you.  Of their flesh shall ye not eat, and their carcase shall ye not touch; they are unclean to you. 8 And the swine, because it divideth the hoof, yet cheweth not the cud, it is unclean unto you: ye shall not eat of their flesh, nor touch their dead carcase.

     Though in modern times the threat of trichinosis is often alleged as the basis for the prohinition of pork, this motive is not asserted in antiquity.  Maimonides did seek to rationalize the rule, noting that swine will feed on garbage and even excrement, thus compromising a community’s hygiene standards, but did not mention parasites.  Historians have suggested that pigs were inappropriate and unsupportable in the nomadic pastoral lifestyle of the early Jews and, later, Arabic Muslims [4].

    In the Hebrew scripture the categorization of the animal is the critical point: the hog’s foot is divided in two, yet he does not chew the cud.  The structural rule – exclude the anomalous and exceptional – leads to the proscription  of rabbits, camels, horses, and rodents as well as pigs.  Carnivorous birds such as eagles and vultures are considered unclean as are sea animals that lack scales and fins such as oysters.  Insects are not allowed except for the four kinds specified in Leviticus 11:22.  Clearly the motive is cultural definition with an identity unlike that of neighboring peoples, roughly the same reason that the Satmar Hasidim who live ten miles up the road from my house wear payot as they take to be commanded in Leviticus 19:27. 

     The Muslim avoidance of pork surely imitated the Jewish rule, though most of the kashrut regulations were not adopted.  Condemned in the Koran [5], such meat had played only a small role in the diet of the Arabic-speaking people who first adopted Islam just as pork had been rarely consumed by the Jews.  Thus the rule aided cultural definition while at the same time associating the new cult with the prestige of the older religion without untoward economic consequences.

     The Hindu attitude toward cattle is, in a way, opposite.  While Jews and Muslims find hogs to be unclean, even disgusting beasts, Indians idealize cattle, worshipping Kamadhenu, the divine cow of whom every living animal is an incarnation.  Just as the early Arabic-speaking people did eat pork prior to Muhammed, ancient Indians ate beef.  In fact, beef was a prestigious meat in Vedic times, used for sacrifices and the reception of honored guests [6]. 

     Just as the myth of Abraham and Isaac marks the transition from human to animal sacrifice, the story of King Prithu signals the prohibition of beef while allowing the consumption of dairy products.  The Mahabharata [7] relates how this chakravarti, an idealized king as culture hero, succeeded to power at a time when sacrifices were neglected.  Pursuing the earth in the form of a heifer, he agrees to spare her life in exchange for her life-giving milk.

     Vegetables, too, are proscribed for some.  Certain Hindus avoid onions, garlic, and mushrooms, feeling that such foods are tamasic, that is, they induce inertia and are associated with ignorance [8], making the mind sluggish and retarding spiritual advancement.   

    Food taboos may be taken to elaborate extremes, some of which apply only to certain individuals or certain times.  For instance according to Frazer the Egyptian pharaohs ate no meat but goose and veal while Masai chiefs must restrict themselves to milk, honey and goat liver [9].  In Myanmar a popular poster warns against for apparently innocuous combinations such as jelly and coffee or pigeon and pumpkin which are thought to be dangerous, even lethal [10].      

     Cultural reasons alone explain the reluctance of most Europeans to eat insects or horse meat and of virtually all to eat dogs.  The primary significance of such taboos is always symbolic, though other factors may play a role.  Functions, distinguishing one’s group, health, natural pre-existing diet and economics may each play a role, but the fundamental important of food taboos is magical.  The fragility of such beliefs is suggested by the Hawaiian abandonment of taboos following the Battle of Kuamoʻo in 1819.  The indigenous people had already for several decades observed that foreigners who ignored their taboos suffered no ill effects, but many were still astonished when their royal family publicly flouted rules they had scrupulously observed for generations. 

      If food taboos may vanish rapidly, they have also considerable persistence.  Today, while many people continue to follow the traditional taboos they were taught by their parents, others have adopted new ones, which may be equally superstitious in spite of quasi-scientific justifications.  Those seeking to lose weight may seek to avoid fat, or sugar, or carbohydrates, when in fact what us required, according to most experts, is simply smaller quantities of an ordinary diet.  Salt is considered almost poisonous by some.  Avoidance of gluten is widespread as a glance at American supermarket shelves will confirm.  A genuine intolerance for gluten occurs with celiac disease which affects something like one percent of the population, yet a far greater share of Americans, some estimates suggest one-third [11], irrationally feel gluten is unhealthy. 

     Food taboos are generally symbolic in nature, yet they reinforce social realities like identity identification and differentiation whether one’s in-group is Orthodox Jews or New Age food faddists.  For believers they constitute a visible daily reminder of one’s faith while serving as a placebo to induce well-being.  More easily manageable than some human failings, dietary restrictions have proven satisfying and even therapeutic for many, though their efficacy, like all magic power, is entirely symbolic and psychological.   

 

 

 

 

1.  Pythagoras’ views are represented by Ovid in the Metamorphoses XV 60-142 while the Manichean attitude is contained in St. Augustine’s De Natura Boni. 

2.  See, for instance chapter 8 of the Lankavatara Sutra for a Buddhist source and verse 71 of Digambara Amritachandra’s Puruṣārthasiddhyupāya for a Jain authority.  Hindu reservations about meat are expressed in a number of texts, including the Shatapatha Brahmana and the Chāndogya Upaniṣad. 

3.  Repeated in Deuteronomy 14:8.

4.  See Marvin Harris, "6: The Abominable Pig" in The Sacred Cow and the Abominable Pig: Riddles of Food and Culture (1987). 

5.  See 2:173, 16:115, and 6:145.

6.  The Aitareya Brahmana, Book 7, for instance, provides details about such sacrifices. 

7.  In the Drona Parva (Book 7.69) and the Shanti Parva (29.132).  The story appears as well in the Vayu Purana and elsewhere.

8.  Manu 5.5

9. The Golden Bough, 177.

10.  Anders Sandberg and Len Fisher, “Never eat a Pigeon with a Pumpkin: a model for the emergence and fixation of unsupported beliefs,” presented at the Oxford Symposium on Food and Cookery 2023, reprinted in revised form as Chapter 30 in Food Rules and Rituals: Proceedings of the Oxford Symposium on Food and Cookery 2023, ed. Mark McWilliams, p. 294-306.

11.  “One-Third of Americans Are Trying to Avoid Gluten—But Is It the Villain We Think It Is?,” News and Views (summer 2015), NYU Langone Health.

Meredith’s Poetic Novel: Diana of the Crossways

 

 

     My 1917 Modern Library edition  of Diana of the Crossways includes an introduction by Arthur Symons, the critic who shaped readers’ understanding of Symbolist and Decadent poetry.  He maintains that Meredith “breaks every rule” of novel-writing, that he is in fact “essentially a poet, not a novelist.”  To Symons Meredith has written “the most intellectual” English novels as he aims at “something which is the poetry of pure idea.”  He thus writes prose “as if it were poetry, with an endeavour to pack every phrase with imaginative meaning, every sentence, you realise, will be an epigram.”  For him “life recorded becomes, not a new life, but literature about life.” 

     This tendency is particularly pronounced in Diana of the Crossways as the title character is well-known for her epigrams and witty conversational sallies, many reported in the first chapter “Of Diaries and Diarists.”  In describing her, Meredith comments self-reflexively on his own use of such material. 

 

    Drolleries, humours, reputed witticisms, are like odours of roast meats, past with the picking of the joint. Idea is the only vital breath.  They have it rarely, or it eludes the chronicler. To say of the great erratic and forsaken Lady A****, after she had accepted the consolations of Bacchus, that her name was properly signified in asterisks “as she was now nightly an Ariadne in heaven through her God,” sounds to us a roundabout, with wit somewhere and fun nowhere.  Sitting at the roast we might have thought differently.  Perry Wilkinson is not happier in citing her reply to his compliment on the reviewers’ unanimous eulogy of her humour and pathos:—the “merry clown and poor pantaloon demanded of us in every work of fiction,” she says, lamenting the writer's compulsion to go on producing them for applause until it is extremest age that knocks their knees.  We are informed by Lady Pennon of 'the most amusing description of the first impressions of a pretty English simpleton in Paris'; and here is an opportunity for ludicrous contrast of the French and English styles of pushing flatteries—'piping to the charmed animal,' as Mrs. Warwick terms it in another place: but Lady Pennon was acquainted with the silly woman of the piece, and found her amusement in the 'wonderful truth' of that representation.

 

     The initial figure of speech compares wit to the scent of dinner on the fire specifically drawing attention to the ephemeral quality of both phenomena.  Meredith then begins with a variation of the modesty topos by declaring that, since such remarks can only be appreciated in lived experience, his project of recording them must fail.  To test this hypothesis, he proceeds to a particular bon mot concerning “the great erratic and forsaken Lady A****.”  The comment, as it turns out, depends for its effect, not on being present in person, but rather on the anecdote’s written form using asterisks.  Yet this, too, though it is worth recording apparently, he denigrates as possessing “wit somewhere and fun nowhere.”  He realizes his effect as he at the same time denies it.  The first three sentences have required the reader first to compare an impression of cleverness with a smell of dinner cooking, then with a breath.  Wine is allusively called “Bacchus,” asterisks are equated with stars, and drunkenness with theophany, surely a hefty burden of figures of speech for a few lines of prose. 

     He promises no more likely survival for the spirit of Diana’s next quoted witticism, that she must act the “merry clown and poor pantaloon demanded of us in every work of fiction.”  Here she highlights the art of her repartee with allusions to circus and commedia dell’arte performance.  She is said to find it “lamentable” that she must produce such “drolleries” until advanced old age, itself figured concretely as the time that “extremest age” makes the knees knock.  Thus, just as she is shown to be extra clever by her belittling her own conversational abilities, Meredith’s persona strengthens his case for her by denying that his repeating of such lines can have the effect they had when originally spoken.  Still, the author seems to be satisfied at the extent to which he has achieved his desired effect of convincing the reader of Diana’s verbal skills when he mentions another of her satirical comments, one recalled by Lady Pennon, and attests to its “wonderful” effect without even recording what she said.  Here the reader is expected to be impressed by precisely nothing. 

     Though the work scarcely shrinks from themes – it contains perhaps the most explicit feminist thinking of any fiction of its era – Meredith’s primary appeal is in poetry: synaesthesia, figures of speech, and fresh language.  Memories are said to be like cooking odors and asterisks like stars while old age is signified by knock knees and Diana resembles a circus clown.  Apart from the book-long associations of Diana Warwick with the divine huntress, this brief passage contains allusions to Dionysos, Ariadne, and Orpheus, and the theatrical figure of Pantalone.  (In the following paragraph Tacitus is quoted in Latin.)  This dense texture, replete with tropes, foregrounds the verbal medium with less emphasis on the semantic content.  

     After all, what the passage says is that is has no possibility of success, that writing cannot possibly reproduce the moment of lived experience, that in fact lived experience is ineffable and the writer can never hope to convey the feeling of narrated incidents.  Given that denial of language’s ability to mirror life, the writer entertains just as Diana did, by linguistic fireworks and puzzles.  Rhetorical devices such as allusions are showy artifices and every metaphor is a little riddle.  Diana of the Crossways is, as Symons says, “a poetic novel,” and its readers will enjoy the pleasures often associated with poetry.

     In fact Meredith was surely not indifferent to tendentious elements in his tale.  He is quite explicit about his analysis of women’s causes and these were very much in the air as women had, in the generation before the novel’s publication, gained rights to divorce, property ownership, and education, including the medical profession.   Furthermore, the book is in part a roman à clef based on a scandal involving the Honorable Mrs. Norton, Lord Melbourne, Sidney Herbert, John Delane, and others.  Yet these elements are, on every page of the novel, secondary to Meredith’s word-play and verbal ingenuity.  If it is impossible for us to understand Diana’s cleverness through retold anecdotes, we have before us Meredith’s wit, and that, of course, is all we need.

The Christian Romanticism of Chateaubriand’s Atala and René

 

 

Portrait of Chateaubriand 

by Anne-Louis Girodet de Roussy-Trioson, 1809.

 

 

References in parentheses to Atala refer to the 1905 edition with an introduction, notes, and a vocabulary by Oscar Kuhns; those to René to Claude Martin’s edition of 1984.  Numbers in brackets refer to endnotes.  Translated passages are my own hasty renderings; the original French is relegated to endnotes. 

 

 

     Chateaubriand is universally considered the founding figure of French Romanticism, and there can be no question about the label’s general accuracy.  His self-consciously emotional analyses of nature and of love made him an icon in his day, much as Byron was in England just a few decades later [1],  Many readers have found René to have something in common with Childe Harold as exemplars of the mal du siècle, and something of their kinship as celebrities might be inferred from the tousled portraits of the viscount by Anne-Louis Girodet de Roussy-Trioson and of the baron by Thomas Phillips. 

      Chateaubriand not only created a character who wandered the world trying to free himself from alienation, he himself spent time in an America that was still largely possessed by its natives.  The question has been debated by historically-minded critics how much of America Chateaubriand actually saw.  He surely never visited the Mississippi River or Florida, and it is very unlikely that did he ever wrote while squatting on the floors of Indian hits, as he liked to claim.  Indeed, it is not direct observation but rather his tumultuous imagination that underlies his descriptions of America,

     Among the most rhetorically elaborate and mythic passages in Atala is the opening description of the Mississippi River, so extravagant as to be altogether unrealistic, so majestic it is worth quoting at length. 

 

When all these rivers are swollen with the torrents of winter, when the storms have uprooted great swaths of forest, the felled trees fill their sources.  Before long the mud has cemented them and creepers joins them together and the plants, sending out roots in every direction, consolidate the debris.  Carried off by the foaming waves, they descend in the Meschacebe which takes hold of them, carrying them to the Gulf of Mexico only to run grounds on banks of sand, multiplying thereby the river’s outlets.  Now and then the river raises its voice while passing these heaps and   its overflowing waters spread among the forests’ colonnades and the pyramidal Indian tombs.  It is the Nile of the desert.  But grace is always accompanied by grandeur in scenes of nature.  While the central current pulls the corpses of pines and oaks toward the sea, one sees currents on either side rising, along the shores, floating islands of water cabbage and water-lilies, the yellow blossoms of which mount up like little pavilions.  Green snakes, blue herons, pink flamingos, and young crocodiles embark as passengers on these flowery vessels, and the colony, unfurling its golden sails before the wind, lands asleep in some secluded cove of the river.                 (1-2) [2]

 

     This grand vision of great island-like agglomerations of timber cascading downstream, reshaping the topography moment by moment, in effect constantly reshaping the continent, is enacted between the columns of the trees and near to native peoples’ funerary pyramids, suggesting Greek and Roman antiquity and the even older Egyptian civilization.  Not only are the great floating islands of debris covered in flowers; they are also rich to an unlikely degree in fauna, birds and reptiles, which sail like the early explorers until they come to rest by chance and establish a terra nova. 

     The primary characteristics of Chateaubriand’s America are its magnificent richness in animals and plants and the wildness of its formation amid turbulent earth-shaping floods.  The new world is specifically associated with Eden, for instance in Genesis’ mention of four rivers but the reference is rendered ambiguous by the counterbalance of Milton’s four infernal streams [3].

     The fecundity of nature recurs elsewhere, for instance, during the escape of Atala and Chactas when the cedars and live oaks, covered with Spanish moss, teem with wildlife: “butterflies, bright flies, hummingbirds, green parakeets, and blue jays” (28) [4] in a veritable swarm of life.  Likewise, the scene at Niagara Falls is awe-inspiring not simply because of the cataract, but also because of the eagles who “ride on currents of air” and the altogether unreal picture if “wolverines” who “hang by their flexible tails at the end of a low branch, to seize from the abyss the broken corpses of elks and bears” (77)[5]. 

     Yet such fantasies were not the only indulgences Chateaubriand allowed his imagination.  Since his reconversion to Roman Catholicism in 1798, he had abandoned the philosophes to become a committed Christian, and both Atala and René were portions of his Génie du christianisme, a work which as a whole sought to justify religion on largely aesthetic rather than intellectual or spiritual grounds.  Thus, while nature may be a staggering marvel, human beings, infected by original sin, are unredeemed until accepting Jesus.  In order to advance, Atala must “have recourse to the Christian God” and pray to Mary (18).   The”savages” inflict dreadful tortures on their captives (19), and in fact cruelly kill the benevolent Father Aubry (79).  They are, at best, “child-like” (68), with “sorrows” that “arise from ignorance” which can be remedied only by “necessary instruction” (58) [7].  Chactas cannot be a lover of Atala unless he “learn the lessons of the Christian faith” (64).  Doubt is impossible as Chateaubriand describes a veritable theophany. 

 

The grotto seemed suddenly lit up; one could hear in the air the words of angels and the tremelos of heavenly harps; and when the recluse took the holy vessel from his tabernacle, it seemed I saw God himself emerging from the side of the mountain. (65) [8]

 

     A powerful figure for René’s “faiblesse” is his prospect from the top of Etna. 

 

     A youth full of passion, sitting at the mouth of a volcano, weeping for the mortals whose homes he sees below is doubtless, o old men, an object deserving of your pity, but, whatever you might think of René the scene provides an image of his nature, of his being.  Thus during my entire life I have had before my eyes the creation, at once huge and imperceptible, and an abyss open at my side. (67) [9]

 

His is an existential anxiety, not a Christian “dark night of the soul,” specifically because what he faces is not the prospect of judgement and eventual apocalypse, but rather a drear emptiness.  Though he placed the novella as part of his apologia for Christianity, the hero lacks Christian hope.  A distinctly modern variant on the medieval sin of acedia (sometimes spelled accidie) which Aquinas describes (in Summa Theologica II) not as a symptom of sensitivity or a contemplative stage but rather as a flight from the divine, amounting very nearly to unbelief.  The closing words of the epilogue’s narrator in Atala indicate a remoteness from Christian salvation: “man, you are nothing but a passing illusion, a melancholy dream.  You exist only for sadness; you are nothing but the dolor of your soul and the unending misery of your soul.” (81) [10]

     This is not the only contradiction which Chateaubriand ignored as a consequence of his clinging to Christianity’s consolations.  The glorification of nature itself evident in the opening passage (and throughout) is sweeping and unqualified, familiar from many other authors’ Romantic rhetoric, yet inconsistent with the Christian notion of the natural world as fallen.  The most fundamental statement of this proposition  is Genesis 3:17: “cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life,” but the idea recurs, for instance in Romans 8:22: “For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now.”

     America was an apposite scene for René’s ambivalence toward nature, natives, and, indeed, the entire creation.  Since Europeans arrived on these shores, the country was often described as an unspoiled paradise but equally often as hell.  Thus to many early settlers Indians must be remnants of the ten lost tribes of Israel whose conversion would lkead to the apocalypse.  Thomas Morton who founded the colony at Merrymount called New England Canaan in his 1637 book, and for John Winthrop the Massachusetts Bay Colony was “a city on a hill,”  [11] while William Bradford says the new world was a “hideous and desolate wilderness, full of wild beasts and wild men" [12].  For William Crashaw the devil "visibly and palpably reigns” in America and for John Smith “the chefe God they [the natives] worship is the Devel.” [13]

     Just as Chateaubriand’s lifelong royalist politics may seem to harmonize poorly with his liberal sentiments on m any issues, his allegiance to orthodox Christianity compromises his Romanticism.  His enthusiasm for nature is prototypically Romantic, but, to be consistent, this would be accompanied by a view of the indigenous people as Rousseauian “noble savages,” though for Chateaubriand their heathenism is a fatal deficiency.   Similarly, René’s despair is a godless one, though he is nominally Christian.  These contradictions would scarcely have bothered the author, whose conclusions were always more impressionistic than systematic.  Atala and René dramatic examples of the mythic use of the American colonies by an author who broke considerable new ground while insisting on traditional religious faith.

    

 

 

1.  In his Mémoires d’outre-tombe (vi) Chateaubriand clearly regards Byron as a rival, complaining of the British writer’s failing to name him as an influence and disappointedly calling himself “one of those fathers who are disowned when the son has come to power” in an trope invoking Oedipal anxiety of influence.

2.  Quand tous ces fleuves se sont gonflés, des déluges de l’hiver, quand les tempêtes ont abattu des pans entiers de forêts, les arbres déracinés s’assemblent sur les sources. Bientôt la vase les cimente, les lianes les enchainent, et des plantes, y prenant racine de toutes parts, achévent de consolider ces débris. Charriés par les vagues écumantes, ils descendent au Meschacebé: le fleuve s'en empare, les pousse au golfe Mexicain, les échoue sur des bancs de sable, et accroit ainsi le nombre de ses embouchures. Par intervalles, il éléve sa voix en passant sur les monts, et répand ses eaux débordées autour des colonnades des foréts et des pyramides des tombeaux indiens; c'est le Nil des déserts. Mais la gráce est toujours unie à la magnificence dans les scénes de la nature: tandis que le courant du milieu entraîne vers la mer les cadavres des pins et des chénes, on voit sur les deux courants latéraux remonter, le long des rivages, des iles flottantes de pistia et de nénufar, dont les roses jaunes s'élévent comme de petits pavillons. Des serpents verts, des hérons bleus, des flamants roses, de jeunes crocodiles, s'embarquent passagers sur ces vaisseaux de fleurs, et la colonie, déployant au vent ses voiles d’or, va aborder endormie dans quelque anse retirée du fleuve.

3.  See Genesis 2:10 and Paradise Lost II, 575.

4.  Papillons, de mouches brillantes, de colibris, de perruche vertes, de geais d’azur.

5.  Des aigles, entraînés par le courant d'air, descendent en tournoyant au fond du gouffre, et des carcajous se suspendent par leurs queues flexibles au bout d'une branche abaissée, pour saisir dans l'abîme les cadavres brisés des élans et des ours.

6.  La fille de Simaghan ut recours au Dieu des chrétiens.

7.  Tous vos malheurs viennent de votre «ignorance; c'est votre éducation sauvage et le manque «d'instruction nécessaire qui vous ont perdue;

8.  La grotte parut soudain illuminée; on entendit dans les airs les paroles des anges et les frémissements des harpes célestes; et lorsque le solitaire tira le vase sacré de son tabernacle, je crus voir Dieu lui-même sortir du flanc de la montagne.

9.  Un jeune homme plein de passions, assis sur la bouche d'un volcan, et pleurant sur les mortels dont il voyait à ses pieds les demeures, n'est, sans doute, ô vieillards, qu'un objet digne de votre pitié; mais, quoi que vous puissiez penser de René, ce tableau vous offre l'image de son caractère et de son existence: c'est ainsi que toute ma vie j'ai eu devant les yeux une création à la fois immense et imperceptible, et un abîme ouvert à mes côtés.

10.  Homme tu n'es qu'un songe rapide, un rêve douloureux ; tu n'existes que par le malheur ; tu n'es quelque chose que par la tristesse de ton âme et I'éternelle mélancolie de ta pensée.

11.  In his 1630 sermon "A Model of Christian Charity."

12.  Bradford,  Of Plymouth Plantation (1952) p. 62.

y.  Wm. Crashaw, "The Epistle Dedicatory" to Alexander Whitaker's Good News from Virginia (London, 1613), in Early Accounts of Life in Colonial Virginia, 1609-1613.  Ed. W. F. Craven (Delmar, N.Y.: Scholars' Facsimile & Reprints 1976, n. p.

13.  John Smith A Map of Virginia with a description of the country (1612), 29.