AMBIVALENT AND NOSTALGIC ATTITUDES

IN SELECTED GOTHIC NOVELS

by

MARK SAMUEE MADOFF

A.B., U n i v e r s i t y of Michigan, 1970

A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILMENT OF

THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

in

THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES

Department of English

We accept t h i s thesis as conforming

to the required standard

THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA

October 1976

(c) Mark Samuel Madoff, 1976

In presenting this the$is in partial fulfilment of the requirements for

an a d v a n c e d d e g r e e at the University of British Columbia, I agree that

the Library shall make it freely available for reference and study.

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Department of English!

The University of British Columbia

2075 Wesbrook Place
Vancouver, Canada
V6T 1W5

Date 1 O c t o b e r 1976
Research Supervisor: Professor Ian S. Ross

ABSTRACT

This d i s s e r t a t i o n focusses c h i e f l y on the s e n s i b i l i t y underlying

selected gothic f i c t i o n published between 1764 and 1820. A preliminary

section deals with the history of the term "gothic" from the Renaissance

onwards, and i n this section and elsewhere attention i s given to the

r e v i v a l of interest i n gothic architecture as affording insights for the

c r i t i c of the novel. The general emphasis of the study i s on attitudes

to postulated gothic ancestors, and how a recreated gothic world pro-

vides either a suitable environment for discovering an i d e a l s o c i a l or

p o l i t i c a l system, or opportunities for exercising greater imaginative

freedom, e s p e c i a l l y i n the treatment.of sensational or e r o t i c subjects.

P o l i t i c a l thinkers of the post-Renaissance seeking an "Ancient

Constitution," as well as antiquaries indulging a taste for medieval

a r t i f a c t s , supplied a factual basis for the gothic, but i t s main a t t r a c -

tiveness lay i n i t s imaginative richness, novelty, and potency as a

domain of a r t . In both l i t e r a t u r e and architecture, the vogue of the

gothic was part of an innovative reaction against the apparent l i m i t s of

harmonious, decorous, r a t i o n a l , balanced a r t . However, the innovation

usually took a subversive d i r e c t i o n , employing f a m i l i a r forms and atti-

tudes i n order to conceal or p a l l i a t e the strangeness of the gothic, i n

order to l i n k i t with more acceptable tastes. This d i s s e r t a t i o n traces

the process of compromise with established styles i n the l i t e r a r y and

a r c h i t e c t u r a l work of the f i r s t prominent gothic f a n t a s i s t , Horace

Walpole, and contrasts his f i c t i o n a l techniques i n The Castle of Otranto

ii
(1764) with those of Clara Reeve i n The Old English Baron (1777), i n

which the gothic world i s made an improved, p u r i f i e d version of Reeve's

own society.

Two d i s t i n c t attitudes towards the gothic developed: ambivalence

and nostalgia. The ambivalent attitude retained much of the modern con-

tempt for the gothic while r e a l i z i n g i t s sensational p o t e n t i a l i t i e s ; i t

combined amusement with a deeper source of fascination. The nostalgic

attitude regarded the gothic world as an experimental s i t e , where

conservative and r a d i c a l solutions to present problems might be imposed

upon a loose h i s t o r i c a l framework.

Ambivalent gothicism tended to follow an increasingly sensational

l i n e , investigating the a t t r a c t i o n of e v i l and power, the p l i g h t of the

victim, and the psychological accompaniments of extreme s i t u a t i o n s . An

aesthetic basis of the art of strong sensation or terror i s outlined

through reviewing the central arguments of Burke's Enquiry into the

Origins of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful (1757). I t i s sug-

gested that they helped to engender a controversy over the proper

balance between sensationalism and decorum. The psychological theories

of the Enquiry and the ensuing controversy are examined for the l i g h t

they shed on gothic f i c t i o n a l practices, and c r i t i c s ' observations are

cited as evidence of the tensionsbetween ambivalent and nostalgic

attitudes towards the gothic. Although exoticism served both gothic

ambivalence and nostalgia, i t was e s p e c i a l l y valuable for f a c i l i t a t i n g

the approach to sensational materials, by providing a protective degree

of aesthetic distance.

iii
 The ambivalent attitude and the c a r e f u l e x p l o i t a t i o n of exoticism

permitted freer exploration of p a i n f u l , disturbing subjects than was

possible i n " r e a l i s t i c " f i c t i o n . This i s documented through close

analysis of The Monk (1795) by M. G. Lewis; The Romance of the Forest

(1791), The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794), and The I t a l i a n (1797) by Ann

R a d c l i f f e ; and Melmoth the Wanderer (1820), by Charles Maturin. It i s

shown that, while nostalgic elements occasionally intrude i n these

novels, the usefulness of gothic exoticism l i e s i n the increased ability

to concentrate on c e r t a i n obsessive themes. Psychologically-threatening

problems of i d e n t i t y , knowledge, education, and authority often appear

through monastic models, and the figure of the criminal or outcast, who

i s usually a sexual aggressor, i n d i r e c t l y represents anxieties about

relations between parents and children, r u l e r s and subjects, men and

women. It i s argued that the ambivalent gothic became a dark medium on

which were projected v i s i o n s of psychic d i s i n t e g r a t i o n and oppression.

The novels analyzed sought to r e a l i z e the extraordinary crises of the

soul, while o f f e r i n g varying amounts of r e l i e f from the pressures of the

anarchic forces portrayed i n conflict.

Professor Ian S. Ross

Supervisor

iv
 TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter Page

I. CLASSICAL AND MEDIEVAL ANCESTORS:

Revisions of the Past 1

II. VITALITY IN FICTION: The Mixed Mode 80

III. "IMPENDING DANGERS, HIDDEN GUILT, SUPER-

NATURAL VISITINGS": The Sensational, the
Exotic, and the Gothic 153

IV. EROTIC DANGERS, MONASTIC TYRANNY, AND

FAMILY SECRETS: Themes in the Ambivalent

Gothic 191

CONCLUSION 256

BIBLIOGRAPHY 264

v
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to express my appreciation for the support and

guidance I have received from my supervisor, Professor Ian

S. Ross, of the Department of English, University of B r i t i s h

Columbia. The s t a f f of the McPherson Library, University of

V i c t o r i a , have given me generous assistance i n using that

l i b r a r y ' s holdings. The Canada Council has aided my research

through Doctoral Fellowships, 1973-75.

vi
 CHAPTER I

CLASSICAL AND MEDIEVAL ANCESTORS

Revisions of the Past

Much of the appeal of the gothic novels began i n a b e l i e f i n the

superior imaginative potency of another world, unfamiliar enough to be

remote from the contemporary one. This basic b e l i e f often took on

p o l i t i c a l , s o c i a l , a r t i s t i c , and a r c h i t e c t u r a l , as well as l i t e r a r y ,

forms. For that reason, we cannot regard i t as an a r b i t r a r y , whimsical

or disconnected phenomenon i n the h i s t o r y of taste. In a l l areas, i t

involved a reworking of c r i t i c a l p r i n c i p l e s to accommodate a d i f f e r e n t

range of experiences, so that the whole vocabulary of c u l t u r a l values

expanded. C r i t i c s threw down or took up models for emulation, and

examined the means by which such choices were made. The r e s u l t was a

r e v i s i o n of the past, at l e a s t as the past entered and influenced the

English imagination.

Terminological controversies over the gothic r e f l e c t e d the main

features of that r e v i s i o n . Before turning to the actual emergence of

the new gothic i n f i c t i o n , we therefore need to pay attention to i t s

background, and p a r t i c u l a r l y to patterns of usage: the appearance of the

word "gothic" i n various contexts, the kinds of objects or q u a l i t i e s

which i t l a b e l l e d , and the complicated, overlapping connotations which

the word acquired. Such study of changing attitudes and practices w i l l

demonstrate the intermingling of motives for praise and blame, the

- 1 -
 2

ambivalence towards an e r a and i t s imagined c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s t h a t per-

vaded g o t h i c f i c t i o n . I t w i l l a l s o show t h a t o p i n i o n s which seemed

a e s t h e t i c , or which a r o s e i n a e s t h e t i c argument, c a r r i e d p o l i t i c a l or

s o c i a l o v e r t o n e s as important as t h e i r o v e r t meaning. The lines of

p a r t i s a n s h i p , a l t h o u g h hard to draw e x a c t l y , must be considered for a

full i n t e r p r e t a t i o n of the novels.

There are s e v e r a l l a r g e c o m p i l a t i o n s o f f e r i n g d e t a i l e d accounts of

the usage of g o t h i c and the v a r i e t y of o p i n i o n s brought to bear upon the

term."*" In many of these, however, the l i t e r a r y g o t h i c i s t r e a t e d secon-

darily. This i s hardly surprising. Germann and F r a n k l , f o r example,

w r i t e w i t h the s p e c i a l v i e w p o i n t and purposes of the a r c h i t e c t u r a l

h i s t o r i a n , and a l t h o u g h most of t h e i r o b s e r v a t i o n s are a c c u r a t e , they do

not go out of t h e i r way to address the problems of f i c t i o n . The applica-

t i o n of t h e i r f i n d i n g s to the l i t e r a r y g o t h i c w i l l be the c h i e f g o a l i n

the f o l l o w i n g d i s c u s s i o n .

Terminological controversy over the g o t h i c tended to f a l l i n t o two

phases. The f i r s t was a v e r s i o n of the ongoing d i s p u t e between the

Ancients and the Moderns i n which the p u t a t i v e b a r b a r i a n creators of

gothic art contrasted u n f a v o u r a b l y , a t f i r s t , w i t h the Greeks and Romans.

At the extreme of t h i s phase, g o t h i c came to be closely associated with

2

barbarous. The second phase, o f t e n c o n t a i n i n g the t y p i c a l arguments of

the f i r s t , concentrated upon the a e s t h e t i c q u a l i t i e s of g o t h i c architec-

t u r e and m e d i e v a l (or Renaissance) l i t e r a t u r e , and their defensibility

according to e s t a b l i s h e d or r e v i s e d c r i t e r i a . The first phase was more

concerned w i t h the c r e a t o r s , the second w i t h t h e i r creations.

 3

Both phases of the controversy originated with the art c r i t i c s and

3
historians of the I t a l i a n Renaissance. I t i s f a i r l y clear why a n t i -

gothic sentiment should have developed under those circumstances:

. . . u n t i l the f i f t e e n t h century the influence of a n t i -

quity was balanced by other influences, and no one thought
of being a p u r i s t . F i l i p p o Brunelleschi's researches into
c l a s s i c a l architecture . . . heralded a hardening of a t t i -
tudes. An absolute standard of a r t i s t i c excellence,
consciously based on the authority of Greek and Roman
antiquity, was proclaimed i n I t a l y . By t h i s standard a l l
the a r t i s t i c monuments of the p o s t - c l a s s i c a l age, that i s ,
a l l the works i n the "modern" as opposed to the good
antique s t y l e , were judged and condemned.
. . . i t became apparent that the impure "modern" s t y l e
must have been forced upon unwilling I t a l y by invaders,
f i r s t by the notorious Goths and Lombards, who i n the fourth
and f i f t h centuries had squatted on the wreck of Roman
c i v i l i z a t i o n , and i n l a t e r centuries by their successors,
the Germans..
4

A t y p i c a l and i n f l u e n t i a l version of the I t a l i a n theory occurred i n

Giorgio Vasari's Lives of the Painters, where he conflated the Gothic

and Germanic s t o r i e s , and made the c r u c i a l i d e n t i f i c a t i o n of the gothic

with the non-classical:

There are works of another sort that are c a l l e d German,
which d i f f e r greatly i n ornament and proportion from the
antique and the modern. Today they are not employed by
distinguished architects but are avoided by them as mon-
strous and barbarous, since they ignore every f a m i l i a r
idea or order; which one can rather c a l l confusion and
disorder, for i n their buildings, of which there are so
many that they have contaminated the whole world, they
made portals adorned with thin columns twisted i n cork-
screw fashion (vine t e n d r i l s ) etc. . .

After going on to describe these works i n greater d e t a i l , building

to a crescendo of disgust at t h e i r hideousness, Vasari proposed to

explain their o r i g i n :

This manner was invented by the Goths, who, a f t e r the

destruction of the ancient buildings and the dying out of
architects because"of the wars, afterwards b u i l t . . .
e d i f i c e s i n this manner: those men fashioned the vaults
 4

with pointed arches of quarter c i r c l e s , and f i l l e d a l l

Italy with these damnable buildings, so that their whole
method has been given up, i n order not to l e t any more
be b u i l t .

Vasari took up this episode of mistaken building as an i n t r u s i o n

into the perfect practice of the "antique" Greek and Roman a r c h i t e c t s ,

and as a constant warning to the "modern" architects who, a f t e r Brunel-

l e s c h i , were trying to recover that standard of excellence. His v i t u -

peration had i t s precedents. F i l a r e t e (Antonio Averlino) i n h i s t r e a t i s e

on architecture written between 1460 and 1464 anticipated the connection

between medieval architecture and the Goths or h i s t o r i c a l barbarians.^

Although he was a partisan of the ancient manner of building and of i t s

recovery i n f u l l purity, F i l a r e t e ' s references to the gente barbara

s t i l l bears more of the h i s t o r i c a l sense of barbaric (pertaining to

certain t r i b e s ) , than of the l i t e r a r y sense barbarous (pertaining to a

debased s t y l e ) . ^ In the l i f e of Brunelleschi attributed to Antonio

Manetti appeared the theory of the bringing of German building methods

into I t a l y . H i s t o r i c a l l y erroneous, l i k e Vasari's l a t e r e f f o r t , this

version contained more d e t a i l and, therefore, seems more p l a u s i b l e .

De Beer has summarized the theory:

The Vandals, Goths, Lombards, Huns, and others, being them-

selves inexperienced i n building technique, used German
craftsmen who had s k i l l i n these matters, and buildings
were erected a l l over I t a l y i n the German manner. But when
Charlemagne drove out the Lombards, and came to an under-
standing with the Roman p o n t i f f s , he used workmen from Rome,
who though not very experienced i n p r a c t i c a l building,
worked i n the manner of the Romans whose monuments they saw
around them. . . . Then Charlemagne's empire was overrun by
the Germans who re-introduced the German manner of building
which lasted u n t i l the times of F i l i p p o Brunelleschi.g

This account was more sophisticated than Vasari's, since i t included

German influences and allowed for a longer time-span; i t did not make
 5

medieval a r c h i t e c t u r e the d i r e c t product of the Gothic t r i b e s .

An e p i s t l e to Pope Leo X, w r i t t e n about 1518 or 1519 and a t t r i b u t e d

to Raphael or a member of h i s c i r c l e , a l s o looked towards s e v e r a l of the

points which would come up i n V a s a r i ' s c r i t i q u e . The viewpoint i n t h i s

case was Roman rather than F l o r e n t i n e , but the h i s t o r i c a l view was

e s s e n t i a l l y the same: a sequence of degeneration and p a r t i a l recovery of

true a r t i s t i c p r i n c i p l e s . L i k e B r u n e l l e s c h i ' s biographer, t h i s author

d i f f e r e n t i a t e d between the e a r l i e r barbarians, the Goths, Vandals and

Lombards, and the Germans:

. . . when Rome was overrun by the barbarians not only were

the b u i l d i n g s destroyed but the a r t of a r c h i t e c t u r e i t s e l f
was l o s t . With t h e i r l i b e r t y the Romans l o s t a l l genius
and a r t . They broke up the b e a u t i f u l ancient b u i l d i n g s
around them and from them constructed t h e i r wretched d w e l l -
ings. There arose a most ignorant and worthless type of
a r c h i t e c t u r e , p a i n t i n g and sculpture . . . l a t e r the Germans
revived the a r t of a r c h i t e c t u r e a l i t t l e , but t h e i r orna-
ments "furono g o f f i , e l o n t a n i s s i m i d a l l a b e l l a maniera
de'Romani."

The author "contrasts the b e a u t i f u l parts and proportions of a c l a s s i c a l

b u i l d i n g with the i r r a t i o n a l treatment, the strange animal f i g u r e s and

leaf ornaments of a 'German' e d i f i c e . Here c r i t i c i s m i s combined with

history. I t i s evident that the author d i s l i k e s the medieval s t y l e s ;

but when he opposes the ' A r c h i t e t t u r a Romana' and ' l a Barbara' i t i s not

to be assumed that he i s being merely abusive; the second term i s p r i -

9
m a r i l y h i s t o r i c a l , whatever other i m p l i c a t i o n s i t may contain." But

among those "other i m p l i c a t i o n s " was the ranking of c u l t u r e s . "Barbara"

cannot be merely an h i s t o r i c a l term (as de Beer claims) at a time when

the works of c l a s s i c a l a n t i q u i t y were valued so h i g h l y , at a time when

n o n - c l a s s i c a l forms f a i l e d to s a t i s f y the important a r t i s t i c standards.

For the whole convenience of the theory of barbarian o r i g i n s f o r the

 6

gothic, i n I t a l y , l a y i n the f a c t that the barbarians were by d e f i n i t i o n

o u t s i d e r s , who d i d not have the moral and i n t e l l e c t u a l a b i l i t i e s neces-

sary f o r c i v i l i z a t i o n . Under the influence of a r t i s t i c standards that

propose a cycle of excellence and degeneration, the former associated

with n a t i v e , the l a t t e r with f o r e i g n , elements, i t becomes hard to

separate a e s t h e t i c from moral judgments, the a l i e n t r i b e s from the

despoilers of c u l t u r e .

None of the e a r l i e r statements reached the wide c i r c u l a t i o n of

Vasari's Lives, or matched i t s i n f l u e n c e . "No one before him had w r i t t e n

with such sardonic a s p e r i t y of medieval a r c h i t e c t u r e , and i n t h i s respect

... he set the tone f o r ensuing centuries. . . . V a s a r i was the f i r s t

to make the d e f i n i t i v e a s s e r t i o n that medieval a r c h i t e c t u r e (and i t i s

clear from h i s d e s c r i p t i o n that he was t h i n k i n g of Gothic and not

Romanesque architecture) was the invention of the Goths . . . t h i s pas-

sage i s without doubt the source from which subsequent w r i t e r s were to

derive the term 'Gothic' as applied to l a t e r medieval architecture.""*"^

The I t a l i a n theory set up an opposition which was not l i m i t e d to a r c h i -

t e c t u r a l types. I f the Goths and Germans had helped to s p o i l c l a s s i c a l

a r c h i t e c t u r e , that was only because they had undermined the whole c u l -

t u r a l and p o l i t i c a l order which produced i t . Given the conscious

r e v i v a l i s m and the sense of a l o s t n a t i o n a l heritage that moved through

I t a l i a n a e s t h e t i c thinking at t h i s time, such scapegoating was quite

predictable. The common idea of the Three Ages of A r t , which we have

already seen, i n s l i g h t v a r i a t i o n s , i n the L i f e of B r u n e l l e s c h i and the

Pseudo-Raphael l e t t e r , encouraged blame against the barbarians and

intruders. For the Three Ages included the golden period of Greek and
 7

Roman excellence, the period of decay under foreign influences, and the

modern attempt to reach the o r i g i n a l , i d e a l l e v e l again. Neutral h i s -

t o r i c a l or s t y l i s t i c senses of gothic did not f i t with an idea of h i s t o r y

i n which a r t i s t i c modes were i d e n t i f i e d with p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l forces;

i n which order or c i v i l i z a t i o n opposed anarchy or non-culture."'""'" As a

r e s u l t , gothic art must have seemed disorderly for two reasons: i t did

not share any of the accepted aesthetic q u a l i t i e s , and i t s supposed

originators were the d e f i l e r s of the c l a s s i c a l heritage and the bringers

of p o l i t i c a l chaos.

The notion of gothic disorderliness and i r r a t i o n a l i t y posed a

special problem for the modern d i s c i p l e s of V i t r u v i u s . During the

sixteenth century i n I t a l y the term ordine came to replace V i t r u v i u s '

genere i n describing c l a s s i c a l columns: hence the " c l a s s i c orders" of

architecture. Ordine also occurred, with a great deal of confusion, as

a synonym for maniera or opera. Usage indicates that there was a measure

of equality f o r the "foreign" s t y l e , for the phrase ordine Tedesco

12

appeared frequently. The nature of the buildings, however, made the

phrase into a paradox, c l e a r l y i l l u s t r a t e d i n the d e f i n i t i o n of "Ordine

Gottico" i n F i l i p p o Baldinucci's Vocabolario Toscano dell'arte del

desegno (Florence: 1681):

. . . the working method i n vogue under the Goths, the
German manner and a kind of proportion which has nothing
i n common with the f i v e good orders of Antique architecture;
on the contrary, i t i s a completely barbaric fashion involv-
ing excessively slender, elongated, distorted a n d — i n every
sense of the word—enervated columns, imposed one on top of
the other and cluttered with small tabernacles, pyramids,
projections, disruptions, l i t t l e consoles, crockets, animal
carvings and t e n d r i l s , a l l one on top of the other, with no
order, no rule, no proportion and no t a s t e . ^
 8

G o t h i c was u n i q u e i n t h a t i t was an order without order. Vitruvians

alternated in their response to i t : some p e r s i s t e d i n e f f o r t s to f i n d a

way o f including it w i t h i n the canon, a labour which continued through

the e i g h t e e n t h c e n t u r y ; o t h e r s were o c c u p i e d w i t h u s i n g the canon to

condemn t h e g o t h i c a l t o g e t h e r . Since Vitruvian doctrines, as elaborated

by R e n a i s s a n c e t h e o r i s t s and a r c h i t e c t s , also provided for stylistic

conformity, particularly in restorations, a c e r t a i n amount o f gothic, or

14

non-classical, w o r k was j u s t i f i e d . The k e y c a s e , w h i c h generated

great c o n t r o v e r s y , was t h e p r o j e c t to complete the Church of San P e t r o n i o

i n Bologna, for w h i c h d e s i g n s were c o m m i s s i o n e d between 1521 and 1 6 0 0 .

In the course of the d i s p u t e over the proper style Terribilia produced a

v e r s i o n of the story of gothic intrusion i n I t a l y w h i c h was i n part

d i a l e c t i c a l , and w h i c h d i s p l a y e d the same c o n c e r n f o r the l a c k of a

d e f i n a b l e order i n the g o t h i c :

. . . i n t h i s extremely confused s t a t e of a f f a i r s the G e r -

m a n s , o r t h e G o t h s a s some p e o p l e l i k e t o c a l l t h e m , c o n -
tinued to a c e r t a i n extent to i m i t a t e the t h i n g s that they
h a d s e e n i n Rome, e s p e c i a l l y t h e C o r i n t h i a n O r d e r . They
m i x e d G r e e k c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s w i t h t h e i r own a n d s o , i n t h e i r
own w a y , c r e a t e d a t h i r d k i n d o f a r c h i t e c t u r e and i n t r o d u c e d
t h i s i n t o I t a l y ; i t i s t h e k i n d f o u n d i n San P e t r o n i o , one
w h i c h ought r e a l l y t o be d e s i g n a t e d as u n o r g a n i z e d r a t h e r
than o r g a n i z e d , a l t h o u g h the f o l l o w e r s of a c e r t a i n C e s a r -
i a n o , a commentator on V i t r u v i u s , c l a i m t o h a v e d i s c o v e r e d
i t s p r i n c i p l e s i n t r i a n g l e s . . . . But s i n c e , to the b e s t
o f my k n o w l e d g e , we h a v e no s p e c i f i c r u l e s f o r t h e German
o r d e r , we s h a l l h a v e t o o r g a n i z e t h i s German w o r k w i t h i n
the framework of our n a t u r a l and u n i v e r s a l r u l e s a c c o r d i n g
t o t h e g u i d e - l i n e s l a i d down b y V i t r u v i u s . ^

By t h e e i g h t e e n t h c e n t u r y the controversy over gothic continued in

both i t s phases, touching the c u l t u r a l d e f i c i e n c i e s of its creators,

whether b e l i e v e d t o be G o t h s , Germans, S a r a c e n s , Saxons or M o o r s , and

the o u t l a n d i s h q u a l i t i e s of their works. Much o f the eighteenth-century

 9

c r i t i c i s m was a throw-back to the I t a l i a n humanists' arguments, with

an additional element coming from Boileau's p r i n c i p l e s of Good and Bad

Taste. One passage which i s i n t e r e s t i n g because i t deals with l i t e r a t u r e

along with architecture comes from the t r e a t i s e on poetry and rhetoric

by Johann U l r i c h Konig (1727):

The so-called Nordic peoples then flooded the whole of

Europe with their ignorance and with that Bad Taste which
clung permanently to t h e i r descendants; this can s t i l l be
recognized today from the remains, among other things, of
their badly composed writings, rambling romances, immod-
erate passion for rhyming, clumsy monkish s c r i p t , coarse-
sounding speech, barbarous music, graceless costumes,
badly-drawn paintings, and above a l l from t h e i r Gothic
architecture...,
io

Kant, i n h i s Observations on the Feeling of the Beautiful and Sub-

lime (1764), joined those who believed that a l l things which offended

against Reason, Nature and Propriety were gothic, or similar to gothic.

His h i s t o r y of a r t i s t i c development resembled the I t a l i a n account, with

reference to the Three Ages and a scheme which included general c u l t u r a l

values.

In his encyclopedia of the a r t s , the Allgemeine Theorie der schonen

Kunste (17 7«l-r74) , which was widely known among German n e o - c l a s s i c i s t s ,

f

J. G. Sulzer turned back to Boileau for h i s vocabulary. For Sulzer

gothic was synonymous with Bad Taste and he applied i t to works regard-

less of the exact generic, regional or h i s t o r i c a l category i n which they

belonged; gothic was a c a t c h - a l l l a b e l of derogation. Sulzer also applied

the term "to a l l nations which engage i n c u l t u r a l pursuits before their

taste has been adequately formed. Thus Gothic comes to mean something

very l i k e parvenu, and one can t a l k of Gothic behaviour as well as Gothic

art. . . . S u l z e r even perpetuated the h i s t o r i c a l misconceptions of

 10

Vasari, for he believed that the term gothic "originated i n the clumsy

imitations of ancient architecture perpetrated by the Goths who settled

in Italy." He conceded that gothic works were "lacking not i n e s s e n t i a l

q u a l i t i e s , nor even always i n greatness and splendour, but i n beauty,

charm, and delicacy." The Goths had made a travesty of the mimetic

process i n a r t , having no clear idea of their subjects or their means of

imitation. It was obvious to Sulzer why their works seemed so grotesque,

and equally obvious that such grotesquery was inadvertent, the r e s u l t of

incompetence not design.

Sulzer also took a clue from Shaftesbury's theories of taste and

personality i n associating aesthetic with moral judgments. He emphasized

the causal l i n k between a people's art and their s p i r i t u a l well-being.

Since gothic art was defective i n most important aesthetic areas, a taste

for i t did not bode well for a person's general mental balance, and such

a taste m u l t i p l i e d meant that society i t s e l f had become debased. Although

the objects of contempt changed, the German o r g a n i c i s t s , Pugin and Ruskin

a l l followed a similar l i n e of argument.

The two phases of the controversy over the gothic were e a s i l y mixed

so that, where arguments from aesthetic p r i n c i p l e s f a i l e d , they could be

turned with no great degree of subtlety into ad hominem arguments instead.

Vasari had begun this strategy by moving away from a detailed, i f mis-

taken, c r i t i q u e of gothic aesthetics, and towards the barbarous origins

of the art and the barbarous character of i t s defenders. The usual

eighteenth-century procedure was a l i t t l e more sophisticated. For example,

William Whitehead, writing i n The World (No. 12, 1753), neatly associated

a taste for the gothic with disturbing p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l events:

 11

This, however odd i t might seem, and however unworthy the

name of Taste, was cultivated, was admired, and s t i l l has
i t s professors i n d i f f e r e n t parts of England. There i s
something i n i t , they say, congenial to our old Gothic
constitution; I should rather think, to our modern idea
of l i b e r t y , which allows everyone the p r i v i l e g e of playing
the f o o l , and of making himself r i d i c u l o u s i n whatever way
he pleases.-^g

In The Goths in England Kliger takes up the obverse side of White-

head's accusation, and looks for the p o s i t i v e p o l i t i c a l uses of the word

gothic. According to Kliger, "the term. 'Gothic' came into extensive use

i n the seventeenth century as an epithet employed by the Parliamentary

leaders to defend the prerogatives of Parliament against the pretensions

of the King to absolute right to govern England." The search for prece-

dents for this resistance stimulated a considerable antiquarian movement

i n England. The antiquarians of the Parliamentary party believed that

the Goths, by whom they meant the ancestral Germanic peoples, had "founded

the i n s t i t u t i o n s of public assemblies which, i n i t s [sic] English p a r l i a -

mentary form, the Stuarts were seeking to destroy." By careful reworking

of the depictions of northern tribes by Tacitus, Jordanes and Saint

Augustine, the p o l i t i c a l researchers manufactured the support they needed:

"The analysis of Gothic character found i n these early texts described

the Goths as a Teutonic folk to whom p o l i t i c a l l i b e r t y was dear. Further-

more, the early texts offered a q u a s i - s c i e n t i f i c explanation of the Gothic

propensity for l i b e r t y i n a theory of climatic influence on character . . .

the f r i g i d temperature of the Gothic habitat i n the northern regions was

the physiological factor explaining Gothic vigor, hardiness, and zeal for
19

liberty." Mingled with this reconstruction was the doctrine of gothic

moral and i n t e l l e c t u a l superiority, the "translatio imperii ad Teutonicos,"

which had' been promulgated i n the north since the Protestant Reformation,
 12

and which connected the gothic with enlightenment, through an opposition

of r a c i a l c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s : "the triumph of Gothic humanity, honor, and

s i m p l i c i t y over invertebrate Roman urbanism, effeminacy, and luxury.

The Gothicists pictured . . . a world rejuvenation or r e b i r t h due to the

triumph of Gothic energy and moral purity over Roman torpor and depravity."

Kliger i s f a i r l y cautious, however, about forming connections between

p o l i t i c a l and aesthetic attitudes. Although he argues that the i d e a l i -

zation of ancient Gothic l i b e r t y was e s s e n t i a l l y a whiggish exercise i n

creating h i s t o r i c a l precedents, he denies any firm l i n k between p o l i t i c a l

Whiggery and admiration for gothic architecture. Addison, who was a Whig,

disapproved strongly of gothic architecture, while Horace Walpole, also

a Whig, moved through avid approval, lesser enthusiasm, and occasional

disapproval during his long career as connoisseur. Kliger also has to

admit that the favourable, ethnic connotation of gothic did not overcome

the unfavourable ones i n practice, and that the favourable sense was not

"the main or even important cause of the actual building of Gothic struc-

tures." But he does go so far as to claim that "an association had been

formed i n some eighteenth-century minds between Whig p r i n c i p l e s of'popular

government and the freedom from n e o - c l a s s i c a l r e s t r a i n t s displayed i n the

Gothic building; per contra, from the opposing Tory point of view, the

symmetry and balance of the Grecian b u i l d i n g apotheosized the Tory aim

of maintaining national s t a b i l i t y through vested a r i s t o c r a t i c interest

21
and a strong monarchy."
Lovejoy suggests a quite d i f f e r e n t use of gothic, as a s l u r :

It performed much the same necessary function that, i n cer-

t a i n c i r c l e s , the adjective " V i c t o r i a n " performs today. . . .
The term also took on a c e r t a i n p o l i t i c a l coloring; since i t
 13

not only vaguely suggested "the old-fashioned" i n general,

but, more s p e c i f i c a l l y , t h e p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l system of
the Middle Ages, i . e . , feudalism, i t sometimes served the
progressives of the period as an unpleasant way of r e f e r -
ring to anything the Tories approved. . . . ^

Unlike K l i g e r , Lovejoy proposes that the Whigs applied the l a b e l gothic

not to themselves or to the ancestral supporters of their parliamentary

cause, but to the Tory establishment, whenever they wanted to set forth

i t s regressive tendencies or to r a i s e the spectre of tyranny restored.

These partisan uses of the gothic seem contradictory only because

they were part of the larger contradictions that had arisen i n attitudes

towards ancestors and towards the value i n aesthetic argument of various

kinds of t r a d i t i o n a l authority. There were Goths of the l e f t and r i g h t ,

self-proclaimed Goths and r i d i c u l e d Goths because the values of the medi-

eval and c l a s s i c a l heritages were f l u c t u a t i n g . The c o n f l i c t between the

two main c u l t u r a l dispensations was the c e n t r a l fact behind the emergence

of a new gothicism. Kliger presents the opposition i n terms of f a m i l i a r

p o l a r i t i e s , nature and reason, but i t i s . p l a i n from the evidence of his

examples that a case could be made for both properties belonging to both

traditions. Lovejoy concentrates instead on a succession of "returns to

Nature," each of which represents a reaction against some previous formu-

l a t i o n of what constitutes the "natural" i n a r t . The reaction to the

gothic or to any of the other new tastes, such as the taste for the

rococo, the Chinese, or the Egyptian, with which the gothic often was

associated depended on the aesthetic q u a l i t i e s they were thought to

embody and on the current l i m i t s of the notion of c r e a t i v i t y .

Seventeenth- and eighteenth-century uses of the word gothic were

various and undiscriminating; consequently, any attempt to determine what

 14

kinds of objects were considered gothic must aim to be exhaustive rather

than d e f i n i t i v e . Aside from the m u l t i p l i c i t y of p o l i t i c a l and s o c i a l

purposes which gothic could advance, a factor which contributed to this

d i v e r s i t y was the v a r i e t y of theories for the "invention" of the medieval

styles.

In trying to sort out the meaning of the gothic, Lovejoy has noted

three common patterns of usage. In the f i r s t , any structure which did

not s a t i s f y n e o - c l a s s i c a l norms was called, gothic. Thus, we have the

statement i n Dryden's t r a n s l a t i o n of Dufresnoy (1693): " A l l that i s not

in the ancient gust i s called a barbarous or Gothic manner." S i m i l a r l y ,

Batty Langley, i n Ancient Architecture Restored and Improved, etc. (1742),

asserted that: "Every ancient building which i s not i n the Grecian mode
23

i s called a Gothic b u i l d i n g . "

The second pattern of usage was more limited but equally inaccurate.

This was the application of the l a b e l gothic to works which would now be

called Romanesque. I t i s s i g n i f i c a n t that Romanesque was the style that

was a c t u a l l y believed, i n I t a l y at l e a s t , to be of Gothic o r i g i n ; the

l a t e r "pointed" s t y l e was more l i k e l y to be thought German or Saracenic.

The t h i r d pattern was exemplified i n John Evelyn's Account of Archi-

tects and Architecture which was prefixed to his e d i t i o n of Freart's

A Parallel of the Ancient Architecture with the Modern (1697). Evelyn

adhered to the recent theory of the double genesis of "modern" a r c h i t e c -

ture, regarding the Goths and Vandals, and the Moors and Arabs, as

originators of what he called "a c e r t a i n f a n t a s t i c a l and l i c e n t i o u s

Manner of Building." He lumped together and thoroughly confused the

Romanesque or Norman "heavy" style with the l a t e r pointed style which

 15

Wren would c a l l Saracenic (that l a b e l also expressing a theory of "inven-

tion") . Early and l a t e medieval buildings, buildings overly heavy,

ponderous, gloomy and overly l i g h t , f r i v o l o u s , airy were condemned under

24

the same rubric and given the same designation, gothic. For Evelyn

and his contemporaries, gothic referred to a l l a r c h i t e c t u r a l excesses.

It did not matter much i f those excesses resulted from diametrically

opposite causes.

F a i l u r e to discriminate c a r e f u l l y among styles was understandably

common with c r i t i c s of the gothic. Since they saw the gothic as merely

one among several subversive new tastes they were u n l i k e l y to look into

i t s f i n e r d i v i s i o n s . Moreover, ignorance of an ignorant s t y l e was a form

of protection against i t s e f f e c t s . So gothic was placed with rococo,

Chinese and Egyptian as an aberrant species, and the same objections

often were l a i d against a l l . This muddling of types was also encouraged

by the modern supporters and builders of non-classical architecture, who

f e l t no reluctance i n introducing a mixture of elements into their

25

designs, producing strange, and not e s p e c i a l l y vigorous, hybrids.

The c r i t i c s ' main target was the Saracenic or modern gothic of the

thirteenth to f i f t e e n t h century. Their s i n g l i n g out of the Saracenic

may have begun i n "a v a l i d aesthetic reaction against the excesses of

the English Late Perpendicular and the French Flamboyant s t y l e s ; but the

attributes found i n an extreme form i n these were commonly ascribed to

26
'modern Gothic' as a whole." Among those a t t r i b u t e s were lack of
formal explicitness or r a t i o n a l i t y , and over-ornamentation, e s p e c i a l l y
27

where there was no functional or s t r u c t u r a l need. The standards for

judging such d e f i c i e n c i e s were sometimes translated into magnitude and

 16

immediacy of impression. For example, i n Spectator No. 415, one of the

series on "The Pleasures of the Imagination," Addison contrasted the

effects of a c l a s s i c a l and a gothic building upon the beholder:

Let any one r e f l e c t on the Disposition of Mind he

finds i n himself, at his f i r s t Entrance into the Pantheon
at Rome, and how his Imagination i s f i l l e d with something
Great and Amazing; and, at the same time, consider how
l i t t l e , i n proportion, he i s affected with the Inside of
a Gothick Cathedral, tho' i t be f i v e times larger than the
other; which can arise from nothing else, but the Greatness
of Manner i n the one, and the Meanness i n the other.

Addison borrowed a psychological explanation of this contrast from

Freart's P a r a l l e l , which made i t clear that "Meanness of Manner" resulted

from the d i s t r a c t i o n caused by superfluous, t r i v i a l d e t a i l s :

I am observing . . . a thing which, i n my Opinion, i s very

curious, whence i t proceeds, that i n the same quantity of
Superficies, the one Manner seems great and magnificent,
and the other poor and t r i f l i n g ; the Reason i s f i n e and
uncommon . . . to introduce into Architecture this Grandeur
of Manner, we ought so to proceed, that the D i v i s i o n of the
P r i n c i p a l Members of the Order may consist but of few Parts,
that they be a l l great and of a bold and ample Relievo, and
Swelling; and that the Eye, beholding nothing l i t t l e and
mean, the Imagination may be more vigorously touched and
affected with the Work that stands before i t . . . i f we
see none of that ordinary Confusion which i s the Result of
those l i t t l e c a v i t i e s , Quarter Rounds of the Astragal, and
I know not how many other intermingled P a r t i c u l a r s , which
produce no effect i n great and massy Works, and which very
unprofitably take up Place to the prejudice of the P r i n c i p a l
Member, i t i s most c e r t a i n that t h i s Manner w i l l appear
Solemn and Great; as on the contrary, that w i l l have but a
poor and mean E f f e c t , where there i s a Redundancy of those
smaller Ornaments, which divide and scatter the Angles of
the Sight into such a Multitude of Rays, so pressed together
that the whole w i l l appear but a Confusion.^

When we penetrate this pseudo-psychological language we see that

Addison was describing the f a i l u r e of the gothic to concentrate its

effects. The combination of v a r i e t y and disorder produced what Montes-

29
quieu c a l l e d "a sort of enigma." Addison found such obscurity a
 17

b a r r i e r to strong impressions.

Addison brought this observation to bear on l i t e r a r y matters as

well. In Spectator No. 62 he had proposed three categories of wit

(poetical composition): true, false, and "mixt." True Wit, consisting

i n "the Resemblance of Ideas," was superior because i t manipulated the

simple elements of natute and avoided the t r i v i a l , the accidental and the

s u p e r f i c i a l ; therefore, i t came closer to serving the mimetic purpose of

poetry. In contrast, under False Wit Addison grouped a l l sorts of i d l e

word-play, including puns, anagrams, a c r o s t i c s , puzzles, figure-poems,

r i d d l e s , and doggerel rhyme. Mixt Wit, partaking of both kinds, gave

Addison occasion to attack the unrestrained working of fancy i n poetry,

and, i n p a r t i c u l a r , the legacy of excess and whimsical imagination l e f t

by the Metaphysical poets.

It becomes p l a i n , as Addison's arugment f i l l s out, that by True Wit

he meant to encompass the essential properties of good poetry. Comparing

the degrees of poetic sophistication, Addison made use of a suggestive

a r c h i t e c t u r a l analogy:

This i s that natural Way of Writing, that b e a u t i f u l Simpli-

c i t y , which we so much admire i n the Compositions of the
Ancients; and which no Body deviates from, but those who
want Strength of Genius to make a Thought shine i n i t s own
natural Beauties. Poets who want this strength of Genius
to give that Majestick Simplicity to Nature, which we so
much admire i n the Works of the Ancients, are forced to
hunt after foreign Ornaments, and not to l e t any Piece of
Wit of what kind soever escape them. I look upon these
Writers as Goths i n poetry, who, l i k e those i n Architecture,
not being able to come up to the b e a u t i f u l Simplicity of
the old Greeks and Romans, have endeavoured to supply i t s
place with a l l the Extravagances of an irregular Fancy . . .
the Taste of most of our English Poets, as well as Readers,
i s extremely Gothick.^

Addison's comparison contained t y p i c a l ahti-gothic complaints. With

 18

his emphasis on " S i m p l i c i t y " and "natural Beauties," he pointed out that

the gothic not only f a i l e d to concentrate its effects but also f a i l e d to

conform to nature. These shortcomings were c l o s e l y connected. The lack

of formal or technical d i s c i p l i n e i n either gothic buildings or gothic

poetry was a sign of their creators' carelessness and ignorance: Goths

were those who would not recognize that imitation of nature was the

proper end of art, or who could not achieve such imitation. Mechanically,

rather than e s s e n t i a l l y , related elements were the materials for Addison's

False and Mixt Wit; the patterns of nature, definable by u n i v e r s a l l y v a l i d

rules, were replaced i n this i n f e r i o r sort of writing by the accidental

quirks of language.

Simplicity referred not only to the obviousness or truth-to-nature

of a building or poem but also to the means of i t s creation, and the

remaining, v i s i b l e signs of i t s creation. In Addison's c r i t i c a l vocabu-

l a r y , gothic came to mean something l i k e a r t i f i c i a l or contrived. The

hallmark of art was supposed to be i t s apparent effortlessness of execu-

t i o n , i t s blending of f a c i l i t y with genius. In contrast, the elaborate-

ness of the gothic, whether i n a "Saracenic" abbey or a vapid poetic

conceit, indicated laboriousness, a s t r i v i n g a f t e r the spectacular, the

unusual, when the natural could not be.achieved. The gothic was unaccept-

able i n art because i t c a l l e d f o r t h unbridled energies i n the a r t i s t , and

required them from the beholder, wasting them i n unnecessary exercises

and fancies. In architecture, gothic continued to designate a l l types of

non-classical buildings, from Saxon to Tudor, as various schemes f o r

c l a s s i f y i n g them were t r i e d out; Addison's l i t e r a r y usage, however, was

an example of a general sense of the term gothic which was neither

 19

h i s t o r i c a l ( i . e . , gothic means medieval) nor generic ( i . e . , gothic means

romantic). In this sense, gothic stood as a c a t c h - a l l term for the

undisciplined, ignorant, formally extravagant a r t which obtruded upon

the modern taste.

Another common source of objection to the gothic was i t s apparent

lack of symmetry. And again there were l i t e r a r y analogues of the a r c h i -

t e c t u r a l defect. Like over-ornamentation or s u p e r f i c i a l i t y , t h i s short-

coming was believed to originate i n a f a i l u r e of mimesis. Nature was

inherently symmetrical as well as simple and d i s t i n c t . Symmetry, how-

ever, had more to do with unity of t o t a l e f f e c t than with b i l a t e r a l

duplication. The a r t i s t ' s objective was to ensure immediate understand-

ing of h i s work, and this required consistency i n the r e l a t i o n s of

components and i n their composition as a whole. "The demand f o r symmetry

i n architecture . . . expressed the same fundamental psychological theory

as the insistence upon the u n i t i e s i n the drama and the disapproval of

the mixture of genres. B i l a t e r a l r e p e t i t i o n . . . was merely one of the

31

p r i n c i p a l means of producing this singleness of e f f e c t . . . . " Since

tediousness and obscurity were negative q u a l i t i e s i n a r t ( u n t i l Sterne

and Burke, r e s p e c t i v e l y ) , i t was proper f o r the a r t i s t to remove d i s -

tractions which might i n t e r f e r e with an almost automatic recognition of

s i g n i f i c a n t form.

An issue c l o s e l y related to gothic asymmetry was r e g u l a r i t y , obser-

vance of the laws of mathematical proportion. I f symmetry was a recog-

nizable aesthetic q u a l i t y , r e g u l a r i t y was the basis for that quality i n

geometry (or, i n the case of poetry, i n technical r u l e s ) . That a b u i l d -

ing was regular meant that i t accorded with the "uniform and exact
 20

mathematical rules of proportion, such as had been l a i d down by V i t r u -

32

vius." Concern for mathematically demonstrable r e g u l a r i t y had grown

for several reasons: the need to provide p r a c t i c a l guidance i n construc-

tion to builders who were not engineers, the need to give t h e o r e t i c a l

j u s t i f i c a t i o n for the elaborate neo-Vitruvian scheme of a r c h i t e c t u r a l

"characters," the need to reduce human a r t i f i c e and natural object a l i k e

to f i r s t p r i n c i p l e s — w h i c h were assumed to be mathematical. Since the

Vitruvian term ordine had been interpreted as a q u a l i t a t i v e , as well as

generic, measure which could be used to deprecate the gothic as an

"order without order," i t was natural that any mathematical demonstration

would prove the e s s e n t i a l i n f e r i o r i t y of gothic design and proportion;

u n t i l the middle of the eighteenth century, there was no separate stan-

dard of gothic mathematical proportion.

Ignorance of the history of medieval building and i t s techniques

encouraged the b e l i e f that the gothic was irregular and asymmetrical.

Modern c r i t i c s who had made no active study of such projects did not

r e a l i z e that both r e g u l a r i t y and symmetry were important considerations

i n the drawing of the o r i g i n a l plans for cathedrals, churches, abbeys,

and manor-houses. They did not suspect that most of the features that

they cited i n t h e i r accusations against the gothic were, i n f a c t , the

result of accidents and the gradual way i n which the building had taken

place; they were not i d e n t i f y i n g , as they often thought, the outlandish

c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s of some medieval system of aesthetics. Since the e a r l i -

est medieval monuments s t i l l standing i n England i n the eighteenth

century were the products of centuries of sporadic work, destruction of

partly f i n i s h e d sections, and natural decay, i t was hardly possible to

 21

speak of "the a r c h i t e c t " of any such project. It was l i k e l y that o r i g -

i n a l intentions would have been ignored by succeeding generations of

builders, that the f i r s t conception would have been muddled.

In order to take h i s t o r i c a l factors into account eighteenth-century

c r i t i c s needed access to medieval building records, plans, proposals and

lists. E s p e c i a l l y i n England, however, where the d i s s o l u t i o n of the

monasteries and other r e l i g i o u s i n s t i t u t i o n s had dispersed their c o l l e c -

tions and l i b r a r i e s , those materials were not r e a d i l y available. But i t

i s doubtful whether many c r i t i c s would have f e l t any d i f f e r e n t l y toward

the gothic even i f they had been able to look into such documents, and

had been moved to do so. They s t i l l could have attacked gothic art for

i t s haphazard execution and casual composition—for the results i f not

the intentions. It was an inescapable aesthetic observation: i n i t s

e f f e c t s , the gothic lacked symmetry and r e g u l a r i t y . The antiquaries

provided h i s t o r i c a l evidence which did not f i t comfortably with neo-

c l a s s i c a l assumptions—and not a l l antiquaries' tastes were changed by

the evidence.

Other reasons for d i s l i k e of the gothic included "a physical d i s -

taste f o r the angular and pointed. . . . The spikiness of G o t h i c — t h e

i n f i n i t e r e p e t i t i o n of the pointed form i n spikes, t u r r e t s , pinnacles,

arches, doors, and windows—made the eighteenth-century observer f e e l

33

p o s i t i v e l y uncomfortable." One such observer was Goethe, who spoke of

expecting Strasbourg Munster, which inspired h i s phase of admiration for

the gothic, to appear as a "malformed b r i s t l y monster"; this s e n s i t i v i t y

to gothic monstrosity was a t y p i c a l , not an exaggerated, response.

 22

Both Lovejoy and Robson-Scott also take note of the argument from

universal acceptability, according to which the true test of the l e g i t i -

34

macy of an a r t i s t i c mode was i t s acceptance among c i v i l i z e d peoples.

Since there were various ways of c a l c u l a t i n g the degree of acceptance,

the argument was l i a b l e to be quite hard to pin down with p a r t i c u l a r s ;

i t was adopted, i f at a l l , without regard to the evidence of European

a r c h i t e c t u r a l h i s t o r y — a n d recent h i s t o r y at that. Universal accept-

a b i l i t y now may seem as i f i t should be a s t a t i s t i c a l notion, because we

are more accustomed to looking for s t a t i s t i c a l universes; i n the eighteenth

century the concept defined a much more limited universe of believers i n

the c l a s s i c a l r u l e s , the established c r i t e r i a of excellence. Universal

a c c e p t a b i l i t y was i n fact a disguise f o r the process by which a c u l t u r a l

community selected and i d e n t i f i e d i t s members. The whole argument must

have derived some of i t s force from the enduring b e l i e f i n the Three Ages

of Art: the opinions of the "barbarians" of the middle age were obviously

much less important than the examples of the f i r s t , c l a s s i c a l age and the

aspirations of the l a t e s t age.

Lovejoy does not find that the argument was very i n f l u e n t i a l as a

way of attacking the gothic, although the a l l i e d idea of u n i v e r s a l l y

v a l i d aesthetic standards was the basis for much anti-gothic c r i t i c i s m .

Lovejoy has offered the explanation that the argument originated i n

confusion over the meaning of " c l a s s i c . " C i t i n g the example of Thomas

Warton's Verses on Sir Joshua Reynolds's Painted Window (1782), Lovejoy

contends that two connotations of c l a s s i c often were mixed: one was the

sense of "universal a c c e p t a b i l i t y " ; the other, of Palladian s t y l e , the

current vogue i n c l a s s i c a l architecture. The gothic was c e r t a i n l y not

 23

the l a t t e r , but that did not necessarily prevent i t from being c l a s s i c

i n the former sense. Within the rationale of the new gothicism, i t was

a point i n favour of both a r c h i t e c t u r a l and l i t e r a r y gothic that they

were " c l a s s i c " English modes.

The controversy over the gothic was a defensive action. Opponents

of gothic art were not only interested i n deriding i t s flaws; they were

sensitive to those flaws because they believed i n some other system,

whether the superiority of Palladian architecture or the propriety of

the dramatic u n i t i e s , and they strove to defend that system against the

encroachment of i n f e r i o r alternatives. At the same time they were enforc-

ing the rules f o r s o c i a l standing, taste and knowledgeability. I t was

natural that the range of objects considered gothic should be very wide,

including not only buildings and l i t e r a r y works but also various kinds

of p o l i t i c a l opinion, p o l i t i c a l action, and s o c i a l behaviour--in general,

the outre. I t i s easy to see why the terminological controversy was so

often inconclusive, when i t s terms of reference were as i l l - d e f i n e d as

any i n seventeenth- or eighteenth-century c r i t i c a l discourse. The pre-

judices which ascribed outlandish origins to medieval a r t , which caused

the term gothic to s i g n i f y , on the l e v e l of ordinary usage, something

l i k e "barbarous" or "ignorant," added a tone of personal acrimony to the

dispute over styles and values.

The controversy over the gothic was r e s t r i c t e d i n i t s d i s t r i b u t i o n

because of differences i n class interests and regional practices. An

important factor was the gap between t r a d i t i o n a l craftsmanship and the

realm of aesthetic disputes. I t was not u n t i l the middle of the seven-

teenth century that a concept of competing s t y l e s , a necessary idea for

 24

the m a l i g n i n g of. the g o t h i c , was e s t a b l i s h e d i n England,"'"' and even then

the impact of t h a t concept was g r e a t e r on one c l a s s of b u i l d e r s than

another.

For men i n the North the d i f f e r e n c e between Renaissance and

m e d i e v a l o n l y became c l e a r when pure Renaissance b u i l d i n g s
were b u i l t t h e r e ; up t i l l then E n g l i s h a r c h i t e c t u r e was a
m i x t u r e of both s t y l e s , but accepted as c l a s s i c a l . The
d i f f e r e n c e between these b u i l d i n g s and G o t h i c was not v e r y
g r e a t and was not r e a l l y a p p r e c i a t e d . Only when I n i g o Jones
was b u i l d i n g , d i d i t become c l e a r t h a t the I t a l i a n a t e was
r a d i c a l l y d i f f e r e n t from the G o t h i c and t h a t t h e r e were i n
f a c t two styles.„,
JO

T h i s r e l a t i v e l y l a t e i n t r o d u c t i o n of s t y l i s t i c d i f f e r e n t i a t i o n into

England f i n a l l y gave r i s e to a sense of d i s s a t i s f a c t i o n w i t h the n a t i v e ,

hybrid style. B u i l d e r s and p a t r o n s who knew the " b e t t e r " s t y l e began to

p e r c e i v e the customary manner as v u l g a r and debased. >

Even a f t e r t h i s i n f i l t r a t i o n of n e o - c l a s s i c a l d i s t a s t e , a b e l i e f i n

the s u i t a b i l i t y , indeed the d e s i r a b i l i t y , of n a t i v e d e s i g n and technique

persisted:

In c o u n t r y d i s t r i c t s w i t h p l e n t y of n a t u r a l m a t e r i a l s and a
s t r o n g l o c a l t r a d i t i o n , domestic a r c h i t e c t u r e remained
untouched by I t a l i a n i n f l u e n c e s even i n the e i g h t e e n t h
c e n t u r y . . . . Barns and farm b u i l d i n g s were s t i l l r o o f e d
and b u t t r e s s e d i n the G o t h i c way; and c o u n t r y workmen f o l -
lowed Pugin's True P r i n c i p l e s w i t h a n a t u r a l n e s s which he
p r a i s e d but c o u l d never a t t a i n . While m e d i e v a l ornament
was e n j o y i n g i t s modish r e v i v a l i n the town, m e d i e v a l con-
s t r u c t i o n l i v e d an unassuming c o u n t r y l i f e , and Walpole
l i t t l e suspected t h a t the average barn was more t r u l y
G o t h i c than h i s b e p i n n a c l e d S t r a w b e r r y . ^ 7

Here C l a r k p r e s e n t s the main c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s o f t r a d i t i o n a l gothic

b u i l d i n g as i t c o n t i n u e d i n t o the e i g h t e e n t h c e n t u r y : i t s d i s t r i b u t i o n

o u t s i d e f a s h i o n a b l e c i r c l e s , i t s use i n mundane, f u n c t i o n a l situations,

its emphasis upon proven p r a c t i c e s , and i t s naivete. Some f u r t h e r qual-

i f i c a t i o n s make the account of t h i s s u r v i v a l i s m more a c c u r a t e . Gothic

 25

s u r v i v a l was more a p r o v i n c i a l than a s t r i c t l y r u r a l phenomenon. Gothic

was used for e c c l e s i a s t i c a l and c o l l e g i a t e work, i n accord with the

generally accepted practice of conforming to the manner of existing

38

structures. The occurrence of survivalism also varied with the r e l a -

t i v e power and influence of stonemasons, builders, and architects among

39

the construction trades.

Controversy over the gothic was quite irrelevant to the t r a d i t i o n a l

builders. The nature of the work they usually did and t h e i r limited

opportunities for t r a v e l and a r c h i t e c t u r a l education insulated them from

the issues under dispute. I f , as Clark and Colvin have indicated, the

t r a d i t i o n a l builders did most of t h e i r work either restoring and complet-

ing churches, or constructing farm and domestic buildings, they were

unlikely to have the chance to employ alternatives to the hybrid gothic

style—had alternatives been available to them. Moreover, their con-

tracts and contacts would have been with townspeople, merchants, parsons,

yeomen farmers, and the lesser gentry, among whom a r c h i t e c t u r a l contro-

versies and the changes of fashion were either unimportant or imperfectly

understood. Their involvement with such matters was at best delayed or

derivative. Builders, craftsmen, and most of their patrons did not have

the resources to undertake the Grand Tour, which had promoted the growth
40
of the neo-classical taste i n England. Their exposure to the p r i n c i p l e s

of neo-classical design came through academic s t u d y — i f their fortune or

talent allowed i t — o r through association with the higher l e v e l of b u i l d -

ing practice, such as the Board of Trade where Wren and his pupils were

employed. As a r e s u l t of these factors, a more or less passive advocacy

of the gothic continued unaffected by the c r i t i c a l disputes or the

 26

preoccupation of connoisseurs and amateurs. On the other hand, this

kind of t r a d i t i o n a l i s m gave l i t t l e d i r e c t i o n to the s h i f t s i n fashionable

taste that eventually defined the v a l i d , native, gothic style i n a

pseudo-historical way.

Before a taste for medieval things could reassert i t s e l f i n the

eighteenth century, two new ideas had to gain a place: a sense of the
41

novelty of medieval a r t and l i t e r a t u r e , and a sense of their i d e n t i t y .

The l a t t e r would be i n f l u e n t i a l only imperfectly and i n d i r e c t l y , but

neither sense was to be found at the t r a d i t i o n a l i s t s ' l e v e l . Given

their persistence i n using the hybrid gothic mode, their usual lack of

formal academic t r a i n i n g , their ignorance of a r c h i t e c t u r a l h i s t o r y and

theory, their i s o l a t i o n and reliance on l o c a l design models, i t was

unlikely that t r a d i t i o n a l i s t builders would be a source for understanding

42

the complexities and c l a s s i f i c a t i o n s of medieval a r t . In addition,

since they treated the gothic as the natural, indigenous style, capable

of successfully assimilating the i n t r u s i v e Renaissance s t y l e s , they

would not have seen the gothic, at the same time, as merely one optional

style among those available. T r a d i t i o n a l i s t builders thought of the

gothic as "the style in which one builds."

For the same reasons, they did not produce a sense of the gothic as

something novel or exotic; after a l l , they had been using i t continuously

well into the eighteenth century. The r e v i v a l i s t s drew that sense from

a set of c u l t u r a l and h i s t o r i c a l associations from which the t r a d i t i o n -

a l i s t s were far removed, i f only by their pedestrian, commonplace

practice of unspectacular imitation.

 27

The sense of the novelty of gothic was more important f o r the

r e v i v a l of gothic architecture and the creation of gothic f i c t i o n ; how-

ever, the development of that sense was encouraged by h i s t o r i c a l , as

well as aesthetic or fantastic, i n t e r e s t s . Paradoxically, much of the

encouragement came from English antiquaries, who were immediately con-

cerned not with the novelty of medieval art but with the process of
43

identifying and d i f f e r e n t i a t i n g i t s elements. This was the i n d i r e c t

way i n which a sense of the i d e n t i t y of gothic contributed to the new

l i t e r a r y gothicism—although the l i t e r a r y goths themselyeshhad.only an

imperfect sense of that i d e n t i t y .

The d i s s o l u t i o n of the English monasteries and the dispersal or

decay of their holdings stimulated antiquarian a c t i v i t y i n England at an

early date. The antiquary John Leland (1506?-1552) made a place f o r

a r c h i t e c t u r a l a n t i q u i t i e s i n the history of B r i t a i n which he was planning,

and which f i n a l l y appeared as the De Antiquitate Britannica published by

Thomas Hearne between 1710 and 1712. The Britannica of William Camden

(1551-1623) included even more a r c h i t e c t u r a l materials; i n Camden's time

the Elizabethan Society of Antiquaries was formed, with the purpose of

gathering records and a n t i q u i t i e s back to the Roman occupation.

At the same time there developed considerable i n t e r e s t
i n church documents, frequently written i n Anglo-Saxon, and
hence an interest i n Anglo-Saxon language and grammar. This
concern with language and with l e g a l and c l e r i c a l documents
led to an interest i n mediaeval church h i s t o r y and eventually
to the publication of the Monasticon Anglicanum with Hollar's
i l l u s t r a t i o n s ; thus the English public could from 1655 on
contemplate reproductions of English architecture, much of
i t Gothic, a l l of i t mediaeval. No other country could boast
a similar p u b l i c a t i o n . ^

The antiquaries' subject matter was not limited to gothic or medi-

eval a r t i f a c t s . Antiquaries were by no means u n i v e r s a l l y convinced of

 28

the value of the gothic. In 1736, for example, S i r John Clerk berated

Roger Gale for the misplaced l o y a l t i e s of the members of the Society of

Antiquaries: "I am sorry to find that Gothicism p r e v a i l s so much i n your

Society. If your Antiquarians won't entertain a just opinion of i t ,

they won't believe i t to be only the degeneracy of Greek and Roman Arts

and Sciences. In this view I myself have admired the laborious Dullness

and Stupidity which appear i n a l l the Gothick contrivances of any kind.

These Barbarians had the o r i g i n a l s i n perfection and yet could discover

no beauties for their imitation, but Goths w i l l always have a Gothick

45

taste." Even William Stukeley, the most prominent antiquary of the

early eighteenth century, belonged to the Society of Roman Knights at

the same time as he was secretary of the Society of Antiquaries, and

spoke of "the abominable superstitions of the cloyster'd nuns and f r y e r s "

46

and the harm they had done to the c l a s s i c a l heritage. Frankl has r e -

marked that "the men of the eighteenth century.. . . took their love for
two d i f f e r e n t styles as a sign of indecision and had to excuse them-
47

selves." Ambivalence was bound to a f f e c t the antiquaries' judgment

whenever they had to deal with preference between s t y l e s , instead of

investigation and description. And such questions of preference inevi-

tably came up, i n various areas of their i n t e r e s t : the conservation of

a r t i f a c t s , the landscaping of country estates, the treatment of r e a l and

a r t i f i c i a l ruins. The antiquaries were not simply h i s t o r i c a l researchers.

They were involved i n evaluating competing claims for c u l t u r a l ancestry,

and they had to consider the aesthetic:; implications of that competition.

The antiquaries' a c t i v i t i e s concentrated i n three areas: description,

48
i d e n t i f i c a t i o n , and conservation. Description, consisting of the
 29

discovery, c o l l e c t i n g and presenting of a r t i f a c t s , often through p u b l i -

49
cation, was a natural continuation of the work of the topographers.

In i t s e a r l i e s t stages, the antiquarian movement, l i k e topography, had

chauvinistic overtones and p a t r i o t i c uses. E s p e c i a l l y when they turned

their attention from the monasteries to the monuments of c h i v a l r y , the

baronial castles and manor-houses which already were being consciously

imitated, Elizabethan antiquaries enlarged the sense of the nation's

c u l t u r a l richness and d i v e r s i t y . The g l o r i e s of the past, v i v i d l y

r e c a l l e d , provided a suitable background for the g l o r i e s of the present

regime. Since the natural h i s t o r y and the human history of England were

both enlisted i n the service of the idea of B r i t i s h greatness, antiquar-

ianism and topography became almost indistinguishable i n t h e i r motives.

The scope and texture of a topographical survey, l i k e Michael Dray-

ton's Polyolbion (1622), which magnified the whole nation, was matched

by the minute attention that antiquaries gave to each region. The p i c -

turesque t o u r i s t coming to a strange county was also provided with a

guide to i t s a n t i q u i t i e s , i t s ruins, castles, cathedrals, and ancient

homes. Antiquaries expressed regional, as well as national pride.

Antiquarian societies existed mainly on the l o c a l l e v e l and became a new

instrument for achieving s o c i a l cohesion and for defining l o c a l i n t e r e s t s .

It i s not surprising that antiquaries often delved into the very micro-

cosm of h i s t o r i c a l research: their own family background. Thus, we have

Horace Walpole writing to the Rev. William Cole:

I am the f i r s t antiquary of my race [ i . e . , the Walpoles]
— p e o p l e don't know how entertaining aLstudy i t i s . Who
begot whom i s a most amusing kind of hunting; one recovers
a grandfather instead of breaking one's own neck—and then
one grows so pious to the memory of a thousand persons one
 30

never heard of before. One finds how C h r i s t i a n names came

into a family, with a world of other delectable erudition.
. . . — I had promised myself a whole crop of notable
ancestors—but I think I have pretty well unkennelled them
myself.^

If antiquarianism bordered on one side on topography, on the other i t

bordered on genealogy. The common element was the need to complete the

pattern of native things—whether geographical, c u l t u r a l , or f a m i l i a l .

The a c t i v i t y of i d e n t i f i c a t i o n set the antiquaries apart from the

descriptive topographers. I d e n t i f i c a t i o n included the establishing of

regional, h i s t o r i c a l , generic or s t y l i s t i c categories for a r t i f a c t s ; the

proposing of theories to explain their origins and to account for the

development of styles; and the analysing of a r t i f a c t s , mainly for their

decorative features. These studies, although by nature purely t h e o r e t i -

cal and d i s i n t e r e s t e d , were l i a b l e to lead antiquaries into the midst of

the controversy over the r e l a t i v e value of s t y l e s , a controversy with

both c r i t i c a l and p r a c t i c a l implications.

The a c t i v i t y of conservation was a response to those p r a c t i c a l

issues, of which the major one was the use and abuse of medieval a r t i -

f a c t s , e s p e c i a l l y buildings and parts of buildings. The antiquaries'

conservatism had both secular and r e l i g i o u s aspects. The o r i g i n a l a n t i -

quarian attention to e c c l e s i a s t i c a l subjects persisted, fixed there by

alarming developments. Antiquaries r e a d i l y involved themselves i n d i s -

putes over the commercial use of churches and monasteries, or their

destruction for reasons of convenience. But the developers and specula-

tors were not the only opponents with whom the protectors of gothic

buildings had to cope. In 1778, when the new gothic taste had spread i n

l i t e r a t u r e and design, Vicesimus Knox, one of the more rabid opponents

 31

of the gothic, complained about the use of stained glass i n church

windows, n o t i n g — r a t h e r c o n t r a d i c t o r i l y — t h e "glaring colours" of the

glass and the muted, gloomy i n t e r i o r l i g h t i n g that i t allowed. To Knox

"the dim i n t e r i o r suggested the tainted atmosphere of papacy and made an

appeal . . . to the ardent imagination, the a c t i v i t y of which the con-

genital c l a s s i c i s t viewed with profound disgust." The objects of his

attack included both the a f f e c t a t i o n that was papish richness and the

superstitious ignorance which the painted windows represented to him.

Knox's use of the symbolic connection between l i g h t and r e l i g i o u s b e l i e f

was remarkably similar to the l i t e r a r y g o t h i c i s t s ' :

A r e l i g i o u s dimness may, perhaps, be deemed necessary f o r

the bigoted inhabitants of the convent and the c l o y s t e r ,
whose minds, i t i s to be feared, are often as dark as their
habitations; but l i g h t i s cheerful, and cheerfulness i s the
d i s p o s i t i o n of innocence.^

Similar feelings led to the substitution of clear glass for coloured and

attempts to brighten church i n t e r i o r s . A Low Church d i s t a s t e for orna-

ment and for the sensuous accompaniments to r e l i g i o u s r i t u a l combined

with the more general d i s t r u s t of emotional or i r r a t i o n a l r e l i g i o u s

experiences to advance such "reforms."

Antiquaries regarded them with mingled suspicion and horror. A

great deal of what passed for r e s t o r a t i o n or improvement of medieval

buildings r e a l l y amounted to extensive rebuilding i n the better (i.e.,

baroque or neo-classical) s t y l e . Antiquaries acted as guardians against

incompetent, careless or malicious r e s t o r a t i o n work; for the work of

rationalizing existing churches so that they would be free from papish

trappings was u n l i k e l y to f a l l into the hands of builders who had any

stake i n the o r i g i n a l s t y l e . Antiquaries—and not only those who had

 32

developed a s p e c i a l a f f e c t i o n for the g o t h i c — f e a r e d that many objects

of h i s t o r i c a l importance and of considerable beauty would be relegated

to the trash heap indiscriminately. Although many antiquaries seemed to

edge toward a favouring of Roman Catholic i n s t i t u t i o n s and r i t u a l (or at

least an High Church p o s i t i o n ) , i t was also possible to argue for the

intact preservation of medieval churches and monasteries on purely con-

servational ground. For the antiquary, any evidence of English history

was worth saving, regardless of the d o c t r i n a l or p o l i t i c a l associations

which i t bore.

whatever their r a t i o n a l e , antiquaries practiced several kinds of

conservation. They salvaged old stained glass that had been discarded.

Where medieval buildings had f a l l e n into irreparable r u i n — a n d without

knowledge of, or interest i n , the constructive p r i n c i p l e s of medieval

architecture, much of the damage was i r r e p a r a b l e — t h e y rescued whatever

a r t i f a c t s were portable. As Horace Walpole's correspondence with Cole

and with his antiquarian adviser, John Chute, shows, i t was common for

antiquaries to incorporate many of the rescued things into their new

53

buildings, usually with unfortunate aesthetic r e s u l t s . In such cases,

the antiquary's motives went beyond conservation or the gathering of a

c o l l e c t i o n , and turned into-the main force that directed the medieval

r e v i v a l : the use of a romantic, e a r l i e r time to enrich contemporary l i f e ,

to give s a t i s f a c t i o n s that the culture of the mainstream could not give.

We can see that force working more d i r e c t l y i f we look to other

aspects of the revived interest i n past things than the a r c h i t e c t u r a l .

Besides, a r c h i t e c t u r a l antiquarianism was r a r e l y separate from i t s pos-

s i b l e literary uses, or, conversely, from i t s usual l i t e r a r y sources.

 33

The interest i n medieval architecture c e r t a i n l y had not been

provoked by any sudden r e a l i z a t i o n of either i t s aesthetic or i t s con-

s t r u c t i v e advantages. Instead, W. H. Smith notes, "the f i r s t stage of

the Gothic r e v i v a l was . . . appreciation of Gothic architecture merely

54

because of i t s antiquity and i t s h i s t o r i c a l associations." Smith's

l i s t of motives f o r this appreciation makes no mention of some i n t r i n s i c

value i n the gothic: "People were interested i n Gothic because i t pre-

served ancestral t r a d i t i o n s , because i t adorned the landscape, because

i t inspired awe, because i t induced melancholy r e f l e c t i o n s , because i t

gave them a congenial background. . . . I t would be d i f f i c u l t to say

that any one of these separate attitudes antedated any other, or that

any one ever prevailed to the utter exclusion of any other.""^ Clark has

noted that the favour shown medieval architecture by such early journal-

writers as Pepys and Evelyn, and by many antiquaries, was expressed

mainly through an appreciation of the massive scale of the buildings,

the ingenuity of their ornamentation, and the labour which a r e l a t i v e l y

primitive people brought to their construction. In short, they were

admired because they were impressive or because the fact of their being

b u i l t was supposed to be impressive.

The awesomeness of the gothic helped to determine i t s l i t e r a r y value,

and i t s p o l i t i c a l value, also; for Horace Walpole i n h i s famous compar-

ison of the effects of "Grecian" and "Gothic" buildings could not r e s i s t

emphasizing that the gothic cathedral was a piece of propaganda meant to

enrich the Roman Catholic Church:

. . . the men who had not the happiness of l i g h t i n g on the
s i m p l i c i t y and proportion of the Greek orders, were however
so lucky as to s t r i k e out a thousand graces and e f f e c t s ,
 34

which rendered their buildings magnificent, yet genteel,

vast, yet l i g h t , venerable and picturesque. It i s d i f f i -
cult for the noblest Grecian temple to convey half so many
impressions to the mind, as a cathedral does of the best
Gothic t a s t e — a proof of s k i l l i n the architects and of
address i n the priests who erected them. The l a t t e r
exhausted their knowledge of the passions i n composing
e d i f i c e s whose pomp, mechanism, vaults, tombs, painted
windows, gloom and perspectives infused such sensations
of romantic devotion; and they were happy i n finding
a r t i s t s capable of executing such machinery. One must
have taste to be sensible of the beauties of Grecian arch-
i t e c t u r e ; one only wants passions to f e e l Gothic. In St.
Peter's one i s convinced that i t was b u i l t by great princes.
In Westminster-abbey, one thinks not of the builder; the
r e l i g i o n of the place makes the f i r s t impression—and
though stripped of i t s a l t a r s and shrines, i t i s nearer
converting one to popery than a l l the regular pageantry of
Roman domes. Gothic churches infuse superstition; Grecian,
admiration. The papal see amassed i t s wealth by Gothic
cathedrals, and displays i t i n Grecian temples.

The meaning of the objects that the antiquaries c o l l e c t e d , preserved

and analysed came from two literary sources: the a c t i v i t i e s of the liter-

ary antiquaries,"^ and the experiments i n new modes of poetic s e n s i t i v i t y ,

p a r t i c u l a r l y the melancholy, the sentimental, and the sublime.

L i t e r a r y antiquarian a c t i v i t y can be traced back to Edmund Spenser's

decision to revive c h i v a l r i c subject matter and settings, and to a f f e c t

58

an archaic vocabulary and s p e l l i n g , i n the Faerie Queene. But the

works which best i l l u s t r a t e the renewed interest i n things medieval

while pointing to the use of medieval l i f e i n f i c t i o n date from the

middle of the eighteenth century. They are Richard Hurd's Moral and

Political Dialogues (1759) and Letters on Chivalry and Romance (1762),

and Thomas Warton's Observations on the Faerie Queene of Spenser (1754),

and Thomas Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry (1765). These

works are informative as much i n their method of argument as i n their

substance, so that i t becomes hard to separate the two.

 35

In the t h i r d of the Moral and Political Dialogues, that "on the

Golden Age of Queen Elisabeth BETWEEN The Hon. Robert DIGBY, Dr. ARBUTHNOT,
59

and Mr. ADDISON," Hurd pretended to record the conversation of the

t r a v e l l e r s during their excursion to "Kenelworth Castle" [ s i c ] i n 1716.

He supplied each with a d i f f e r e n t reason for the t r i p , suited to h i s

character and to the arguments he would present:

These were matters of high entertainment to a l l of them;
to Dr. ARBUTHNOT, f o r the pleasure of r e c o l l e c t i n g the
ancient times; to Mr. ADDISON, on account of some p o l i t i c a l
reflexions, he was fond of indulging on such occasions; and
to Mr. DIGBY, from an ingenuous c u r i o s i t y , and the love of
seeing and observing whatever was most remarkable, whether
i n the past ages, or the present (p. 37).

The three behave l i k e t y p i c a l scenic t o u r i s t s when they a r r i v e at

the Castle:
On their entrance into the inner-court, they were struck
with the sight of many mouldering towers, which preserved
a sort of magnificence even i n their ruins. They amused
themselves with observing the vast compass of the whole,
with marking the uses, and tracing the dimensions, of the
several parts. A l l of which i t was easy f o r them to do,
by the very d i s t i n c t traces that remained of them, and
e s p e c i a l l y by means of DUGDALE'S plans and descriptions,
which they had taken care to consult (pp. 39-40).

The v i s i t o r s climb to a vantage-point i n the ruins, whence they can look

out over the countryside: "The prospect of so many antique towers f a l l i n g

into rubbish, contrasted to the various beauties of the landscape, struck

them with admiration and kept them s i l e n t f o r some time" (p. 40). Dr.

Arbuthnot i s overcome by "a melancholy of so d e l i g h t f u l a kind, that I

would not exchange i t , methinks for any brisker sensation." And he won-

ders "how i t i s that the mind, even while i t laments, finds so great a

pleasure i n v i s i t i n g these scenes of desolation" (pp. 40-41). Addison,

however, suffers no such mixed emotion, only pleasure, "a f i c t i o n of the

 36

imagination, which makes me think I am taking revenge on the once pros-

perous and overshadowing height . . . of inordinate Greatness" (p. 41).

He observes with s a t i s f a c t i o n the fact that humble farmers l i v e i n the

lodge once occupied by the overbearing porter of the Castle, while a l l

the trappings and ceremony of the overlords have dropped into o b l i v i o n .

This observation soon turns into an overtly p o l i t i c a l reading of the

scene. For Addison, the Castle

awakens an indignation against the prosperous tyranny of

those wretched times, and creates a generous pleasure i n
r e f l e c t i n g on the happiness we enjoy under a juster and
more equal government. . . . I never see the remains of
that greatness which arose i n past ages on the ruins of
public freedom and private property, but I congratulate with
myself on l i v i n g at a time, when the meanest subject i s as
free and independent as those royal minions; and when h i s
property, whatever i t be, i s as secure from oppression, as
that of the f i r s t minister (pp. 44-45).

The ensuing argument i s almost e n t i r e l y between Addison and Arbuth-

not; for Digby, although he mostly favours Dr. Arbuthnot's side, seldom

offers an opinion of h i s own. Throughout the discussion Arbuthnot i s

the mouthpiece for Hurd's opinions.

The Dialogue deals i n moral and p o l i t i c a l , not aesthetic, values;

therefore, the arguments which Addison i s made to bring against non-

c l a s s i c a l art and medieval customs are not the kind found i n the r e a l

Addison's papers on the Pleasures of the Imagination. These former

arguments are associative, whereas those i n the Spectator often t r y to

give some psychological account of an object's e f f e c t s . I t i s also

s i g n i f i c a n t that the chivalry and romance (or the tyranny and pomp)

which are so much an issue i n the Dialogue belong to the Tudor period;

they are the romance of Sidney, Shakespeare, or even the seventeenth-

century French romantic r e v i v a l . Because the arguments do not d i r e c t l y

 37

take i n medieval things, i t was possible to s k i r t r e l i g i o u s problems i n

the Dialogue, to delay treating the issue of "monkish s u p e r s t i t i o n " that

always arose i n eighteenth-century medievalism.

Arbuthnot defends Elizabethan culture by r e l a t i n g i t to the culture

of the Greek and Roman golden ages. He compares the organized combat of

the tournaments to the Olympic Games and the spectacles staged i n the

Roman arenas. He emphasizes the c l a s s i c a l content of the Elizabethan

court masques. Through these means Hurd was trying to win a measure of

r e s p e c t a b i l i t y for c h i v a l r i c customs and romance l i t e r a t u r e , by stressing

their actual f a m i l i a r i t y , their a b i l i t y to f i t within e x i s t i n g c u l t u r a l

l i m i t s ; thus f a r , he stayed away from heterodox aims and methods. There

i s , for example, no attempt i n the Dialogue to j u s t i f y the romance or

the customs of chivalry according to their own rules or standards.

Instead Hurd r e l i e d on c r i t e r i a about which there was already agreement.

In that way his work i n the Dialogue resembled that of the popularizer

of gothic architecture, Batty Langley, of whom Walpole said that he had

"endeavoured to adapt Gothic architecture to Roman measures; as P h i l i p

61

Sidney attempted to regulate English verse by Roman f e e t . "

Despite his desire to avoid f l o u t i n g the p r e v a i l i n g aesthetic and

moral standards, Hurd showed one important change i n h i s a t t i t u d e toward

the gothic, a change signalled through his terminology. In the Third

Dialogue we meet, for the f i r s t time i n c r i t i c a l discourse, a neutral

use of the term gothic, even i f i t does not properly apply to the sub-

jects under discussion. The degree of the change comes across clearly

i n the contrast between Addison's reference, i n the Dialogue, to "a

jumble of Gothic romance and pagan fable" (p. 65) and Arbuthnot's
 38

"Gothic T i l t s and Tournaments" (p. 54): Addison makes Gothic and "pagan"

roughly equivalent i n meaning; Arbuthnot treats Gothic as the name for

a period. From t h i s point we can see the equation "gothic equals medieval

or quaintly archaic" begin to compete with the derogatory equation "gothic

equals barbarous."

For Hurd the word gothic was a simple means of distinguishing

" c l a s s i c " or "Grecian" objects from those which could be grouped loosely

under the heading medieval. By 1771, when James Beattie, i n The Minstrel,

mentioned "my gothic l y r e " and "gothic days," the r e l a t i v e n e u t r a l i t y of

the term showed even i n i t s s p e l l i n g : "the lower case 'g' indicates that
62

the term i s losing i t s r a c i a l and l i n g u i s t i c a f f i l i a t i o n s . "

Compared with the e a r l i e r equation "gothic equals barbarous" Hurd's

n e u t r a l i t y must have seemed*more l i k e praise. As reaction to things

medieval became more sophisticated, the term gothic wavered i n meaning

between n e u t r a l i t y (for the purpose of i d e n t i f y i n g a r t i f a c t s ) and out-

right i d e a l i z a t i o n . This s h i f t accompanied the development of the

concept of le bon vieux temps i n eighteenth-century France, and i t s

English counterpart:
. . . not only were the romances of the Middle Ages p r e t t i -
f i e d but the reading public derived from them and other
second-hand sources a set of idealized notions concerning
"Gothic" l i f e . Writers and readers of the second half of
the century lent to medieval men and women the v i r t u e s that
Tacitus grante'd to the Germans i n order to s a t i r i z e the
vices of Rome. . . . And because for a time nobody was
conscious of r a c i a l or national d i s t i n c t i o n s , even less of
chronological ones, a l l medieval men were pictured„as cour-
ageous, l o y a l , sober, chaste, honest and sincere./-

There i s an undercurrent of skepticism about the quality of l i f e i n

e a r l i e r times, i n the Third Dialogue, that saves Hurd from any charge of

idealization. Even on Arbuthnot's side of the f i c t i t i o u s discussion

 39

lurks an acknowledgment that darkness and barbarity formed the background

to the Elizabethan world; that the p r i n c i p a l value of c h i v a l r i c customs

and romance l i t e r a t u r e was their power to l i f t people occasionally above

those basic conditions.

Hurd carried the ambivalence of the Third Dialogue into his larger

antiquarian work, the Letters on Chivalry and Romance (1762). The

Letters do make a more d e f i n i t e claim for the independent value of the

romances, but traces of less favourable attitudes and terminology remain:

The s p i r i t of Chivalry, was a f i r e which soon spent i t s e l f :

But that of Romance, which was kindled at i t , burnt long,
and continued i t s l i g h t and heat even to p o l i t e r ages.
The greatest geniuses of our own and foreign countries
. . . were seduced by these b a r b a r i t i e s of their forefathers;
were even charmed by the Gothic Romances. Was this caprice
and absurdity i n them? Or, may there not be something i n
the Gothic Romance p e c u l i a r l y suited to the views of a
genius, and to the ends of poetry? And may not the philoso-
phic moderns have gone too f a r , i n their perpetual r i d i c u l e
and contempt of i t ? (pp. 80-81).

The r h e t o r i c a l questions introduce a r a d i c a l l y new defence of romance

l i t e r a t u r e , but phrases l i k e " p o l i t e r ages" and "seduced by these bar-

b a r i t i e s " betray ingrained attitudes, or at least Hurd's use of those

attitudes to shield himself from accusations of "caprice and absurdity."

This passage from Letter I also sets out the main purpose of the

Letters: to show i n d e t a i l the reasons for the romances' s u i t a b i l i t y "to

the views of a genius, and to the ends of poetry." The Letters go

beyond the Third Dialogue as literary research; instead of aiming to

modify the general reputation of an h i s t o r i c a l period, they urge that a

s p e c i f i c range of subject matter, a s p e c i f i c imaginative power be used

again i n l i t e r a r y creation.
 40

The f i r s t four Letters, however, are given over to a study of the

c h i v a l r i c code which Hurd regarded as the source for the romances. Here

too the older prejudices show up. Hurd s t i l l could see that c h i v a l r i c

manners resembled madness, for they included fanaticism, recklessness

and single-mindedness. Consequently, he had to r e l a t e these character-

i s t i c s to the needs of heroic poetry, i n order to connect them with art

rather than barbarity.

Hurd's sources for his research were, at best, second-hand. He

admits i n the fourth Letter that he did not learn about chivalry from

the old romances d i r e c t l y , for he had not "perused these barbarous v o l -

umes my s e l f ; much less would I impose the ungrateful attack upon you.
64

. . . Thanks to the c u r i o s i t y of c e r t a i n p a i n f u l c o l l e c t o r s , this

knowledge may be obtained at a cheaper r a t e " (p. 94). Hurd thus evaded

the question of why he did not consult the romances himself and of what

effect t h i s might have on the v a l i d i t y of his conclusions.

In Letter V Hurd returned to the idea of a correspondence between

Homeric and romantic depictions of heroism, acknowledging that the idea

originated with Sainte-Palaye (p. 95). This p a r a l l e l r e c a l l s the s t r a t -

egy of the Third Dialogue: use of the s i m i l a r i t i e s between the c l a s s i c a l

and the gothic i n order to prove the value of the l a t t e r . Hurd pursued

these resemblances further i n Letter V, observing that the p o l i t i c a l

organization of Homeric Greece was l i k e the feudal system: "an i n f i n i t e

number of petty independent governments." His main conclusion was that

similar s o c i a l i n s t i t u t i o n s and customs arose because of s i m i l a r p o l i t i -

c a l arrangements, a "common corresponding state" (p. 104). He worked

around the problem of d i f f e r e n t r e l i g i o u s i n s t i t u t i o n s by declaring that

 41

"the r e l i g i o u s character of the knight was an accident of the times, and

no proper e f f e c t of his c i v i l condition" (p. 104). This was a strange

statement from a bishop of the Church of England, since i t implied that

p o l i t i c s were e s s e n t i a l i n forming the s o c i a l order and r e l i g i o n merely

contingent.

In Letter VI Hurd changed the force of h i s comparisons and began to

demonstrate the superiority of romantic to c l a s s i c a l l i t e r a t u r e . After

supporting his preference with c i t a t i o n s from c l a s s i c a l and gothic

writers, Hurd concluded that "the fancies of our modern bards [ i . e . ,

Shakespeare, Spenser and Milton] are not only more g a l l a n t , but . . .

more sublime, more t e r r i b l e , more alarming, than those of the c l a s s i c

fablers . . . you w i l l find that the manners they paint, and the super-

stitions they adopt, are the more p o e t i c a l for being Gothic" (p. 114).

The gothic had the advantage of the c l a s s i c a l " i n producing the sublime"

(p. 117). Early i n the same Letter, Hurd imagined that Homer himself,

given the chance to judge, would have preferred "the manners of the

feudal ages": "And the grounds of this preference would, I suppose, have

been 'The improved gallantry of the feudal times'; and the 'superior

solemnity of their superstitions"" (p. 108; the 1788 e d i t i o n has "Gothic

knights" instead of "feudal times"). ^

At this point i n the Letters i t i s already clear that Hurd was not

writing a mere antiquarian t r e a t i s e , an analysis of forgotten documents

with mild apologies for their strangeness. He had set out to re-introduce

hitherto unacceptable, contemptible subject matter into poetry, but he

was also presenting an a l t e r n a t i v e set of standards for judging the qual-

i t y of poetry, standards which were based on i t s disturbing e f f e c t s ,

 42

rather than i t s beauty. After a l l the habitual connecting of the gothic

with superstition i n a negative way, Hurd had taken a new c r i t i c a l d i r e c -

tion by suggesting that there were kinds of superstitions, and that some

could produce stronger effects i n poetry than others. And i f one was to

use superstitions i n poetry, i t was much better that they be Christian

rather than pagan superstitions; that was another reason for preferring

the gothic to the c l a s s i c a l imagination—although the gothic was only

more Christian, not truly Christian.

Hurd's greatest accomplishment i n Letter VI was h i s argument for the

f l e x i b i l i t y of c r i t i c a l judgments, and h i s recognition that a r t i s t i c

standards are founded on a framework which i s not necessarily f i x e d .

Hurd demonstrated this idea i n his defence of Spenser's Faerie Queene.

A kind of defence had been t r i e d before, i n Thomas Warton's Obser-

vations on the Faerie Queene of Spenser, the f i r s t e d i t i o n of which

appeared i n 1754, when Warton was only twenty-six years o l d . This work

would have been before Hurd's mind when he composed h i s own defence; a

second e d i t i o n of the Observations, revised, came out i n 1762, the same

year as the Letters. Comparing the defences, Arthur Johnston has noted

that "Warton's work i s the more crabbed and detailed work of the scholar;

he had read the romances to which he traced Spenser's debt. I t i s there-

fore with Warton, and not with Hurd, that the romances themselves enter

the f i e l d of h i s t o r i c a l c r i t i c i s m of l i t e r a t u r e . " Warton was equipped

to apply h i s t o r i c i s t techniques and ideas to h i s subject. Yet, he was

s t i l l beset by the lingering c r i t i c a l doubts and the r i g i d standards of

his time: "One half of Warton's mind s t i l l approved of these standards.

Even when allowing that the Faerie Queene should not be judged as a
 43

c l a s s i c a l epic, he could not divest himself of his preconceptions; he

did not take the bold step of searching the poem for quite other p r i n -
66
c i p l e s of organization and design."

Hurd took that s t e p — t h e lesser scholar, with the more r a d i c a l

influence. He was sure that some other c r i t i c a l approach to the Faerie

Queene would reveal the poem i n a d i f f e r e n t l i g h t : "Under this idea then

of a Gothic, not c l a s s i c a l poem, the Faery Queen i s to be read and c r i t i -

cized. And on these p r i n c i p l e s , i t would not be d i f f i c u l t to unfold i t s

merit i n another way than has been hitherto attempted" (p. 115). Hurd

exposed the problem of r e l a t i v i t y i n Letter VIII, through an a r c h i t e c -

t u r a l analogy, the force of which i s a l l the more s t r i k i n g because Hurd's

claims for the autonomous value of the gothic offered an a l t e r n a t i v e to

the compromise invented by the neo-Vitruvians, l i k e the Langley brothers,

for gothic architecture:

When an a r c h i t e c t examines a Gothic structure by Grecian
rules, he finds nothing but deformity. But the Gothic a r c h i -
tecture has i t s own r u l e s , by which when i t comes to be
examined, i t i s seen to have i t s merit, as well as the
Grecian. The question i s not, which of the two i s conducted
i n the simplest or truest taste: but, whether there be not
sense and design i n both, when scrutinized by the laws on
which each i s projected.
The same observation holds of the two sorts of poetry.
Judge of the Faery Queen by the c l a s s i c models, and you are
shocked with i t s disorder; consider i t with an eye to i t ' s
[sic] Gothic o r i g i n a l , and you find i t regular. The unity
and s i m p l i c i t y of the former are more complete: but the
l a t t e r has that sort of unity and s i m p l i c i t y which r e s u l t s
from i t s nature (pp. 118-119).

Despite the concession of more complete "unity and s i m p l i c i t y " to c l a s s -

i c a l art and l i t e r a t u r e , the important feature of this analogy i s the

argument, l i k e the one for superstitions, that there are kinds of "unity

and s i m p l i c i t y , " each suited to a p a r t i c u l a r s t y l e of work, and that

 44

only against these should the work be judged. This idea allowed Hurd to

a t t r i b u t e much of the contempt for romantic l i t e r a t u r e among c r i t i c s to

their misapplication of the c l a s s i c a l c r i t e r i o n of unity of action to the

gothic, whose corresponding proper c r i t e r i o n was unity of design.

In Letter IX Hurd asserted as a general p r i n c i p l e "the preeminence

of the Gothic manners and fictions, as adapted to the ends of poetry,

above the classic" (p. 128). He explained the decline i n esteem for the

romances by r e f e r r i n g to the u n f a m i l i a r i t y of the l i f e they depicted.

Since, according to Hurd, there was no adequate representation of c h i v a l -

r i c manners before they had passed away and become strange, a l l the

masterpieces of romance were retrospective, imitative, romantic i n their

distance from the subject. By the time romances were written, the condi-

tions under which they could be appreciated had disappeared; i t was hard

to believe that they were anything more than extravagant, f i c t i t i o u s

impositions. C l a s s i c a l heroic poetry had escaped a similar stigma, Hurd

claimed, because Homeric manners were s t i l l recognizable i n many primi-

t i v e or natural s o c i e t i e s ; therefore, r e a l i t y was s t i l l capable of

v e r i f y i n g the f i c t i o n . C l a s s i c a l manners and subjects were considered

universal, whereas gothic were not. No doubt this was because the

resemblances between them had been overlooked.

F i n a l l y Hurd took up the test of truth, and i t s shortcomings when

applied to f i c t i o n . C r i t i c s who had been trained to distinguish between

d e c e i t f u l , harmful f i c t i o n s and true imitations of nature "suppose that

the poets, who are lyars by profession, expect to have their lyes

believed. Surely they are not so unreasonable. They think i t enough,

i f they can but bring you to imagine the p o s s i b i l i t y of them. . . . Does

 45

any capable reader trouble himself about the truth, or even the c r e d i -

b i l i t y of their fancies? Alas, no; he i s best pleased when he i s made

to conceive . . . the existence of such things as his reason t e l l s him

did not, and were never l i k e l y to, e x i s t " (pp. 135-136). Reason opposes

the reader's deceiving himself, but i s p a c i f i e d temporarily when the

romance assumes the protective guise of allegory, and with i t an a i r of

moral seriousness and i n t e l l e c t u a l complexity. In the end, however,

"assisted . . . by party, and r e l i g i o u s prejudices," reason "would endure

these lying wonders, neither i n their own proper shape, nor as masked i n

figures" (p. 154).

Henceforth, the taste of wit and poetry took a new turn:

And the Muse, who had wantoned i t so long i n the world of
f i c t i o n , was now constrained, against her w i l l , to a l l y
herself with s t r i c t truth, i f she would gain admittance
into reasonable company.
What we have gotten by this revolution . . . i s a great
deal of good sense. What we have l o s t , i s a world of f i n e
fabling (p. 154).

Hurd could not f u l l y approve t h i s exchange. Implicit i n his doubts

about i t was the p o s s i b i l i t y that t e l l i n g the truth was not a necessary

feature of f i c t i o n or poetry. Hurd was much less troubled by the conse-

quences of " l y i n g " i n f i c t i o n than were other mid-eighteenth-century

c r i t i c s and reviewers.

Although the Letters carry some marks of antiquarian scholarship,

their o v e r a l l e f f e c t i s to bring out the novelty of gothic l i t e r a t u r e ,

not to identify i t s c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s c a r e f u l l y and l a y them out i n a

systematic way. By disregarding the claims of moral or mimetic t r u t h f u l -

ness upon f i c t i o n , and by admitting that t e r r o r , sublimity and strong

feeling were legitimate ends f o r i t , Hurd l e f t the way open to reverse

the common attitude toward the gothic; f o r , i f the pleasures of the

 46

gothic and the f a n t a s t i c were not innately i n f e r i o r to the licit,

r a t i o n a l pleasures of c l a s s i c a l a r t , i t no longer made sense to regard

the makers of the gothic (whether ancient or contemporary) as barbarians.

No more than i n the Third Dialogue did Hurd cross over i n the

Letters to i d e a l i z e the age of c h i v a l r y or i t s products. The point of

his study was to i d e n t i f y and remedy a deficiency i n imaginative freedom

which had affected the l i t e r a t u r e of his own time. Hurd was not optimis-

t i c , however, that i t would be easy to recover that freedom. He believed

that the e f f o r t s of Tasso, Ariosto, Spenser and Milton to revive c h i v a l r i c

subjects i n poetry had been r e l a t i v e l y f u t i l e ; these poets had laboured

under the influence of a c l a s s i c a l t r a d i t i o n which was tightening i t s

hold on l i t e r a r y convention, and they had f e l t obliged to respond to i t .

Hurd preferred to their hybrid works a (hypothetical) unmixed sort of

romance, but, by his own admission, he was not c e r t a i n where i t existed.

Nevertheless, i f gothic values and subjects were to enter poetry again,

Hurd believed that they had to come from the original sources, not from

diluted imitations.

The discovery of gothic o r i g i n a l s formed the background to Thomas

Percy's Religues of Ancient English Poetry (1765). At the centre of

Percy's work was the famous f o l i o manuscript, "containing one hundred and

ninety-five Sonnets, Ballads, H i s t o r i c a l Songs, and M e t r i c a l Romances.

The authenticity and actual existence of this manuscript were subjects

of controversy after the f i r s t e d i t i o n of the Religues appeared, so that

Percy's nephew (also Thomas Percy) f e l t i t was necessary to give an

account of i t s whereabouts and physical condition when he edited the

fourth e d i t i o n of 1794. The important facts about Percy's source

 47

materials, for the purposes of this study, are these: the manuscripts

were l i k e l y to be physically decayed or mutilated (we are sure of the

extent of the damage i n the case of the main f o l i o ) ; i n addition, both

Percy and his nephew were convinced that the texts had been corrupted

during the process of transmission and recording, through the ignorance

or laziness of singers and scribes; and f i n a l l y , both Bishop Percy's

attitude toward h i s source materials—which varied between apology and

condescension—and h i s use of them were a d i r e c t function of his b e l i e f

that they were defective as transmitted.

In his own Preface, Percy gives some sign of the doubts which might

have prevented him from compiling these poems—but did not—and offers a

rationale for his work:

The reader i s here presented with select remains of our

ancient English Bards and Minstrels, an order of men who
were once greatly respected by our ancestors, and c o n t r i -
buted to soften the roughness of a m a r t i a l and unlettered
people by their songs and their m u s i c . . . .
As most of them [the poems] are of great s i m p l i c i t y , and
seem to have been merely written for the people, [the editor]
was long i n doubt, whether, i n the present state of improved
l i t e r a t u r e , they could be deemed worthy of the attention of
the public. At length the importunity of h i s friends pre-
v a i l e d , and he could refuse nothing to such judges as the
author of The Rambler, and the l a t e Mr. Shenstone.
Accordingly such specimens of ancient poetry have been
selected, as either show the gradation of our language,
exhibit the progress of popular opinions, display the pecu-
l i a r manners and customs of former ages, or throw l i g h t on
our e a r l i e r c l a s s i c a l poets.
They are here distributed into VOLUMES . . . showing the
gradual improvements of the English language and poetry,
from the e a r l i e s t ages down to the present. . . .
In a polished age, l i k e the present, I am sensible that
many of these reliques of antiquity w i l l require great allow-
ances to be made for them. Yet have they, for the most part,
a pleasing s i m p l i c i t y , and many a r t l e s s graces, which i n the
opinion of no mean c r i t i c s * have been thought to compensate

*.'-'Mr. Addison, Mr. Dryden, and the witty Lord Dorset, &c. See the
Spectator, No. 70. To these might be added many eminent judges now
 48

for the want of higher beauties, and, i f they do not dazzle

the imagination, are frequently found to interest the heart
(I, xv-xvi).

Percy was a scholar, a student of languages, a translator, a l i t e r -

ary h i s t o r i a n , and a poet. Even more than Hurd, he was a f r a i d of commit-

ting some outrage against the p r e v a i l i n g standards of taste, but the

weighty apparatus of h i s scholarship gave him the means of s a t i s f y i n g

the d i s t i n c t needs of three groups: the antiquaries, the c r i t i c a l readers,

and the new l i t e r a r y Goths (of whom Percy could scarcely have been aware).

The Religues contain a formidable array of documentation and explanation.

Three introductory essays, one for each volume, provide information about
68
Percy's sources, the evolution of ballads and romances from an h i s t o r -
69

i c a l to a f i c t i o n a l purpose, and the c u l t u r a l m i l i e u which produced

the poems and songs. The f i r s t t r e a t i s e , the "Essay on the Ancient

Minstrels i n England" (I, xxv-lx), i s thoroughly larded with supplements:

the footnotes combined with the separate "Notes and I l l u s t r a t i o n " take

up as much space as the main body of the essay. Percy admitted that "the

desire of being accurate has perhaps seduced him into too minute and

t r i f l i n g an exactness" (p. x i x ) , but the defects of the ballads seemed

to j u s t i f y this attention.

A sense of defective materials also determined Percy's editorial

p o l i c y , yet he remained able to reconcile various demands upon him:

. . . the o l d copies . . . were often so defective or cor-
rupted, that a scrupulous adherence to their wretched
readings would only have exhibited u n i n t e l l i g i b l e nonsense,
or such poor meagre stuff as neither came from the bard nor
was worthy the press; when, by a few s l i g h t corrections or

a l i v e . The learned Selden appears also to have been fond of c o l l e c t i n g

these old things." (Percy's note, p. xvi.)
 49

additions, a most b e a u t i f u l or interesting sense hath

started forth, and this so n a t u r a l l y and e a s i l y , that the
Editor could seldom p r e v a i l on himself to indulge the van-
i t y of making a formal claim to the improvement. . . . Yet
i t has been h i s design to give s u f f i c i e n t intimation where
any considerable l i b e r t i e s were taken with the o l d copies,
and to have retained, either i n the text or margin, any
word which was antique, obsolete, unusual, or peculiar.
. . . His object was to please both the judicious antiquary
and the reader of taste; and he hath endeavoured to g r a t i f y
both, without offending either (I, xix-xx).

As Percy himself anticipated i n h i s Preface, i t was possible to

read the Religues i n several d i f f e r e n t ways, f o r several d i f f e r e n t reasons.

The antiquary found there important records of England's l i t e r a r y , lin-

g u i s t i c and c u l t u r a l development, treated with due respect and care (as

Percy assured him). The c r i t i c a l reader could find there a poetic form

which he probably had not considered worth his interest before, but which

had some inherent a t t r a c t i o n aside from i t s h i s t o r i c a l value. These two

ways of treating the Religues tended to support each other: the antiquary

received some release from the usual charge that he dealt only i n esoter-

i c a from the fact that the ballads were pleasurable to read, and the

c r i t i c a l reader received a serious excuse for indulging i n this out-of-

the-way form from the fact that i t was h i s t o r i c a l l y s i g n i f i c a n t . Of

course Percy's evident scholarship was reassuring to both groups, f o r i t

promised the r e q u i s i t e purity of text and h i s t o r i c a l interpretations to

the one, while i t considered the sensitive tastes and c r i t i c a l scruples

of the other. If Percy seems now less blatant an advocate of a new

position than was Hurd, that i s partly because i t i s hard to t e l l whether

he meant the ballads to i l l u s t r a t e his commentary or his commentary to

j u s t i f y h i s subject. Although Percy did not argue at any length for an

alternative to the poetry of his day, as Hurd had done, h i s discovery of

 50

redeeming q u a l i t i e s i n the old ballads and l y r i c poetry, and his evoca-

t i o n of the c h i v a l r i c i n s t i t u t i o n s and the minstrelsy, contributed to

the increasingly receptive attitude toward medieval things, and thus

s a t i s f i e d the needs of that t h i r d group of readers: the new goths.

The Reliques helped to d i r e c t renewed attention to f o l k and popular

l i t e r a t u r e , to make these seem less distant and vulgar, and more deserv-

ing of serious study—even i f i t took Percy's "improvements" to bring

about this change. However, Percy not only elevated the ballads and

songs i n l i n g u i s t i c or c u l t u r a l s i g n i f i c a n c e ; he also opened them as a

source of r i c h imagery and emotional power. He exposed the crudeness,

quaintness and strangeness of "ancient" poetry (though much of the poetry

in the Reliques was no more than a century o l d ) ; he himself r e a l i z e d

(correctly) that these q u a l i t i e s needed apology and correction, since

contemporary taste demanded something better. But by making the strange

poetry accessible he made provision for that reaction to change, and for

a new emotional and thematic range to expand i n modern poetry.

Antiquaries contributed a fund of tentative knowledge about the

c u l t u r a l l i f e of former ages, and preserved that l i f e through the con-

servation of buildings and other physical remains, or through the

c o l l e c t i n g of manuscripts which otherwise would have been relegated to

the o b l i v i o n of the university l i b r a r i e s and great private c o l l e c t i o n s .

The antiquaries made English c u l t u r a l and p o l i t i c a l history more r e a d i l y

available and, therefore, p o t e n t i a l l y more i n f l u e n t i a l on the popular

imagination. I t i s hard to estimate the value of this kind of work for

the writers of gothic f i c t i o n , however inept many antiquaries may seem

now as scholars, however l i t t l e gothic f i c t i o n adhered to the pedestrian

 51

facts that came out of antiquarian research. At least antiquaries gave

the basis i n concrete d e t a i l which sometimes prevented gothic f i c t i o n

from consisting wholly of formulaic plots and vague atmospherics. The

antiquaries were mainly concerned with the identity of the gothic, the

f i c t i o n writers with i t s novelty, but the antiquaries had provided, per-

haps without intending to or r e a l i z i n g the consequences, an object lesson

i n the l a t t e r : the past was enjoyable and e x c i t i n g to v i s i t , through the

i n t e l l e c t or through the imagination.

The strangeness of the gothic was balanced by i t s recognizable place

i n English history. It held a r a c i a l and national a f f i n i t y . It was a

central paradox of eighteenth-century medievalism that an object could

exert equal a t t r a c t i o n because i t was a l i e n and because i t was indigenous.

A prime example of this dual meaning comes from the i n t e r e s t i n

ruins, which derived from both antiquarian and poetic sources. It

expressed i t s e l f i n the building of a r t i f i c i a l ruins to complete p i c -

turesque landscapes, or i n the including of r e a l ruins i n a scene.

Inevitably the question of the proper style for ruins arose. Antiquaries

had studied both Roman and medieval ruins i n England, but the l a t t e r ,

obviously, were more numerous. The idea that the gothic was a more

natural s t y l e gave some support to the preference for gothic ruins. The

naturalness of the gothic was based p a r t l y on analogies between gothic

buildings and the new manner of English gardening which had gained ground

since the late seventeenth century—both were supposed to share such

70

q u a l i t i e s as i r r e g u l a r i t y , surprise, r u s t i c a t i o n , and curvilinearity.

In addition, the naturalness of gothic was based on the sheer abundance

of gothic building i n England. Thus i t also was natural i n the sense of

 52

being native. At least the new gothic could mimic t r a d i t i o n a l work

f a i r l y well. William Mason, for example, preferred gothic to c l a s s i c a l

ruins i n gardens, reasoning that since c l a s s i c a l ruins were much less

common i n England than i n I t a l y i t was pretensious to use them to decor-

ate an English garden. Mason thus combined a concern for truthfulness

and consistency with a sense of what was properly English. (He might

also have pointed out that the gothic was r e l a t e d , through aesthetic

theory, to the new English manner of gardening of which he was a student.)

Lord Karnes believed that c l a s s i c a l ruins were less desirable because they

"depressed the beholder, reminding him of the t r a g i c circumstance that

the barbarians had triumphed over the taste of the ancients. As the

condition of the Gothic ruin . . . represented merely the v i c t o r y of

time over strength, i t was on that account to be preferred. I t did not

convey any p a i n f u l ideas, but affected the s p i r i t with a melancholy such

as was only a source of pleasure to a person of f i n e s e n s i b i l i t y .

Karnes apparently chose not to l i n k the gothic builders with the "barbar-

ians" who had "triumphed over the taste of the ancients"; at any rate,

that association did not a f f e c t the general s i g n i f i c a n c e he attributed

to the gothic, not because i t was either a l i e n or f a m i l i a r , but because

i t was symbolical. Karnes looked at the gothic ruin which was becoming a

common f i x t u r e of the revived cult of mutability, and did not treat i t

h i s t o r i c a l l y , as he did the c l a s s i c a l r u i n .

With the discourse on Kenilworth Castle i n Hurd's Third Dialogue

we encounter arguments about the gothic that deal not with aesthetic

continuity or consistency (as with Mason), not with erosion by time (as

with Kames), but with s o c i a l change and ancestry, with government and
 53

culture. When the f i c t i t i o u s Addison inveighs against the "prosperous

tyranny" of the Elizabethan nobles and indulges a "generous pleasure i n

r e f l e c t i n g on the happiness we enjoy under a juster and more equal

government," a l l this inspired by the sight of the Castle before him, he

i s r e g i s t e r i n g a complex of p o l i t i c a l responses. The gothic r u i n — g o t h i c

i n the broader allowance of his t i m e — i s a symbol of a p o l i t i c a l and

s o c i a l system a l i e n from the contemporary one, and reassuringly i n f e r i o r

to i t . Addison's p o s i t i o n i s based on a p a r a l l e l between bad government

and bad architecture. Both the gothic c a s t l e and gothic tyranny are

intrusive forms, a l i e n to the true English s p i r i t which was better served

by the reformation of architecture under neo-classicism and the securing

of p o l i t i c a l and r e l i g i o u s freedom a f t e r the Revolution of 1688.

72

The various reactions to the gothic r u i n were merely symptomatic

of the c o n f l i c t i n g motives of l i t e r a r y and a r c h i t e c t u r a l g o t h i c i s t s .

The new g o t h i c i s t s entertained a range of h i s t o r i c a l attitudes or per-

spectives which were not e n t i r e l y consistent with each other, and which

brought an equal measure of complexity to gothic f i c t i o n . Frequently

they viewed English h i s t o r y i n terms of a n t i t h e t i c a l s o c i a l or r e l i g i o u s

forces, and their l i t e r a r y works usually chose to approach these forces

at some point of confrontation and conflict.

The ambivalent h i s t o r i c a l perspectives of the g o t h i c i s t s showed

p l a i n l y i n their treatment of r e l i g i o u s matters, and e s p e c i a l l y i n their

attitudes towards the Roman Catholic Church.

Three t y p i c a l attitudes towards r e l i g i o n emerge i n a l e t t e r from

Horace Walpole to his friend and protege Richard Bentley. On his way to

v i s i t Sir George L y t t l e t o n at Hagley Park, Walpole stayed overnight at

 54

Oxford, where "as soon as i t was dark, I ventured out, and the moon rose

as I was wandering among the colleges, and gave me a charming venerable

Gothic scene, which was not lessened by the monkish appearance of the
73
old fellows stealing to their pleasures."

The "monkish appearance" of the old scholars added to the charming

associations with which Walpole invested the moonlit scene. That they

were " s t e a l i n g to their p l e a s u r e s " — o r that Walpole imagined they were—

gave to their v e n e r a b i l i t y an overtone of mystery and lecherous hypocrisy

such as would become common i n the gothic novels' depiction of monks and

nuns. Walpole's pleasure i n this tableau derived from several sources:

his absorption i n the melancholy (he seems to have awaited n i g h t - f a l l

before setting out on h i s walk), h i s sense of the mysteriousness, quaint-

ness and absurdity of the comparison between scholars and monks, and h i s

temporary indulgence of a fantasy which the censorship of consciousness

recognized was outlandish and somewhat contemptible. (I must also men-

tion that Walpole was a former Cantabrigian, not an Oxonian; t h i s , of

course, aided the fantasizing.) Walpole was delighted i n the same way

when a French v i s i t o r to Strawberry H i l l mistook the Cabinet for a r e a l

chapel and knelt to pray. Walpole was excited that the resemblance was

so convincing, that h i s imitation had succeeded, and that h i s guest was

b r i e f l y embarrassed. Even while entertaining medieval or Catholic

fantasies, Walpole maintained a sense of h i s own s u p e r i o r i t y — a n d h i s

time's s u p e r i o r i t y — t o them.

Later i n the same let.t-er to Bentley, Walpole expressed contempt for

the dullness of many topographical surveys and hope that h i s projected

new edition of Camden's Britannia would avoid that p i t f a l l . He then

 55

mentioned a further danger i n antiquarian a c t i v i t y : "Another promise I

make you i s , that my love of abbeys s h a l l not make me hate the Reforma-

tion t i l l that makes me grow a Jacobite, l i k e the rest of my antiquarian

74

predessors [ s i c ] . . . ." Although Walpole enjoyed playing with the

trappings and the ceremonial instruments of Roman Catholicism, this was

a matter of manipulating s u p e r f i c i a l i t i e s , while the e s s e n t i a l elements

of Catholicism remained highly suspect, or wholly abhorrent. This b a l -

ance of Walpole's l o y a l t i e s , however, was not always duplicated among

other antiquaries. His fears that there was a connection between a n t i -

quaries and Jacobites had some j u s t i f i c a t i o n . Antiquaries who studied

gothic churches or English e c c l e s i a s t i c a l history had ample occasion to

lament the destructive effects of the Reformation i n England upon their

subject matter. As conservators they f e l t that they were f i g h t i n g a

rear-guard action against those who, for d o c t r i n a l reasons—whether deist

or Methodist—wanted to abolish church decoration, the emotional basis

for worship, the richness of gothic design. Armed with such f e e l i n g s ,

antiquaries made natural a l l i e s within any High Church movement. One of

Walpole's chief antiquarian correspondents, for example, the Rev. William

Cole, was himself a High Church Tory, a fact that Walpole sometimes had

to s k i r t diplomatically i n order to preserve their valuable friendship.''^

The c o r r e l a t i o n between antiquarianism and High Church a f f i l i a t i o n was

f u l l y evident during the nineteenth century i n England, when High Church

members dominated the i n f l u e n t i a l E c c l e s i o l o g i c a l S o c i e t y . ^ That Wal-

pole usually r e a l i z e d the boundary l i n e between his fantasies and his

overt allegiances to Church and party does not remove the importance of

Catholicism for other antiquaries, as a constant a t t r a c t i o n , and as an

 56

undeclared motivation for their i n t e r e s t s and a c t i v i t i e s .

Walpole's l e t t e r to Bentley also suggests a t h i r d approach to

r e l i g i o n and medievalism: apparent-objectivity. Walpole described a

v i s i t to Malvern Abbey where "the woman who showed me the church would

pester me with Christ and King David, when I was hunting for John of

Gaunt and King Edward."^ Walpole thus represented himself as being

interested only i n the h i s t o r i c a l associations of the place, not i n i t s

r e l i g i o u s iconography. This preference seems consistent with h i s endur-

ing f a s c i n a t i o n with English h i s t o r y , a f a s c i n a t i o n which produced such

works as h i s Catalogue of the Royal and Noble Authors of England and h i s

Historic Doubts on the Life and Reign of King Richard III. I t was also

consistent with his practice i n forming c l e r i c a l . l i t e r a r y characters.

The f r i a r s i n The Castle of Otranto and The Mysterious Mother may be

stereotyped f i g u r e s , whose benevolence or viciousness bears some r e l a t i o n

to Walpole's opinion of the Catholic Church and medieval r e l i g i o s i t y , but

he did not concern himself very much with the doctrines they professed,

the nature of their creed. They were not e s s e n t i a l l y d i f f e r e n t from the

other characters he placed i n the same h i s t o r i c a l period. Walpole used

the Church i n his f i c t i o n as a part of the f a n t a s t i c a l world of the

Middle Ages, an important but not a supremely important part. He was

interested i n i t for the colour i t provided, for the scandals and hypo-

c r i s y and fanaticism which were attributed to i t i n Protestant legend,

and not for any i n t r i n s i c a l l y theological reasons.

But his preference for s e c u l a r — o r n o n - d o c t r i n a l — s t u d i e s was not

exclusive. I t did not affect h i s l i b r a r y acquisitions which, Lewis has

learned, were "surprisingly strong i n controversial theology"; for

 57

"Walpole l i k e d to read about the squabbles of c l e r i c s and the sort of

thing that he found i n B a y l e — a statement by an abbot of Leicester that

he had seen at Jerusalem a finger of the Holy Ghost and the snout of a
78

seraphim. . . . " I t would appear that Walpole, who " c a l l e d himself an

i n f i d e l , " confined h i s interest i n r e l i g i o n to i t s value as a curious

outlet for human behaviour or as a feature of the c o n s t i t u t i o n a l system

in England. He cared no more about conventional r e l i g i o n i n antiquity

79
than he did i n his own time.
The complexity of the g o t h i c i s t s ' h i s t o r i c a l outlook reflected the
semantic confusion which s t i l l existed. The equation "gothic equals

medieval" had not simply replaced the e a r l i e r equation "gothic equals

80

barbarous." The two meanings existed at the same time and acted upon

each other. Since even i n the eyes of i t s advocates l i k e Warton, Hurd

and Percy the gothic was a product of an age that was s t i l l b a s i c a l l y

barbarous, the ostensibly neutral sense of the gothic was "medieval" was

framed by a mixture of admiration and contempt. Consequently, those

advocates had several means of redeeming the gothic. The anti-goths,

who were glad that they had been able to substitute a better taste f o r

the gothic, accepted the fact that the gothic was the r e s u l t of barbarous

times because i t confirmed their whole h i s t o r i c a l outlook. The advocates

of the gothic started out with this difference i n outlook: they were

unsure that progress had been made, or that i t had been made without

cost. H i s t o r i c i s t s , l i k e Thomas Warton and, to some extent, Percy and

Hurd, could balance off the barbarity of the gothic by attempting to

place i t within the context of medieval society. When they managed to

free themselves from the burden of prejudice, they were able to view
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societies and cultures not as competing, but as d i f f e r e n t . One could

also overlook the crudeness or barbarity of the gothic i n order to

further some chauvinistic or sentimental purpose, but the most promising

way to redeem the g o t h i c — t h e way followed by the l i t e r a r y gothicists—

was to show that gothic barbarity i t s e l f had a p o s i t i v e aspect, that i t

could y i e l d up an ideal world or could offer alternatives to the conven-

tions of f i c t i o n .

The works and l i f e of the Middle Ages had been seen through a f i l t e r

of r a t i o n a l standards and expectations. As a r e s u l t , the reputation of

the Middle Ages had been very poor. Specific charges i n this general

indictment originated i n history, fantasy, and ideology. The following

outline of them w i l l consist of deliberate over-simplifications, because

I am concerned here not with the best knowledge of medieval l i f e that

was available to eighteenth-century scholars, but with the dubious know-

ledge, or image, of the medieval that influenced gothic f i c t i o n . Since

discussion of s p e c i f i c gothic novels i n the succeeding parts of this

study w i l l both depend upon and i l l u s t r a t e this system of assumption, I

have not supported i t here with careful documentation. Such evidence

w i l l be clear enough i n the novels themselves.

Superstition

In the past, superstition explained many events which the modern

( i . e . , enlightened) world could explain s c i e n t i f i c a l l y . Widespread

ignorance about the natural system was matched by b e l i e f i n the existence

of supernatural agents, such as s p r i t e s , elves, demons, succubi, and

f a i r i e s , who wielded great power over human l i f e and fortune. The cred-

ulous people were susceptible to almost any miraculous or f a n t a s t i c

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story, no matter how outlandish or improbable.

Religion

The Roman Catholic Church exercised control over the Christian

world i n matters of b e l i e f and i n matters of education and government.

The Church used i t s moral and d o c t r i n a l authority to secure, sometimes

secretly, enormous temporal power and wealth. The Church hierarchy was

better organized and more r e s i s t a n t to change from within than any

secular government, and i t s influence was international. The Church

manipulated the behaviour and ideas of i t s believers through e n t i r e l y

non-rational means, incorporating into i t s own r i t u a l s the superstitious

b e l i e f s of the people; i t used superstitious threats to b u l l y even kings

and princes into carrying out i t s p o l i c i e s . Occasionally the Church

masqueraded as an i n t e l l e c t u a l force, but i t s method of argument was

sophistic, i t s philosophy convoluted and scholastic. In order to guar-

antee that i t s members would be open to manipulation, the Church made

sure to monopolize:the means of education and to prohibit members from

interpreting r e l i g i o u s texts or doctrines for themselves. The Church

replaced reason with pomp, ceremony, and obedience to authority.

Social Order

The s o c i a l order of the medieval period was the feudal system; i t s

e t h i c a l code was chivalry. After the breakdown of Roman authority,

people had to secure protection against the constant danger of murder,

plunder and enslavement. The feudal system offered a certain measure of

security but only at a t e r r i b l e price i n personal freedom. Property,

dignity and p r i v i l e g e were distributed inequitably. Summary power over

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l i f e was not eliminated but legitimized, concentrated i n the hands of

the few who were warlords and landholders. A system of quasi-religious

obligations and oaths put off the threat of violence, or directed i t

into a fanaticism which took for i t s most infamous outlet the b r u t a l i t y

and absurdity of the Crusades. But such sublimations of power and

violence did not disguise the fact that most people were c h a t t e l s , with-

out l e g a l , p o l i t i c a l , economic or personal r i g h t s .

Culture and Cultural Authority

Although the mingling of r e l i g i o u s and secular forces helped to

determine the character of medieval a r t , the pre-Christian h i s t o r y of

Europe was an equally powerful f a c t o r . Medieval culture bore the i n d e l -

i b l e mark of 'the barbarians who had assisted i n dismantling Roman

c i v i l i z a t i o n and had inherited i t s chaotic remains. In their malicious

resentment of the balance, harmony and technical excellence of Roman a r t ,

the barbarians used i t s forms merely as a skeleton on which to hang

their wild, disordered, extravagant embellishments. When they t r i e d to

imitate Roman works, their own ignorance of the rules which governed

their making, and the debased state into which the surviving Roman

t r a d i t i o n had f a l l e n prevented them from creating anything more than a

gross d i s t o r t i o n of the o r i g i n a l s . The barbarians made a grotesque

caricature of a culture which they were unable to assimilate. The most

reprehensible feature of medieval c u l t u r e — o n l y p a r t l y o f f s e t during the

Renaissance—was the gradual erosion of c l a s s i c a l authority, the s u b s t i -

tution of a t r a d i t i o n which was non-rational, outlandish, unregulated,

superstitious, animistic, and pervaded by r e l i g i o u s dogma.

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The advocates of the gothic answered these charges without ration-

a l i z i n g or denying them. On the contrary, gothic f i c t i o n tended to

accept the charges, often seemed bent on proving them; at least gothic

f i c t i o n r e l i e d on the reader's b e l i e f that they were true. The p r e v a i l -

ing c r i t i q u e of medieval l i f e kept i t s appeal, but the conclusions which

i t generated for a r t , fantasy and l i t e r a t u r e changed as the p o s s i b i l i t i e s

for exploiting the past were r e a l i z e d . The customary contempt f o r the

"primitive" stages of English history began to y i e l d to an appreciation

of the danger, passion, and excitement they could hold f o r the imagina-

tion.

Hurd had made the c r u c i a l movement when he demonstrated that i t was

possible to keep some measure of contempt for an era while admitting, at

the same time, i t s imaginative p o t e n t i a l i t i e s . Those p o t e n t i a l i t i e s

also existed by v i r t u e of the expanded range of aesthetic experience.

Categories such as the picturesque (imported from p a i n t i n g ) , the sublime

(imported from rhetoric and psychology), the melancholy (imported from

homiletics), and the sentimental (imported from f i c t i o n and s o c i a l

fashion) made up a new area of legitimacy where the gothic could be

accepted. They reconciled the apparent contradiction between contempt

for the Middle Ages and a taste f o r the gothic by making the necessary

leeway for the imagination and i t s covert a f f i l i a t i o n s . They allowed

for a separation between p o l i t i c a l or r e l i g i o u s convictions and fantasy.

For example, while a nominal member of the Church of England might

believe without reservation that the Church of Rome was an e v i l and per-

f i d i o u s f o r c e — a g r e e i n g with the charges against "gothic" r e l i g i o s i t y —

he might also believe, as a l i t e r a r y amateur, that Catholic l i t u r g y ,

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i n s t i t u t i o n s , and t r e a c h e r y were s u i t a b l e m a t e r i a l s f o r a w r i t e r o f

f i c t i o n , because they l e n t themselves r e a d i l y t o the sublime, the s e n t i -

m e n t a l , the p i c t u r e s q u e , o r the melancholy.

And s t r o n g c o n v i c t i o n s , or d i s p l a y o f them, d i d n o t n e c e s s a r i l y

l e a d to a s u p p r e s s i o n of g o t h i c excess. The sheer indecency of the

g o t h i c was i t s c h i e f v i r t u e , f o r one purpose or another. Building a

case a g a i n s t f e u d a l i s m o r the C a t h o l i c C h u r c h — t h e o s t e n s i b l e aim o f

much g o t h i c f i c t i o n — o f t e n r e q u i r e d t h a t the e v i l s be d e p i c t e d with

d e t a i l e d thoroughness, so much so t h a t i t now seems t h a t the m o r a l i s t i c

element was f r e q u e n t l y an a f t e r - t h o u g h t , the " e v i l s " the t r u e c e n t r e of

interest.

The impact o f the g o t h i c n o v e l depended on the rawness, n a t u r a l n e s s ,

crudeness o f i t s images. A l t h o u g h no one, perhaps, wanted t o be t r a n s -

p o r t e d permanently t o the p r i m i t i v e environment which i t r e c r e a t e d , the

w r i t e r could i n v i t e h i s readers to v i s i t i t temporarily i n order t o

recover a s t o r e of f a n t a s t i c m a t e r i a l s which had been purged too s u c c e s s -

f u l l y from t h e i r own immediate e x p e r i e n c e s . Along with the opportunity

to i n d u l g e the f a n t a s t i c a l came the o p p o r t u n i t y t o t r y out f a n t a s t i c

s o l u t i o n s to v e r y r e a l problems.

The o l d derogatory image o f the g o t h i c c o u l d be transformed i n two

ways, each c o r r e s p o n d i n g t o a d i f f e r e n t s e t of new, i n v i g o r a t i n g q u a l i -

t i e s t h a t were d i s c o v e r e d in i t .

The f i r s t way was n o s t a l g i c , e l e g i a c — a n d l a t e r , Utopian. Its

b a s i c premise was t h a t e a r l i e r i n E n g l i s h h i s t o r y t h e r e had e x i s t e d a

n o b i l i t y of a c t i o n , a heroism o f endeavour, a genuine ( i f misguided)

r e l i g i o u s f a i t h , a sympathy w i t h n a t u r e , a constant involvement with

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ceremony, pageantry, and r i t u a l , and a proper regard for s o c i a l subor-

dination, which had disappeared since. A l l these q u a l i t i e s could be

inferred from the ruined buildings which remained the most impressive

symbols of the past. By arguing that separate, d i s t i n c t i v e c r i t i c a l

standards should be applied to gothic a r t and l i t e r a t u r e , h i s t o r i c i s t s

and antiquaries had l a i d a foundation for accepting gothic l i f e as valu-

able i n i t s e l f .

Its loss became a cause for regret and lamentation. The various

antiquarian a c t i v i t i e s — c o l l e c t i n g , preserving, cataloguing, publishing—

the half-researches of Chatterton and Macpherson, the creation of modern

imitations, such as the mock ruins and c a s t e l l a t e d country h o m e s — a l l

these were a means of supplying the l o s s , of finding .some substitute

that would be acceptable to eighteenth-century tastes. The actual sense

of loss of a valuable heritage was captured i n James Macpherson's

81
Ossianic poems; these drew upon the melancholic, elegiac t r a d i t i o n
that had been re-established i n the early and middle eighteenth century
82

by Young, B l a i r , Thomas Warton, and Thomas Gray (the l a s t of whom

Macpherson influenced i n his study of f o l k poetry). From the melancholic

and contemplative poetry Macpherson had absorbed tone, theme and imagery:

overblown, d i f f u s e , emotionally-charged description, emphasis on l o s t

heroic ancestors and the decay of ancient v i r t u e , sympathetically

reflected i n the wind-bleached landscape of the bard's world. Even the

antiquaries, who l i k e d to think that they were interested i n the gothic

as scholars, not as enthusiasts, who wanted to appear s c i e n t i f i c i n their

diligence, could not escape the elegiac s e n s i b i l i t y and i t s s o c i a l

implications i n their work. Their evocation of l o s t grandeur had more

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influence on the new l i t e r a r y gothic than the scholarship they sought to

encourage; f o r , the l i t e r a r y gothic was more concerned with r e - d i r e c t i n g

a sense of personal and a r t i s t i c ancestry than with ordering and describ-

ing a n t i q u i t i e s .

Considered for i t s l o s t splendour and vigour, the rawness of the

gothic was made over, transformed into the quaintness of a culture which

had not yet suffered the dubious improvements of sophistication, which

had not yet substituted pragmatism f o r chivalry, cash value for honour,

a mechanistic cosmos for the demons and s p i r i t s who intervened regularly

i n mundane events; which had kept a place for richness, extravagance,

heroism, supernaturalism, the grotesque and the p l a y f u l i n i t s a r t ,

l i t e r a t u r e and architecture.

Such calculations of c u l t u r a l loss and gain were very persuasive on

the emotional, associational l e v e l , and, although there did not develop

at this time the wider c r i t i q u e of modernity that was the product of

nineteenth-century malaise and d i s a f f e c t i o n , there were discernible

p o l i t i c a l overtones to the nostalgia. Depending on the v i r t u e s a t t r i -

buted to the imaginary Goths, the previous ages could take on a tory or

a whig cast. Emphasis upon ancestral v i r t u e s such as f i e r c e independence,

respect for law and property, resistance to unjust authority, and defence

of quasi-parliamentary p o l i t i c a l prerogatives amounted to a whiggish

version of the gothic. Emphasis upon chivalry, the adventures of knights

and princes, the gorgeousness of pomp and ceremony, and the benevolence

or wisdom of the feudal lord or the p r i e s t made up a tory version of the

gothic. In this way, strong convictions did act as a p o s i t i v e censorship

on the gothic, by e n l i s t i n g the past i n service of contemporary ideology.

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In either case, the crudeness of the g o t h i c — t h e absence of modernity—

was i t s advantage; within this transformation of the gothic, defence of

modern progress was l i a b l e to fluctuate between mere l i p - s e r v i c e and

the condescension of the casual player of the game of fantasy. Strict

anti-gothic moralism was unlikely i n this revised version of the gothic,

however, since only favourable q u a l i t i e s survived the transformation.

The second way of transforming gothic barbarity into something

positive seems less favourable, because i t involved a drastic change i n

ideas about the pleasures of l i t e r a t u r e .

Its origins were i n aesthetic and l i t e r a r y theory, with some secon-

dary references to Elizabethan and Jacobean spectacular theatre and to

the poetry of melancholy. I t did not share the motives or the h i s t o r i c a l

outlook of the other kind of t r a n s f o r m a t i o n — i n p a r t i c u l a r , i t did not

partake of the elegiac s e n s i b i l i t y . The most s i g n i f i c a n t feature of this

kind of transformation was that i t concentrated on terror as an aesthetic

experience; on crime, criminals, victims, and abnormal psychology as

especially worthy subjects for f i c t i o n ; and on the gothic as a l i m i t l e s s

source of both.

Within the terms of this transformation, the indictment against the

gothic was accepted as substantially correct, as a p o l i t i c a l and social

assessment. There was no dispute about.the superiority of the present

to the past i n material welfare and personal freedom. Gothic l i f e was

indeed composed of a l l the horrors which an eighteenth-century Englishman

was quite glad to have put behind him. Yet many of those horrors still

held the power to provoke fear, and the reader of the gothic novel

became w i l l i n g l y vulnerable to a kind of h a l f - a r t i f i c i a l terror l e s t the

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horrid conditions r e t u r n . " J

The discovery that i t was possible to

accomplish this arousal through l i t e r a r y means, which were a f t e r a l l

more transitory i n their e f f e c t s and more convenient than the sordid and

dangerous practices of rumour-mongering and inventing conspiracies,

inspired this second species of gothic.

The arousal of political anxieties, i n the narrow sense, was not,

however, i t s main aim, and the l i s t of i t s more overtly p o l i t i c a l or

r e l i g i o u s targets, such as monasticism, the I n q u i s i t i o n , and feudal

tyranny, none of which i n r e a l i t y posed much of an immediate threat to

the B r i t i s h constitution, shows that these m a t e r i a l s — s o easily identi-

f i e d as objectionable, so automatic i n e l i c i t i n g response—were mere

instruments. The gothic f i c t i o n writer brought f o r t h f a m i l i a r prejudices

in order to set up a background of habitual b e l i e f against which other

more fundamental, and p a i n f u l , anxieties might appear. The ostensible

targets were usually disguises or v e h i c l e s , f o r such anxieties.

The elegiac s e n s i b i l i t y succeeded i n separating p o l i t i c a l revulsion

from l i t e r a r y invention, by regarding the unpleasant features of medieval

life—if at a l l — a s a t y p i c a l , i n t r u s i v e , admittedly barbarous; by culti-

vating an image of the gothic which would l i f t , temporarily, the dullness

and imperfection of the modern world, which would cure the sluggishness

of the modern imagination. The non-elegiac gothic could contain this

elegiac image, could use i t for i t s own purposes, but i n that event the

image was changed, as i f by a d i s t o r t i n g lens, by the l e s s w i s t f u l

treatment that the novelists gave i t . They held the nostalgic transfor-

mation under suspicion, because they were l e s s s e l e c t i v e i n their

regressions, because they were more a c t i v e l y skeptical about i d e a l

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systems and the r e l i a b i l i t y of a l i e n s o c i e t i e s , and because they con-

sidered crudeness, s u p e r s t i t i o n , and violence the essential character-

i s t i c s of the gothic world and t h e i r putative gothic ancestors. They

acknowledged the appeal of c h i v a l r y , n o b i l i t y , grace, and s i m p l i c i t y —

and were ready to c i t e these q u a l i t i e s i n support of t h e i r use of the

gothic, i n order to associate i t with the l i g h t e r romance—but they

f i n a l l y viewed the p o s i t i v e aspect of the gothic as contingent or decep-

tive. The gothic n o v e l i s t s often p r a c t i c e d another form of p r i m i t i v i s m ,

holding the opinion that n a t u r a l b r u t a l i t y , not n a t u r a l v i r t u e , was the

basis of the p r i m i t i v e s o c i e t y that was t h e i r subject. Such b r u t a l i t y

was valuable, even admirable, as a source of f i c t i v e s i t u a t i o n s and

f i g u r e s , not because i t confirmed some theory of h i s t o r i c a l progress ( i n

which many of them probably b e l i e v e d ) , but because i t permitted a c l o s e r

approach to such s e n s i t i v e topics as perverse s e x u a l i t y , c a p t i v i t y and

oppression, and parental a u t h o r i t y , than seemed f e a s i b l e w i t h i n the

conventions of the r e a l i s t i c novel.

The b a r b a r i t y of the gothic was changed i n t o a p o s i t i v e force f o r

l i b e r a t i n g n o v e l i s t s from t e c h n i c a l and thematic c o n s t r a i n t s . Both

means of transforming gothic b a r b a r i t y met at one point of agreement:

the range of imaginative options had been c o n s t r i c t e d unnecessarily and

without advantage. The second means of transformation resembled the

f i r s t i n that i t too included a sense of l o s s ; t h i s was hardly an e l e g i a c

sense, however, f o r i t lamented the purgation from contemporary l i f e not

of the p o s s i b i l i t y of grandeur, s i m p l i c i t y or c h i v a l r y , but of danger,

i r r a t i o n a l i t y , m i r a c l e s , supernatural occurrences, unrelieved m a l i c e —

and the unrestrained a r t that could embody a l l those p o s s i b i l i t i e s .

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The new g o t h i c f i c t i o n c o u l d i n c l u d e the l i g h t e r , e l e g i a c s e n s i -

b i l i t y by b r i n g i n g i t i n t o a complementary r e l a t i o n s h i p w i t h the primary,

darker g o t h i c , l i k e the p a s t o r a l w i t h the a n t i - p a s t o r a l . This conjunc-

t i o n was e s p e c i a l l y common i n the works of Ann R a d c l i f f e , where the

c o n t r a s t i n g t o n a l i t i e s , the l i n k i n g of moments of e x q u i s i t e s e n s i b i l i t y

w i t h moments of p a n i c , d e s p a i r and a b j e c t t e r r o r , was not a matter of

mere n a r r a t i v e v a r i e t y or r e l i e f . On the c o n t r a r y , t h i s p a i r i n g contri-

buted to the poignance of the v i c t i m ' s s i t u a t i o n , to the s u b l i m i t y of

the c r i m i n a l f i g u r e s . But even w i t h R a d c l i f f e , whose l i g h t e r moments

were executed w i t h g r e a t a t t e n t i o n to d e t a i l and painterly composition,

who was known f o r her powers as a p i c t u r e s q u e a r t i s t as much as f o r her

powers as a maker of t e r r o r s , the l i g h t e r image was often only a false

omen (and t h i s was more c o n s i s t e n t l y t r u e w i t h Monk Lewis and C. R.

Maturin), a temporarily comforting facade behind which the d a r k e r aspect

of the a l i e n world (and by proxy, the f a m i l i a r one) was lurking. In

f i c t i o n a l c o n f r o n t a t i o n s , the l i g h t e r e l e g i a c g o t h i c was n a t u r a l l y

i d e n t i f i e d with c i v i l i t y , decency, contemporary moral and ethical

standards; the darker n o n - e l e g i a c g o t h i c was u t t e r l y a l i e n and threaten-

ing, by comparison, and none the l e s s f o r b e i n g unexpected and unprepared

for.

C o n f r o n t a t i o n s between the two v e r s i o n s of the transformed gothic

were the r e g u l a r p a t t e r n i n the g o t h i c n o v e l s . Such c o n f r o n t a t i o n s

determined two important f e a t u r e s of them: the n o v e l s were s u b v e r s i v e i n

t h e i r e f f e c t s — t h o u g h not f o r the r e a s o n t h e i r c r i t i c s f e a r e d , and not

always on p u r p o s e — a n d they managed to be subversive (or educative)

through a s t r a t e g y of compromise w i t h the f a m i l i a r r e a l i t y from which

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they departed. The n a t u r e o f that s t r a t e g y and t h e t h e o r e t i c a l justi-

f i c a t i o n of the g o t h i c n o v e l w i l l be the s u b j e c t s of the next sections

of this study.
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FOOTNOTES

^See Georg Germann, "The Gothic i n Vitruvianism," Gothic Revival in

Europe and Britain: Sources, Influences and Ideas, trans. Gerald Onn
(Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1972), pp. 9-52; Maurice Levy, Le Roman
«Gothique» Anglais 1764-1824 (Toulouse: Association des publications
de l a Faculte des l e t t r e s et sciences humaines de Toulouse, 1968),
pp. 9-76; Paul Frankl, "The Period of Reaction Against Gothic," The
Gothic: Literary Sources and Interpretations through Eight Centuries
(Princeton, N.J.: Princeton Univ. Press, 1960), pp. 235-414; B. Sprague
A l l e n , "The Challenge of the Middle Ages," Tides in English Taste (Cam-
bridge, Mass.: Harvard Univ. Press, 1937), I I , Ch. 15; W. D. Robson-Scott,
The Literary Background of the Gothic Revival i n Germany (Oxford: Claren-
don Press, 1965), pp. 4-25; Arthur 0. Lovejoy, "The F i r s t Gothic Revival
and the Return to Nature," MLN, 27 (1932), 414-446, r p t . i n Essays in the
History of Ideas (1948; r p t . New York: Capricorn, 1960), pp. 136-165.
(Subsequent references are to Capricorn edition.)
2
A. E. Longueil, "The Word 'Gothic' i n Eighteenth Century C r i t i c i s m , "
MLN, 38, 8 ( D e c , 1923), 453-460: ". . . i n the early Renaissance . . .
the term 'gothic' took on a new and coloured meaning, a meaning that
masked a sneer. To the Renaissance, mediaeval or Gothic architecture was
barbarous architecture. By a trope a l l things barbarous.became 'Gothic'"
(p. 453).
3
Robson-Scott, p. 2. Germann also finds this the point of o r i g i n
for anti-gothic f e e l i n g .
4
George Henderson, Gothic (Harmondsworth.& Baltimore: Penguin, 1967),
pp. 179-180.
^The f i r s t edition was published i n Florence i n 1550, an enlarged
edition i n 1568. This t r a n s l a t i o n - i s from Frankl, p. 290; also quoted
i n Germann, p. 38.

^See E. S. de Beer, "Gothic: Origin and D i f f u s i o n of the Term; The

Idea of Style i n Architecture," JWCI, 11 (1948), 143-149; Robson-Scott,
pp. 4-5. Germann (p. 11) notes that F i l a r e t e was also the f i r s t theorist
to use the term , s t i l e (style) as a synonym for maniera (mode of handling);
he adopted the term from i t s former exclusively r h e t o r i c a l usage.

^De Beer, p. 145. De Beer distinguishes between special and general

uses of "gothic": to denote the Gothic people only, or a l l barbarians.
He also separates these uses, which are s t i l l h i s t o r i c a l and more or less
neutral from the pejorative l i t e r a r y use of "gothic." De Beer gives his
account of the r e l a t i o n between l i t e r a r y and a r c h i t e c t u r a l terms: "This
l i t e r a r y use [ i . e . , gothic equals barbarous].became common i n France i n
the seventeenth century and i n England also i n the eighteenth. It
affected the a r c h i t e c t u r a l term, so that some writers use the l a t t e r as
meaning primarily tasteless. This l i t e r a r y usage and the special develop-
 71

ment of i t have produced the common view that the s t y l i s t i c term o r i g i -

nated as a term of abuse" (p. 144). De Beer c i t e s Rabelais for an early
example of the l i t e r a r y abuse of "gothic." Longeuil concurs i n the
d i r e c t i o n of l i t e r a r y influence: from France to England (p. 455).

De Beer, p. 145. See also Frankl, p. 257, Germann, p. 11.

9
Robson-Scott, pp. 4-5; de Beer, pp. 146-147.
"^Robson-Scott, p. 6. The term would have had to be adopted, espe-
c i a l l y outside I t a l y , despite i t s h i s t o r i c a l inaccuracy (which was not
concealed), i f only for lack of a better one. De Beer points out that
the sixteenth-century I t a l i a n c r i t i c s l i k e Vasari or Sansovino had their
own term "Tedesco" (German) which had been i n use since the f i f t e e n t h
century and which had almost superseded the only major a l t e r n a t i v e ,
"moderne," by their time (p. 149). Germann suspects that Vasari was
aware of the r e l a t i v e l y recent provenance of the buildings against which
he was reacting (p. 38). This would make him g u i l t y of a deliberate
d i s t o r t i o n for argumentative purposes; de Beer, however, believes that he
used the e a r l i e r c r i t i c i s m s ineptly rather than d e l i b e r a t e l y .

''""'"See Samuel K l i g e r , The Goths in England (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard

Univ. Press, 1952). Kliger i s interested i n t r i b a l , l i b e r t a r i a n and
whiggish connotations of gothic. His basic premise i s that gothic was
always used for p o l i t i c a l or i d e o l o g i c a l purposes, of various kinds, and
h i s extensive l i s t of the confusions which made gothic mean C e l t i c , Scan-
dinavian, Germanic or ancestral shows the p o t e n t i a l usefulness of the
word.
12
" . . . the word 'ordine' acquires an authoritative s i g n i f i c a n c e
which makes i t d i f f i c u l t to understand how the phrase 'ordine Tedesco',
which was quite common i n the sixteenth century, could have been used i n
a pejorative sense. Presumably, the situation w i l l have been similar to
that obtaining around 1800 i n respect of the words 'style' and 'taste',
for at that time, i t was possible to negate the normally p o s i t i v e force
of these expressions by the mere addition of an adjective" (Germann,
p. 14). Thus, i n I t a l y , the phrase ordine Tedesco could come to mean
"order as a German would understand i t . "
13
Quoted i n Germann, p. 15.
14
"Vitruvius considered that structures evolved on a" regional or
h i s t o r i c a l basis were part of the a r c h i t e c t ' s stock i n trade: they were
available to him and he used them as and when appropriate. His d i s c i p l e s
regarded German or Gothic structures i n much the same l i g h t : they used
them because they were obliged to do so i n order to complete Gothic
churches i n a conformist style!' -(Germann, p. 15). In V i t r u v i a n theory,
the f i v e "antique" orders were generic types, invented for use only i n
certain situations. A l a t e r development was the theory of "characters,"
according to which styles were e s p e c i a l l y suited to their uses (e.g.,
Church Gothic, Castle Gothic, etc.)(Germann, pp. 22-23).
 72

Germann, p. 13. Cesariano: Cesare Cesariano prepared an edition

of V i t r u v i u s ' t r e a t i s e (1521) i n which he t r i e d to show the v a l i d i t y of
the theory by reference to a cross-sectional view of the o r i g i n a l plans
for Milan Cathedral.

"^Quoted i n Robson-Scott, pp. 10-11.

"^Robson-Scott, p. 12.
18
Quoted i n Arthur 0. Lovejoy, "The F i r s t Gothic Revival," p. 145.
19
K l i g e r , pp. 1-2; see also pp. 7-33.
20
Ibid., p. 3. "The translatio suggested f o r c e f u l l y an analogy
between the breakup of the Roman empire by the Goths and the demands of
the humanist-reformers of northern Europe for r e l i g i o u s freedom, i n t e r -
preted as l i b e r a t i o n from Roman p r i e s t c r a f t . . . the translatio crystal-
l i z e d the idea that humanity was twice ransomed from Roman tyranny and
d e p r a v i t y — i n antiquity by the Goths, i n modern times by their descen-
dants, the German reformers. . . . The epithet 'Gothic' became not only
a polar term i n p o l i t i c a l discussion, a trope for the 'free', but also
i n r e l i g i o u s discussion a trope for a l l those s p i r i t u a l , moral, and
c u l t u r a l values contained for the eighteenth century i n the single word
'enlightenment'" (pp. 33-34).
21
Kliger, pp. 4-6.
22
Lovejoy, p. 136.
23
Both quotations from Lovejoy, p. 137.
24
Lovejoy, pp. 137-139. "In the middle and l a t e eighteenth century
this d i s t i n c t i o n [between 'gothic' and 'Saracenic'] became f a m i l i a r , and
the style which we c a l l Gothic was commonly designated 'Saracenic',
'Arabic', or 'Arabesque'.-. . . Nevertheless, the same writers who, on
occasion, distinguish 'the Gothic' from 'the Saracenic', sometimes con-
tinue to apply the former adjective to the l a t t e r s t y l e also, with or
without the q u a l i f i c a t i o n 'modern'" (Lovejoy, p. 140).
25
B. Sprague A l l e n , i n Ch. XV of Tides in English Taste ("Classical
C r i t i c i s m of 'Gothic Taste'"), notes the ready association of gothic
with chinois or rococo work. Robson-Scott does not agree, however, that
their status i n England was exactly equal. In Germany, he claims, the
primary neo-classical target was the "baroque-rococo," and the recognized
f a u l t s of the old gothic served to warn against the ultimate degeneracy
of the "baroque-rococo." Here the assumed a f f i n i t y was so close that
the term gothic often referred to objects that were, more p r e c i s e l y ,
baroque or rococo. But Robson-Scott argues that no such use of the
gothic as a negative example was possible i n England "where the h o s t i l i t y
to Gothic had nothing to do with a reaction against the baroque-rococo
t r a d i t i o n . On the contrary, i n i t s early stages the Gothic Revival i n
 V

73

England was i t s e l f an offshoot of that t r a d i t i o n . " Robson-Scott's argu-

ment would appear to depend on the fact that there was l i t t l e c r i t i c a l
complaint against gothic s u r v i v a l i s t building i n England; the gothic
that was maligned was the new imitative, e c l e c t i c gothic of M i l l e r and
Wyatt, which was treated as a successor to the worst of the rococo. If
anything, i n England the rococo gave occasion for c r i t i c i z i n g the gothic,
not the reverse. (See Robson-Scott, pp. 15-16.)
26
Lovejoy, p. 141. See Warren Hunting Smith, Architecture in
English F i c t i o n (1934; r p t . , Ann Arbor: Univ. Microfilms, 1966), pp. 36-
40; and V i r g i n i a M. Hyde, "From the 'Last Judgment' to Kafka's World:
A Study i n Gothic Iconography," i n The Gothic Imagination: Studies in
Dark Romanticism, ed. G. R. Thompson (Pullman: Washington State Univ.
Press, 1974), pp. 134-138 f o r t h e . p o s i t i v e influence of l a t e gothic
(Gothic Baroque or Perpendicular) architecture on l i t e r a r y images and
associations. Both claim that the new gothic i n l i t e r a t u r e related
almost exclusively to these l a t e r concrete sources.
27
The same complaint came f u l l c i r c l e to form the cornerstone of
"Gothic Revival" theory i n England. Thus A. W. N. Pugin, i n h i s True
P r i n c i p l e s of Pointed or C h r i s t i a n Architecture (1841), dictated: "There
s h a l l be no features of a building which are not necessary for conven-
ience, construction, and propriety" (p. 1).'- The f i r s t two terms are
obvious, having to do with honesty i n use of materials and common sense
i n use of space and design. Propriety, for Pugin, meant the r e f l e c t i o n
i n architecture of proper h i e r a r c h i c a l r e l a t i o n s i n society, through the
connections among buildings i n a community or among the units i n a
building. See Robert MacLeod, Style and Society: Architectural Ideology
in B r i t a i n 1835-1914 (London: RIBA, 1971), pp. 9-13 and passim.
28
Joseph Addison, The Spectator, No. 415 (Thursday, 26 June 1712),
i n Eighteenth-Century English L i t e r a t u r e , ed. Geoffrey T i l l o t s o n et al.
(New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1969), p. 342.
29
Lovejoy, p. 143.
30
Joseph Addison, The Spectator, No. 62 (Friday, 11 May 1711),
Addison and Steele: Selections from The Tatler and The Spectator, ed.
Robert J. A l l e n (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1957), p. 109.
Note also No. 70: "I know nothing which more shews the essential and
inherent Perfection of Simplicity of Thought, above that which I c a l l
the Gothick Manner i n Writing, than t h i s , that the f i r s t pleases a l l
Kinds of Palates, and the l a t t e r only such as have formed to themselves
a wrong a r t i f i c i a l Taste upon l i t t l e f a n c i f u l Authors and Writers of
Epigram" (p. 122). There was some inconsistency, however, for i n this
essay Addison was praising the s i m p l i c i t y of f o l k ballads l i k e "Chevy-
Chase," whose popular appeal and transparency he opposes to the
"Gothick." Later, of course, such songs were gathered up as the epitome
of the gothic taste.
"^Lovejoy, p. 146.
 74

32
Ibid., p. 147.
33
Robson-Scott, p. 16. The l i s t of objectionable features indicates
that the so-called ."Saracenic" gave the clearest examples of excess.
34
Ibid., p. 14; Lovejoy, p. 148.
35
S. Lang, "The P r i n c i p l e s of the Gothic Revival i n England, JSAH,
25 (1966), 242; see also de Beer, "Gothic: Origin and D i f f u s i o n of the
Term," p. 157, and "Gothic and Some Other A r c h i t e c t u r a l Terms," appendix
to The Diary of John Evelyn, ed. E. S. de Beer (Oxford: OUP, 1955), I,
1-3. Germann sets a r e l a t i v e l y e a r l i e r date for the occurrence of
" s t y l e " i n English than i n other languages, but he makes i t clear that
i t usually referred to continuous,-not r a d i c a l l y c o n f l i c t i n g , modes
(Gothic Revival, p. 27).
Lang, pp. 242-243. Also de Beer, "Origin and D i f f u s i o n , " pp. 156-
162.
37
Kenneth Clark, The Gothic Revival: An Essay in the History of
Taste, 2nd edn.(London: Constable, 1950), pp. 28-29.
38
H. M. Colvin, "Gothic Survival and Gothick Revival," Architectural
Review, 104 (Oct., 1948), 91-92. This practice could overrule other con-
siderations—under neo-Vitruvian doctrines, even the c l a s s i c a l canon
(Germann, p. 181). Clark d i f f e r e n t i a t e s between outright conservatism,
which would have been more d o c t r i n a i r e and self-conscious, and the f e e l -
ing prevalent i n the Oxford design community, that gothic was simply the
natural mode for the type of building required. Colvin c i t e s equally
gothic projects outside Oxford, and l i s t s masons from Yorkshire and
London who worked at Oxford to show that Oxford did not "enjoy a monopoly
of masons who worked i n Gothic" (p. 92).
39
See Colvin, p. 92, Lovejoy, p. 151.
40
It would be unfair, however, to press too far with this connection.
By no means a l l the r e s u l t s of the Grand Tour were unfavourable to gothic
architecture. John Evelyn's outburst about the "Crincle-Crancle" of
gothic appeared i n the second, posthumously published e d i t i o n of An
Account of Architects and Architecture, an appendix to his t r a n s l a t i o n
of Freart's P a r a l l e l (1707 ie'dn.,). Previous references to the gothic
i n his Diary were much more p o s i t i v e (see Lang, p. 245, n. 30, and de
Beer, "Architectural Terms," passim.). Lang supposes that Evelyn changed
h i s mind to conform to the change i n fashion: " i t i s clear that about
1700 Gothic was 'out' and the I t a l i a n a t e was ' i n ' " (p. 245). Architects
l i k e Wren and Hawksmoor who were educated i n the I t a l i a n s t y l e s and were
sure of the i n f e r i o r i t y of the gothic used i t , nevertheless, when the
occasion seemed to require i t , both f o r the sake of conformity and conser-
vation and, as Colvin points out (p. 92) for the sake of " s t r u c t u r a l
experiment."
^ Lang, pp. 240-243 and passim.
1
Also de Beer, "Architectural Terms,"
p. 3.
 75

42
Lang, pp. 243-245; also Germann, Part I, Ch. 6, "The Concept of
H i s t o r i c a l Development."
43
Robson-Scott notes that "though this i n t e r e s t i s c e r t a i n l y a n t i -
quarian rather than aesthetic i n flavour, i t does at least show that the
Gothic buildings were not forgotten. For the most part these writers
seem to have accepted the Gothic style as a matter of course and even i n
some cases to have evinced a d e f i n i t e l i k i n g f o r i t " (pp. 18-19). And
Maurice Levy: "Les travaux des antiquaires . . . montrent, mieux que l a
construction de rares eglises ou mieux que quelques temoignages oublies,
l a persistance, tout au long de l'epoque classique, d'un interet l i m i t e
mais r e a l pour 1'architecture medievale. Grace a ces erudits furent
redecouverts les grands monuments nationaux d'un passe glorieux . . . "
(Le Roman «Gothique» Anglais, p. 13).
44
Lang, p. 248, c i t i n g T. Kendrick, British Antiquity (London: 1950)
and J . Evans, A History of the Society of Antiquaries (Oxford: 1956).
The Monasticon was the work of S i r William Dugdale (1605-1686) who c o l -
laborated with Roger Dodsworth. Further editions were published i n 1664
and 1673.
45
Quoted i n Lang, pp. 249-250, from S. Piggott, William Stukeley
(Oxford: 1950), p. 56. The Society of Antiquaries had been rejuvenated
i n 1707.
^ L a n g , p. 250.
47
Frankl, The Gothic, p. 395.
48
See B. Sprague A l l e n , Tides in English Taste, I I , Ch. XIV, "The
Challenge of the Middle Ages," Part I, "The P e r s i s t i n g Interest i n
Gothic Architecture before Walpole"; Robson-Scott, pp. 18-24; Charles L.
Eastlake, A History of the Gothic Revival, ed. J . Mordaunt Crook (1872;
rpt. and rev., Leicester: Leicester Univ. Press: 1970), pp. 6-19;
Kenneth Clark, The Gothic Revival, pp. 30-35; Frankl, pp. 396-414;
Lionel Gossmann, Medievalism and the Ideologies of the Enlightenment:
The World and Work of La Curne de Sainte-Palaye (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
Univ. Press, 1968), p. 329 f f .
49
The topographical work was also carried through by William G i l p i n ' s
picturesgue tours, and h i s essay "On Picturesque Travel," i n Three Essays
(London: R. Blamire, 1792). The new vogue for tours produced a vast
l i t e r a t u r e , including: William Hutchinson, Excursion to the Lakes (1776),
Joseph Budworth, Fortnight's Ramble to the Lakes (1792), William Thompson,
Tour of England and Scotland (1788), and tour descriptions by Daniel
Defoe, John Wilkes, Tobias Smollett, Joseph Warton, and Arthur Young, a l l
of which contained detailed accounts of both natural scenery and a r c h i -
tecture. One of the most p r o l i f i c successors to the topographers was
John B r i t t o n who produced his series The Beauties of England and Wales
i n 18 vols, between 1800 and 1816, and four volumes of The Architectural
A n t i q u i t i e s of Great Britain i n 1814, with a f i f t h i n 1818, i n addition
 76

to The Cathedral A n t i q u i t i e s of Great Britain (series from 1814), and

Picturesque Views of English C i t i e s (1830). See A l l e n , I I , 200-206.

5 0
C l a r k , p. 31.

^"*"HW to Cole, 5 June 1775. Horace Walpole's Correspondence with the

Rev. William Cole, ed. W. S. Lewis & A. Dayle Wallace (New Haven: Yale
Univ. Press, 1937), I, 375 (Vol. I of HW's Correspondence). For brevity's
sake, subsequent references to Lewis' e d i t i o n of the Correspondence will
appear i n t h i s form: Corr., Volume Number, page. The volume numbers are
those running through the whole s e r i e s , not those peculiar to the i n d i -
vidual correspondences. F u l l information on dates of publication i s
presented i n the Bibliography.

5 2
A l l e n , I I , 98-99.
53
For Walpole's e c l e c t i c use of salvaged pieces, see Horace Walpole,
A Description of the Villa of Mr. Horace Walpole . . . at Strawberry-
Hill , etc. (1784; facsimile r p t . Farnborough: Gregg, 1969).
54

W. H. Smith, Architecture in English F i c t i o n , p. 8.

55
Ibid., pp. 25-26.
"^Horace Walpole, Anecdotes of Painting, i n The Works of Horatio
Walpole, Earl of Orford (London: G. G. & J . Robinson, and J . Edwards,
1798), I I I , 94. Unfortunately, this passage has been read so as to
y i e l d an opinion more favourable to the gothic than Walpole meant to
convey i n the f u l l context i n which i t occurs. Although he c i t e d the
cases of Inigo Jones, Wren, and Kent, who "blundered into the heaviest
and clumsiest compositions whenever they aimed at imitations of the
Gothic," i n order to prove that i t could not be a "despicable" s t y l e ,
Walpole was c a r e f u l to q u a l i f y the force of h i s comparison (see daggered
footnote, pp. 94-95). At the head of the paragraph immediately following
this passage, he wrote: "I c e r t a i n l y do not mean by t h i s l i t t l e contrast
to make any comparison between the r a t i o n a l beauties of regular a r c h i -
tecture and the unrestrained licentiousness of that which i s c a l l e d
Gothic." Walpole's recognition of the power of the gothic was important,
nevertheless, for the kind of f i c t i o n he helped to create.
"^For examination of important works of l i t e r a r y antiquarianism,
see Arthur Johnston, Enchanted Ground: The Study of Medieval Romance in
the Eighteenth Century (London: Athlone Press, 1964). See also Clark,
p. 35, pp. 41-43, and Joan Pittock, The Ascendancy of Taste: The Achieve-
ment of Joseph and Thomas Warton (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1973),
pp. 170-171. Clark and Pittock disagree over the connection between
l i t e r a r y and a r c h i t e c t u r a l developments, Clark arguing that the allow-
ances made for Shakespeare and Spenser i n l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m opened the
f i e l d for gothic taste i n architecture, Pittock that antiquarian research
was a more l i k e l y influence.
 77

58
J. Mordaunt Crook, i n his introduction to the facsimile r e p r i n t
of Eastlake's History of the Gothic Revival, discusses the r e v i v a l of
interest i n medieval a r t and customs that had already started during the
reign of Elizabeth (pp. <27-28>).
59
Richard Hurd, Letters on Chivalry and Romance, with the Third
Elizabethan Dialogue, ed. Edith J . Morley (London: Henry Frowde, 1911).
A l l l a t e r page references w i l l be given within the text.
^The t r a v e l l e r s would have consulted Dugdale's A n t i q u i t i e s of
Warwickshire (1656).

^Walpole, Anecdotes of Painting, Works, I I I , 485.

62
L o n g u e i l , "The Word 'Gothic'','" PP- 456-457.

William C. Holbrook. "The Adjective Gothique i n the XVIIIth

Century," MLN, 56, 6 (Nov., 1941), 501.
64
The most important of the " p a i n f u l c o l l e c t o r s " was Jean Baptiste
de La Curne de Sainte-Palaye (1697-1781), whose Memoires sur 1'ancienne
chevalerie (1746; torn, xx of Histoire de l'Academie des Inscriptions et
B e l l e s - L e t t r e s ) was the major source-book for the Letters.
^ I n an i n t e r p o l a t i o n i n Letter VI made i n the sixth e d i t i o n of the
Letters (1788), Hurd explained the superior richness of gothic supersti-
tion as l i t e r a r y material by pointing to i t s o r i g i n s . C h r i s t i a n super-
naturalism (which Hurd did not connect with the e s s e n t i a l b e l i e f s of
C h r i s t i a n i t y ) augmented the previous stock of f a n t a s t i c a l images, so
that the gothic writers had a more mature and heterogeneous mythology to
work with.
66
Johnston, pp. 100-107. See also Pittock, p. 190.

^Thomas Percy (Bishop of Dromore), Reliques of Ancient English

Poetry, ed. Thomas Percy, 4th edn.(1794; r p t . London: L. A. Lewis,
1839), I, x i i . Percy believed the f o l i o had been c o l l e c t e d by Thomas
Blount (1618-1679), the lawyer and antiquarian (pp. xx-xxi). Later page
references w i l l be given within the text.
68
Percy's main sources for manuscripts or printed material were the
Pepysian Library of Magdalene College, Cambridge (Pepys and Selden c o l -
l e c t i o n s ) , the Ashmolean Library, Oxford (Anthony a Wood c o l l e c t i o n ) , the
archives of the Antiquarian Society, London, and the B r i t i s h Museum.
69
See Percy's "Essay on the Ancient M e t r i c a l Romances," Reliques,
I I I , 2-38.
7
°See'-: Lovejoy, p. 159, pp. 152-158.
 78

A l l e n , I I , 170-171 (Allen's paraphrase). Mason's concern for

authenticity had i t s l i m i t s . He argued with William G i l p i n over the use
of purely decorative objects to complete a picturesque view, and saw
nothing wrong with applying gothic facades to u t i l i t a r i a n buildings,
such as barns, or with building a r t i f i c i a l ruins, a l l of which G i l p i n
strongly d i s l i k e d . See C. P. Barbier, William Gilpin: His Drawing,
Teaching, and Theory of the Picturesque (Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press,
1963), pp. 117-120.
72
See Devendra P. Varma, The Gothic Flame (London: Arthur Barker,
1957), p. 19, and Bertrand Evans, Gothic Drama from Walpole to Shelly
(Berkeley & Los Angeles: Univ. of C a l i f . Press, 1947), p. 7.
73
Horace Walpole to Richard Bentley, September, 1753, Selected
Letters of Horace Walpole, W. S. Lewis (New Haven & London: Yale Univ.
Press, 1973), p. 47.
74
Walpole, Selected Letters, p. 47.
^W. S. Lewis, Horace Walpole (New York: Pantheon Books, 1961),
p. 46.

^ E a s t l a k e ' s reticence, i n h i s History of the Gothic Revival, when

discussing problems of doctrine or symbolism shows that he was uncom-
fortable with the already v i s i b l e l i n k between the gothic and Anglo-
Catholicism (or Roman Catholicism, which A. W. Pu'gin openly professed);
he was nervous l e s t a l l advocates of the gothic style be assumed to be
Catholics, overt or covert.

^Walpole, Selected Letters, p. 50.

78
Lewis, pp. 124, 127.
79
Ibid., p. 5. Lewis cites Walpoliana, ed. John Pinkerton (London:
1799), I, 74. "Fontenelle's Dialogues on the P l u r a l i t y of Worlds, f i r s t
rendered me an i n f i d e l . C h r i s t i a n i t y , and a p l u r a l i t y of worlds, are,
i n my opinion, i r r e c o n c i l e a b l e . Indeed, one would be puzzled enough to
reconcile modern discoveries on t h i s globe alone, with any divine reve-
l a t i o n . I never try to make converts; but expect and claim to enjoy my
own opinion, and other people may enjoy t h e i r s . . . . Intolerance i s ,
ipso facto, a proof of falsehood. . . . Atheism I d i s l i k e . It i s gloomy,
uncomfortable; and, i n my eye, unnatural and i r r a t i o n a l . . . . I go to
church sometimes, i n order to induce my servants to go to church. I am
no hypocrite, I do not go i n order to persuade them to believe what I do
not believe myself. A good moral sermon may instruct and benefit them.
I only set them an example of l i s t e n i n g , not believing (Walpoliana, 2nd
ed. [1804], I, 74-76).
80
Longueil, "The Word 'Gothic'," p. 458.

^"Slacpherson, Fragments of Ancient Poetry Collected in the Highlands,

1760, Fingal, An Ancient Epic, 1761-62, Temora, An Epic Poem, 1763.
 79

°^Edward Young, The Complaint, or Night Thoughts, 1742-46, Robert

B l a i r , The Grave, 1743, Thomas Warton, The Pleasures of Melancholy,11kl,
Thomas Gray, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, 1751.
83
See Levy, Le Roman Gothique Anglais, pp. 613-614, for an argument
connecting the gothic s e n s i b i l i t y with the Revolution of 1688. Levy
pushes past his discussion of the meditative and melancholic uses of the
gothic (building) to suggest a p o l i t i c a l symbolism almost i d e n t i c a l with
what Hurd has Addison present i n the Third Dialogue. The gothic r u i n
reminds the perceiver of past tyranny and present l i b e r t y ; i t i s a memor-
i a l to the guarantees that support.the r e l i g i o u s and p o l i t i c a l e s t a b l i s h -
ment.
 CHAPTER II

VITALITY IN FICTION

The Mixed Mode

Sir Walter Scott was the f i r s t c r i t i c to note the close connection

between Horace Walpole's work as an architect and his work as a writer,

and i t i s s i g n i f i c a n t that Scott found that the chief c h a r a c t e r i s t i c of

both was Walpole's e f f o r t to s t r i k e a compromise between the f a n t a s t i c a l

and the probable, between the antique and the modern:

As, i n his model of a Gothic modern mansion, our author had

studiously endeavoured to f i t to the purposes of modern con-
venience, or luxury, the r i c h , varied, and complicated tracery
and carving of the ancient cathedral, so, i n The Castle of
Otranto, i t was his object to unite the marvellous turn of
incident, and imposing tone of c h i v a l r y , exhibited i n the
ancient romance, with that accurate display of human character,
and contrast of feelings and passions, which i s , or ought to
be delineated i n the modern novel. . . . It was his object to
draw such a picture of domestic l i f e and manners, during the
feudal times, as might actually have existed, and to paint i t
checkered and agitated by the action of supernatural machinery,
such as the superstition of the period received as matter of
devout c r e d u l i t y . The natural parts of the narrative are so
contrived, that they associate themselves with the marvellous
occurrences; and, by the force of that association, render
those speciosa miracula s t r i k i n g and impressive, though our
cooler reason admits their i m p o s s i b i l i t y .

Comparing the evocative effects of the gothic story and the neo-gothic

building upon the modern s e n s i b i l i t y , Scott concluded that:

It i s . . . almost impossible to b u i l d such a modern Gothic

structure as s h a l l impress us with the feelings we have
endeavoured to describe. It may be grand, or i t may be
gloomy; i t may excite magnificent or melancholy ideas; but
i t must f a i l i n bringing forth the sensation of supernatural
awe, connected with h a l l s that have echoed to the sounds of
remote generations. . . . Yet Horace Walpole has attained i n

- 80 -
 81

composition, what, as an architect, he must have f e l t beyond

the power of h i s a r t . ^

Scott's own experiences as a writer and a builder put him i n a good

position to r e a l i z e the d i f f i c u l t y of r e c o n c i l i n g old forms and themes

with modern tastes. Like Walpole, he was aware of the pleasures of

imitating a n t i q u i t i e s and of the natural connection between l i t e r a r y and

decorative impulses. At Abbotsford, "there was a f i n e spring of clear

water, which Scott enclosed i n a Gothic well-front made of some of the

stones he had acquired from Melrose Abbey. With the lime c a r e f u l l y

blackened and moss put between the j o i n t s , i t looked, he boasted happily,

at least three hundred years o l d . 'In honor of an old Melrose saint I

have put an i n s c r i p t i o n i n a gothic Latin verse, AVE, AVE, SANCTE.

WALDAVE', 'and I intend that willows and weeping birches s h a l l droop over
2

i t with a background of ever-greens'." Most of the materials for this

tableau were genuinely ancient, but the associative concept that governed

i t was s t r i c t l y modern. The problem of forming a synthesis, and the

temptation to apply l i t e r a r y and a r c h i t e c t u r a l solutions interchangeably,

persisted from Walpole's time to Scott's.

Walpole himself saw his building and his f i c t i o n - w r i t i n g as parts

of a common project, and he invited comparison between them. Sometimes

the connection that Walpole indicated was merely coincidental, as when

he pointed out to the Rev. William Cole, who had been reading The Castle

of Otranto:
You w i l l even have found some t r a i t s to put you i n mind of
this place [Strawberry H i l l ] , When you read of the picture
q u i t t i n g h i s panel, did you not r e c o l l e c t the p o r t r a i t of
Lord Falkland a l l i n white i n my gallery?
 82

Yet, there was a deeper, more fundamental connection between Straw-

berry H i l l and The Castle of Otranto, for the methods and p r i n c i p l e s of

creation were much the same i n both cases. For this reason, an account

of the assembling of the r e a l "Castle" w i l l help to explain the character-

i s t i c s of Otranto, and w i l l introduce the gothic s e n s i b i l i t y which shaped

both creations.

Walpole bought the o r i g i n a l Strawberry H i l l i n 1749, when he was

4

thirty-two years old.. He had held the lease on the property for the

two years preceding. Between 1749 and 1790 the estate expanded from f i v e

acres to f o r t y - s i x and underwent almost continual new construction, while

Walpole collected i n h i s home such a deluge of rare, curious or precious

a r t i c l e s that the Description of 1781 was already obsolete when i t came

to the press and required several appendices for recent a r r i v a l s .

Walpole's e a r l i e s t accounts of h i s property did not promise that he

would make i t into anything extraordinary. His description to Horace

Mann, i n the l e t t e r of 5 June 1747, was jokingly modest and demeaning:

The house i s so small, that I can send i t to you i n a l e t t e r

to look at: the prospect i s as d e l i g h t f u l as possible, com-
manding the r i v e r , the town, and Richmond Park; and being
situated on a h i l l descends to the Thames through two or
three l i t t l e meadows, where I have some Turkish sheep and
two cows, a l l studied i n their colours for becoming the view.
. . .so I s h a l l grow as much a shepherd as any swain i n the
Astraea.

Walpole's l e t t e r to Henry Conway three days l a t e r repeated the comparison

between Strawberry H i l l and a tiny "bijou" (a previous occupant had been

Mrs. Chevenix, "the toy-woman a la mode"):

It i s a l i t t l e plaything house that I got out of Mrs. Che-

venix' s shop, and i s the p r e t t i e s t bauble you ever saw. I t
i s set i n enamelled meadows, with f i l i g r e e hedges. . . .
Dowagers as plenty as founders inhabit a l l around, and Pope's
 83

ghost i s j u s t now skimming under my window by a most p o e t i -

c a l moonlight. I have about l a n d enough to keep such a farm
as Noah's, when he s e t up i n the a r k w i t h a p a i r of each
kind. . . . ,
6

Walpole's i n t e n t i o n was to have a r e f u g e f a r enough away from London

to p r o v i d e an excuse f o r the f r e q u e n t absences from P a r l i a m e n t which he

desired. From here he c o u l d w r i t e to h i s p o l i t i c a l p r o t e g e Conway, w i t h

a m i x t u r e of f e i g n e d d i s i n t e r e s t and r e a l d i s i l l u s i o n m e n t , about an

e l e c t i o n campaign i n which " a l l England, under some name or o t h e r , i s

j u s t now to be bought and s o l d ; though, whenever we become p o s t e r i t y and

f o r e f a t h e r s , we s h a l l be i n h i g h r e p u t e f o r wisdom and v i r t u e . " ^

Although the o r i g i n a l house a t Strawberry H i l l , b u i l t by the E a r l o f

g
B r a d f o r d ' s coachman, had n o t h i n g t o recommend i t a r c h i t e c t u r a l l y , i t d i d

have advantages i n l o c a t i o n and a s s o c i a t i o n s : the neighbourhood was

f a s h i o n a b l e but not y e t populous enough t o d i s q u a l i f y i t from b e i n g

fashionably r u r a l . With the p r o p e r t y Walpole had a l s o gained a p l e a s i n g

list of antecedent n e i g h b o u r s : "Essex, Bacon, L o r d C l a r e n d o n . . . Lady

9

Mary Wortley Montagu, Pope and F i e l d i n g . " And h i s f a n c y of Pope's

ghost r e v i s i t i n g t h i s p a r t o f Twickenham showed h i s p o e t i c aspirations

i n a c h a r a c t e r i s t i c a l l y w h i m s i c a l way.

The g o t h i c i s m o f Strawberry H i l l was an a d j u n c t to the more conven-

t i o n a l p l e a s u r e s of g e n t e e l f a r m i n g , r u r a l s e c l u s i o n , and associations

w i t h the famous, and l i k e them i t was caught up i n the paradox of s t u d i e d

casualness. Even i f i t was not w h i m s i c a l , a c c i d e n t a l , or spontaneous,

the g o t h i c i s m had to be shown as such. As an a i d to t h i s d e c e p t i o n ,

t h e r e was l i t t l e e a r l y h i n t of Walpole's d e d i c a t i o n to a p a r t i c u l a r style

to i n d i c a t e what d i r e c t i o n h i s b u i l d i n g would take. There was, at first,

 84

no thesis to demonstrate. Walpole did not draw up a comprehensive plan

u n t i l the work was v i r t u a l l y complete, describing i t instead i n l e t t e r s

as i t grew. The reference to Pope's ghostly, i n s p i r a t i o n a l presence i s

suggestive of his intentions, but vague. S i m i l a r l y , Walpole's continued

use of secret "Persian" nicknames i n writing to the other members of the

Quadruple A l l i a n c e ^ signalled a taste for the exotic, the f a n t a s t i c a l ,

the dramatic—but not necessarily the gothic. Thus, i t was p l a i n that

Walpole's creation would be an indulgence of fantasy before i t was plain

what sort of fantasy would be indulged. In this apparent nonchalance and

randomness, the creation of Strawberry H i l l resembled the creation of The

Castle of Otranto. As Walpole told Mason, i n s e l f - j u s t i f i c a t i o n , Otranto

was

. . . begun without any plan at a l l , for though i n the short

course of i t s progress I did conceive some views, i t was so
far from being sketched out with any design at a l l , that i t
was actually commenced one evening, from the very imperfect
r e c o l l e c t i o n of a dream with which I waked i n the morning.^

Of the famous dream, more l a t e r . Whether or not Walpole actually

gave form to Otranto spontaneously, almost i n t u i t i v e l y , as i n s p i r a t i o n

and the force of h i s dream prompted him, what matters i s that he pretended

to have done so, and that he seemed to have b u i l t Strawberry H i l l simi-

l a r l y , without a simple idea of i t s f i n a l shape to guide him. A further

resemblance w i l l emerge i n this discussion: l i k e Otranto, Strawberry

H i l l was the continuation of a dream and was the product of "very imper-

fect r e c o l l e c t i o n . "

Walpole's f i r s t improvements did not change the character of the

old cottage i n any important way, and i t i s i n d i c a t i v e of his motives

that, whatever s i z e , shape or s t y l e of house he was imagining, h i s

 85

i n i t i a l attention was to comfort and p r a c t i c a l i t y . He hired William

Robinson, Clerk of the Works at Greenwich Hospital, to design, but mostly

to supervise, some rudimentary work; i t seems that Robinson's major job

12

was to move the kitchen. Like many architects and builders of the time,

Robinson's involvement with the gothic was by contract more than by

i n c l i n a t i o n or professional t r a i n i n g . Walpole valued him because he was

compliant and because "he knew how to b u i l d an eighteenth-century house

13

which, although i t might wear out, would not f a l l down." Robinson and

his successors occasionally influenced Walpole's s t y l i s t i c choices;

mainly they gave him the kind of p r a c t i c a l engineering s k i l l s he needed

in order to make his fantasies endure. Since he was not interested i n

building mere " f o l l i e s , " this was an important consideration.

Walpolees c o n f l i c t i n g motives for adopting the gothic s t y l e and his

uneven talents for understanding and using i t affected a l l the friends

14

and architects whom he enlisted i n carrying through the project. Such

contradictory influences included his fascination with the d e t a i l s and

the associations of gothic buildings; his lack of knowledge of, and con-

cern f o r , the basic p r i n c i p l e s of medieval construction; and his wish

not to "make my house so Gothic as to exclude convenience, and modern

refinements i n luxury." Walpole claimed that "the designs of the inside

and outside are s t r i c t l y ancient, but the decorations are modern," and

called the mixture, quoting from Pope, "A Gothic Vatican of Greece and

Rome."^ What Walpole meant by "decorations" were not the transplanted

tombs and portals which formed his bookcases and chimney-pieces, but the

books, paintings, sculpture, and china that he had c o l l e c t e d . Walpole

defended the inconsistency between these objects and the rooms they
 86

f i l l e d by asking a strange r h e t o r i c a l question:

Would our ancestors, before the reformation of architecture,

not have deposited i n their gloomy castles antique statues
and fine pictures, beautiful vases and ornamental china, i f
they had possessed them?
lo

Walpole must have realized the feebleness of the suggestion that he was

somehow f u l f i l l i n g the intention of h i s gothic ancestors, for he conceded

that he did not mean "to defend by argument a small capricious house"

which "was b u i l t to please my taste, and i n some degree to r e a l i z e my

own v i.s i•o n s . „17

More fundamental contrasts between the antique and the modern at

Strawberry H i l l resulted from various factors: Walpole's limited know-

ledge of the gothic, his piecemeal building strategy, h i s deliberate

abandonment of a conventional ground-plan, and h i s placing of comfort

above purity of s t y l e . Walpole "loved comfort, and so we do not find

him erecting a desolate monastery l i k e F o n t h i l l Abbey. Strawberry Hill

18

i s e s s e n t i a l l y a snug l i t t l e manor-house, dressed up i n Gothic clothes."

One concession to the modern idea of a manor-house was the adapting

of e c c l e s i a s t i c a l architecture, which gave most of the formal i n s p i r a t i o n

for Strawberry H i l l , to the normal cube-shaped room space. Walpole had

no use for other, more obviously domestic, gothic characters. He detested

the Tudor manner and the r e v i v a l gothic of the time of James I, consider-
19

ing these "bastard" s t y l e s . Castles, such as Vanbrugh and Sanderson

M i l l e r had attempted, were picturesque but hard to heat, and spatially

either overwhelming or p a l t r y , depending on the builder's ambition. The

sociable Walpole was not about to shut himself up i n drafty monumental

h a l l s ; he aimed at the charming, the mysterious, the picturesque, but

 87

not the sublime. He was l e f t with e c c l e s i a s t i c a l gothic models by

default.

Walpole l a i d a surface of gothic embellishments on the basic room-

as-box. Even the Tribune or Cabinet he described as a "square with a

semi-circular recess i n the middle of each side . . . and with windows

20
and niches." The construction method remained the usual post-and-
lintel. Perhaps Essex, who had spent time on the Continent studying
21

gothic building technique, might have relieved Walpole's ignorance on

the subject of vaulting, but the only evidence that Walpole cared about

t r a d i t i o n a l workmanship was his employment of Thomas Gayfere, master

22
mason at Westminster Abbey, to build the garden chapel i n 1772. The
attempt at fanvaulting i n the Gallery at Strawberry, "taken from one of
23

the side i s l e s [sic] of Henry 7th's. chapel," gives a f u l l i l l u s t r a t i o n

of the l i m i t s of Walpole's a r c h i t e c t u r a l understanding; i t consisted of

a rectangle of elaborate gothic tracery and pendants cut out to the

right size and f i t t e d into place l i k e a false c e i l i n g , without s t r u c t u r a l

or formal r e l a t i o n to the rest of the room.

In assembling the gothic surface for his house, Walpole often used

bogus modern materials and mismatched elements. Strawberry H i l l was

f u l l of plaster mouldings, Portland cement, stucco, and wallpapers posing

as masonry. The main staircase, for example, which Walpole considered

the e f f e c t i v e centre of the piece, was lined with a "paper painted i n

24

perspective to represent Gothic fretwork." Like the gothic garden

ruins which became popular i n the 1720's—and which sometimes were mere

facades l i k e stage sets—Strawberry H i l l was meant to be v i s u a l l y impres-

sive and r i c h i n d e l i g h t f u l l i t e r a r y and h i s t o r i c a l associations but

 88

Walpole did not expect to go through the trouble and expense of building

a cathedral i n order to achieve such e f f e c t s . One of h i s shortcuts was

to l i f t either the design of a church f i x t u r e or the f i x t u r e i t s e l f out

of i t s o r i g i n a l context, and to turn i t to some other use. Thus, the

pattern for the gothic wallpaper i n the entrance h a l l and staircase was

taken from Prince Arthur's tomb i n Worcester Cathedral; the c e i l i n g of

the China Room was designed by Muntz after one i n the Borghese v i l l a at

F r a s c a t i ; f l o o r t i l e s were obtained from Gloucester Cathedral; the roof of

the Tribune imitated that of the Chapter House, York Minster; the c e i l i n g

of the Holbein Room was after that of the royal dressing-room i n Windsor

Castle; the entrance screen was copied from the choir of Rouen Cathedral.

The l i s t of borrowings and transplantings continues with f a i r l y open

acknowledgment throughout Walpole's Description of Strawberry H i l l .

Walpole and Chute were not singularly ingenious i n making these

adaptations. Their c o l l e c t i n g was partly the r e s u l t of the same a c q u i s i -

tive passion that had made English tourists i n Italy and France g u l l i b l e ,
25

voracious consumers of landscape and genre painting; partly the result

of Walpole's desire to secure himself i n the company of "old c a s t l e s ,

old pictures, old h i s t o r i e s " ; partly the r e s u l t of the same e c l e c t i c

reaction against neo-classical purism that culminated i n the a r c h i t e c t u r a l

confections of Vauxhall.

The ground-plan of Strawberry H i l l reflected Walpole's divided

a l l e g i a n c e — t o modernity and to h i s t o r i c a l fantasy—and also his gradual

way of completing the project. Strawberry H i l l did not follow a geomet-

rically regular plan, l i k e that of Robert Walpole's estate, Houghton

26
H a l l , Norfolk. Horace Walpole avoided the Palladian fashion and i t s
 89

attendant aesthetic. He kept the "modern refinements i n luxury" that

ensured comfort for him and h i s frequent v i s i t o r s . He kept the r e q u i s i t e

s o c i a l separations: the servants' work and l i v i n g areas at Strawberry

H i l l were s t i l l "below s t a i r s . " But he was equally interested i n other

matters, balance and consistency not among them. The asymmetry of the
27 ,
house, f o r example, Walpole chose d e l i b e r a t e l y . He inserted Essex s

Beauclerc Tower between the existing Round Tower and the long south wing,

whereas a more conventional plan would have placed i t at an opposite

corner, for balance. Walpole varied the size of h i s rooms, making them
28

progressively larger; the early ones, he admitted, were quite small.

He sought to enhance the house's i r r e g u l a r i t y of p r o f i l e , the picturesque

beauty of i t s many v i s t a s , i t s own value i n completing v i s t a s from the

surrounding park, i t s elements of surprise, and i t s display of the hap-

hazardness which was then supposed to be t r u l y gothic. The long course

of the construction and the variety of builders employed helped to lend

Strawberry H i l l a s t y l i s t i c incoherence that was an adequate substitute

for centuries of ruination and restoration, f o r the admirable i r r e g u l a r -

29

i t i e s of the barbarous a r c h i t e c t s .

Walpole provided a recognizably gothic p r o f i l e for Strawberry H i l l

by c a s t e l l a t i n g i t s e x t e r i o r . Although he did not choose to adopt f u l l y

the proportions of a c a s t l e for h i s modern plan, Walpole did think of h i s

house as a sort of miniature castle and regularly referred to i t as

30

"Strawberry Castle" i n his l e t t e r s . In this respect, he deviated from

his e c c l e s i a s t i c a l interests, but the facsimile of a castle, achieved

with battlements, towers, and p l a i n external decoration, was enough f o r

him. I t would have made as much sense for Walpole to have c a l l e d h i s

 90

creation "Strawberry Abbey," with i t s c l o i s t e r s , Prior's Garden, and

(later) i t s separate Chapel.

This elusiveness of Strawberry H i l l ' s character was suited to Wal-

pole' s f l e x i b l e ideas about the estate and i t s purpose. Strawberry Hill

served two functions for him, one attached to the contemporary world and

another to the past. Walpole saw i n i t both a place where he might l i v e

in comfort and seclusion and a stage setting where he might r e a l i z e the

play of his imagination. A l l the concessions to modernity, the expedi-

encies upon which the gothicism depended, provided the f i r s t . In order

to perform the second function, the house had to include a l l the props

and backdrops necessary for the f u l l repertoire of Walpole's fantasies,

which tended to be either baronial or monastic. Thus, the mixture of

styles and sources at Strawberry H i l l , though i t made for impure gothic

architecture, supplied the appropriate materials and.atmosphere for each

v i s i o n , whether Walpole imagined himself as a hermit monk or as a noble

31

descendant of S i r Terry Robsart.

The gothicism of many nineteenth-century partisans, especially those

who came out of the antiquarian l i n e , was an earnest pursuit, o r i g i n a t i n g

in doctrine, or i n s o c i a l theory, or i n a sense of s t y l i s t i c integrity.

Walpole's gothicism, on the other hand, was always related simply to

s a t i s f y i n g personal, imaginative needs—and those were rarely obsessive

or all-consuming. Walpole f e l t himself the v i c t i m of ennui, of the d u l l -

ness and i n s i p i d i t y of his own age. Seeking r e l i e f , he t r i e d to dramatize

himself and his environment, i n order to bring his v i v i d q u a s i - h i s t o r i c a l

dreams to l i f e .
 91

Walpole has l e f t evidence of the a t t r a c t i o n that fantasies about

the past held for him. Thus, he wrote to George Montagu, on 5 January

1766, after some of the excitement immediately surrounding the publica-

tion of The Castle of Otranto had died down:

Visions, you know, have always been my pasture; and so far

from growing old enough to quarrel with their emptiness, I
almost think there i s no wisdom comparable to that of
exchanging what i s called the r e a l i t i e s of l i f e for dreams.
Old c a s t l e s , old pictures, old h i s t o r i e s , and the babble of
old people make one l i v e back into centuries that cannot
disappoint one. One holds fast and surely what i s past.
The dead have exhausted their power of deceiving—one can
trust Catherine of Medicis now.^

There were, however, two important l i m i t a t i o n s upon Walpole's i n d u l -

gence i n such a t t r a c t i v e , secure, regressive fantasies. F i r s t , his

gothicism was more subversive than overt and reactionary: he preferred to

r e v i t a l i z e and enrich modern taste, to reconcile i t to the exotic and the

unfamiliar, rather than to rebel against i t altogether. And second,

because he was subversive and because his retreat from the mundane was

only temporary, not doctrinaire, i t did not matter so much that his

gothicism often consisted of sham and t h e a t r i c a l i t y — v e n e e r and fretwork

wallpaper. Even i f he had known how to b u i l d an authentic gothic struc-

ture, the stage s e t t i n g , the house-as-theatrical-machine, would have

sufficed for his divided purposes.

Walpole was unwilling to exchange the " r e a l i t i e s of l i f e " f o r

dreams, except i n a temporary, controlled way. His status and his

important connections were valuable enough to overcome his d i s i l l u s i o n -

ment and to prevent him from becoming e n t i r e l y r e c l u s i v e . Instead, he

discovered the means of combining the natural pleasures of both r e a l m s —

the f a m i l i a r and the f a n t a s t i c a l . After a l l , one of the "modern r e f i n e -

 92

ments i n luxury" which Walpole valued most was the luxury of being able

to summon his v i s i o n s and to mix them with a comforting measure of

familiar r e a l i t y , of being able to choose how much of the past he wanted

around him. By thus disguising the strangeness of his fantasies, he

disarmed some of the resistance to them.

But not a l l . Walpole was provoked, nevertheless, by a c e r t a i n sense

of not being appreciated for his talents as an innovator. Offering Mme.

du Deffand his own assessment of Otranto, he treated i t as the masterwork

of h i s personal avante-garde:

I have not written the book for the present age, which w i l l
endure nothing but cold common sense. I confess to you, my
dear friend, (and you w i l l think me madder than ever,) that
this i s the only one of my works with which I am myself
pleased; I have given reins to my imagination t i l l I became
on f i r e with the v i s i o n s and feelings which i t excited. I
have composed i t i n defiance of r u l e s , of c r i t i c s , and of
philosophers; and i t seems to me just so much the better
for that very r e a s o n . ^

The bitterness and aggressiveness evident here were his response to

Mme. du Deffand's lack of enthusiasm, for Otranto—and something more.

Walpole's defiance of a l l short-sighted c r i t i c s was equally an expression

of h i s hope that he might be seen as a.leader i n some area; for his

vicarious p o l i t i c a l career had already h i t a large snag even as h i s

literary career began. This fact helps to explain why he had undertaken

his excursions into the "centuries that cannot disappoint one." In 1765

he had arranged to bring together the new Rockingham ministry, i n which

Conway was secretary bf state, but Conway did not secure for him the

"considerable employment" which he declared his vanity "would have been

34
gratified i n refusing." Although p o l i t i c s a l t e r n a t e l y bored and

attracted him, he f e l t that they were his proper concern, more a part of
 93

his b i r t h r i g h t than was literature. To some extent, his a c t i v i t i e s as

builder, writer and antiquary compensated him for his i n a b i l i t y to reach

and maintain the l e v e l of p o l i t i c a l importance that his father had

enjoyed. It was a source of both chagrin and amusement to Walpole that

he- had to digress from p o l i t i c a l business i n order to assert himself, and

in order to avoid the betrayals to which he believed he was so susceptible.

But Walpole's idea of his role as an innovator did not originate

simply i n pique. There were p a r t i c u l a r reasons why his s o c i a l standing

might give him the influence as a writer and taste-maker that he had

missed as a p o l i t i c i a n . Foremost were the l i m i t s he placed upon his

d i s a f f e c t i o n , reclusiveness, and e c c e n t r i c i t y . He did move away from

certain r e a l i t i e s , w i l l i n g l y ; he did seek to insulate h i m s e l f — p h y s i c a l l y

at Strawberry H i l l , i n t e l l e c t u a l l y and emotionally through his gothicism

i n general. On the other hand, he was well-suited to the task of accom-

modating his exotic visions to the views of the more pedestrian world,

of r e c o n c i l i n g the unconventional with the conventional. He never

appeared outlandish i n his gothicism, l i k e Batty Langley, whom he joined

in ridiculing. Although his own designs were perhaps as outrageous and

fantastic as Langley's, he at least managed not to advocate them with

such earnestness. When throngs of v i s i t o r s eventually came to see Straw-

berry H i l l — s o many that Walpole had to control them with rules and

admission t i c k e t s — t h e y came to marvel at the richness of his unique

c o l l e c t i o n , at the miniature perfection of his Castle, not to patronize

a mere c u r i o s i t y . Walpole was beyond patronage. His s o c i a l p o s i t i o n

gave him an important advantage, and he used i t conservatively. As Ken-

neth Clark has observed, Walpole "did not so much popularise as a r i s t o -

 94

cratise Gothic."

In 1750 the taste for pinnacles was associated with parvenus

and Chesterfield could dismiss i t as such. But when the
exquisite, cultivated Walpole took up Gothic, society began
to f e e l that there might be something i n i t .

Moreover, Walpole's motives for favouring the gothic were r e l a t i v e l y

pure. Since he was neither a professional builder nor a professional

writer, he did not have to obey his t r a i n i n g , his patrons' voguish

tastes, or the c r i t i c s ' s t r i c t u r e s . Like Sanderson M i l l e r , whose work

36

at Hagley Park he admired, Walpole undertook projects for his friends

and soon became a famous source of advice about gothic a r t i f a c t s , but

this work was never a matter of necessity for him. Both Walpole and

M i l l e r may have suffered from s u p e r f i c i a l i t y and a dearth of hard know-

ledge; yet, they remained enthusiasts, not cool performers of someone

else's bidding l i k e Kent or Wyatt, who attempted the gothic because their

patrons demanded i t . Walpole was among the f i r s t generation of r e a l

gothic amateurs who were neither builders, by profession or t r a d i t i o n ,

nor antiquarian p u r i s t s ; whose interest i n the gothic had strongly

37

l i t e r a r y motives and d i r e c t i o n . He made a worthy successor to Hurd,

for he seemed ready to f u l f i l Hurd's pessimistic suggestion that the

v i t a l images of the past should enter a c t i v e l y into modern poetry. Wal-

pole shared with Hurd a d i r e c t , personal sense of the banality which had

overcome l i t e r a t u r e and a b e l i e f that a new balance could not be achieved

through r a d i c a l means.

Like Strawberry H i l l , The Castle of Otranto was a manifestation of

Horace Walpole's dream l i f e . Walpole promoted this connection, by claim-

ing that the house, which was i t s e l f a dream-fulfilment, had also inspired
 95

the dream that prompted him to write:

Shall I even confess to you what was the o r i g i n of this

romance? I waked one morning i n the beginning of l a s t June
from a dream, of which a l l I could recover was, that I had
thought myself i n an ancient castle (a very natural dream
for a head f i l l e d l i k e mine with Gothic story) and that on
the uppermost banister of a great staircase I saw a gigantic
hand i n armour. 00
JO

The "Gothic story" that made his dream seem "very natural" was com-

posed of the fantasies suggested by h i s c o l l e c t i o n and house—of these

as much as any medieval works of literary fantasy. The correspondence

between Walpole's dream and his chosen environment was obvious. On the
"great staircase" of Strawberry H i l l was a niche which contained a f u l l
39

suit of armour, and there was a separate Armoury at the head of those

s t a i r s , furnished with two suits of armour, two helmets, a gauntlet, and

many other items of that k i n d . ^

For Cole, Walpole described his reaction to the dream as i f i t had

inspired him, so that the circumstances under which he subsequently wrote

his novel appeared quite dramatic:

In the evening I sat down and began to write, without know-
ing i n the least what I intended to say or r e l a t e . The work
grew on my hands, and I grew fond of i t — a d d that I was very
glad to think of anything rather than p o l i t i c s — I n short I
was so engrossed with my t a l e , which I completed i n less than
two months, that one evening I wrote from the time I had
drunk my tea, about s i x o'clock, t i l l half an hour after one
in the morning, when my hand and fingers were so weary, that
I could not hold the pen to f i n i s h the sentence, but l e f t
Matilda and Isabella talking, i n the middle of a paragraph.
You w i l l laugh at my earnestness, but i f I have amused you
by retracing with any f i d e l i t y the manners of ancient days,
I am content, and give you leave to think me as i d l e as you
please..
41
n

Perhaps i t i s tempting to take Walpole's account of Otranto's dream

o r i g i n at face value, but there i s good reason to suspect i t . This

 96

story was convenient, for i t allowed Walpole to protect himself against

c r i t i c i s m and to prepare h i s readers for the kind of f i c t i o n he had

created. It agreed rather too well with Walpole's comparison of h i s

work with "inspired writings," a comparison which—as I s h a l l show—

Walpole used i n the second Preface to Otranto i n order to defend h i s

treatment of the marvellous. The dream story suggested the author's lack

of r e s p o n s i b i l i t y and h i s work's freedom from conventional r e s t r a i n t s .

According to this explanation, since Walpole had been driven by h i s

dream, he was not e n t i r e l y i n control of the r e s u l t s . Moreover, by

claiming that he had written h a s t i l y , Walpole could excuse the plainness

or artlessness of d i c t i o n into which he thought he had f a l l e n . Because

his romance followed the method of a dream, the marvellous events and

monstrous figures might be expected to occur naturally, without elaborate

justification. At the same time, the dream story permitted Walpole to

maintain the diffidence appropriate to h i s dubious, mainly personal

achievement. His hope that " f i d e l i t y " i n "retracing . . . the manners

of ancient days" might excuse h i s self-indulgence came as a sort of

afterthought—the keynote of the dream story i s amusement, i d l e fancy.

And the net r e s u l t of the dream story, whatever i t s veracity, was to

c l a r i f y the r e l a t i o n of The Castle of Otranto to everyday r e a l i t y , giving

the reader comforting assurance of Walpole's r e a l attitude toward h i s

work.

Walpole used another, more extensive story to introduce The Castle

42

of Otranto when i t was f i r s t published i n 1764. This imposture too

shows Walpole's concern for i n d i c a t i n g , i n advance, how his f i c t i o n

should be read, and h i s impulse towards self-defence. For t h i s reason,

 97

the story i s worth examining i n some d e t a i l .

When i t appeared, The Castle of Otranto masqueraded as a t r a n s l a t i o n

"from the o r i g i n a l I t a l i a n of Onuphrio Muralto, Canon of the Church of

St. Nicholas at Otranto," the English version supposedly having been made

by one "William Marshal, Gent." The Translator's Preface to the f i r s t

edition informed the reader that "the following work was found i n the

l i b r a r y of an ancient Catholic family i n the north of England. I t was

printed at Naples, i n the black l e t t e r , i n the year 1529. . . . The

p r i n c i p a l incidents are such as were believed i n the darkest ages of

C h r i s t i a n i t y ; but the language and conduct have nothing that savours of

barbarism" (p. 5). The reader was thus forewarned that he should take

care to separate the tale's content, which was suspect, from the manner

in which i t was t o l d , which was f a m i l i a r and acceptable. Citing internal

evidence, p a r t i c u l a r l y the "beauty of the d i c t i o n , and the zeal of the

author (moderated, however, by singular judgment)," the "translator" con-

cluded that "the date of the composition was l i t t l e antecedent to that of

the impression." This approximate date persuaded him to adduce the

l i k e l y motivation for the author of the o r i g i n a l :

Letters were then i n their most f l o u r i s h i n g state i n I t a l y ,

and contributed to dispel the empire of superstition, at
that time so f o r c i b l y attacked by the reformers. I t i s not
u n l i k e l y , that an a r t f u l p r i e s t might endeavour to turn
their own arms on the innovators; and might a v a i l himself
of his a b i l i t i e s as an author to confirm the populace i n
their ancient errors and superstitions. I f this was his
view, he has c e r t a i n l y acted with signal address. Such a
work as the following would enslave a hundred vulgar minds,
beyond half the books of controversy that have been written
from the days of Luther to the present hour (pp. 5-6).

This explanation, other suppositions about the tale's o r i g i n , and

the translation device i t s e l f were convenient i n several ways.

 98

"Marshal's" speculation about motives—which, i n e f f e c t , made the o r i g -

i n a l into a piece of Counter-Reformation propaganda of the most insidious

kind—he offered as "a mere conjecture," though l a t e r i n the Preface he

seemed to take i t s truth for granted. But for Walpole's genteel readers

the signals were quite clear: a work which "would enslave a hundred v u l -

gar minds" would not enslave t h e i r s , especially not a work which had

been discovered " i n the l i b r a r y of an ancient Catholic family." Having

introduced the reference to sectarian controversy, "Marshal" could have

counted on his readers to summon up the proper measure of Protestant

skepticism, to regard with dispassionate amusement the extreme measures,

l i k e this propaganda, used by wild r e l i g i o u s partisans.

An advantage i n keeping a l l this explanatory material i n the realm

of conjecture was that i t remained possible that some other account of

Otranto's creation would turn out to be correct. Thus, Walpole made

provision for stepping into the author's r o l e should his work receive a

kinder reception than he anticipated. Such coyness was, of course, con-

ventional. Devices similar to the translation device had already been

used for some time i n order to protect authors from r i d i c u l e — a n d from

the charge of being mere authors ( i . e . , hacks).

Aside from d i s s o c i a t i n g the author from h i s work, a translation or

documentary device also could lend c r e d i b i l i t y to the f i c t i o n (or s a t i r e ) ,

by connecting i t with found manuscripts, r e a l memoirs, journals or l e t t e r s ,

by making i t resemble the adventures and scandals that were the favourite

subject of popular journalism. The relationship between f i c t i o n a l and

pseudo-factual elements added to the i r o n i c complexity of the work.

 99

Walpole used the translation device to ensure the c r e d i b i l i t y of

his n a r r a t i v e — o r , at l e a s t , to locate i t among r e a l types ( i . e . , Roman

Catholic propaganda); however, he also used i t to ensure the tale's

i n c r e d i b i l i t y , to show that he was not d i r e c t l y responsible for i t s more

egregious q u a l i t i e s . The translation device pointed to a fact that h i s

readers were quite ready to acknowledge: that the absurdities i n Otranto—

though none the less absurd—were true to the conditions of popular b e l i e f

at the time when the "manuscript" was composed (c. 1529), or at the time

of the story's setting, which "Marshal" placed "between 1095, the aera

of the f i r s t crusade, and 1243, the date of the l a s t , or not long a f t e r -

wards" (p. 5). Since the supposed translator was simply making available

a document that was c h a r a c t e r i s t i c of a certain h i s t o r i c a l period, without

trying to conceal i t s despicable purpose, he could not be blamed for pre-

serving i t s outlandish mannerisms and blatant l i e s . If miracles and

supernatural events were not to be believed i n themselves, they were,

nevertheless, credible features i n a piece of medieval Catholic fantasy:

Miracles, v i s i o n s , necromancy, dreams and other preternatural

events, are exploded now even from romances. That was not
the case when our author wrote; much less when the story
i t s e l f i s supposed to have happened. Belief i n every kind
of prodigy was so established i n those dark ages, that an
author would not be f a i t h f u l to the manners of the times,
who should omit a l l mention of them. He i s not bound to
believe them himself, but he must represent his actors as
believing them (p. 6).

This l a s t d i s t i n c t i o n i l l u s t r a t e s Walpole's basic attitude toward

the h i s t o r i c a l materials which he employed i n h i s fantasies: one need

not f u l l y re-enter the past i n order to exploit i t s s t y l i s t i c resources.

Sham was enough, for Otranto as f o r Strawberry H i l l , and the successful

imposition was a pleasure i n i t s e l f .

 100

Walpole's translation device managed to deceive some of h i s readers,

but not a l l . Thomas Gray wrote to him from Cambridge, where Otranto had

caused only a minor sensation i n Gray's c i r c l e :

I have received The Castle of Otranto, and return you my

thanks for i t . It engages our attention here, makes some
of us cry a l i t t l e , and a l l i n general a f r a i d to go to bed
o' nights. We take i t for a t r a n s l a t i o n , and should believe
i t to be a true story, i f i t were not for St. N i c h o l a s . ^

Since Gray had been a party to Walpole's secret, had read the manu-

s c r i p t before Walpole decided to publish i t , he was able to avoid being

44
fooled and to report on the work's reception with some detachment. A
more t y p i c a l sort of reaction came from Mason:

. . . I w i l l not omit thanking you for a more extraordinary

thing i n i t s kind, which though i t comes not from your press,
yet I have episcopal evidence i s written by your hand. And
indeed less than such evidence would scarce have contented me.
For when a friend of mine to whom I had recommended The Castle
of Otranto returned i t to me with some doubts of i t s o r i g i n -
a l i t y , I laughed him to scorn, and wondered he could be so
absurd as to think that anybody nowadays had imagination
enough to invent such a story. He r e p l i e d that h i s suspicions
arose merely from some parts of familiar dialogue i n i t , which
he thought of too modern a cast. S t i l l sure of my point, I
affirmed this objection, i f there was anything i n i t , was
merely owing to i t s not being translated a century ago. A l l
this I make i t a point of conscience to t e l l you, for though
i t proves me your dupe, I should be glad to be so duped
again every year of my l i f e . ^ , .

Mason's pleasure at being duped r e f l e c t s three features of his

reaction: his lack of c r i t i c a l acumen (his unnamed friend seems the more

perceptive reader), his desire to ingratiate himself further with Walpole,

and his acceptance of the whole f a l s e framework as something of more than

passing interest. Indeed, deception was e s s e n t i a l to the a r t i s t r y , since

the enjoyment of i t depended upon simultaneously observing and ignoring

that the f i c t i o n (or the new-gothic building) was a sham. The case of
 101

Walpole's French v i s i t o r who mistook the Cabinet at Strawberry H i l l for

a r e a l chapel demonstrates the actual working of the gothic s e n s i b i l i t y :

whether one was fooled or not, what was important was that the sham be

impressive enough to excite the r e q u i s i t e associative fervor, that the

sham transport•the beholder, or the reader, temporarily away from h i s

modern scruples, while leaving him the chance to exercise them i n the

end. In Otranto the translation device was the chief means of accom-

p l i s h i n g t h i s , and i t i s s i g n i f i c a n t that, even after he had claimed the

work as his own openly, i n the Preface to the Second E d i t i o n (1765),

Walpole retained the Translator's Preface i n subsequent editions. It

was an i n t e g r a l part of the romance.

I have already suggested that, beyond showing the reader that Otranto

had to be considered at several i r o n i c l e v e l s , the translation device

indicated Walpole's reluctance to think of himself as a f i c t i o n - w r i t e r —

or to be presented as one i n public. That i s why he continued to place

so much emphasis, whenever he discussed the making of Otranto, upon his

spontaneous, uncalculated and rapid method of composition. W. S. Lewis

notes that Walpole "was bored with the i n s i p i d i t y of Richardson and the

coarseness of F i e l d i n g and Smollett," but these were mainly objections

against their l i t e r a r y q u a l i t i e s , not their personal c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s or

those of authors i n general. According to the Walpoliana, however, he

also had no tolerance for authors as s o c i a l creatures:

I have always rather t r i e d to escape the acquaintance,

and conversation, of authors. An author talking of h i s own
works, or censuring those of others, i s to me a dose of
hypecacuana. I l i k e only a few, who can i n company forget
their authorship, and remember p l a i n sense...
 102

Aside from such a direct expression of h i s d i s l i k e , Walpole showed

his uneasiness with the idea of authorship i n two other ways: through

his copious apologies for Otranto, f i l l e d with references to h i s care-

lessness and lack of technical s k i l l ; and through h i s half-hearted

defence of the moralizing i n the romance. In both cases, he was primarily

interested i n showing that, while he had (reluctantly) become an author,

he was s t i l l a gentleman; and, as a c o r o l l a r y , that h i s s o c i a l position

should earn special allowances for h i s l i t e r a r y production.

Walpole was anxious about the public reception of Otranto. His

anxieties originated i n his b e l i e f that f i c t i o n - w r i t i n g was a risky occu-

pation for a gentleman, but that only a gentleman could afford to take

the r i s k s necessary to rejuvenate f i c t i o n . His more e x p l i c i t comments on

the subject appeared soon after Otranto was published. For example, he

replied to Mason's adulatory l e t t e r with a f a i r degree of apparent humil-

ity:

. . . I published The Castle of Otranto with the utmost d i f -

fidence and doubt of i t s success. Yet though i t has been
received much more favourably than I could f l a t t e r myself i t
would be, I must say your approbation i s of another sort than
general opinion . . . your praise i s so l i k e l y to make me
vain, that I oblige myself to r e c o l l e c t a l l the circumstances
that can abate i t , such as the fear I had of producing i t at
a l l (for i t i s not everybody that may i n this country play
the f o o l with impunity); the hurry i n which i t was composed;
and i t s being begun without any plan at a l l . . . I think
your friend judged r i g h t l y i n pronouncing part of the d i a -
logue too modern. I had the same idea of i t , and I could,
but such a t r i f l e does not deserve i t , point out other defects,
besides some to which most probably I am not [sic] i n s e n s i b l e . ^

The parenthetical reference to the d i f f i c u l t y of playing the f o o l

"with impunity" neatly outlines Walpole's position. Because he was

neither a professional writer nor a professional builder, he did not

 103

have to a l i g n his works s t r i c t l y with contemporary c r i t i c a l values. As

a gentleman he could claim a c e r t a i n licence to w r i t e — o r to b u i l d —

exclusively for his own amusement, following his own fashion, " i n d e f i -

ance of rules, of c r i t i c s , and of philosophers." Once he had sent his

creations into the public realm, however, the s i t u a t i o n changed somewhat.

The l i t e r a r y amateur's p r i v i l e g e , i f abused or flaunted, might have

undermined the reputation on which i t was founded. Moreover, Walpole must

have believed that the kind of f i c t i o n that he had written (or invented)

required the author "to play the f o o l " — t h a t his gothic tastes, i n that

sense, were p o t e n t i a l l y dangerous. This b e l i e f did not stop him from

f l o u t i n g convention (his d i s s a t i s f a c t i o n with conventional f i c t i o n ensured

that he would take the r i s k involved), but i t did make him cautious enough

to appease conventional expectations occasionally. After the second

edition of Otranto came out, with Walpole the acknowledged author, the

Translator's Preface s t i l l may have offered the reader a context i n which

to read the romance, but i t no longer protected Walpole from the dangers

of innovation (and Mason's l e t t e r makes one wonder how well i t ever had).

Consequently, Walpole took care to define the l i m i t s of his work and to

explain exactly what he thought he had accomplished.

The defence and explanation had begun, i n f a c t , i n that part of the

Translator's Preface where "Marshal" was supposed to be c r i t i c i z i n g the

" o r i g i n a l manuscript." He observed that, i f the "air of the miraculous"

were accepted, no other unnatural or outlandish element would be found.

Allow the p o s s i b i l i t y of the f a c t s , and a l l the actors com-

port themselves as persons would do i n their s i t u a t i o n .
There i s no bombast, no similes, flowers, digressions, or
unnecessary descriptions. Every thing tends d i r e c t l y to
the catastrophe. Never i s the reader's attention relaxed.
 104

The rules of the drama are almost observed throughout the

conduct of the piece. The characters are well drawn, and
s t i l l better maintained. Terror, the author's p r i n c i p a l
engine, prevents the story from ever languishing; and i t
i s so often contrasted by p i t y , that the mind i s kept up
in a constant v i c i s s i t u d e of i n t e r e s t i n g passions (pp. 6 - 7 ) .

Here were the f a m i l i a r r e s t r a i n t s upon Walpole's imagination. He

had to respect the demands of p r o b a b i l i t y — i f possibility were admitted—

48

especially i n matters of characterization. He had to avoid elevated or

heavily embellished language. He had to sustain a high l e v e l of tension

and arousal: by concentrating the action, by alternating the reader's

immersion i n terror and p i t y , by constantly confronting the reader with

the emotional c r i s e s of his characters. This argument had the e f f e c t of

making the romance seem more normal than i t r e a l l y was, by subjecting i t

to many of the basic rules of f i c t i o n and drama.

After defending the depiction of the servants i n Otranto, the

Translator's Preface turned to another area where Walpole may have a n t i -

cipated controversy: the moral lesson which the romance pretended to

convey. "Marshal" regretted that his "author" had not founded his story:
. . . on a more useful moral than t h i s : that the sins of
fathers are visited on their children to the third and
fourth generation. I doubt whether, i n his time, any more
than at present, ambition curbed i t s appetite of dominion
from the dread of so remote a punishment. And yet this
moral i s weakened by that less d i r e c t insinuation, that
even such anathema may be diverted, by devotion to St.
Nicholas. Here, the interest of the Monk p l a i n l y gets the
better of the judgment of the Author.

The " t r a n s l a t o r " hoped, nevertheless, that the romance would s a t i s f y the

modern c r i t i c s ' preference that f i c t i o n have a d i d a c t i c purpose i n addi-

49
tion to i t s entertainment value: "The piety that reigns throughout,
the lessons of v i r t u e that are inculcated, and the r i g i d purity of the
 105

sentiments, exempt this work from the censure to which romances are but

too l i a b l e " (pp. 7-8).

Having correctly i d e n t i f i e d the moral muddiness of the t a l e ,

"Marshal" threw a sop to the more rabid moralists with h i s lame a f f i r -

mations about i t s "piety," "lessons of v i r t u e , " and " r i g i d purity of

sentiments." Since he had already i n v i t e d his readers to cast the f u l l

l i g h t of their modern Protestant discernment upon the devious mind that

had fabricated the romance ( i . e . , the hypothetical propagandist's), he

was unlikely to impress them with the solemnity or profundity of the

fiction. At any rate, those were not the q u a l i t i e s which attracted most

readers to The Castle of Otranto. There remained one good reason for the

moral issue to a r i s e here, and that was Walpole's desire to seem duly

concerned with conventional notions of decency and serious didactic

intentions, while, i n f a c t , having no r e a l concern for them at a l l . Only

"Monk" Lewis, among the other gothic n o v e l i s t s , matched Walpole's ability

to treat the common proprieties so casually, and that was largely a

measure of h i s confidence i n the power of s o c i a l standing to win exemp-

tion from moral scruples. (In addition, Lewis was much more independently

wealthy than Walpole.)

In the second edition of Otranto, Walpole continued to j u s t i f y and

c r i t i c i z e h i s work, bu£ f i r s t he apologized to h i s readers for "having

offered h i s work to them under the borrowed personage of a translator,"

again a t t r i b u t i n g the need for concealment to h i s modest expectations:

As diffidence of his own a b i l i t i e s , and the novelty of the

attempt, were the sole inducements to assume that disguise,
he f l a t t e r s himself he s h a l l appear excusable. He resigned
his performance to the impartial judgment of the public;
determined to l e t i t perish i n obscurity, i f disapproved;
 106

nor meaning to avow such a t r i f l e , unless better judges

should pronounce that he might own i t without a blush
(p. 13).

The project of s e l f - j u s t i f i c a t i o n and explanation became more urgent now

that Walpole's anonymity was gone. A further incentive was the romance's

dubious success: despite the fact that the f i r s t edition of f i v e hundred

copies had sold out within three months, there was no overnight fame, and

Walpole probably exaggerated Otranto's favourable r e c e p t i o n — o u t s i d e his

own c i r c l e . C o n s e q u e n t l y , he wrote more d i r e c t l y about the guiding

p r i n c i p l e s of the romance i n the second preface, seeking to "explain the

grounds on which he composed" it."'"'" These p r i n c i p l e s included both per-

sonal motives and ideas about the relationship between t r a d i t i o n a l

romances and novels. He described the inception of Otranto as an occasion

for experiment and compromise:

It was an attempt to blend the two kinds of Romance, the

ancient and the modern. In the former, a l l was imagination
and improbability: i n the l a t t e r , nature i s always intended
to be, and sometimes has been, copied with success. Inven-
tion has not been wanting; but the great resources of fancy
have been dammed up, by a s t r i c t adherence to common l i f e .
But i f , i n the l a t t e r species, Nature has cramped imagination,
she did but take her revenge, having been t o t a l l y excluded
from the old romances. The actions, sentiments, and conver-
sations, of the heroes and heroines of ancient days, were as
unnatural as the machines employed to put them i n motion.
The author . . . thought i t possible to reconcile the two
kinds. Desirous of leaving the powers of fancy at l i b e r t y to
expatiate through the boundless realms of invention, and
thence of creating more interesting situations, he wished to
conduct the mortal agents i n h i s drama according to the rules
of probability; i n short, to make them think, speak, and act,
as i t might be supposed mere men and women would do i n extra-
ordinary positions. He had observed, that, i n a l l inspired
writings, the personages under the dispensation of miracles,
and witnesses to the most stupendous phenomena, never lose
sight of their human character: whereas, i n the productions
of romantic story, an improbable event never f a i l s to be
attended by an absurd dialogue. The actors seem to lose
their sense, the moment the laws of Nature have l o s t their
tone (pp. 13-14).
 107

Walpole carried over some of the important points from the Trans-

l a t o r ' s Preface: the promise to.depict probable behaviour, the supposed

avoidance of overblown rhetoric, the reference to f i c t i o n as i f i t were

drama ( i n the e a r l i e r Preface, Walpole had submitted his work to "the

rules of the drama"). But Walpole added to these a comparison of the

"two kinds of Romance," which was i m p l i c i t i n the f i r s t Preface but unde-

veloped. The idea of such a comparison had not originated with Walpole.

The immediate p r e c e d e n t — i f not influence—came from Hurd, who had shown

the trade-off between fancy and reason almost three years e a r l i e r , i n the

Letters on Chivalry and Romance. Hurd was not writing as a p r a c t i t i o n e r

of f i c t i o n , however, and remained skeptical that modern inventions could

match the o r i g i n a l s .

It i s p l a i n that Walpole did not share this skepticism. One reason

why he did not may have been the fact that he did not disagree strongly

with the common l i n e of attack against the medieval romances and their

modern descendants; therefore, he could anticipate what form a modern

version of the romance would have to assume i n order to be accepted.

His own hybrid romance depended upon, and reinforced, the prejudice

against romances that was widespread among c r i t i c s of f i c t i o n . An exam-

ple of such prejudice i n action occurs i n Tobias Smollett's Preface to

The Adventures of Roderick Random (1748) where he offers a short pseudo-

h i s t o r i c a l condemnation of the romance, i n order to connect h i s own

picaresque use of the romantic types and subjects with that of Cervantes:

. . . when the minds of men were debauched, by the imposi-

tion of p r i e s t c r a f t , to the most absurd pitch of c r e d u l i t y ,
the authors of romance arose, and, losing sight of proba-
b i l i t y , f i l l e d their performances with the most monstrous
hyperboles. If they could not equal the ancient poets i n
 108

point of genius, they were resolved to excel them i n f i c t i o n ,

and apply to the wonder rather than the judgement of their
readers. . . . Although nothing could be more ludicrous and
unnatural than the figures they drew, they did not want
patrons and admirers, and the world actually began to be
infected with the s p i r i t of knight-errantry, when Cervantes,
by an inimitable piece of r i d i c u l e , reformed the taste of
mankind . . . converting romance to purposes far more useful
and entertaining, by making i t assume the sock, and point
out the f o l l i e s of ordinary l i f e . ^

Smollett's polemical history touches upon three major complaints

against the romance: (1) i t did not follow, imitate, or concern i t s e l f

with Nature (ideal or mundane), but instead took up u n r e a l i t i e s and

i l l u s o r y images; (2) i t was the product of a barbarous era, when a l y i n g ,

power-hungry priesthood propagated marvels and superstitions; (3) as a

result of both these defects, i t had no educative value. On the contrary,

the romance might lead modern children, e s p e c i a l l y those of the newly-

l i t e r a t e lower-middle c l a s s , to believe that their l i v e s were too stable,

53

sane, and dull.

Walpole exploited exactly such assumptions i n order to reconcile

his readers to the idea that the romances had their own licit pleasures,

which they might enjoy without losing e n t i r e l y their contempt for the

era and the mentality that had produced them. It was the readers' shar-

ing of these assumptions that allowed them to understand how Otranto

should be read, and to trust that i t s outlook was, a f t e r a l l , reassuringly

n o v e l i s t i c , not romantic. The t r a n s l a t i o n device, for example, only

worked properly i f the second complaint (given above) was generally

advanced; the association of extravagances and marvels with a p a r t i c u l a r

h i s t o r i c a l period made the device's pretense p l a u s i b l e . And, of course,

the thought that the romances were somehow a dangerous or a barbarous

 109

entertainment did not reduce their attractiveness—when danger and bar-

b a r i t y began to seem an antidote against the banality of c i v i l i z a t i o n .

On the other hand, the frequent note of narrative sarcasm and condescen-

sion implied a voice outside the credulous time of the story and i t s

o r i g i n a l t e l l i n g , a voice which expressed the modern attitude toward

such fables: amused indulgence.

By assimilating, instead of r e s i s t i n g , the n o v e l i s t s ' c r i t i c i s m of

romance, Walpole ensured that The Castle of Otranto could be appreciated

on at least two l e v e l s : as an exciting alternative to the d u l l common

run of f i c t i o n ; and as a b r i e f excursion into the quaint romantic terri-

tory, with modern c r i t i c a l equipment brought along. These levels were

not so much discrete as complementary. Certainly for Walpole's contem-

poraries, especially for those who became gothic enthusiasts, the former

was more important, since i t represented h i s r e a l innovation and d i s t i n -

guished him from other f i c t i o n - w r i t e r s . But here again the case of

Otranto resembled that of Strawberry H i l l . In both creations, the fact

that Walpole made allowance for more familiar tastes or attitudes gave

him the freedom to introduce the unfamiliar without appearing to deviate

from the conventional mode. Thus, he could not have "given r e i n s " to

his imagination, unless he was confident that the reins could be grasped

again, that the imagination could be subdued as well as freed. Excessive

common sense j u s t i f i e d , for Walpole, the f l i g h t into the realm of v i s i o n s ,

but the excesses of fantasy, i n turn, invited reasonable controls.

As a gentleman and an amateur, Walpole of course had more l i b e r t y

than most builders or writers to choose a balance between the conventional

and the unconventional. At Strawberry H i l l , as I have shown already, the

 110

reasonable controls were various: convenience and luxury, a v a i l a b i l i t y

of materials, technical s k i l l , e c l e c t i c tastes, and concern for s o c i a l

p o s i t i o n — a l l restrained Walpole's a r c h i t e c t u r a l gothicism and, i n so

doing, made sure that i t could not be dismissed simply as an a f f e c t a t i o n .

The r e s u l t i n g gothic hybrid had the advantage of influencing the wider

audience who were not l i a b l e to sympathize with either antiquarian or

d o c t r i n a l gothicism, but who were able to react to Strawberry H i l l i n

terms of the picturesque, or of associative e f f e c t s , or of the exotic

collection.

S i m i l a r l y , i n Otranto the two l e v e l s of appreciation enhanced the

romance's a c c e p t a b i l i t y by providing complementary experiences of i t s

f i c t i o n a l subject: one that relieved the dullness and i n s i p i d i t y of

"common l i f e " with an interlude i n "the boundless realms of invention,"

another that r a t i o n a l i z e d the strange characters, scenes and themes by

r e f e r r i n g to accepted tastes and attitudes. Again, the advantage of this

compromise was that i t made Walpole appear to be exercising a sort of

self-censorship, whereas i n fact he was reintroducing to f i c t i o n an

interest i n i r r a t i o n a l i t y , violence, sexual deviance, and emotional

excess that would not have been as palatable i f he had not offered his

readers a way of explaining i t . After a l l , these were the themes that

might be expected to interest a Roman Catholic propagandist, or that

might have arisen naturally i n barbarous times.

Walpole wanted to use the romance—or a hybrid form of i t — t o con-

vert the f i c t i o n of his day. In order to understand how he hoped to do

t h i s , i t i s necessary to have a clearer idea of his attitudes toward the

romance and the novel. Unlike the reformer Cervantes who figures i n
 Ill

Smollett's history of the romance, Walpole was not mainly worried about

the dangerous, deluding effects of romance—though he was s e n s i t i v e to

them. Instead, he was disappointed by the l i m i t a t i o n s which he f e l t had

been set upon the scope of f i c t i o n . Since Cervantes had held the romantic

ideal up to r i d i c u l e , the evolution of f i c t i o n had come f u l l c i r c l e , so

that the p a l l o r of the modern novel was as undesirable as the luridness

of the ancient romance. In objecting to "a s t r i c t adherence to common

l i f e , " i n the Preface to the second e d i t i o n of Otranto, Walpole was

r e f e r r i n g to two d i f f e r e n t things: l i f e confined within the common d e f i -

n i t i o n of what i s natural; and low l i f e , populated by vulgar characters

and depicted i n a vulgar manner. The f i r s t sense required that f i c t i o n

be d u l l , the second that i t be ungainly and disgusting. Walpole's claim

that "the great resources of fancy have been dammed up," h i s desire to

observe the probable behaviour of "mere men and women . . . i n extra-

ordinary positions," were measures of his d i s s a t i s f a c t i o n with the

f a i t h f u l recording of l i f e at itssmost circumstantial l e v e l .

His sense of the shortcomings of conventional f i c t i o n affected the

character of his own work i n ways that he did not note i n his Prefaces.

Much of the strangeness of his technique i n Otranto can be explained

through the values which he did not hold, the conventions which he did

not choose to observe.

The new psychological realism did not appeal to him. He thought

Richardson's works b o r i n g , a n d he did not l i n g e r over the psychological

condition of h i s own characters except when i t overflowed i n some s t r i k -

ing external act, some exaggerated gesture of passion or g r i e f . He was

interested i n the spectacle i n which his characters figured, not the

 112

i n t r i c a c i e s of personality. In the Walpoliana he i s reported to have

complained of the contemporary French tragedy that " i t i s not dramatic,

not p i t y and terror moved by incident and action—but an interest created

55

by perplexity, mental c o n f l i c t , and s i t u a t i o n . " The tools he employed

in psychological analysis were rather blunt; for example, he l a i d the

background for Manfred's competing feelings of rage and compassion with

reference to abstract forces:

Manfred was not one of those savage tyrants, who wanton i n
cruelty unprovoked. The circumstances of his fortune had
given an asperity to his temper, which was naturally humane;
and his virtues were always ready to operate, when his pas-
sions did not obscure his reason (p. 42).

Although such general terms were a common means of abbreviating more

complex motives, Walpole, unlike many of his contemporaries, seemed con-

tent not to penetrate much further into the origins of malice and revenge—

indeed, he established the precedent for l a t e r g o t h i c i s t s , that such dark

forces should be made more and more mysterious. This r e l a t i v e s u p e r f i -

c i a l i t y , this reluctance to mull over causation and the minute sparks of

f e e l i n g was convenient for Walpole, because i t permitted him to make his

figures from a very malleable substance, to put them through rapid changes

from one mask to another, without elaborate preparations to make this seem

plausible to the reader.

The characterization of Manfred again furnishes the best example of

the advantages of such f l e x i b i l i t y . While his wife, Hippolita, glosses

over the fact that the giant apparition i s r e a l , Manfred i s depicted as

going through various mental states:

Manfred, though persuaded, l i k e his wife, that the v i s i o n

had been no work of fancy, recovered a l i t t l e from the
tempest of mind into which so many strange events had thrown
 113

him. Ashamed too, of his inhuman treatment of a Princess,

who returned every injury with new marks of tenderness and
duty; he f e l t returning love forcing i t s e l f into his e y e s —
but not less ashamed of f e e l i n g remorse towards one, against
whom he was inwardly meditating a yet more b i t t e r outrage,
he curbed the yearnings of his heart, and did not dare to
lean even towards p i t y . The next t r a n s i t i o n of his soul
was to exquisite v i l l a i n y (pp. 48-49).

While the reader has the suggestion of a tempestuous mind, the minute

features of Manfred's sufferings and anxieties remain unstudied. The

shallowness of the psychological penetration guarantees that dialogue,

l i k e the characters' other actions, w i l l stay at the l e v e l of gesture

and e x h i b i t i o n , y i e l d i n g few revelations about personality, emotion, or

motivation. The u n p r e d i c t a b i l i t y of the characters, however, lends them

the i l l u s i o n of texture; Walpole thus avoided the error which he com-

plained of finding i n Fanny Burney's Cecilia — that of "continually

letting out" a character's " r u l i n g passion.""^ The fact that i t seems

normal, within the romance, for the characters to s p l i t off abruptly

on some new course also excuses their apparently motiveless changes of

heart, such as Manfred's eventual acquiescence i n entering the neighbour-

ing monastery, which otherwise would seem a r b i t r a r y and mechanical.

However, since the motivational basis for Manfred's e a r l i e r malignity

i s so t h i n l y defined, the basis for his repentance does not have to be

any more s u b s t a n t i a l — n o t , at l e a s t , i n order to be consistent.

While Walpole wrote as i f psychological subtlety were an encumbrance,

he was equally impatient with the accumulation of circumstantial d e t a i l s

required by r e a l i s t i c narration. In this respect, his f i c t i o n , l i k e the

t r a d i t i o n a l ballads which began to reappear at this time, has i t s own

austere economy of representation. He does not immerse the reader i n

 114

the associative richness, or the mysteriousness, or the exoticism of

the setting for its own sake. Instead, the setting i s instrumental in

serving his more fundamental i n t e r e s t s , and he uses i t schematically,

symbolically, and suggestively. These are a l l uses which tend to d i s -

pense with minute description and s u p e r f i c i a l , h i s t o r i c a l accuracy.

The encounters, discoveries, threats, captures, and escapes that

make up the whole p l o t of The Castle of Otranto occur i n a maze through

which the main characters hurtle, drawing along the reader at the same

precipitous speed, refusing him the chance to situate them within their

environment, or even to r e a l i z e that environment. For t h i s reason, the

Castle assumes a schematic, rather than a circumstantial, r e a l i t y : i t

consists of the various routes the characters follow i n their f l i g h t s ,

pursuits, and f a t a l encounters. We become aware of i t s layout, of the

subterranean passages that l i n k i t with the nearby places of refuge, of

i t s g a l l e r i e s , chambers and corridors above ground, but this awareness

provides l i t t l e more than an outline, i n which objects become i n c i d e n t a l

to the rapid action.

And as that action hurries toward i t s peak of violence and recogni-

tion, the symbolic use of the setting becomes more evident as well. The

symbolism depends mainly on the intrusive element i n the scene: the

giant, whose armour and burgeoning limbs throw Manfred's household into

chaos, by appearing with disturbingly appropriate frequency and e f f e c t .

From the very opening incident, when the great plumed casque crushes out

the l i f e of Manfred's son and h e i r , Conrad ("a homely youth, s i c k l y , and

of no promising d i s p o s i t i o n " ) , on his wedding day, the giant apparition

enters into a contest with Manfred for occupancy of the Castle and for
 115

the power which i t represents. The helmet deprives Manfred not only of

his son but also of free use of the Castle. The enormous weight of the

"enchanted casque" breaks through the courtyard f l o o r into the vault

below, enabling the "sorcerer" Theodore to escape c a p t i v i t y and to aid

Isabella i n her f l i g h t (pp. 37-40). When Manfred f i n a l l y discovers him,

Theodore points to the helmet as his "accomplice," i n order to show the

ridiculousness of the tyrant's accusations. But the connection between

Theodore and the giant i s more accurate than either he or Manfred sup-

poses; for the armed figure i s the most v i s i b l e symbol of Theodore's

legitimate claim to power, and of his true, noble lineage. As the figure

grows beyond the capacity of the Castle, so Theodore's rights become

obvious, beyond Manfred's capacity to deny them. The fact that the giant,

once reassembled, turns out to be the venerable Alfonso's s p i r i t u a l form

c l a r i f i e s the symbolic pattern, which i s further extended when Manfred,

seeing Theodore dressed i n armour, mistakes him for Alfonso's ghost

(pp. 106-7). As the giant enlarges, i t helps to f u l f i l Manfred's family

curse, which eventually destroys his children and revokes his power. It

i s appropriate that Alfonso should return i n " d i l a t e d " scale, a change

which indicates the vigor of his l i n e ( i n contrast to Manfred's), the

enormity of the crimes against him, the heavy burden of conscience upon

Manfred, and the potency of the supernatural forces that guarantee jus-

t i c e i n the mortal realm. Manfred's loss of control over the Castle, as

well as the Castle's i n a b i l i t y to contain the giant, proves the f r a g i l i t y

of his system of self-deception; the Castle i s as puny as Manfred's

attempts to deny his inherited g u i l t or to avert his family's doom. The

f u l l extent of the symbolic pattern appears with the apotheosis of

 116

Alfonso:

. . . a clap of thunder . . . shook the castle to i t s foun-

dations; the earth rocked, and the clank of more than mortal
armour was heard behind. Frederic and Jerome thought the
l a s t day was at hand. The l a t t e r , forcing Theodore along
with them, rushed into the court. The moment Theodore
appeared, the walls of the castle behind Manfred were thrown
down with a mighty force, and the form of Alfonso, dilated
to an immense magnitude, appeared i n the center of the ruins.
Behold i n Theodore the true heir of Alfonso! said the v i s i o n :
and having pronounced these words, accompanied by a clap of
thunder, i t ascended solemnly towards Heaven, where, the
clouds parting asunder, the form of St. Nicholas was seen,
and, receiving Alfonso's shade, they were soon wrapt from
mortal eyes i n a blaze of glory (pp. 144-45).

Having witnessed this baroque spectacle, Hippolita provides the

proper, sententious interpretation of i t s symbols: "My Lord, said she,

to the desponding Manfred, behold the vanity of human greatness! Conrad

i s gone! Matilda i s no more! i n Theodore we view the true Prince of

Otranto" (p. 145). Here the symbolic value of the Castle i s duly sum-

marized. Although the modern reader might not have brought the same

degree of moral seriousness to h i s interpretation, he s t i l l might have

seen the significance of the Castle, not i n terms of the "vanity of human

greatness," but of the vanity of self-delusion. In any case, i t i s

important to note that the Castle's symbolic function does not require

that i t be c a r e f u l l y described.

And exact description would have destroyed the suggestiveness of the

setting, the vague sense that the Castle i s an animate object as well as

a symbolic one. In addition, the obscurity of the setting, which i s a

r e s u l t of i t s hazy depiction, suggests the mystery which surrounds i t s

inhabitants, a mystery which i s f u l l y explained only when Manfred and

Jerome t e l l the true story of Alfonso and h i s descendants—and only after

the Castle i s ruined (pp. 146-48).

 117

Since the schematic, symbolic, and suggestive uses of the setting

do not need a supporting f a b r i c of d e t a i l , Walpole's desire to indulge

personal, gothic fantasies determines the choice of a setting more than

i t s treatment. There i s scarcely any sign i n The Castle of Otranto of

the plenitude of a r t i f a c t s , decoration, f a m i l i a r associations, of the

delight i n an h i s t o r i c a l period v i v i d l y imagined, that Walpole maintained

so d i l i g e n t l y at Strawberry H i l l . He did not c o l l e c t observations about

costume, language, customs, or attitudes i n The Castle of Otranto as he

collected paintings, books, china, armour, and other items of virtu at

Strawberry H i l l . In architecture, Walpole's gothicism naturally took the

form of a fascination with objects and their associations, but i n f i c t i o n

he was not s i m i l a r l y bound to use the evocative power of h i s t o r i c a l things.

At Strawberry H i l l the gothic veneer—the c o l l e c t i o n of recherche objects,

the f a c i l e imitation of a n t i q u i t y — w a s the whole gothic experience; i n

The Castle of Otranto, whatever attention was given to h i s t o r i c a l authen-

t i c i t y and description served a purpose beyond the mere evocation of

ancient times. Walpole's claim that he was "retracing with . . . f i d e l i t y

the manners of ancient days" must be studied with reference to his u l t i -

mate, actual subject—and that was not the "quality of l i f e " or the

"customs" of medieval men and women.

In Otranto exotic atmosphere i s more important than h i s t o r i c a l

accuracy. Although the plot might have been based, to some extent, on

r e a l events and persons,"' Walpole's e f f o r t s at lending an archaic flavour

7

to the f i c t i o n were l i m i t e d . He did try to a f f e c t a f a l s e medieval d i c -

t i o n and vocabulary (using the older pronoun forms), and to introduce the

terms of chivalry and feudalism, but there i s such a thorough mixture of

 118

elements and idioms that the result has no p a r t i c u l a r h i s t o r i c a l char-

acter, and cannot be i d e n t i f i e d with any period. Its main d i s t i n c t i o n

i s that i t i s antique and quaintly formal. Considering language only,

we have the following specimen, spoken by Matilda to Theodore:

Stranger . . . i f thy misfortunes have not been occasioned

by thy own f a u l t , and are within the compass of the Princess
Hippolita's power to redress, I w i l l take upon me to answer
that she w i l l be thy protectress. When thou art dismissed
from this c a s t l e , repair to holy father Jerome, at the con-
vent adjoining to the church of St. Nicholas, and make thy
story known to him, as far as thou thinkest meet; he w i l l
not f a i l to inform the Princess, who i s the mother of a l l
that want her assistance (p. 56).

The importance of exoticism i n the gothic novels w i l l be discussed

in d e t a i l i n the next section of this study; here i t i s enough to observe

two major factors. An exotic atmosphere was of prime importance i n

Otranto, i n part because i t gave the reader the s u p e r f i c i a l t h r i l l of

escape, but mainly because i t granted a certain measure of thematic

licence. When examining the translation device and Walpole's acceptance

of the common c r i t i q u e of romances, I suggested the advantages of Wal-

pole's ostensible self-censorship and of h i s allowance of two l e v e l s of

interpretation for Otranto (pp. !>8--;.v0- supra). The reading which can

accommodate a l l themes comfortably, by dismissing those which seem

predictably barbarous, and therefore outlandish, complements the reading

which seizes upon the same themes precisely because they are barbarous

and dangerous. The net effect i s that the f i c t i o n appears simultaneously

58

safe, moderate, or conventional, and subversive, excessive, or strange.

In both cases, exoticism, not h i s t o r i c a l scholarship, provoked the appro-

priate responses. For those readers who entertained a proper respect for

their own time and a proper contempt for a l l others, the mere whiff of
 119

the a l i e n or the antique was s u f f i c i e n t to signal "barbarity." For

those readers who saw i n the exotic (whether h i s t o r i c a l or geographical)

a respite from contemporary dullness, the goal was sensational novelty,

not meticulous lessons i n c u l t u r a l h i s t o r y .

In the c r i t i c a l passage with which this section began, S i r Walter

Scott would appear to overrate the h i s t o r i c a l f i d e l i t y of The Castle of

Otranto, since, as I have argued above, i t was hardly Walpole's object

"to draw such a picture of domestic l i f e and manners, during the feudal

times, as might a c t u a l l y have existed." It would almost seem as i f Scott

had projected upon Otranto his own bias, for he himself preferred to

display h i s t o r i c a l authenticity prominently i n his f i c t i o n . In Ivanhoe

(1819), for example, he took care to point out the differences i n l a n -

guage and dress between the Anglo-Saxons and their Norman overlords,

following the d i s t i n c t i o n through their oaths and vocabulary, their

59

customs, p o l i t i c a l r e l a t i o n s , national c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s and religion.

Scott c e r t a i n l y could not have found any similar depiction of the actual

texture of the past i n The Castle of Otranto, and his admiration for the

romance appears misguided, u n t i l one notices that the eventual emphasis

i n Scott's c r i t i q u e of Otranto f a l l s upon i t s excellence " i n bringing

forth the sensation of supernatural awe, connected with h a l l s that have

echoed to the sounds of remote generations," an excellence which he

believed unattainable i n new-gothic buildings. Scott c o r r e c t l y i d e n t i -

f i e d the true strength—and the true s u b j e c t — o f The Castle of Otranto,

which gives i t i t s own kind of authenticity: the evocation of an unfamil-

i a r , but impressive, state of emotional arousal and i r r a t i o n a l b e l i e f .

 120

The s t r i v i n g for strong emotional e f f e c t s , and for dramatic themes

which might occasion such e f f e c t s , determined many of the peculiar char-

a c t e r i s t i c s of The Castle of Otranto: i t s unusual l i t e r a r y models, for

instance.

Given his interest i n exploiting the display of strong emotions, i t

was natural that Walpole should turn for i n s p i r a t i o n , guidance, and jus-

t i f i c a t i o n to a genre where excess of emotion and sentiment was a normal,

conventional feature. C l a s s i c a l and Renaissance tragedy seemed the

appropriate type. Thus, i n the c r i t i c a l apparatus with which he sur-

rounded Otranto Walpole l i k e d to c i t e Shakespeare as h i s precedent and

exemplar. He went so far as to revive the jaded dispute between French

c r i t i c s , who valued the Rules, and English poets, who valued their genius

and l i b e r t y , i n order to defend Shakespeare's work and connect it—in

60

some obscure way—with h i s own. But this was only a pretended a f f i n i t y ,

a way of placating respectable c r i t i c a l opinion and Walpole's own sense

of l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n . In p r a c t i c e , h i s r e a l models came from another

source: the spectacular theatre of Webster and Ford, the theatre of

revenge and dark v i l l a i n y — t h e melodrama, not the tragedy. This sort of

theatre had already put out roots i n more recent times, reappearing i n
61

Otway's Venice Preserved (1682), for example.

The elements of spectacle—hyperbole, sentiments stretched to the

extreme, i r r e s i s t i b l e cruel impulses—affected the dialogue i n Otranto,

and the whole method of dramatic presentation, structure, and character-

ization. The characters, p a r t i c u l a r l y the noble or "high" characters,

tend to speak and act as i f they were constantly aware of an unseen

audience, for whom they were playing the climax of a dramatic performance
 121

which consists of nothing but climaxes. Contrary to the purpose that

Walpole stated i n the second Preface, they do not "think, speak, and act,

as i t might be supposed mere men and women would do i n extraordinary

positions."

There are several reasons for this apparent discrepancy, aside from

Walpole's desire for s e l f - j u s t i f i c a t i o n . F i r s t , and most important, i s

the matter of his innovative t e r r i t o r y . Despite Walpole's c a r e f u l

exposition, i n the second Preface, of his new fictional synthesis—an

analysis which was so i n f l u e n t i a l that Scott almost duplicated i t sixty

years l a t e r — t h e evidence of the romance i t s e l f shows what Scott also

noticed: a stronger interest i n "extraordinary positions" than i n prob-

ability. The veneer of conventional elements—the f a m i l i a r patterns of

locution, the decorum and sentimentality of the sympathetic characters—

made this interest somehow "safer," by q u a l i f y i n g i t , but did not reduce

the e s s e n t i a l , a t t r a c t i v e novelty of the "extraordinary s i t u a t i o n s . "

Second, there i s the matter of Otranto's r e l a t i v e value and i t s

context. The deliberately c u l t i v a t e d strangeness of the gothic context

explains the characters' a r t i f i c i a l i t y . Since the situations into which

they were cast were unusual, i t was not to be expected that their prob-

able behaviour would be the same as the probable behaviour of the "mere

men and women" i n ordinary, bourgeois, r e a l i s t i c f i c t i o n . On the other

hand, the implied d i s t i n c t i o n s between the old romances and Walpole's

new mixed mode i n the second Preface s i g n a l a s h i f t i n the notion of

p r o b a b i l i t y , to make allowance for differences i n theme and approach.

Although the claim i n the Translator's Preface that Otranto contained

"no bombast, no similes, flowers, digressions, or unnecessary descrip-

 122

tions" was untrue i n a l l except the l a s t item, Walpole did manage to

avoid what he considered the major defect of previous "productions of

romantic story": the invariable association of improbable events with

"absurd dialogue" and absurd behaviour. He did not bring to his charac-

t e r i z a t i o n s the psychological penetration of Richardson or the wide-

ranging insight of F i e l d i n g , but he did introduce some sense of motiva-

t i o n a l and e t h i c a l patterns, of the interweaving of g u i l t and responsi-

b i l i t y , a sense that he f e l t was badly lacking i n the old romances. If

the "actions, sentiments, and conversations" of Walpole's characters were

not exactly natural, frequently anti-natural by the standards of the

modern novel, they were at least more probable and less whimsical than

those of the "heroes and heroines of ancient days," and as natural as

might be expected i n a strange realm of miracles and supernaturalism.

Moreover, the context of The Castle of Otranto was not only gothic

and a l i e n , but also t r a g i c . At any rate, Walpole treated the romance as

i f i t had been composed according to the p r i n c i p l e s of tragedy—as he

62

understood them. The Translator's Preface invoked these by claiming

" t e r r o r " as "the author's p r i n c i p a l engine . . . so often contrasted by

p i t y , that the mind i s kept up i n a constant v i c i s s i t u d e of interesting

passions." Although these terms ("terror" and "pity")were dropped i n

the second Preface, i n favour of the phrase "extraordinary positions,"

the same sense of high dramatic purpose remained to exercise an influence

over c r i t i c i s m of the romance. For example, i n defending his introduction

of comic servants i n Otranto, Walpole c a r e f u l l y distinguished between the

chief q u a l i t i e s of the "high" and "low" characters: "the contrast between

the sublime of the one and the naivete of the other, sets the pathetic of
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the former i n a stronger l i g h t " (p. 15). The main characters' involve-

ment with the sublime and the pathetic, or with the conventions of

tragedy, implies that they are acting at a l e v e l of elevated f e e l i n g ,

sentiment and language; defining this context helps to excuse their

frequently a r t i f i c i a l , anti-natural speech and behaviour. Even i f we

substitute a more accurate i d e n t i f i c a t i o n of the generic a f f i n i t i e s (i.e.,

"melodrama" instead of "tragedy"), we diminish the apparent artificiality

somewhat when we see i t against a conventional background that includes

excessive emotion, heightened s e n s i b i l i t y and sentimentality, and over-

blown rhetoric as standard features. As with the excuse provided by

Otranto's a l i e n setting, this means of redefining what i s a r t i f i c i a l or

natural r e l i e s on the reader's expectations f o r various l i t e r a r y genres

and types.

Having greatly reduced the psychological and descriptive aspects of

the narrative, Walpole was l e f t with two main areas f o r dramatic develop-

ment: action and rhetoric. In both areas he managed to advance h i s

interest i n the excessive, the extraordinary, the sensational, and the

sublime, while qualifying i t s extent and seriousness. He successfully

imitated the pious Catholic propagandist or the medieval romancer, but

retained the cooler c r i t i c a l i n t e l l i g e n c e and taste of the modern, genteel,

Protestant skeptic.

The action of Otranto i s centred on the downfall of Manfred's house

and the catastrophic fulfilment of the prophetic curse against i t . This

basic plot l i n e includes various subsidiary stories and problems: the

extent and nature of Manfred's inherited g u i l t ; the actual fate of

Alfonso's descendants and the true f a m i l i a l connections among the charac-

 124

ters; the romantic triangle of Theodore, Matilda and Isabella; and the

fate of the l o y a l Hippolita. The reader's desire to discover the resolu-

tion of a l l these interwoven matters—even i f the resolution be more or

less mechanical—provides the impetus i n The Castle of Otranto. Walpole

depended upon this desire, and sought to make the reader conscious of i t

by occasionally f r u s t r a t i n g i t . This, he explained i n the second Preface,

was an advantage of the comic interludes:

The very impatience which a reader f e e l s , while delayed, by

the coarse pleasantries of vulgar actors, from a r r i v i n g at
the knowledge of the important catastrophe he expects, per-
haps heightens, c e r t a i n l y proves that he has been a r t f u l l y
interested i n , the depending event (p. 15).

One cannot reach that "depending event," however, u n t i l the characters

have clashed with each other, pursued, captured, concealed, suspected,

misunderstood, and discovered each other, and u n t i l they have unfolded

the meaning of the events i n which they are caught up.

The action i s often punctuated by violence and spectacle. It opens

with the death of Conrad under the gigantic helmet, and culminates with

Manfred's blundering murder of his own daughter, Matilda, an act which,

as Jerome observes with pious s a t i s f a c t i o n , rounds out the cycle of blood

vengeance:

Now, tyrant! behold the completion of woe f u l f i l l e d on thy

impious and devoted head! The blood of Alfonso cried to
Heaven for vengeance, and.Heaven has permitted i t s a l t a r
to be polluted by assassination, that thou mightest shed
thy own blood at the foot of that Prince's sepulchre!
(p. 140).

The intervening events lay a marked stress upon violence or the

threat of violence. Indeed, this seems to be a f i c t i o n a l world i n which

animosity and force control a l l r e l a t i o n s among people. Theodore i s

 125

twice imprisoned—the f i r s t time, i n a p a r t i c u l a r l y bizarre fashion,

under the helmet that k i l l e d Conrad, merely for daring to l i n k Alfonso

with the helmet. Manfred claps his chamber door shut against Matilda,

crying: "Begone! I do not want a daughter" (p. 29). Theodore mistakenly

fights with Frederic, the Marquis of Vicenza, his eventual father-in-law,

and wounds him grievously. Isabella flees from the Castle not simply

because the i l l i c i t and unnatural lechery of Manfred offends her d e l i c a t e

s e n s i b i l i t y , but also because she has good reason to fear that he w i l l

extort her compliance (see pp. 30-33: "Heaven nor h e l l s h a l l impede my

designs! said Manfred, advancing again to seize the Princess"). Even

the servant who brings Manfred the news of Conrad's death does not merely

report, but comes "running back breathless, i n a f r a n t i c manner, his eyes

staring, and foaming at the mouth," whereupon H i p p o l i t a "without knowing

what was the matter, but anxious for her son, swooned away" (p. 22).

A l l i e d with the element of violence i s Walpole's avid taste for the

spectacular and the extraordinary, which permeates both incident and

speech, consistently revealing the vast distance between the f i c t i o n a l

world, with i t s dangerous, freely-indulged passions and i t s supernatural

agents, and the normal, familiar world of repressed desire, commercial

advantage, and d u l l , conventional r e l i g i o n , which only occasionally

intrudes. The romance i s crammed with ominous, ghostly v i s i t o r s , with

signs that comment upon, and magnify, the human concerns of the charac-

ters. The giant's casque i s , of course, the f i r s t of these that we

encounter, and i t s enormity does p a r t i a l l y account for the panic that i t

inspires. Like a l l the other spectacular apparitions, i t i s awesome

because i t s strangeness overwhelms the beholders. In addition, the

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apparitions are a l l related i n some way to the primary, ancient prophecy

upon Manfred's family fortunes, which has declared "that the Castle and

Lordship of Otranto should pass from the present family whenever the real

owner should be grown too large to.inhabit it" (p. 22). Thus, when Man-

fred makes p l a i n h i s designs upon Isabella, the plume of the great helmet

waves s i g n i f i c a n t l y at window-level, and the p o r t r a i t of h i s grandfather,

which hangs i n the gallery, puts on an even more astonishing performance:

At that instant, the p o r t r a i t of h i s grandfather . . . uttered

a deep sigh, and heaved i t s breast. . . . Manfred, distracted
between the f l i g h t of Isabella, who had now reached the s t a i r s ,
and yet unable to keep his eyes from the picture, which began
to move, had, however, advanced some steps after her, s t i l l
looking backwards on the p o r t r a i t , when he saw i t quit i t s
panel, and descend on the f l o o r , with a grave and melancholy
air. Do I dream? cried Manfred, returning; or are the devils
themselves i n league against me? Speak, i n f e r n a l spectre! or,
i f thou art my grandsire, why dost thou too conspire against
thy wretched descendant, who too dearly pays f o r — e ' e r he
could f i n i s h the sentence, the v i s i o n sighed again, and made
a sign to Manfred to follow him. Lead on! cried Manfred, I
w i l l follow thee to the gulph of perdition! The spectre
marched sedately, but dejected, to the end of the g a l l e r y , and
turned into a chamber on the right-hand. Manfred accompanied
him at a l i t t l e distance, f u l l of anxiety and horror, but
resolved. As he would have entered the chamber, the door was
clapped to with violence by an i n v i s i b l e hand (pp. 32-33).

If the sophisticated eighteenth-century reader did not e n t i r e l y

believe that the apparitions were r e a l , he at least had the chance to

discover what such a belief would have been like—and many readers were

w i l l i n g to be immersed i n that receptive atmosphere, and deceived by i t ,

temporarily. The success of the i l l u s i o n results from Walpole's setting

aside of r a t i o n a l explanations f o r the numerous strange and spectacular

occurrences. Paradoxically, when natural causes are adduced for these

occurrences, they seem less credible than supernatural ones. Having made

allowance for the actual intervention of s p i r i t s i n moral a f f a i r s , as

the price of admission into the a l i e n , f i c t i o n a l world, we come to

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suspect that any character's attempt at r a t i o n a l i t y i s self-delusion,

e s p e c i a l l y since reactions and interpretations i n Otranto typically rely

upon f a i t h , superstition, or passion, not i n t e l l e c t . At l e a s t , the

prevalent attitudes of c r e d u l i t y and near-paranoia indicate that r a t i o n a l

explanations for events should be taken i r o n i c a l l y . Such i s the case

when, i n Chapter I I I , Theodore, overcome with h i s passionate devotion to

Matilda, exclaims: "from this moment, my i n j u r i e s are buried deep i n

oblivion." As usual, the response of the s p i r i t u a l forces, who are

Theodore's guardians and monitors, i s immediate: "A deep and hollow

groan, which seemed to come from above, s t a r t l e d the Princess and Theo-

dore. Good heaven! we are overheard! said the Princess. They l i s t e n e d ,

but perceiving no further noise, they both concluded i t the e f f e c t of

pent-up vapours" (p. 95). In the version of the gothic that, following

Walpole's practice, did not permit the luxury of r a t i o n a l discourse for

i t s characters, such a conclusion was a sign of naivete, innocence, or

complacency, f o r the guiding p r i n c i p l e was that a l l events are portentous.

Although the v i o l e n t , spectacular elements i n otranto serve to

reinforce both the favourable and the condescending images of i t s vaguely-

defined, medieval, foreign setting ( i . e . , to evoke responses based on the

two main kinds of gothicism; see above, pp. 62-68), there i s yet another

dimension to their importance. For violence and spectacle are the basic

materials of Walpole's thematic and psychological preoccupation with

unrestrained criminal or sentimental passions and their display through

action and speech.

In the f i c t i o n a l environment of The Castle of Otranto, moderation i s

almost unknown. Yet, i t s absence—the preponderance of overblown rhetoric,

 128

formulaic exchanges of i n s u l t or a f f e c t i o n , exaggerated responses to

e v e n t s — i s not simply a matter of l i t e r a r y mannerism. On the contrary,

these excessive q u a l i t i e s are perfectly consistent with the motive forces

within the romance, Manfred's l u s t and greed, which are, after a l l , sins

of excess, of ambition or desire indulged immoderately. Whereas the

action of Otranto mainly concerns the downfall of Manfred's household,

the r e a l centre of interest remains the crime which has brought about the

downfall—the crime and i t s effects on both the criminal and h i s victims.

During the course of the gothic novel's development, the focus of atten-

tion shifted progressively further and further from punishment and r e t r i -

bution toward the mysterious, f a t a l l y a t t r a c t i v e , often noble character

63
of the criminal himself.

Excess, i n i t s various forms and manifestations, i s the endemic

disease of Otranto, affecting a l l i t s s o c i a l levels i n some way. Man-

fred's servants appear by nature incapable of giving him a straight

answer; they are stubbornly loquacious, refusing to t e l l a story or give

a report i n anything other than t h e i r own speed and fashion. They have

not learned to d i s c i p l i n e their tongues, their superstitious c r e d u l i t y ,

or their powers of observation, though i n one scene Matilda's maid,

Bianca,suggests that i t i s her superior who i s d e f i c i e n t :

A bystander often sees more of the game than those that play.
. . . Does your highness think, madam, that his question
about my Lady Isabella was the r e s u l t of mere curiosity?
No, no, madam; there i s more i n i t than you great folks are
aware of (pp. 57-8).

This example of impertinence follows immediately after another. An

unseen speaker, who turns out to be Theodore, asks Matilda, after the

exchange of appropriate courtesies, whether i t i s true, as he has heard

 129

from the servants, that Isabella has f l e d from the Castle. Since the

young man i s supposed to be merely a peasant and Matilda's pious humility

does not prevent her from paying s t r i c t attention to s o c i a l d i s t i n c t i o n s ,

she r e p l i e s d i s d a i n f u l l y :

What imports i t to thee to know? . . . Thy f i r s t words be-

spoke a prudent and becoming gravity. Dost thou come hither
to pry into the secrets of Manfredl Adieu. I have been
mistaken i n thee. Saying these words, she shut the^casement
h a s t i l y , without giving the young man time to reply (p. 57).

If Theodore's c u r i o s i t y exceeds what i s proper i n his s o c i a l s t a t i o n ,

Matilda's suspiciousness, apparently picked up from her father, exceeds

necessary caution, temporarily keeping her from meeting, and aiding,

Theodore.

When they f i n a l l y do meet, and Matilda a s s i s t s him i n escaping the

Castle, Walpole presents their parting i n a delirium of sentiment and

magnified gesture:

Go; heaven be thy guide!—and sometimes i n thy prayers

remember—Matilda! Theodore flung himself at her feet, and
seizing her l i l y hand, which with struggles she suffered
him to k i s s , he vowed, on the e a r l i e s t opportunity, to get
himself knighted, and fervently entreated her permission to
swear himself eternally her Knight.—Ere the Princess could
reply, a clap of thunder was suddenly heard, that shook the
battlements. Theodore, regardless of the tempest, would
have urged his s u i t ; but the Princess, dismayed, retreated
h a s t i l y into the castle, and commanded the youth to be gone,
with an a i r that would not be disobeyed. He sighed, and
r e t i r e d , but with eyes fixed on the gate, u n t i l Matilda,
closing i t , put an end to an interview, i n which the hearts
of both had drunk so deeply of a passion, which both now
tasted f o r the f i r s t time (pp. 95-96).

Walpole, of course, was h i s t o r i a n and genealogist enough to know

that a young man, no matter how earnest, could not simply "get himself

knighted" at w i l l ; presumably Theodore's peasant upbringing has l e f t him

ignorant of such matters. The point of his vows and declarations,

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however, i s to exhibit h i s greatness of s p i r i t and h i s robust innocence.

Here, as elsewhere i n The Castle of Otranto (and as i n Walpole's verse

tragedy, The Mysterious Mother), there i s not only flamboyant gesture,

high sentiment, and intense passion, but also a self-conscious display,

a parading of these dramatic colorations.

This sense of self-dramatization i s activated with p a r t i c u l a r force

i n Matilda's death scene, much of which seems to be conceived as a suc-

cession of tableaux, each somehow more l u r i d than the preceding one.

Thus, when Manfred stabs her, instead of Isabella, some of the monks

nearby rush to a i d "the a f f l i c t e d Theodore" i n trying to stanch her

wound, while "the rest prevented Manfred from laying v i o l e n t hands on

himself" (p. 140). As Matilda i s borne from the church back to the

Castle, "Theodore supporting her head with h i s arm, and hanging over her

i n an agony of despairing love, s t i l l endeavoured to inspire her with

hopes of l i f e . Jerome, on the other side, comforted her with discourses

of Heaven, and, holding a c r u c i f i x before her, which she bathed with

innocent tears, prepared her for her passage to immortality. Manfred,

plunged i n the deepest a f f l i c t i o n , followed the l i t t e r i n despair"

(p. 141). At the sight of "the a f f l i c t e d procession" Hippolita i s over-

come by "the mightiness of her g r i e f " and swoons. Matilda, who has

already argued with her father over who should forgive whom, c a l l s him

to her side and "seizing h i s hand and her mother's, locked them i n her

own, and then clasped them to her heart. Manfred could not support this

act of pathetic piety. He dashed himself on the ground, and cursed the

day he was born" (p. 142). For fear of subjecting Matilda to an excess

of passionate g r i e f , Hippolita orders that he be taken to his chamber,

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but she herself refuses to be separated from her daughter. Theodore

wildly i n s i s t s that Jerome marry him to Matilda, while there i s s t i l l

time, continuing his demands even when Frederic, prompted no doubt by

his own claim upon Matilda, rebukes him: "Young man, thou art too

unadvised. . . . Dost thou think we are to l i s t e n to thy fond transports

in this hour of fate?" (p. 143). But we are to l i s t e n to them, f o r

"fond transports" are the main material of which this scene i s composed.

When Matilda, at l a s t , expires, i n an atmosphere permeated with teary

sentimentality, piety and forgiveness, the reactions are predictably and

impressively v i o l e n t : "Isabella and her women tore H i p p o l i t a from the

corpse; but Theodore threatened destruction to a l l who attempted to

remove him from i t . He printed a thousand kisses on her clay-cold hands,

and uttered every expression that despairing love could d i c t a t e " (p. 144).

It i s appropriate that the love between Theodore and Matilda, having

scarcely begun, should end i n this embrace, with i t s hint of n e c r o p h i l i a ;

for the basic excesses i n The Castle of Otranto are a l l sexual. Manfred's

own crime, for which he i s personally culpable, i s his outrageous desire

to use Isabella to perpetuate his l i n e ; since she has been entrusted to

his guardianship, and has become a daughter i n h i s household, this

desire i s something between a breach of h o s p i t a l i t y and outright incest.

In addition, i t causes him to disregard the absurdity of the proposed

match and Isabella's revulsion, and to cast off H i p p o l i t a , despite her

f a i t h f u l n e s s , simply because she i s i n f e r t i l e . He i s not alone i n this

l u s t f u l blindness; though Walpole does not emphasize the Marquis' degree

of c r i m i n a l i t y , Frederic i s quite w i l l i n g , nevertheless, to exchange

Isabella's happiness for his own sexual interest. He has f a l l e n prey to

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Manfred's scheme f o r winning consent to h i s plan, having developed a

singleminded passion of h i s own—for Matilda. The daughters are almost

s a c r i f i c e d i n this bargain, and Matilda i s at l a s t s a c r i f i c e d outside i t ,

while Isabella must s e t t l e for a love-by-proxy, sharing Theodore's grief

for his dead, true lover. Even Matilda, whose abstinence becomes the

subject of her maid's banter (pp. 51-53), speculates, on her deathbed,

that her meeting with Theodore, breaking her vow never to see him again,

"has drawn down this calamity" upon her (p. 144). F i n a l l y , the mystery

surrounding Theodore's ancestry originates, we learn from Jerome, with

Alfonso's wish to conceal h i s marriage to the " f a i r v i r g i n . . . Victoria"

which, though lawful, he deems "incongruous with the holy vow of arms by

which he was bound" (p. 147). It i s the fate of Theodore, l i k e most

"gothic" children, to be betrayed, denied or abandoned by h i s parents,

only to discover h i s i d e n t i t y much l a t e r i n l i f e ; but the whole pattern

i s governed by sexual error.

Walpole's interests i n erotic impulses, the spectacular r e s u l t s of

crime, and magnificently excessive gesture and speech, coupled with h i s

casual attitude toward punishment, were not l i a b l e to please the next

major writer of new-gothic f i c t i o n , Clara Reeve. In the preface to her

romance, The Old English Baron (1778), she stated that her idea of the

gothic novel was the same as Walpole's, but that h i s example had shown

her certain f a u l t s which she had attempted to avoid. Reeve l i s t e d the

requirements for excellence i n the gothic novel: "a s u f f i c i e n t degree of

the marvellous, to excite the attention; enough of the manners of r e a l

l i f e , to give an a i r of p r o b a b i l i t y to the work; and enough of the

64
pathetic, to engage the heart i n i t s behalf." While agreeing that The
 133

Castle of Otranto f u l f i l l e d the l a s t two requirements, Reeve claimed

that i t suffered from a "redundancy" i n the f i r s t . She complained that,

in Otranto, "the machinery i s so v i o l e n t , that i t destroys the effect i t

i s intended to excite. Had the story been kept within the utmost verge

of p r o b a b i l i t y , the effect had been preserved, without losing the least

circumstance that excites or detains the attention." Reeve l i s t e d

various excesses of "the marvellous" i n Otranto, and t r i e d to account for

their adverse influence: "when your expectation i s wound up to the high-

est p i t c h , these circumstances take i t down with a witness, destroy the

work of imagination, and, instead of attention, excite laughter" (p. 5).

Whereas Reeve thought that she had perfected the formula that Walpole

had been able to follow only clumsily, Walpole was not convinced by her

evidence. He wrote to Cole, on 22 August 1778, that The Old English

Baron was "a professed imitation of mine, only stripped of the marvellous,

and so e n t i r e l y stripped, except i n one awkward attempt at a ghost or two,

that i t i s the most i n s i p i d d u l l nothing you can read. It c e r t a i n l y does

not make me laugh: for what makes one doze, seldom makes one merry." In

a similar vein, he remarked:

I cannot compliment The Old English Baron. It was t o t a l l y

void of imagination and i n t e r e s t ; had scarce any incidents;
and though i t condemned the marvellous admitted a ghost. I
suppose the author thought a tame ghost might come within
the laws of probability.,,.
D->

Although controversy over the r e l a t i v e merit of the two works continued,

as subsequent c r i t i c s t r i e d to define the true gothic method, i t i s also

important to note a point of agreement between Walpole and Reeve: i n her

preface to The Old English Baron, at l e a s t , Reeve admitted that the

gothic romance should be entertaining and emotionally involving, as well

 134

as probable.
66
In her l a t e r , f u l l c r i t i c a l work, The Progress of Romance (1785),

Reeve avoided controversial judgments by choosing not to discuss any

works published a f t e r 1770. Because she simply l e t her previous t r e a t -

ment of The Castle of Otranto stand unchanged, The Progress of Romance

contains no reaction to gothic f i c t i o n as such, although she did offer

praise to Thomas Leland's Longsword, Earl of Salisbury (1762), mainly

for i t s accurate depiction of c h i v a l r i c manners and for i t s avoidance of

violence and supernaturalism. Even The Old English Baron escaped comment,

though modesty had not stopped her from having her f i c t i o n a l disputants

admire her own t r a n s l a t i o n of Barclay's Argenis (The Phoenix, 1772).

It was u n l i k e l y , at any rate, that Reeve would have been w i l l i n g to

treat the gothic as a s i g n i f i c a n t l y new, separate phenomenon, for her

chief purpose, i n The Progress of Romance, was to rescue the romance, of

which the gothic was merely a sub-type, from i t s dangerous p o s i t i o n on

the periphery of decorum and moral seriousness. She sought to place i t

within the legitimate l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n , to counteract the common

innuendo to the effect that i t was a sub-literary form, suitable only

for a barbarous people or an unwisely governed nursery. Her d e f i n i t i o n s

67

of terms were sometimes self-contradictory, but her basic method was

clear enough. Like Walpole, she argued for the legitimacy of a taste

somewhat beyond the conventional by connecting a disreputable with a

reputable genre. Just as Walpole had conceived of The Castle of Otranto

in tragic terms, so Reeve traced the origins of the romance to the epic

and demonstrated their formal and thematic correspondences.

 135

While b e l i e v i n g that new romances could be made compatible with the

t a s t e of modern readers, Reeve was more concerned with the readers'

moral welfare. Consequently, she f e l t obliged to show that romances

could have the same degree of moral seriousness or educative value that

was assigned customarily to the epic or c h r o n i c l e — o r at l e a s t , that

they could be r e l a t i v e l y harmless.

Within the dialogue format of The Progress of Romance, Hortensio,

the disputant l e a s t convinced of the romances' value, subscribes to a

severe d o c t r i n e : there are no gradations of q u a l i t y i n f i c t i o n ; a l l

f i c t i o n i s morally i n d e f e n s i b l e , because i t purveys l i e s and seductive

h a l f - t r u t h s , under the guise of entertainment. Although t h i s h y s t e r i c a l
68

view was already fading from the p e r i o d i c a l reviews, i t was also gaining

support among Methodists and E v a n g e l i c a l s , who added to t h e i r indictment

a distaste for f i c t i o n ' s s t r i c t l y m a t e r i a l i s t i c outlook.^ What i s most

i n t e r e s t i n g , however, for an understanding of C l a r a Reeve's own p r a c t i c e

as a w r i t e r , i s the outcome of the moral aspect of the argument. Hor-

tensio 's f r i e n d l y opponents f i n a l l y lead him to ease h i s o u t r i g h t ban

against f i c t i o n , but not without sharing h i s condescending a t t i t u d e

toward c h i l d r e n and members of the "lower orders," whose i n t e l l e c t u a l

c a p a c i t i e s and moral tendencies d i d not enable them to choose what was

f i t to read.

I t would appear t h a t , between the w r i t i n g of the preface to The Old

English Baron and the w r i t i n g of The Progress of Romance, C l a r a Reeve

had l o s t most of her e a r l i e r , minimal i n t e r e s t i n "the marvellous" and

had become more w i l l i n g to make concessions to the m o r a l i s t s . Her idea

of accommodating the romance to modern tastes was to s t r i k e a balance

 136

between i t s sheer entertainment value and some (fabricated) serious pur-

pose. But i n The Old English Baron i t s e l f we can see the increasing

importance of conventional, bourgeois moralism i n determining the themes

of the gothic novel and their treatment.

The motto of The Old English Baron, underscored repeatedly by the

more self-righteous characters and the narrator, i s the omnipotence of

the "over-ruling hand of Providence" and the "certainty of RETRIBUTION."

Although the ostensible setting for the novel (during "the minority of

Henry the Sixth, King of England") makes the characters' b e l i e f i n such

divine intervention seem plausible, this recurrent emphasis upon f a i t h

and piety i s misleading, as an indicator of the novel's s i g n i f i c a n c e ; for

purely human actions and concerns control i t s outcome and mark the l i m i t s

of i t s r e l i g i o s i t y . The actual attitude toward piety i s not the overt

one: ultimately i t i s shown to be a natural accompaniment to material

goods, possessed by those who deserve them—a luxury afforded by security

and seasoned with complacency. In the scheme of power and interests that

dominates the narrator's attention, prayer and moral persuasion are

admirable, but secondary, instruments, and any idea of higher j u s t i c e

becomes i n e x t r i c a b l y confused with commercial advantage. Litigation,

negotiation, c a l c u l a t i o n , and force of arms are the serviceable tools

that bring the criminal to punishment, arrange the exceedingly happy fate

of the p r i n c i p a l s , and confer a just settlement upon the deserving

( s t r i c t l y according to rank). Providence and r e t r i b u t i o n are earthly,

d i r e c t , nonmysterious, and e s s e n t i a l l y r a t i o n a l .

For the exotic, passionate, sometimes ludicrous forces with which

Walpole had imbued The Castle of Otranto, Reeve substituted the canny
 137

play of modern commercial i n s t i n c t s . This substitution shows nowhere

more c l e a r l y than i n the consistent f l a t t e n i n g of p o t e n t i a l l y romantic

elements i n The Old English Baron, and of those the issue of courtship

and marriage i s the most noticeably affected.

Courtship here involves repressing or concealing passion, while

proving to the bride's family one's solvency and rank. Marriage l i k e -

wise i s more a matter of economic than romantic or erotic attachment,

although the contrary notion occasionally, and b r i e f l y , appears for the

sake of sentimental interest. But i n such matters Edmund i s , above a l l

else, the prudent hero. In compliance with the commercial mores, he

postpones declaring h i s own r e a l a f f e c t i o n for Lady Emma u n t i l he has

settled the question of h i s b i r t h and estate. For t h i s he i s later

admired; however, as a r e s u l t , he must resort to i n d i r e c t i o n i n wooing

her, by describing h i s own plight as i f i t were a friend's:

My friend i s so p a r t i c u l a r l y circumstanced that he cannot

at present with propriety ask for Lady Emma's favour; but
as soon as he has gained a cause that i s yet i n suspence,
he w i l l openly declare h i s pretensions, and i f he i s unsuc-
cessful he w i l l then condemn himself to eternal silence.
. . . His b i r t h i s noble, h i s degree and fortune uncertain.
. . . I t i s u t t e r l y impossible . . . for any man of i n f e r i o r
degree to aspire to Lady Emma's favour; her noble b i r t h , the
dignity of her beauty and v i r t u e s , must awe and keep at
their proper distance, a l l men of i n f e r i o r degree and merit;
they may admire, they may revere; but they must not presume
to approach too near, l e s t their presumption should meet
with i t s punishment (p. 68).

Reeve makes this d i s c r e t i o n seem both comic and masochistic, for Emma,

playing upon Edmund's temporary d i s a b i l i t y , succeeds i n humiliating him

with questions and j i b e s , while amusing herself (pp. 66-69).

The anti-romantic version of courtship and marriage, as transaction

and prize, p e r s i s t s i n the actual wedding negotiations. In the midst of

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celebrations over Edmund's good fortune, Baron Fitz-Owen suggests that

he and Edmund " r e t i r e from this croud" for they have "business of a more

private nature to transact" (p. 142). That business i s , of course, the

marriage agreement, and the following scene, i n which Emma i s asked to

lend her approval to the match, c l e a r l y exhibits the contrast between

passion and business upon which the very technique of the novel i s based.

Emma approaches her father, "with tears on her cheek, sweetly blushing

l i k e the damask rose." Baron Fitz-Owen explains to her his need for her

consent:

I have promised to a l l this company to give you to him;

but upon condition that you approve him:SI think him worthy
of you; and, whether you accept him or not, he s h a l l ever
be to me a son; but Heaven forbid that I should compel my
c h i l d to give her hand where she cannot bestow her heart
(p. 143).

Emma's reply emphasizes the fitness of her relationship with her father,

her obedience and propriety; i t i s rather self-congratulatory, but dwells

very l i t t l e upon the condition of her heart except i n an almost l e g a l i s -

t i c way. Such emotional spectacle as there i s , i s abruptly c u r t a i l e d ,

and summarized by the narrator:

A fresh scene of congratulation ensued; and the hearts of

a l l the auditors were too much engaged to be able soon to
return to the ease and t r a n q u i l l i t y of common l i f e (p. 144).

It i s this idea of a "common l i f e " that distinguishes so sharply

between the gothicism of Walpole and that of Clara Reeve. Whereas i n

The Castle of Otranto the characters, l i v i n g constantly on the edge of

c r i s i s , never enjoy anything resembling "ease and t r a n q u i l l i t y " — e x c e p t ,

perhaps, through death or seclusion from the world—the attainment of

such peace and security i s the chief goal, and the common l o t , of Reeve's
 139

characters. The narrator of The Old English Baron scrupulously records

not only the major a l l i a n c e between Edmund and Emma, but also the lesser

a l l i a n c e s , among the various sons and daughters of the lords who have

brought Walter Lovel to j u s t i c e and Edmund to his r i g h t f u l p o s i t i o n .

Reeve i s evidently most comfortable when dealing with the equitable

exchange of property, or with the private, discreet, bloodless punishment

of the murderer, or with the elaborate calculus needed to compute the

cash-value of Edmund's noble upbringing. She i s least comfortable, and

capable, when dealing with the spectacular, the supernatural, the exces-

sive, the v i o l e n t — a n y t h i n g that d i s t r a c t s her from a certain i d e a l

transformation of the past. Unlike Walpole, she has no r e l i s h f o r

extravagant display of strong scenes, nor for close scrutiny of the

criminal psyche. Even the sentimentality which helps to nourish the

reader's imagination through more s t e r i l e , business-like passages, she

governs with the s t r i c t rule of decorum.^

Reeve's preoccupation with normalcy accounts for several s t r i k i n g l y

non-romantic features of The Old English Baron. The narration of the

combat between S i r P h i l i p Harclay and Walter Lovel, f o r example, seems

mild and colourless, small compensation for the i n t r i c a t e legal and emo-

t i o n a l preparations f o r i t (pp. 100-101). The episode i n which Walter

Lovel t r i e s to escape from his captors i s s i m i l a r l y abridged (p. 134),

so as to add to the general impression that he makes a-mediocre criminal.

Reeve consistently avoids using suspenseful devices, which might arouse

the reader to a state of tense alertness. F i n a l l y , "ease and t r a n q u i l -

l i t y " give the moral theme to the prolonged coda that follows the c i r -

cumstances of the main characters and their descendants into the t h i r d

 140

generation (pp. 151-53).

Sir Walter Scott attempted to explain these features, which he

regarded as signs of the f a i l u r e of her imagination, through the l i m i -

tations of Clara Reeve's l i f e . "In her secluded s i t u a t i o n , and with

acquaintance of events and characters derived from books alone," he

argued, she could not avoid following "a certain creeping and low l i n e

of narrative and sentiment." Isolated from the great world of masculine

a c t i v i t y , she had to resort to " p r o l i x , minute and unnecessary details"

which at least offered "a secret mode of securing a certain necessary

degree of credulity from the hearers of a ghost-story." "'" 7

While this i s a v a l i d , useful explanation, i t i s incomplete; for i t

misses the r e a l sense i n which Reeve's limited thematic and emotional

range was an advantage. Her d e t a i l s may have been p r o l i x and minute,

but were rarely unnecessary, since they not only secured her story's

c r e d i b i l i t y (scarcely i n danger) but also c l e a r l y associated i t s sup-

posed h i s t o r i c a l setting with a whole set of familiar bourgeois values,

by evoking the texture of late-eighteenth-century e t h i c a l and p r a c t i c a l

life.

For Reeve, unlike Walpole, the h i s t o r i c a l setting was not a t h e a t r i -

cal setting, where excessive, strange passions and behaviour might be

indulged with exceptional f i c t i o n a l licence, under the supervening

protection of apparently conventional prejudices. For Reeve, the con-

t r o l l i n g metaphor for romance was more l i k e l y the classroom than the

theatre. I have already noted how Reeve's didactic preoccupation

increased between The Old English Baron and The Progress of Romance (see

pp. 132-136 above); i n a s t i l l l a t e r work, her Memoirs of Sir Roger de

 141

Clarendon (1793) both the didacticism and i t s effect on the treatment of

h i s t o r i c a l subjects are p l a i n . In the Memoirs Reeve turned away e n t i r e l y

from the purposes and techniques of gothic f i c t i o n i n order to use h i s -

tory as a source of e t h i c a l education:

She saw i n the fourteenth century the heroic days of p r i s -

tine morality, and as such she described them, to rebuke
her own degenerate age, to stimulate i t s ideals and to
counteract the d e b i l i t a t i n g influence of pessimists and
levellers.

Even i n the e a r l i e r work, however, the h i s t o r i c a l setting was, in

e f f e c t , n o n - h i s t o r i c a l . Inasmuch as h i s t o r y yielded up exotic, strange,

exciting, or forbidden images, i t was harmful—at best t r i v i a l . Reeve's

view of gothic l i f e was confined to models of superior conduct, to the

e t h i c a l excellence of the putative gothic ancestors. In The Old English

Baron, consequently, there i s room neither for chauvinistic invocations

of Old England (despite the t i t l e ) , nor for speculative interweavings of

history and f i c t i o n (as i n Sophia Lee's The Recess), nor for contemptuous

dismissal of vicious anachronisms. Instead, Reeve's h i s t o r i c a l setting

i s a r e l a t i v e l y neutral t e r r i t o r y where the v i c t o r y of p o s i t i v e e t h i c a l

forces may be enacted. Thus, i n The Old English Baron h i s t o r y was ideal-

ized, paradoxically, by being made recognizable, and, i n that sense,

r e a l i s t i c ; i t was transformed into an extension, or a moralist's dream,

of the present.

This conjunction of bourgeois aspirations and h i s t o r i c a l i s o l a t i o n

produces, not s u r p r i s i n g l y , c e r t a i n exemplars of the " p r i s t i n e morality."

Such i s the old retainer Joseph's description of the elevation of Edmund

into his new p o s i t i o n :

 142

He closed the tale with praise to Heaven for the happy

discovery, that gave such an heir to the house of Lovel;
to his dependants such a Lord and Master; to mankind a
friend and benefactor. There was t r u l y a house of joy; not
that f a l s e kind, i n the midst of which there i s heaviness,
but that of r a t i o n a l creatures grateful to the supreme
benefactor, r a i s i n g t h e i r minds by a due enjoyment of
earthly blessings to a more perfect state hereafter (p. 150).

The "house of joy" i s the exact opposite of Manfred's Castle, just

as the gothic method and sense of history that i t r e f l e c t s are the oppo-

s i t e of Walpole's. This we can t e l l even from such key words as this

b r i e f , pious account gives us: r a t i o n a l , grateful, enjoyment. Rationality,

gratitude, and enjoyment (especially of "earthly blessings") are a l i e n

factors i n The Castle of Otranto, where they a l l would detract from the

romance's sheer impressiveness and from i t s emphasis on depravity and

fatality. This i s a matter of h i s t o r i c a l perspective as much as tech-

nique. Otranto evokes the (not very s p e c i f i c ) f i c t i o n a l realm that

corresponds to the enlightened, condescending eighteenth-century view of

the Middle Ages that was outlined i n the f i r s t part of this study (see

pp. 65-68 above). Though c u r s o r i l y , Walpole touches upon a l l the impor-

tant elements of that image: devious p r i e s t s , tyranny, superstition,

excessive power, ignorance, and barbarous behaviour. The manner of

narration becomes part of the matter narrated, for the novel stands at

two removes from the reader: i t i s the work both of Walpole, the modern

skeptic and d i l e t t a n t e , and of h i s f i c t i t i o u s Counter-Reformation propa-

gandist. Walpole succeeds i n balancing c r i t i c a l and imaginative responses

to Otranto, by playing the reader's sense that the gothic i s impressive,

spectacular, or d e l i g h t f u l l y disturbing, against h i s sense that i t cannot

be admirable, p o l i t i c a l l y . But the former sense i s insinuated despite

the l a t t e r .
 143

Reeve's treatment of the h i s t o r i c a l setting i s much less compli-

cated; i t i l l u s t r a t e s a variant of that kind of gothicism which I have

called e l e g i a c or U t o p i a n (see p. 62 above). She does not r e c o g n i z e any

vicious o r contemptible features i n gothic l i f e — a s she conceives of i t .

The alleged barbarity of the gothic holds no appeal for her, either as a

source of unaccustomed, primitive excitement or as an object of d e r i s i o n

and wonderment mixed. The unrepentant malice of Walter Lovel, for example,

and the juvenile spitefulness of such unsavoury followers as Wenlock and

Markham, are not supposed to be t y p i c a l of some darker aspect of gothic

behaviour. These are mere intrusions. Moreover, Reeve does not try to

make perversity or malevolence i n t e r e s t i n g , as Walpole at least starts to

do with Manfred i n Otranto. In contrast, Walter Lovel, having "entered

into the service of the Greek emperor, John Paleologus," becomes moder-

ately successful and respectable, i n e x i l e i n the dying empire (p. 153).

Reeve discovers, however, no inherent advantages i n gothic life,

beyond i t s convenient n e u t r a l i t y and i t s ancestral overtones, which

f a c i l i t a t e her educative purposes. The l i v e s of her gothic characters

are indistinguishable from p u r i f i e d , s i m p l i f i e d modern l i v e s ; they are

no more p a r t i c u l a r i z e d i n their common setting than i n their personali-

ties. In her adaptation of h i s t o r i c a l materials to serve as templates

for d i d a c t i c t o o l s , Reeve shows a s i g n i f i c a n t impulse i n late-eighteenth-

century gothicism: the o r i g i n of elegiac gothic i n bourgeois complacency

and moralism-, rather than r a d i c a l disillusionment.

In thus transforming the age of the gothic ancestors, i t i s obvious

that Clara Reeve had l i t t l e use, or tolerance, for sensationalism or

exoticism, for she did not read these as primary q u a l i t i e s i n h i s t o r y .

 144

In addition, as her discussion i n The Progress of Romance shows, these

were q u a l i t i e s which embarrassed her when she came to defend the o l d and

new romances: they were likewise not primary q u a l i t i e s i n l i t e r a t u r e .

In examining gothic f i c t i o n and related c r i t i c a l writings we w i l l find a

constant tension between the elegiac mode—particularly Reeve's v a r i e t y —

and the darker, ambivalent mode, which exploits the otherness of the

gothic. We w i l l also find that this tension i s often expressed through

the presence or absence of sensational and exotic elements i n the novels,

and through attitudes towards sensationalism and exoticism i n t h e o r e t i c a l

works.
 145

FOOTNOTES

Sir Walter Scott, " L i f e of Walpole," Sir Walter Scott on Novelists

and F i c t i o n , ed. loan Williams (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1968),
pp. 85-88.
2
Edgar Johnson, Sir Walter Scott: The Great Unknown (London: Hamish
Hamilton, 1970), I, 396; for the application of Scott's associative
habits to Abbotsford, see also p. 372. A l i c e Chandler, i n " S i r Walter
Scott and the Medieval Revival," Nineteenth-Century Fiction, 19 (1964),
315-332, shows the relationship between Scott's medievalism and h i s view
of the contemporary world.
3
Walpole to Cole, Corr., 1, 88.
4
Lewis, Horace Walpole, p. 98.
^Walpole to Horace Mann, 5 June 1747 OS, Corr., 19, 414; see also
Selected Letters, pp. 43-46 (Walpole to Mann, 12 June 1753).

Walpole to Henry Seymour Conway, 8 June 1747, SL, p. 22.

7
I b i d . , pp. 23-24.
g
Walpole, Description, p. 1, asterisked note.
9
Lewis, Horace Walpole, p. 98.
"^The "Quadruple A l l i a n c e " consisted of Walpole, Thomas Gray, Richard
West, and Thomas Ashton. See Lewis, pp. 46-47.

"'""'"Walpole to William Mason, Corr., 28, 6-7.

12
W. S. Lewis, "The Genesis of Strawberry H i l l , " Metropolitan Museum
Studies, 5 (1936), 62.
13
Lewis, Horace Walpole, p. 107.
14
Among the friends were John Chute and Richard Bentley who made up,
with Walpole, the "Committee of Taste at Strawberry H i l l . " Chute and
Walpole dominated the t r i o — C h u t e as architect, Walpole as a n t i q u a r y — f o r
Bentley, the draughtsman, was conventiently out of sight i n Jersey u n t i l
1761. When he came to l i v e with Walpole they quarreled and ended the
relationship. (See Lewis, "Genesis," p. 64,.) Mann, Montagu and Mason
also contributed advice. James Essex designed the Beauclerc Tower and
the New O f f i c e s , and probably exerted some influence on Walpole's choice
of s t y l e s , drawing him away from h i s early preference for the Perpendic-
ular gothic. Essex died before the Offices were b u i l t , and James Wyatt
executed them.
 146

"'""'walpole, Description, p. i i i .

Ibxd. , pp. m-iv.

Ibid., p. i v .
18
W. H. Smith, Architecture in English Fiction, p. 41.
1 9
I b i d . , pp. 36-39.
20
Walpole, Description, p. 55. See Agnes Addison, Romanticism and
the Gothic Revival (1938; r e p r i n t , New York: Gordian Press, 1967), p. 41:
"the post-Viollet-le-Duc mediaevalists shuddered when they found b u i l d -
ings which pretended to be i n the Gothic manner and yet were not stone
vaulted, but were constructed i n the simplest manner l i k e a cardboard
box and then plastered over with pinnacles and crockets and a few pointed
arches." Michael Sadleir, " ' A l l Horrid? 1
Jane Austen and the Gothic
Romance," i n Things Past (London: Constable, 1944), relates the a r c h i -
tectural and the l i t e r a r y superimpositions of exotic elements upon a
f a m i l i a r base: "the sound of a strange language a l l u r e d the ear, but i t s
grammar (and indeed much of i t s meaning) were ignored" (p. 178).
21
James Essex, Journal of a Tour Through Part of Flandres and France
in August [and Sept.], 1773, ed. W. M. Fawcett (Cambridge: 1888).
22
Lewis, "Genesis," p. 83. Walpole wrote to Thomas Barret (5 June
1788): " . . . neither Mr. Bentley nor my workmen had studied the science,
and I was always too desultory and impatient to consider that I should
please myself more by allowing time, than by hurrying my plans into
expectation before they were ripe. My house therefore i s but a sketch
by beginners."
23
Walpole, Description, p. 47.
24
Walpole to Mann, Selected Letters, p. 44.
25
For an account of the new connoisseurs' purchasing habits, see
Elizabeth Manwaring, Italian Landscape in Eighteenth-Century England
(l*-9«2Spireprint!,*- Londonc:•.•ErarikaCass, 1965), pp. 14-34.
26
For plans see Walpole, Aedes Walpolianae (1747), reprinted i n
Works (1798); plans for Strawberry H i l l appeared i n the Description and
are reproduced i n Lewis, Horace Walpole.
27
Walpole wrote to Mann (12 June 1753): "This view of the castle i s
what I have just finished, and i s the only side that w i l l be at a l l
regular" (SL, p. 43). This would suggest that Walpole had a p a r t i c u l a r
external effect i n mind even at this early stage.
 147

28
Ibid., p. 45: ". . . i t i s r e a l l y incredible how small most of the
rooms are. The only two good chambers I s h a l l have, are not yet b u i l t ;
they w i l l be an eating-room and a l i b r a r y , each 20 by 30, and the l a t t e r
15 feet high." W. S. Lewis associates the increase i n room size with
Walpole's "larger income and expanding knowledge" of the gothic, after
1762. See Preface to Correspondence with Cole, p. x x x i i .
29
Allen, Tides in English Taste, I I , p. 75.
30
102.
Walpole to Mann, SL, pp. 43-45; Walpole to Montagu, Corr., 9,

31
S i r Terry Robsart, according to Walpole, was "an ancestor of S i r
R.W. [Robert Walpole], who was Knight of the Garter." (Lewis, Horace
Walpole, pp. 104-105, quoting Walpole's note to his l e t t e r to Mann, 12
June 1753.) S i r Terry symbolized Walpole's romantic and noble ancestry.
32
Walpole to George Montagu, Corr., 10, 192.
33
Walpole to Deffand, quoted i n Scott, " L i f e of Walpole," On
Novelists and F i c t i o n , p. 86.
34
Memoirs of George III, I I , 149, quoted by Lewis, Horace Walpole,
p. 74; for an assessment of Walpole's p o l i t i c a l career, see Lewis, pp.
69-95. For an account of Walpole's actual, considerable p o l i t i c a l i n f l u -
ence, even after h i s disappointment i n Conway, see John Brooke's entry
for "Hon. Horatio Walpole of Strawberry H i l l , " i n The History of P a r l i a -
ment: The House of Commons, 1754-1790, i i i (Members K-Y), eds. S i r Lewis
Namier and John Brooke (London: History of Parliament Trust, 1964),
595-597. The r e a l i t y of this power did not necessarily detract from the
r e a l i t y of Walpole's disappointment and disillusionment with p o l i t i c a l
life.
35
Clark, Gothic Revival, pp. 81-82; Agnes Addison, p. 42.
36
Walpole to Richard Bentley, Selected L e t t e r s , p. 48. For an
account of M i l l e r ' s works, see Eastlake, pp. <41-43> (Introduction).
C l a r k , p. 35, pp. 41-42.
3 7

38
Walpole to Cole, 9 March 1765, Corr., 1, 88.
39
The armour had belonged to King Francis I of France, and Walpole
bought i t i n 1772, after h i s dream. See Walpole, Description, p. 31 and
figure opposite.
Ibid., p. 32.
41
Walpole to Cole, 9 March 1765; Walpole repeated the story to Mason,
in b r i e f e r form, without mentioning the d e t a i l s of the dream. He contin-
ued to claim that the writing took two months, adding that he had decided
 148

to publish his work only after Gray encouraged him (Walpole to Mason,
17 A p r i l 1765, Con., 28, 7). In the Walpoliana i s the c o n f l i c t i n g
claim that he "wrote the 'Castle of Otranto' i n eight days, or rather
eight nights" (walpoliana, 2nd edni,, London: for R. P h i l i p s , 1804, I,
22). The c o n f l i c t probably arises from the difference between the time
necessary for a f i r s t draft versus that for a completed draft. "HW
showed the MS to Gray i n August [1764], and Gray encouraged HW to print
i t . . . . 'At f i r s t i t was universally believed to be Mr. Gray's' (HW to
Hertford, 26 March 1765)." (Corr., 14, 137, editor's note 1.)
42
The publisher's imprint for the f i r s t edition reads: "LONDON:
Printed for Tho. Lownds i n Fleet-Street, MDCCLXV," but Montague Summers
records the actual date of publication as 24 December 1764. See Horace
Walpole, The Castle of Otranto and The Mysterious Mother, ed. Montague
Summers (London: Constable & Co,,, 1924), p. xxv. Summers' edition
combines the various editions published under Walpole's supervision.
Subsequent page references w i l l appear within text, and w i l l be to this
edition. In the f i r s t edition (1764), the romance i s subtitled "A
Story"; i n the Works (1798) i t appeared as "A Gothic Story." S i r Walter
Scott, i n his " L i f e of Walpole," pointed out that "Onuphrio Muralto" was
"a sort of anagram, or translation, of the author's own name"—and, I
would add, a deliberately transparent one. (See Scott, p. 85.)
43
Gray to Walpole, 30 December 1764, Corr., 14, 137.
44
Although i t was a f r i e n d l y detachment, Gray's report was l i g h t e r
and less enthusiastic than i t would have been had he been more of a
f l a t t e r e r . Walpole had also sent copies of the romance to other friends:
E l i e de Beaumont, Hertford, Montagu, Cole, Thomas Warton, and Mason.
45
Mason to Walpole, 14 A p r i l 1765, Corr., 28, 5-6. The "episcopal
evidence" i s supposed to be from William Warburton, Bishop of Gloucester
(p. 5, n. 2). Mason here notes i n passing one of Walpole's other precau-
tions, that of committing his MS to another printer rather than issuing
i t through the Strawberry H i l l Press. Apparently the hoax had some
enduring appeal, for Peter Burra attests: "I have seen a publisher's
catalogue which as l a t e as 1801 advertised The Castle of Otranto as by
Muralto, although Walpole had admitted h i s authorship i n 1765," a decep-
tion which he attributes to the usefulness of such "non-existent crea-
tures" i n making "the productions seem more strange." ("Baroque and
Gothic Sentimentalism," Farrago, 3 [Oct. 1930], 168.)
46
Walpoliana, I, 23. See also L. B. Seeley, Horace Walpole and His
World (London: Seeley & Co., 1895), pp. 24-25; Lewis, Horace Walpole,
p. 161. Before presenting "Two Unpublished Fairy Tales by Horace Wal-
pole," i n Horace Walpole: Writer, P o l i t i c i a n , and Connoisseur, ed.
W. H. Smith (New Haven & London: Yale Univ. Press, 1967), p. 241,
A. Dayle Wallace notes that " i t i s s i g n i f i c a n t that Walpole made no
c o l l e c t i o n of f i c t i o n comparable to his c o l l e c t i o n of the plays, poems,
and tracts of the reigns of George II and George I I I , " c i t i n g this as
evidence that he "took comparatively l i t t l e i n t e r e s t " i n the development
 149

of the novel. Wallace attributes t h i s to "a preference for imagination

as against invention." For corroboration of this lack of i n t e r e s t , see
A l l e n T. Hazen, Catalogue of Horace Walpole's Library (New Haven: Yale
Univ. Press, 1969), pp. 1-96 (Press I) and p. 97 f f . (Press K).
47
Walpole to Mason, 17 A p r i l 1765, Corr., 28, 6-7. The second
edition of Otranto, bearing Walpole's name as author, appeared 11 A p r i l
1765 (see Summers, p. xxvi).
48
This notion of a balance between i m p o s s i b i l i t y and p r o b a b i l i t y had
already been put forth i n John Hawkesworth's essays on narratives i n the
Adventurer, No. 4, Saturday, 18 November 1752. See Eighteenth-Century
British Novelists on the Novel, ed. George L. Barnett (New York: Appleton-
Century-Crofts, 1968), p. 100.
49
K. K. Mehrotra, i n Horace Walpole and the English Novel (Oxford:
Blackwell, 1934; reprinted New York: Russell & Russell, 1970), and
J. M. S. Tompkins, i n The Popular Novel in England, 1770-1800 (London:
Constable & Co., 1932) provide ample evidence from contemporary p e r i o d i c a l
reviews, of the moral scrutiny that was applied to novels and novelists
in general. Anyone without Walpole's status might have had to worry about
writing a novel with such unconvincing moral sentiments and such i n t e r -
esting evilness. On the other hand, Tompkins notes that the "didactic
prepossession" applied most often to mediocre novels (of which there were
many) without redeeming q u a l i t i e s . Excellent moral p r i n c i p l e s , however,
were not enough to excuse a lack of entertainment, and Tompkins finds
evidence of a declining devotion to the didactic standards towards the
1770's (p. 72; see Ch. I l l "Didacticism and S e n s i b i l i t y , " p. 70 f f . ) .
"^Mehrotra, pp. 22-37. Also see J . B. Heidler, The History, from
1700-1800, of English Criticism of Prose F i c t i o n (Univ. of I l l i n o i s
Studies i n Language and Literature, 12, 2 [May 1928]), pp. 134-135; and
Malcolm Ware, Sublimity in the Novels of Ann R a d c l i f f e (Essays and
Studies on English Language and L i t e r a t u r e , Upsala Univ. English I n s t i t . ,
XXV; Lund: Carl Blom, 1963), p. 13. The reception for Otranto i n France
was generally as cool as Mme du Deffand's. Harold Streeter noted that
" i t does not seem to have excited much comment i n France despite i t s
author's s o c i a l prestige. The Mercure de France noted i t i n d i f f e r e n t l y
as a novel 'qui nous a paru propre a f a i r e passer agreablement quelques
heures de l o i s i r . ' Grimm regarded with approval this 'serie d'appari-
tions surnaturelles reunies sous l a forme l a plus agreable qu'on puisse
voir'." (The Eighteenth Century English Novel in French Translation
[New York: Benjamin Bloom, 1970; Doctoral d i s s e r t a t i o n , Columbia Univ.,
1936], pp. 117-118.)

"'"'"Mehrotra i s suspicious of this explanation, preferring the shorter

section of the Translator's Preface that i s not taken up with the trans-
l a t i o n device: "Here he i s not puffed up with h i s success, propounding
i n f l a t e d theories, or manipulating motives to place his tale i n the best
l i g h t possible" (Mehrotra, pp. 10-11). Mehrotra i s too generous to the
f i r s t Preface, too harsh toward the second. Although he could not have
 150

anticipated a l l the attacks which would be made upon his work when he
wrote the f i r s t , Walpole also used this opportunity to put i t " i n the
best l i g h t possible." In addition, however unrelated his theories may
be to his actual achievement, they exerted a strong influence, neverthe-
l e s s , upon l a t e r c r i t i c s ' (e.g. Scott's, the Aikins') views on Otranto
and the gothic genre.
52
Tobias Smollett, The Adventures of Roderick Random, i n Miscel-
laneous Works (London: Mundell, 1796), I, l x v i i i .
53
Levy, Le Roman «Gothique», pp. 47-53.
54
For Walpole's c r i t i c i s m of the dullness of Richardson, see Heidler,

p. 131.

''^ Walpoliana, I, 46-47.

I b i d . , p. 39.
5 6

""^Montague Summers, The Gothic Quest (New York: Russell & Russell,
1964), p. 184. Summers notes several p a r a l l e l s between the infamous
career of the f i c t i o n a l Manfred and that of Manfred or Manfroi, "a
natural son of the Emperor Frederick I I . " The p a r a l l e l s include usurpa-
tion and the mysterious disappearance of a r i g h t f u l h e i r , but Summers
remains r e l a t i v e l y unmoved by them; moreover, he does not provide any
evidence that Walpole knew about the h i s t o r i c a l Manfred, or had him i n
mind when he composed The Castle of Otranto.
58
In Gothic Drama from Walpole to Shelley, Evans notes that Otranto
and the genre i t i n i t i a t e d erupted from two related ideas: f i r s t , medi-
eval l i f e was dark, gloomy, and barbarous; second, i t would be t e r r i f y i n g
i f enlightened gentlemen and 'sensible' ladies were transported from con-
temporary society and suddenly thrust into that e a r l i e r time" (p. 8).
The f i r s t idea was a source of reassurance, the second, of excitement and
imaginative stimulation.
59
A l i c e Chandler, " S i r Walter Scott and the Medieval Revival,"
pp. 324-326.
60
See Walpole's argument against V o l t a i r e , Otranto, pp. 15-20.
C l a r a Mclntyre, "Were the Gothic Novels Gothic?" PMLA, 36 (1921),
6 1

644-667; Ann R a d c l i f f e in Relation to Her Time (New Haven: Yale Studies

in English, 1920); "The Later Career of the Elizabethan V i l l a i n Hero,"
PMLA, 40 (1925), 874-880. Mclntyre argues that the label gothic was
misapplied to the novels, most of whose fantasies were not at a l l located
i n the Middle Ages, but i n "the a r t i f i c i a l period constructed by E l i z a -
bethan dramatists out of Renaissance I t a l y " (PMLA, 36, 666). Evans
argues that the influence upon the gothic both of the Elizabethan stage
and of Richardsonian s e n s i b i l i t y was merely accretive, since both were
chosen only because they offered appropriate materials for the larger
 151

gothic plan. Masao Miyoshi treats the connection between the E l i z a -

bethan and the gothic hero i n The Divided Self (New York: NYU Press,
1969), pp. 7-8, suggesting the uniqueness of the gothic v a r i e t y . Other
c r i t i c s who have r e s i s t e d an influence-based theory, i n favour of a
gothic "core" have included Eino Railo, i n The Haunted Castle (London:
Geo. Routledge, 1927), Edith Birkhead, i n The Tale of Terror (London:
Constable, 1921) and Varma, to some extent, i n The Gothic Flame.
62
For evidence of Walpole's dramatic impulses, I would c i t e his own
The Mysterious Mother (1768; 1778) and Jephson's stage adaptation of
Otranto, The Count of Narbonne (1780), over which Walpole exercised some
rights of supervision (Otranto, pp. xxxv.irxxxvii) .- Examination of Wal-
pole's defence of his own, unacted play shows the extent to which he
believed that he had cast i t i n tragic form (see Otranto, pp. 253-260,
272-277). For the history of Otranto on stage, and i t s relationship to
the tragic or melodramatic modes, see Evans, pp. 52-53; Otranto, p. x x i i i f f ;
Charles Beecher Hogan, "The 'Theatre of Geo. 3'," Horace Walpole, ed.
W. H. Smith, pp. 228-240; and Willard Thorp, "The Stage Adventures of
Some Gothic Novels," PMLA, 43 (1928), 476-478. In a note i n his 1777
edition of Pope's Works, Bishop Warburton praises the gothic romance, and
s p e c i f i c a l l y Otranto, for conformity to the aims of c l a s s i c a l tragedy, to
the A r i s t o t e l i a n concept of catharsis, which Walpole himself had invoked
in his Translator's Preface. This l i n e of c r i t i c i s m , however, remained
undeveloped, either for support or attack. See Arthur L. Cooke, "Some
Side Lights on the Theory of the Gothic Romance," MLQ, 12 (1951), 430
and n. 4.
63
Evans, pp. 81-89; Evans relates the transformation of the gothic
v i l l a i n to the disintegration of the gothic hero (pp. 56-59).
64
Clara Reeve, The Old English Baron (London: Oxford Univ. Press,
1967), p. 4. Another form of the work appeared anonymously under the
t i t l e The Champion of Virtue (1777) , but this version was less w e l l -
known. Further references w i l l be indicated within the text.
65
Quoted i n Summers edn. of Otranto, pp. x x x i i - x x x i i i .
66
Clara Reeve, The Progress of Romance (Colchester: 1785; r e p r i n t ,
New York: Facsimile Text Society, 1930).
^Reeve's mouthpiece, Euphrasia, begins the discussion by trying to
make c e r t a i n key d i s t i n c t i o n s . She divides the novel from the romance,
tracing the o r i g i n and technique of each to a corresponding established
form—history and epic, respectively. But the c l a r i t y breaks down.
After declaring that "romances, have been written, both i n prose and
verse," Euphrasia also states that "a Romance, i s nothing but an Epic i n
prose" (p. 51). Her chronological d i v i s i o n of romances into "ancient,"
"old," and "modern" i s further d i s t r a c t i n g .
 152

68
Tompkins, The Popular Novel in England, pp. 70-72: " i n 1770 the
Critical found i t s e l f unable to follow Bancroft i n his l o g i c a l conten-
t i o n that, since the main business of a novel i s to teach, i t had better
not be too i n t e r e s t i n g , " and the Monthly remarks i n a review of 1772:
"'The excellent lessons of morality which this work inculcates w i l l not
be able to save i t from o b l i v i o n " ' (p. 72).
1

69
See M. J . Quinlan, Victorian Prelude, A History of English Man-
ners 1700-1830 (1941; r e p r i n t , London: Frank Cass & Co., 1965), and
Aridr-.e Parreaux, The Publication of the Monk (Paris: L i b . Marcel Didier,
1960). Quinlan i s somewhat more interested i n the p o l i t i c a l views of
both groups during the Napoleonic period, Parreaux vin>. their actions to
enforce moral standards.
^ T y p i c a l of this r e s t r a i n t i s the sequel to Emma's learning that
Edmund i s also "the man i n whose behalf I once presumed to speak," that
his fortune and lineage might permit them to marry: "From this period,
the young pair behaved with solemn respect to each other, but with
apparent reserve" (p. 134). When S i r Robert, "with tears on h i s cheeks"
and f i l i a l obedience on h i s l i p s , seeks r e c o n c i l i a t i o n with his father,
the witnesses to the scene respond mildly, impersonally, decorously, as
i f to a dramatic piece: "The company rose, and congratulated both
father and son" (p. 139). S i r Robert i s promptly matched with Lord
C l i f f o r d ' s daughter.

7
^ S c o t t , " L i f e of Reeve," On Novelists and F i c t i o n , p. 100.
72
Tompkins, The Popular Novel in England, p. 231. Cooke ("Side
Lights," p. 433) goes further i n drawing a p o l i t i c a l meaning from the
Memoirs:
Miss Reeve . . . hoped her narrative would stimulate a few
readers to imitate the virtues of olden days, and would
convince them that the new ideas of the French Revolutionists
were not as well founded as many people believed. Thus she
attempted to convert the Gothic romance into a weapon of
propaganda against the doctrines of the French Revolution
and to make i t the conservative and romantic counterpart of
the contemporary, r e a l i s t i c novel of purpose, which was
being currently used to propagandize the new r a d i c a l ideas.
The lead was not followed, Cooke claims, because "the romance writers of
the 1790's were more interested i n t e r r i f y i n g their readers than i n
g l o r i f y i n g the old order of things." I do not believe that these two
purposes are necessarily d i s t i n c t .
73
This tension evidently affected Clara Reeve h e r s e l f . In The
English Novel (London: Constable, 1960) , L i o n e l Stevenson notes that
Reeve's next novel, The Exiles, or Memoirs of Count de Cronstadt,
'"departed from the p l a c i d i t y of her Old English Baron i n favour of
emotional despair and t e r r i f y i n g p e r i l s " (p. 163). This was not, how-
ever, her ultimate technical or c r i t i c a l preference.
 CHAPTER III

"IMPENDING DANGERS, HIDDEN GUILT, SUPERNATURAL VISITINGS"

The Sensational, the Exotic, and the Gothic

Sensational and exotic elements were not the sole property of gothic

novels but the common stock of many kinds of popular f i c t i o n and sub-

literature. Modern influence-studies of the gothic have reinforced this

view by connecting the gothic novel with various precursors and p a r a l l e l

types which include sensationalism or exoticism i n some way: the I t a l i a n -

1 2
ate revenge drama of the Renaissance, the Oriental fantasy, the
3
sentimental novel, the domestic persecution tragedy of Richardson,
4 5
Prevost, Arnaud, and Kotzebue, even the pastoral. Sensationalism and

exoticism entered into discussions of larger issues, such as the dan-

gers of novel-reading or of escapism. I t i s not my aim here to search

out the "essence" of the g o t h i c ; 7

gothic l i t e r a t u r e and architecture are

far too e c l e c t i c and synthetic to make that a reasonable task. However,

I do propose to set f o r t h the s p e c i a l usefulness of sensationalism and

exoticism for the two main gothic strategies that I have already iden-

t i f i e d : the ambivalent and the nostalgic. Though sensationalism and

exoticism do not define precisely what i s gothic, those devices were

exploited i n singular, c h a r a c t e r i s t i c ways by the g o t h i c i s t s .

Sir Walter Scott, who paid the f i r s t serious, comprehensive,

c r i t i c a l attention to gothic f i c t i o n , confirms the central place of the

sensational and the exotic within i t . Scott's remarks i n the Prefatory

- 153 -
 154

Memoir which he contributed to the Ballantyne's Novelist's Library

edition of Ann Radcliffe's novels (1824), might apply equally well to

the g o t h i c i s t s as a group:

The species of romance which Mrs. R a d c l i f f e introduced,

bears nearly the same relationship to the novel that the modern
anomaly e n t i t l e d a Melo-drame does to the proper drama. I t
does not appeal to the judgment by deep delineations of human
f e e l i n g , or s t i r the passions by scenes of deep pathos, or
awaken the fancy by tracing out, with s p i r i t and v i v a c i t y , the
l i g h t e r traces of l i f e and manners, or excite mirth by strong
representations of the ludicrous or humorous. In other words,
i t attains i t s i n t e r e s t neither by the path of comedy nor of
tragedy; and yet i t has, notwithstanding, a deep, decided, and
powerful e f f e c t , gained by means independent of both—by an
appeal, i n one word, to the passion of fear, whether excited
by natural dangers, or by the suggestions of superstition.g

Later i n the Memoir, while discussing the r o l e of exotic settings, Scott

again stresses the primacy of sensationalism and terror i n the gothic:

The materials of these celebrated romances, and the means

employed i n conducting the narrative, are a l l selected with a
view to the author's primary object, of moving the reader by
ideas of impending danger, hidden g u i l t , supernatural v i s i t i n g s ,
— b y a l l that i s t e r r i b l e , i n short, combined with much that i s
wonderful.

According to Scott, there i s only minor r e l i e f from this purpose; comedy

or novelty can scarcely detract from i t , nor exoticism alienate i t

entirely. The heroine " i s continually struggling with the t i d e of

adversity, and hurried downwards by i t s torrent; and i f any more gay

description i s occasionally introduced, i t i s only as a contrast, not a

9

r e l i e f , to the melancholy and gloomy tenor of the narrative."

In a l l his c r i t i c a l works on the gothic, Scott returns to the idea

that manipulation of strong f e e l i n g s , and of terror i n p a r t i c u l a r , i s

c h a r a c t e r i s t i c of the genre. In doing so, he expresses not only his

i n d i v i d u a l response but the common opinion on the subject, based upon

 155

an interest i n the psychology of terror and sensationalism that had been

followed since the l a t e seventeenth century.

The study of terror that was closest i n time to the b i r t h of the

new gothic s e n s i b i l i t y was Edmund Burke's Philosophical Enquiry into the

Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful (1757). The fact of

the Enguiry's potential l i t e r a r y influence has been s a t i s f a c t o r i l y

demonstrated,"^ but the degree or extent of that influence does not

matter here. After a l l , appreciation of terror as an aesthetic exper-

ience was available from several e a r l i e r sources, most notably John

Dennis 1
Grounds of Criticism in Poetry (1704); and the p r i n c i p l e s of a

psychological method of enquiry, as employed by Burke, had been pro-

gressively sharpened by Hobbes, Locke, Addison, Hutcheson, and Hume—

the l a s t three of these philosophers having also attacked many of the

same problems as Burke. Burke's t r e a t i s e simply had the advantage of

r e s p e c t a b i l i t y and currency over Dennis' when gothicism was being

formed. "^

The Enquiry, therefore, i s worth examining i n great d e t a i l not

because i t s i g n i f i c a n t l y influenced the gothic n o v e l — t h e r e i s too

l i t t l e evidence of t h a t — b u t because i t helps to explain what the gothic

s e n s i b i l i t y was. So much of what i t lays down i n theory coincides with

the practice of gothic dramatists and novelists that i t serves as an

accurate guidebook through this p a r t i c u l a r branch of sensationalist

fiction. I t i s f a i r to assume that the frequent repetitions of Burke's

language and ideas throughout the period when the gothic flourished i s

an index of the Enquiry's value i n revealing the grounds of an increas-

ingly common experience—the w i l l i n g enjoyment of terror.

 156

The p r i n c i p l e s of a psychology of terror are set out early i n the

12

Enquiry. The basic p r i n c i p l e , shared with Hume, i s that pain is a

source of stronger sensations than pleasure. In the sixth section of

Part I Burkeitconcludes that "the passions . . . which are conversant

about the preservation of the i n d i v i d u a l , turn c h i e f l y on pain and

13

danger, and they are the most powerful of a l l the passions." Hume

used this comparison to account for the favoured subjects i n poetry:

"But nothing can furnish to the poet a variety of scenes, and incidents,

and sentiments, except d i s t r e s s , t e r r o r , or anxiety. Complete joy and

s a t i s f a c t i o n i s attended with security and leaves no further room for
14

action." Burke maintains this concern with measuring the strength of

sensations and of the corresponding pleasure, and i t shapes his func-

t i o n a l d e f i n i t i o n of the sublime:
Whatever i s f i t t e d i n any sort to excite the ideas of pain, and
danger, that i s to say, whatever i s i n any sort t e r r i b l e , or i s
conversant about t e r r i b l e objects, or operates i n a manner
analogous to terror, i s a source of the sublime; that i s , i t
i s productive of the strongest emotion which the mind i s capable
of f e e l i n g . I say the strongest emotion, because I am s a t i s f i e d
the ideas of pain are much more powerful than those which enter
on the part of pleasure. Without a l l doubt, the torments which
we may be made to suffer, are much greater i n their effect on
the body and mind, than any pleasures which the most learned
voluptuary could suggest, or than the l i v e l i e s t imagination,
and the most sound and exquisitely sensible body could enjoy.
. . . But as pain i s stronger i n i t s operation than pleasure,
so death i s i n general a much more a f f e c t i n g idea than pain
(pp. 58-60).
The l i n k between terror and sublimity i s strengthened through r e p e t i t i o n :
Whatever therefore i s t e r r i b l e . . . i s sublime too . . . for
i t i s impossible to look on anything as t r i f l i n g , or contempt-
i b l e , that may be dangerous. . . . Indeed terror i s i n a l l
cases whatsoever, either more openly or l a t e n t l y the r u l i n g
p r i n c i p l e of the sublime (pp. 96-97).
Burke even goes so f a r as to try to show a l i n g u i s t i c connection between
 157

" t e r r o r " and "sublimity" (pp. 97-98).

Burke's description of the e f f e c t s of the sublime upon the mind i s

highly relevant to gothic techniques. The most powerful degree of sub-

l i m i t y causes the passion of astonishment,

and astonishment i s that state of the soul, i n which a l l i t s

motions are suspended, with some degree of horror. In this
case the mind i s so e n t i r e l y f i l l e d with i t s object that i t
cannot entertain any other, nor by consequence reason on that
object which employs i t . Hence arises the great power of the
sublime, that far from being produced by them, i t anticipates
our reasonings, and hurries us on by an i r r e s i s t i b l e force
(pp. 95-96).

Thus Burke describes a condition of complete arousal and preoccupation

and, most important, a condition which i s somehow non-rational or supra-

rational. The enjoyer of the sublime must assume a posture of i n t e l l e c -

tual surrender akin to the gothic victim's and the gothic reader's.

In the fourth part of the Enquiry, devoted to e f f i c i e n t causes,

Burke provides a second explanation of this state of submission, this

time i n physiological terms. The c r u c i a l problem i s t h i s : how can

astonishment, the highest l e v e l of sublime emotion, which depends upon

pain and terror for i t s stimulation, be experienced as delight?"*"^ Burke

argues that the tonic e f f e c t of the "exercise of the f i n e r parts of the

system" ( i . e . , the nervous system) through "a mode of t e r r o r " i s analo-

gous to the b e n e f i c i a l , bracing e f f e c t of manual labour, "which i s a

mode of pain," on the grosser organs ( i . e . , the muscles and tendons).

The sublime has a therapeutic.effect on the nerves and the f a c u l t i e s of

sensation; by seeking the sublime, one l i t e r a l l y practices (pp. 254-258).

The practice, however, requires moderate conditions. I t most stop

short of r e a l pain or torture. At several points Burke emphasizes that

 158

actual safety and security are as necessary to the enjoyment of the

sublime as i s a r t i f i c i a l terror:

When danger or pain press too nearly, they are incapable of

giving any delight, and are simply t e r r i b l e ; but at distances,
and with c e r t a i n modifications, they may be, and they are
d e l i g h t f u l , as we everyday experience (p. 60).

Terror i s a passion which always produces delight when i t does

not press too close (pp. 73-74).

If the pain and terror are so modified as not to be a c t u a l l y

noxious; i f the pain i s not carried to violence, and the t e r -
ror i s not conversant about the present destruction of the
person, as these emotions clear the parts, whether f i n e , or
gross, of a dangerous and troublesome incumbrance, they are
capable of producing delight; not pleasure, but a sort of
d e l i g h t f u l horror, a sort of t r a n q u i l i t y tinged with terror,

( . 257)..-;:...
P

As we s h a l l see l a t e r , the modifications of terror were as important to

the gothic as the sensationalism that produces t e r r o r . Burke's thera-

peutic exercise of the nerves i s p a r a l l e l to the temporary entry into

the gothic world with.modern prejudices and values as a sort of l i f e l i n e .

Although the physiology of terror was the least p l a u s i b l e part of

the Enquiry,^ i t did generate some long-lived metaphors for gothic

theorists. For example, i n her essay "On the Pleasure Derived from

Objects of Terror," Anna L a e t i t i a A i k i n (later Mrs. Barbauld) echoes the

Burkean nerve theory: "A strange and unexpected event awakens the mind,

and keeps i t on stretch. . . . Passion and fancy co-operating elevate

the soul to i t s highest p i t c h ; and the pain of terror i s l o s t i n amaze-

18

ment." The s u r v i v a l of such ideas as the aesthetic s e l f - s u f f i c i e n c y

of shock and the transformation of tension into enjoyment was quite

natural, because they helped to j u s t i f y the attractions of the gothic

and to explain the fascination of excess i n q u a s i - s c i e n t i f i c terms.

 159

At any rate, the physiology of terror need not be taken very

seriously, as long as we recognize that i t was symptomatic of the

approaching l i t e r a r y storm. The key point i s the defining of a category

of l i t e r a r y (and r e a l - l i f e ) experience that departs from r a t i o n a l con-

siderations and r e l i e s upon sensationalism pushed toward an a r t i f i c i a l

limit. Since one kind of g o t h i c — t h e ambivalent—also takes simulated

pain, t e r r o r , and awe as i t s p r i n c i p a l components, the process of

defining that category automatically amounts to an analysis of the

gothic.

The r e a l substance of the analysis i s Burke's examination of the

sources f o r the sublime i n the second and t h i r d parts of the Enquiry.

Foremost among them i s what Burke c a l l s obscurity. I t encompasses not

only darkness, shadow, or concealment, as might be expected, but secre-

tiveness and deliberate m y s t i f i c a t i o n . Burke's i l l u s t r a t i o n of this

non-physical sense of obscurity i s suggestive of t y p i c a l gothic themes.

He refers to "those despotic governments, which are founded on the pas-

sions of men, and p r i n c i p a l l y upon the passion of fear." For such

governments, he observes, sublimity i s a matter of coercive p o l i c y , and

they "keep their chief as much as may be from the public eye." Further-

more, "the p o l i c y has been much the same i n many cases of r e l i g i o n "

(pp. 101-102).

Burke's emphasis upon the effect of the obscure and the hidden

agent of terror evidently coincided with the gothic n o v e l i s t s ' and was

understood by them i n r e l a t i o n to their own p r a c t i c e s . In the posthu-

mous extract "On the Supernatural i n Poetry," Ann R a d c l i f f e has one of

her scenic t r a v e l l e r s refer s p e c i f i c a l l y to this part of the Enquiry,

 160

using Burke's notion of obscurity i n order to c l a r i f y a new d i s t i n c t i o n

between terror and horror: "Terror and horror are so f a r opposite, that

the f i r s t expands the soul, and awakens the f a c u l t i e s to a high degree

of l i f e ; the other contracts, freezes, and nearly annihilates them.

. . . And where l i e s the great difference between horror and t e r r o r , but

i n the uncertainty and obscurity, that accompany the f i r s t , respecting

19

the dreaded e v i l ? " The terminology i s c e r t a i n l y Burke's, but the

problem addressed—of decorum and e f f e c t i v e n e s s — i s p e c u l i a r l y gothic.

Burkean theory and gothic experiment agree i n finding that what i s

supplied by the imagination i s more t e r r i f y i n g than what i s depicted

plainly.

This does not diminish the importance of actual force, or the

threat of force. Burke affirms that, aside from objects which are them-

selves dangerous, or which are associated with danger, "I know of

nothing sublime which i s not some modification of power" (p. 110).

However, this source of the sublime i s p a r t i c u l a r l y associative and

i n d i r e c t ; power i s sublime because i t represents the potential of the

object to i n f l i c t pain upon the perceiver. That a potential for power

should be s u f f i c i e n t agrees n i c e l y with the requirements of obscurity;

for the gothic novelist this means that an exact o u t l i n i n g of a powerful,

threatening figure may be delayed almost i n d e f i n i t e l y , f o r maximum

terrifying effect. The high ranking of power as a source of the sublime

coincides with prominent gothic m o t i f s — t h e noble r a p i s t , f i l i a l sub-

mission, the corruption of authority, imprisonment, mental torture—and

with prominent gothic symbols, which a l l represent the power of authority

over the i n d i v i d u a l v i c t i m — t h e c a s t l e , the monastery, the prison, and

 161

the madhouse. Considering the primary r o l e of pain and power i n Burke's

theory, i t i s surprising to find a modern student of s a d i s t i c l i t e r a t u r e

l i k e Mario Praz missing the point of the Enquiry e n t i r e l y and f a i l i n g to

include Burke i n h i s summary of "the aesthetic theory of the Horrid and

the T e r r i b l e which had gradually developed during the course of the

• i , „20
eighteenth century.

Burke's t r e a t i s e becomes especially useful for understanding the

gothic when i t turns to an application of h i s p r i n c i p l e s to l i t e r a t u r e .

For example, Burke measures the standard l e v e l of obscurity i n d i f f e r e n t

arts i n order to rank their a b i l i t y to e l i c i t strong emotions. His

axiom i s simple: " I t i s one thing to make an idea clear, and another to

make i t affecting to the imagination. . . . A clear idea i s . . . another

21

name for a l i t t l e idea" (pp. 101, 108). Inasmuch as poetry is an

image-making a r t , "the images raised by poetry are always of this

obscure kind" (p. 106). For this reason, poetry i s superior to painting,

for instance, i n producing the sublime; painting tends to s t r i v e for

accuracy and c l a r i t y of imitation, instead of "a judicious obscurity."

This preference for poetry ( i . e . , l i t e r a t u r e ) over the v i s u a l and

p l a s t i c arts i s more than a v i n d i c a t i o n of the l i t e r a r y imagination by

a l i t e r a r y man. Through this argument Burke gives an alternative to the

mimetic standard of a r t , which, as I have indicated i n Chapter One, was

unsuited to the new gothicism. Burke demonstrates that the less accurate

and complete the a r t i s t ' s rendition of h i s subject, the stronger its

impact; and strength of sensation i s equal, i n aesthetic v a l i d i t y , to

truth or harmony. K i e l y comments on the l i t e r a r y sections of the

Enquiry:
 162

. . . the greater e f f e c t of the Enquiry was to enlarge the

p o s s i b i l i t i e s of a r t rather than to r e s t r i c t and schematize
them. Burke's discussion of language, though b r i e f , points
the way to further considerations of words as suggestive and
evocative rather than s t r i c t l y i m i t a t i v e . Extending his own
argument that the sublime passions depend, to some degree, on
an incompleteness of knowledge, he asserts that the business
of poetry and r h e t o r i c i s "to a f f e c t rather by sympathy than
imitation; to display rather the e f f e c t of things on the mind
of the speaker, or of others, than to present a clear idea of
the things themselves." ^

The connection with the gothic i s twofold. In arguing that the

sublime must be judged according to standards adapted to i t , Burke puts

forth the same sort of claim as Hurd does f o r the gothic, i n the Third
23

Dialogue and the Letters on Chivalry and Romance. I t should be noted,

in addition, that Hurd's defence of the s t y l i s t i c superiority of the

gothic was partly based on i t s greater capacity to "produce the sublime."

Moreover, the movement i n Burke that K i e l y has i d e n t i f i e d , from

imitation and image-making to evocation and exploring i n t e r n a l responses,

i s the same as the movement of the gothic away from circumstantial

r e a l i t y and the drama of action towards psychological r e a l i t y and the

drama of f e e l i n g — a movement we have already seen under way with Wal-

pole's Castle of Otranto. That movement required devices s p e c i f i e d

under Burke's concept of obscurity: suggestion, r i c h and wild imagery,

c a r e f u l l y managed disorder, and suspense.

Other items on Burke's l i s t of sources f o r the sublime help to

define the aesthetics of the gothic. Among the "general privations,"

for example, Burke names "Vacuity, Darkness, Solitude and Silence,"

(p. 125) which also happen to be the conditions of that central exper-

ience of gothic f i c t i o n , the protagonist's imprisonment. These condi-

tions are also present i n the graphic monument of what Levy c a l l s the
 163

24

" c l a u s t r a l , " Piranesi's series of etchings of the Carceri d'Invenzione.

Speaking of the sublime effect of suddenly alternating brightness

and darkness, Burke observes: "And this i s not the only instance wherein

the opposite extremes operate equally i n favour of the sublime, which i n

a l l things abhors mediocrity" (pp. 146-147). We encounter the same

abhorrence i n gothic f i c t i o n , where both scene-painting and c h a r a c t e r i -

zation elevate the taste for juxtaposed extremes almost to a theory of

personality. Burke makes this taste consistent with his philosophical

technique: "He attempts to describe the strongest of emotions, the most

engrossing of ideas, the greatest of pleasures, the most dreadful pains,

in an e f f o r t to ascertain what inventions of the imagination might pro-

25

duce them. The ultimate art should stimulate the ultimate response."

Although the e f f o r t sometimes y i e l d s t r i v i a l r e s u l t s , such as Burke's

exhaustive treatment of intermittent sounds and flashing l i g h t s , the

desire for the ultimate and the e x c e s s i v e — t h e basic impulse of the

gothic s e n s i b i l i t y — i s set by Burke on an empirical foundation which

makes i t appear more credible and legitimate.

The f i n a l source of the sublime worth considering here i s "the

a r t i f i c i a l i n f i n i t e , " a concept which we meet i n connection with a r c h i -

tecture. Burke's p l a i n opinion of gothic architecture was unfavourable:

Burke himself never recognized tin'. Gothic architecture the out-
standing i l l u s t r a t i o n of the sublime he advocated: magnitude,
apparent disorder, magnificent profusion of d e t a i l , the expres-
sion of immense energy, the suggestion of i n f i n i t y through
ornamental t r a c e r i e s , the awful gloom of the i n t e r i o r . . . his
sole reference to Gothicism reveals the common Augustan preju-
dices. 2 6

Yet, when we examine the concept of the a r t i f i c i a l i n f i n i t e c l o s e l y , we

s h a l l see how i t might be interpreted to support gothicism, i n a r c h i t e c -

 164

ture and i n f i c t i o n , against Burke's avowed lack of sympathy.

The a r t i f i c i a l i n f i n i t e i s a d i s t i l l a t i o n of various factors: the

mind's passive attitude before the sublime, the mind's acquiescence i n

i t s own deception by the sublime, the appeal of the sublime to i r r a -

t i o n a l and mechanical mental processes, and the p o s i t i v e value of power,

terror, and ignorance i n furthering the sublime. The c r u c i a l fact about

impressions of the i n f i n i t e — w h e t h e r i t i s r e a l or a r t i f i c i a l — i s the

mind's i n a b i l i t y to conceive of boundaries or l i m i t s to the supposedly

i n f i n i t e object. The mind i s overwhelmed, i t s reasoning f a c u l t i e s ren-

dered useless. Often this i s a matter of i l l u s i o n , and Burke offers the

example of "succession and uniformity" i n order to describe the process.

The r e p e t i t i o n of i d e n t i c a l objects i n sequence, such as the columns of

a rotunda or a colonnade or an oblong Grecian temple, tends to persuade

the viewer's mind to supply mechanically an i n f i n i t e progression where,

i n r e a l i t y , none e x i s t s . On these grounds, Burke complains against the

profusion of right-angles and broken v i s u a l planes i n the cruciform

gothic cathedral plan, which d i s t r a c t s the perceiver's attention and

spoils any possible i l l u s i o n (pp. 134-135).

Burke's theory, however, including the a r t i f i c i a l i n f i n i t e , was

adapted to support the contrary argument, i n favour of the gothic.

Chief among the adaptors were Uvedale P r i c e , who b u i l t also upon Van-

brugh's and Reynolds' ideas, and the Rev. John Milner, who claimed that

the superiority of the gothic for e c c l e s i a s t i c a l buildings was authorized

by Burke and asserted that gothic churches "are more conducive to

27

'prayer and contemplation'." Only twenty years after the Enquiry

appeared Mrs. Thrale was able to c i t e Burke i n support of a favourable

 165

opinion of gothic things, his o r i g i n a l attitude having merged somehow

with Horace Walpole's: "I observed i t was i n Manners as i n Architecture,

the Gothick struck one most f o r c i b l y , the Grecian delighted one more
28

sensibly. 'Tis the Sublime & b e a u t i f u l of Burke over again."

The reversal of a r c h i t e c t u r a l attitude becomes less puzzling when

we take into account a feature of the a r t i f i c i a l i n f i n i t e , as Burke

describes i t , which i s perfectly attuned to neo-gothic tastes i n b u i l d -

ing. I am r e f e r r i n g to the o r i e n t a t i o n of the i n f i n i t e , and hence, the

sublime. Burke considers the question of whether the i l l u s i o n of

i n f i n i t y operates more powerfully i n one d i r e c t i o n than another, and he

concludes that the sublime i s , above a l l else, an experience of v e r t i c a l

29

or perpendicular i n f i n i t y . The sublime affects the whole conscious-

ness with vertigo. It i s l o g i c a l that, i n comparison, horizontal

i n f i n i t y — v i e w i n g an expansive panorama—gives an i n f e r i o r t h r i l l , for

i t bears no immediate sign of power relationships, of p o t e n t i a l i d e n t i -

f i c a t i o n with the superior or the i n f e r i o r . I have already referred

(Chapter One, note 26) to V i r g i n i a Hyde's observation that neo-gothic

taste was greatly affected by the Perpendicular s t y l e , favouring exag-

gerated, soaring v e r t i c a l l i n e s , and I believe i t a f a i r generalization.

We find the epitome of this taste for v e r t i c a l i t y i n William Beckford's

reconstructed F o n t h i l l Abbey, with i t s soaring, s t r u c t u r a l l y unsound

octagon tower, i t s twelve-foot-high park w a l l , and i t s cavernous,

30

inhuman i n t e r i o r spaces. If Beckford was not s t r i v i n g for t e r r o r , he

was at least looking to create very strong impressions, impressions that

seem to demand a kind of perceptual submission that i s part of the sub-

lime.
 166

Burke spends r e l a t i v e l y l i t t l e time dealing d i r e c t l y with t h i s

aspect of gothic taste, but the remainder of h i s theory gives a s a t i s -

factory psychological account of i t , i n which v e r t i c a l i t y i s not merely

of o p t i c a l s i g n i f i c a n c e . Maurice Levy, f o r example, believes that the

common element i n neo-gothic architecture and gothic f i c t i o n i s the

replacement of a horizontal by a v e r t i c a l axis of imagination. Levy

combines the ideas of obscurity and i n f i n i t y to extend the range of

sublime objects, so that they include d i f f i c u l t or arcane knowledge, of

the s e l f or of ultimate things. The v e r t i c a l i n f i n i t e i s the l i n e of

dreaming, of i n i t i a t i o n , of questing, of descent into deeper l e v e l s of

consciousness. Levy suggests that the recurrent v e r t i c a l arrangement of

architecture and of narrative layers i n the gothic novels symbolizes the

arrangement of the personality and the dreamer's penetration through i t ,

a movement which i s both i l l u m i n a t i n g and t e r r i f y i n g . He also l i n k s the

idea of v e r t i c a l i n f i n i t y to the h i s t o r i c a l preoccupations i n the novels:

C'est encore par un mouvement de descente v e r t i c a l e dans un

passe national qu'on explique l e mieux l e retour a l'epoque
des Croisades, de l a Reine Elisabeth, ou du r o i Charles l . e r

Collectivement . . . l a societe anglaise s'enfonce dans son

h i s t o i r e pour y trouver obscurement sa v e r i t e , peut-etre aussi
pour y puiser des images susceptibles de 1'aider a integrer, en
les fixant a. un niveau rassurant de son propre passe national,
les evenements de 89.^

Inasmuch as i t can be adapted to the creation of f i c t i o n a l scenes,

characters, and p l o t s , the idea of the a r t i f i c i a l i n f i n i t e also provides

a simple model of gothic technique. Just as the viewer of a sublime

object, l i m i t e d to a monotonous yet suggestive set of images, builds h i s

sensation of being overwhelmed ( i . e . , of the sublime) on the extension

of those images, so the reader of gothic f i c t i o n , held i n ignorance

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except for a few disturbing impressions constantly r e i n f o r c e d — o f

p o t e n t i a l danger, for instance—imagines t e r r i f y i n g events, gruesome

personal h i s t o r i e s , unseen p e r i l , through the aid of his own conspiring

32

invention.

The a r t i f i c i a l i n f i n i t e and the v e r t i c a l orientation were not new

features i n the l i t e r a t u r e of the sublime. Both the Longinian and the

topographical sublime employ the concept of elevation, either l i t e r a l or

metaphorical, and Burke introduces most of the key objects that would

have been f a m i l i a r from either branch of the theory: mountains, storms,

seas, chasms, awesome buildings, l i m i t l e s s space, evocative language.

Burke's r e a l innovation, however, i s h i s d i s s o c i a t i o n of the v e r t i c a l

axis of imagination, and the sublime experience i n general, from

religious beliefs.

Other enthusiasts of the sublime saw r e l i g i o u s significance i n

their experiences, r e l i g i o u s symbols i n sublime objects. For them, the

sublime was a confrontation between man with his meagre c a p a b i l i t i e s and

the immensity of the divine presence i n the physical world. Admiration

for sublime scenery was a form of worship well-suited to Christian or
33

D e i s t i c piety.

Without denying a l l r e l i g i o u s implications, Burke describes a sub-

l i m i t y which i s not necessarily or primarily r e l i g i o u s i n meaning. The

v e r t i c a l l i n e extends from man to God, perhaps, but also from man to

whatever i s rendered mysterious, potent and t e r r i b l e by a r t . The divine

power may be the ultimate instance of such p o t e n t i a l i t i e s , but Burke

does not refer a l l terror to i t . Instead, Burke secularizes the sublime

experience by concentrating on the psychological basis for i t . For this

 168

reason, we must d i f f e r with W. F. Wright's contention that Burke's sub-

lime "arose from a philosophical r e a l i z a t i o n of the divine i n nature"

and that i t had l i t t l e i n common with Walpole's supernatural awe, a

claim which leads him to conclude that "the appearance of terror i n the
34

English novel had been prepared f o r scarcely at a l l . " To counter t h i s ,

I would return to an analogy with architecture. Burke founds a system

of terror on psychological, rather than r e l i g i o u s , p r i n c i p l e s at the

same time that Walpole and other g o t h i c i s t s are s t a r t i n g to blend

e c c l e s i a s t i c a l designs f r e e l y into their own dramatic structures i n

order to evoke not only conventional piety but i t s parody. In both

cases the movement i s away from previous associations, towards more

35

sensational, f l e x i b l e practices. Although the terror of the gothic

kept i t s b a s i c a l l y r e l i g i o u s , authoritarian character, acting as an

36

extension of the s t r i c t e s t Protestant visions of g u i l t and punishment,

the Enquiry shows how d i f f e r e n t powers and agents may be substituted f o r

the customary ones according to s c i e n t i f i c principles—how the stock of

terror may be expanded. The main i n t e r e s t i n the Enquiry i s reserved

for the a r t of pure t e r r o r , such as Scott believed that Ann R a d c l i f f e

was p r a c t i c i n g .

In following that i n t e r e s t , the Enquiry reaches certain conclusions

which help to illuminate the difference between ambivalent and nostalgic

gothicism.

1. The Enquiry establishes a category of art whose aim i s not

mimesis but the stimulation of strong feelings. Burke does not treat

this as an i n f e r i o r purpose.
 169

2. The Enquiry demonstrates how the s p e c t a c l e of p a i n , or the

t h r e a t of p e r s o n a l i n j u r y , may be the source of a mixed, m o d i f i e d

pleasure.

3. In a n a l y z i n g those q u a l i t i e s of o b j e c t s which l e n d them sub-

limity, the Enquiry a r r i v e s at an account of the core of ambivalent

g o t h i c i s m , which seeks to evoke an imaginary yet q u a s i - h i s t o r i c a l age

of r u t h l e s s power, w i t h o u t s e n t i m e n t a l i t y or n o s t a l g i a i n t e r v e n i n g .

4. The common f a c t o r i n a l l sublime p r o p e r t i e s i s e x t r e m i t y . The

degree of e x c e l l e n c e of a sublime o b j e c t depends upon the i n t e n s i t y and

p u r i t y of the t e r r o r t h a t i t i n d u c e s . Thus, the c r i t e r i o n of a e s t h e t i c

value s h i f t s away from the u s u a l t e s t s : moral v a l u e , e d u c a t i v e value,

formal p e r f e c t i o n — a l l y i e l d to the s t r e n g t h of the r e a d e r ' s or viewer's

sensations.

5. The Enquiry presents s u r p r i s e , suspense, shock, suggestiveness,

and t e r r o r as l e g i t i m a t e l i t e r a r y d e v i c e s , and, of course, these are

a l s o the c h i e f instruments of ambivalent gothicism.

6. The Enquiry d e f i n e s s u b l i m i t y as whatever draws the imagination

and the senses beyond u s u a l l i m i t s , i n c l u d i n g the e x t r a o r d i n a r y and the

unknowable. Though analyzed r a t i o n a l l y by Burke, the sublime operates

non-rationally. The t e r r o r o f the sublime o r i g i n a t e s i n the spectator's

sense of v u l n e r a b i l i t y and h e l p l e s s n e s s , i n h i s d e l i g h t at a t h r e a t

s u r v i v e d , at a s u p e r i o r power encountered and w i t h s t o o d . The willing

v i c t i m , l i k e many g o t h i c p r o t a g o n i s t s , meets a f a c s i m i l e of death or of

i n n e r darkness which, because i t i s o n l y a f a c s i m i l e , can be vanquished.

Pamela Kaufman has i n t e r p r e t e d t h i s conquest i n terms of the

Freudian dualism of eros and thanatos. In e f f e c t , w i t h i n the a r t of

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terror the "fantasies symbolize a preoccupation with s u r v i v a l . . . .

Both Burke and Freud agree that the fundamental human desire i s to sur-

vive and to l i v e as i n d i v i d u a l s . . . . They d i f f e r over which 'passion'

expresses this w i l l for self-preservation." Kaufman then draws a con-

nection between Burke's interest i n surviving dangers and the gothic:

"In Freudian terms, the Gothic fantasy i s counter-phobic, that i s , i t

37

embraces the very t e r r o r that i t fears." The l a s t phrase i s a fine

rendition of the ambivalence of the gothic.

The d i r e c t thrust of the Enquiry i s away from conventional literary

experiences and towards the exploitation of shock for i t s own sake—for

the imaginative exercise—and for the sake of revealing the darker

aspects of the psyche. Yet, i f the Enquiry does give a rationale for

gothic sensationalism, at the same time i t also gives, i n i t s very

d e f i n i t i o n of the sublime, the means of opposing excessive sensational-

ism. Along with the more r a d i c a l statements we discover a concern for

decorum and taste. Or, as K i e l y has summarized the relationship between

Burke's sublime and the gothic: "One finds i n Walpole, R a d c l i f f e , Reeve,

38

and Lewis not only Burke's ideas but Burke's problems."

The most persistent problem was setting out boundaries for the

sensational, balancing freedom of exploration against disgust and moral

revulsion. For the gothic, this problem coincides with the central con-

f l i c t between nostalgia and ambivalence. In general, we w i l l find that

nostalgia m i l i t a t e s for more severe l i m i t s upon sensationalism, because,

as we have seen i n Chapter One, the nostalgic version of the gothic

world i s more s e l e c t i v e . Ambivalence requires the techniques of sensa-

tionalism i n order to depict the excesses of gothic power that i t both

 171

admires and condemns.

Burke approached the problem by t r y i n g to indicate exactly what

kind and what degree of terror were bearable, and by t r y i n g to account

for the reaction to r e a l , as well as a r t i f i c i a l l y - d e p i c t e d , scenes of

distress. Burke recognizes that there i s a difference between delight-

f u l horror and disgust, or actual pain; therefore, he favours a surro-

gate danger, made up of associations with potent objects, suggestions

of unnamed threats, and substitutions of symbolic figures f o r ultimate

sources of power.

To h i s successors this solution was more provocative than conclu-

sive. After a l l , they had immediate r e a l i t i e s l i k e the gothic novel

and gothic drama to consider. Mrs. Barbauld (Anna L a e t i t i a A i k i n ) , i n

a work s p e c i f i c a l l y devoted to the problem, shows with her e s s e n t i a l l y

anti-sensationalist p o s i t i o n how sensitive the issue of propriety had

become and how many negative cases she saw around her:

It i s undoubtedly true . . . that the representation of d i s -

tress frequently gives pleasure; from which general observa-
tion many of our modern writers of tragedy and romance seem
to have drawn this i n f e r e n c e , — t h a t i n order to please, they
have nothing more to do than to paint d i s t r e s s i n natural and
s t r i k i n g colours. With this view, they heap together a l l the
a f f l i c t i n g events and dismal accidents their imagination can
furnish; and when they have half broke the reader's heart,
they expect he should thank them f o r h i s agreeable entertain-
ment. An author of this class s i t s down, pretty much l i k e an
i n q u i s i t o r , to compute how much suffering he can i n f l i c t upon
the hero of h i s tale before he makes an end of him.^g

At f i r s t i t appears as i f Mrs. Barbauld were merely questioning the

more extravagant uses of the sensational, but as she continues her d i s -

cussion i t becomes clear that she i s i d e n t i f y i n g a f a i l u r e of what Hume

called "conversion"—the accommodation of d i s t i n c t , and often contrary,

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passions. In the process, she implies that p a i n f u l sensations cannot be

converted or modified toward anything l i k e Burke's surrogate pain, and

that p i t y — t h e preferable emotion—operates quite independently:

The view or r e l a t i o n of mere misery can never be pleasing.

We have, indeed, a strong sympathy with a l l kinds of misery;
but i t i s a f e e l i n g of pure unmixed pain, s i m i l a r i n kind,
though not equal i n degree, to what we f e e l for ourselves i n
the l i k e occasions; and never produces that melting sorrow,
that t h r i l l of tenderness, to which we give the name of p i t y .
They are two d i s t i n c t sensations, marked by very d i f f e r e n t
external expression. One causes the nerves to t i n g l e , the
f l e s h to shudder, and the whole countenance to be thrown into
strong contradictions; the other relaxes the frame, opens the
features, and produces t e a r s . ^

This f i n a l contrast i s equal to the worst of Burke's physiology, yet the

prevailing contrast i s that between pain, which i s neither an aesthetic

nor a controllable sensation, and p i t y , which 'is both aesthetic and

decorous. I t was not the p a i n f u l subject but the p a i n f u l treatment of

i t that Mrs. Barbauld d i s l i k e d , the dropping of p i t y from the c l a s s i c

terror and p i t y of tragedy.

This c r i t i c i s m had j u s t i f i c a t i o n , at least as far as the gothic was

concerned. The i n t e r n a l struggle within the gothic centred on questions

of excessive sensationalism ( i . e . , terror-mongering) and the excessive

sentimentality usually associated with nostalgia. In 1757 Burke set

aside p i t y as the chief source of our interest i n d i s t r e s s i n g events and

placed terror at the core of a prospective l i t e r a r y genre. In 1764

Horace Walpole's translator persona claimed terror as his "author's

p r i n c i p a l engine" i n Otranto. And i n 1824 Scott would make terror the

c h a r a c t e r i s t i c instrument of the gothic. But i t i s not Mrs. Barbauld's

favoured instrument, and her c r i t i c i s m represents the countervailing,

censorious voice which required moral elevation, sympathy, and r e s t r a i n t

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rather than spectacle.

Mrs. Barbauld i s exact i n advising how painful subjects are to be

managed. Her recommendations comprise a survey of a n t i - s e n s a t i o n a l i s t

opinion:

. . . no scenes of misery ought to be exhibited which are not

connected with the display of some moral excellence or agree-
able quality. . . . The misfortunes which excite p i t y must
not be too horrid and overwhelming. . . . A judicious author
w i l l never attempt to raise p i t y by any thing mean or disgust-
ing there must be a degree of complacence mixed with our
sorrows to produce an agreeable sympathy; nothing, therefore,
must be admitted which destroys the grace and dignity of suf-
fering. . . . Scenes of d i s t r e s s should not be too long con-
tinued. A l l our f i n e r feelings are i n a manner momentary, and
no art can carry them beyond a certain point, either i n
intenseness or duration. Constant suffering deadens the heart
to tender impressions. . . . It i s therefore necessary, i n a
long work, to r e l i e v e the mind by scenes of pleasure and
gaiety . . . provided care be taken not to check the passions
while they are f l o w i n g . ^

However, Mrs. Barbauld further complicates her position i n her

42

essay "On Romances: An Imitation." Here she inquires into the reasons

for our paradoxical delight i n "the groans of misery" and "complicated

anguish," and dismisses as s i m p l i s t i c and mistaken two previous l i n e s of

argument which Burke had also dismissed: that the spectacle of f i c t i o n a l

43

sufferings aids the reader i n bearing his own r e a l ones; and that the

sense of commiseration a r i s i n g from f i c t i o n a l sufferings gives the

reader a chance to congratulate himself on h i s s e n s i t i v i t y and magnanim-

ity. Unfortunately, Mrs. Barbauld does not present her own positive

views on the subject. Nevertheless, scanning her c r i t i c a l writings we

shocka techniques.
find measure of consistency i n her suspicion of strong scenes and
 174

Another moderating voice i s Dr. Nathan Drake's. In h i s Literary

Hours, Drake regards l i t e r a r y fantasy as a refuge from r e a l horrors, i n

p a r t i c u l a r from those of the Napoleonic Wars:

Long . . . as our eyes have been now turned on scenes of tur-

bulence and anarchy, long as we have listened with horror to
the storm which has swept over Europe with such ungovernable
fury, i t must prove highly g r a t e f u l , highly soothing to the
wearied mind, occasionally to repose on such topics as l i t e r -
ature and imagination are w i l l i n g to a f f o r d . ^

This should not suggest, however, that Drake was attracted to

l i t e r a t u r e only as a means of escape and relaxation. Such motivation

would have prejudiced him against gothic sensationalism, which offered

escape, perhaps, but not of a kind "highly soothing to the wearied mind."

In f a c t , Drake was drawn to "gothic superstition" (this included a l l

forms of supernaturalism), which he f e l t was an enduring imaginative

45

influence, "even i n the present polished period of society." Else-

where Drake made i t clear that his contemporaries could only be expected

to produce, and to understand, r e p l i c a s of a past b e l i e f which was no

longer emotionally or i n t e l l e c t u a l l y available to them:

In this age, when science and l i t e r a t u r e have spread so
extensively, the heavy clouds of superstition have been d i s -
persed, and have assumed a l i g h t e r and less formidable hue;
for though the tales of Walpole, Reeve, and R a d c l i f f e , or
the poetry of Weiland, Burger, and Lewis, s t i l l powerfully
arrest attention, and keep an ardent c u r i o s i t y a l i v e , yet i s
their machinery by no means an object of popular b e l i e f , nor
can i t now lead to dangerous c r e d u l i t y , as when i n the times
of Tasso, Shakspearef,-j and even Milton, witches and wizards,
spectres and f a i r i e s , were nearly as important subjects of
f a i t h as the most serious doctrines of r e l i g i o n . , ^
46
Drake valued gothic superstition as a "source of imagery," capable

of bringing about "a grateful astonishment, a welcome sensation of

47

fear." He feared that attempts to d i s c r e d i t and expunge from poetry

even the simplest and most popular superstitions would cause "our
 175

national poetry" to "degenerate into mere morality, c r i t i c i s m , and

s a t i r e . . . the sublime, the t e r r i b l e , and the f a n c i f u l i n poetry,

48
w i l l no longer e x i s t . " Drake's l o y a l t i e s were close to Hurd's,

Walpole's, and Burke's. There i s the same delight i n fantasy, the same

dread of banality and mere common-sense, the same enthusiasm for gothic

vitality. But, l i k e Hurd i n his c u l t u r a l defence of gothicism and

Walpole i n his a r c h i t e c t u r a l fantasies, Drake i n s i s t e d on adding a

"sportive" element to the more sombre concept of t e r r o r - i n s p i r e d

imagination described by Burke. His gothicism was more e c l e c t i c yet

low-keyed. Thus he was able to s k i r t the problem of sensationalism and

i t s l i m i t s by i d e n t i f y i n g two complementary aspects of gothic super-

stition:
. . . although this kind of s u p e r s t i t i o n be able to arrest
every f a c u l t y of the human mind, and to shake, as i t were,
a l l nature with horror, yet does i t also delight i n the
most sportive and elegant imagery. . . . The vulgar Gothic
. . . turns c h i e f l y on the awful m i n i s t r a t i o n of the Spectre,
or the innocent gambols of the Faery.^

Drake carried over this d i s t i n c t i o n i n his analysis of f o l k l o r e and

popular b e l i e f s , and was evidently interested enough i n advancing the

cause of the l i g h t e r , "sportive" gothic and i t s compatibility with the

more t e r r i f y i n g kind to compose his own short f i c t i o n as a demonstra-

t i o n piece. The r e s u l t i n g story of the knight Henry Fitzowen has

n e g l i g i b l e l i t e r a r y value, since Drake has had to overlook any p r i n c i p l e

of dramatic pacing or s k i l f u l plot construction for the sake of cramming

as many diverse incidents and e f f e c t s into the story as possible. That

he should have bothered with such an inconclusive experiment seems less

surprising when we look at his essay "On Objects of Terror.""^ With no

great o r i g i n a l i t y Drake here concluded that "objects of terror may . . .

 176

be divided into those which owe their o r i g i n to the agency of superhuman

beings, and form a part of every system of mythology, and into those

which depend upon natural causes and events for their production.""'"'"

Examining the l a t t e r category, Drake came upon the danger of sensation-

alism which Mrs. Barbauld had also recognized. Because no supernatural

agents were involved i n causing them, natural terrors were more probable

and f a m i l i a r . There was no distance provided by condescension and

r a t i o n a l i z a t i o n to make them less personal for the enlightened reader.

Therefore, they remained a potential source of shock, disgust, and

indecency unless c a r e f u l l y managed. The story of Henry Fitzowen should

be regarded as an exercise i n the counterbalancing of sensationalism.

For this purpose Drake recommended the use of picturesque d e s c r i p t i o n ,

the evocation of conventionally sublime or pathetic sentiments, and the

contrivance of suspense devices:

No e f f o r t s of genius . . . are so t r u l y great as those

which, approaching the brink of horror, have yet, by the art
of the poet or painter, by adjunctive and picturesque embel-
lishment, by pathetic or sublime emotion, been rendered
powerful i n creating the most d e l i g h t f u l and fascinating
sensations.

Drake's examples of disgusting and pleasing horror are interesting

because they exhibit the tension between subject and treatment:

A poem, a novel, or a p i c t u r e , may . . . notwithstanding i t s

accurate imitation of nature and beauty of execution, unfold
a scene so horrid, or so cruel, that the art of the painter
or the poet i s unable to render i t communicative of the
smallest pleasurable emotion. . . . The' Mysterious Mother
. . . a tragedy by the l a t e celebrated Lord Orford [Horace
Walpole], labours under an insuperable defect of this kind.
The plot turns upon a mother's premeditated incest with
her own son, a catastrophe productive only of horror and
aversion, and for which the many well-written scenes i n t r o -
ductory to this monstrous event cannot atone.
 177

Drake commends Dante's story of Ugolino i n the Inferno as an instance of

a p a i n f u l subject t a s t e f u l l y handled, and applies the same standard to

the other founder of a gothic "school":

In the production of Mrs. R a d c l i f f e , the Shakspeare of Romance

Writers, . . . may be found many scenes t r u l y t e r r i f i c i n
their conception, yet so softened down, and the mind so much
relieved, by the intermixture of b e a u t i f u l description, or
pathetic incident, that the impression of the whole never
becomes too strong, never degenerates into horror, but plea-
surable emotion i s ever the predominating r e s u l t . ^

Even Scott, with his f u l l appreciation of terror and the sensa-

t i o n a l , adopts the " f a m i l i a r i t y breeds contempt" argument with regard to

the explicitness of horror, c o r r e c t l y employing Burke's doctrine of

54

obscurity i n support of his p o s i t i o n .

From Burke through Scott, the advocacy of a manipulative, sensa-

t i o n a l l i t e r a t u r e was counterbalanced by a reticence that was sometimes

moral, sometimes aesthetic. Ideas o f . l i m i t a t i o n merged with ideas of

effectiveness and impressiveness. Burke had defined the general l i m i t .

The reader's sufferings had to be a e s t h e t i c a l l y distanced, not authentic

or personal; they had to be f e l t i n some way d i f f e r e n t from actual pain,

fear, and horror. That i s the point of Mrs. R a d c l i f f e ' s d i s t i n c t i o n

between terror and h o r r o r — t h e separation of personal and aesthetic

passions. This requirement that terror be moderated and distanced was

p a r t i c u l a r l y applicable to the gothic, because the conviction persisted

that gothic exuberance and inventiveness were insidious forces which

might become dangerous, morally and imaginatively.

Of course, the danger, l i k e the imaginary gothic world, was both

appalling and a t t r a c t i v e , a paradox upon which gothic ambivalence was

founded. In considering anxieties over sensationalism and the pressure

 178

to l i m i t i t , the d i f f e r e n t versions of "gothic b a r b a r i t y " — t h e ambiva-

lent and the nostalgic—become very important. Underlying desires f o r

restorative fantasy, fears of strong passions, a t t r a c t i o n to power and

e v i l or revulsion against them—these competing impulses affected the

degree to which sensational elements were accepted and exploited i n the

gothic novels.

Various shadings of disgust, interest and enthusiasm are discern-

i b l e among writers and c r i t i c s : (1) disapproval and avoidance (e.g.,

Clara Reeve, antiquaries), (2) disapproval yet i n t e r e s t (e.g., A. L.

Barbauld, Nathan Drake), (3) q u a l i f i e d approval and moderate use (e.g.,

Ann R a d c l i f f e , Sophia Lee), (4) open approval yet moderate use (e.g.,

Horace Walpole, most gothic dramatists"'"') , (5) q u a l i f i e d critical

approval (e.g., Burke, Scott, Coleridge), and (6) open approval and

f u l l use (e.g., Lewis, Maturin, l e Fanu, Lovecraft). However, when we

study the occurrence of sensationalism i n the gothic with attention to

the main gothic aims and strategies, this l i s t reduces to two basic

positions.

Uneasiness with sensationalism i s t y p i c a l of the nostalgic mode of

the gothic. Because that mode concentrates on the heroism and s e n t i -

mentality which i t d i s t i l l s from gothic barbarity, i t can accommodate

t e r r i f y i n g figures only as intruders into an i d e a l s e t t i n g . I t w i l l not

make them too prominent or a t t r a c t i v e . The tendency of the nostalgic

mode i s to become decorous and conservative. I t converts the imaginary

gothic world into an ideal extension of the e t h i c a l climate of the

1780's and '90's, or into an ideal corrective for i t . As we have seen

in the case of The Old English Baron, this process of i d e a l i z a t i o n —

 179

whatever the discontent with present r e a l i t i e s from which i t a r i s e s —

simply improves upon conventional values by purifying them i n fantasy.

In serving this end the fantasy i s purged of disturbing themes and

characters. The emphasis f a l l s on c h i v a l r i c adventure, rationalized

supernaturalism, and a p a l l i d version of romantic love, conducted i n

an atmosphere which encourages the expression of certain fashionable

emotions—melancholy, melting s e n s i b i l i t y , pathos, f i l i a l piety—and

discourages other less governable o n e s — l u s t , ambition, jealousy,

malevolence, and fear. I t i s the influence of the nostalgic mode that

r e s i s t s the depiction i n gothic novels of sexual rapacity, violence,

r e a l supernaturalism, and the d i s s o l u t i o n of the family, even i n works

which are not fundamentally nostalgic. For example, W. F. Wright notes

how Mrs. R a d c l i f f e was guided i n some matters by the nostalgic mode.

Though she did not shrink from depicting physical sufferings and tor-

tures quite graphically, she was careful not to allow any such events

to b e f a l l her protagonists: "Mrs. R a d c l i f f e treated herself and her

readers to the c h i l l experience of horror and, at the same time,

preserved her worthy characters free from a l l stain which would prevent

their ultimate happiness and the j o y f u l termination of the story.""^

The ambivalent mode of gothicism, on the other hand, i s fascinated

with, and dependent upon, those features of the imaginary gothic world

which the nostalgic mode avoids. The ambivalence originates with a t t i -

tudes towards the putative gothic ancestors and their environment. The

gothic i s a t t r a c t i v e and repellent f o r the same reasons: i t s violence,

i t s rampant sexual and material aggressiveness, i t s dedication to

extremes of f e e l i n g , action, and b e l i e f , i t s alienation from contemporary

 180

life. The gothic i s exciting and t a n t a l i z i n g , yet ambivalence makes one

grateful to encounter i t only i n imagination.

Because the ambivalence concerns t e r r o r , force, and power, sensa-

tionalism pervades this mode of the gothic. The central experience of

this mode i s not, as i n the nostalgic, a d e l i g h t f u l suspension of

banality and common-sense; instead, i t i s an experience of being over-

whelmed—by strong, disturbing sensations, by p o l i t i c a l or r e l i g i o u s

tyranny, by m y s t i f i c a t i o n , by an oppressive sense of the a l i e n . The

reader's resistance l i e s i n h i s enlightened contempt for the gothic

world, which does not permit him to lend too much credence to the fanta-

sies set within i t . Nevertheless, he w i l l i n g l y suffers manipulation of

his fears, expectations and prejudices, i n an exotic atmosphere which

both v e r i f i e s and l i m i t s the r e a l i t y of h i s terror.

The readeris r e w a r d — p a r a l l e l to the psychological exercise that

Burke d e s c r i b e s — i s the thematic expansiveness of the mode. The ambiv-

alent mode uses sensationalism so f r e e l y , not only i n l i n e with Burke's

discovery that sensationalism can move an audience i r r a t i o n a l l y , but

also i n l i n e with i t s preoccupation, which i s i r r a t i o n a l i t y i t s e l f . The

ambivalent mode concentrates on the fate of victims i n extreme s i t u a -

tions, sufferers of extraordinary s e n s a t i o n s — s i t u a t i o n s and sensations

readily disposed i n the imaginary gothic world. The reader shares i n

the extremity from a safe distance, so that he i s , simultaneously,

disturbed and reassured by i t .

The distance i s l a r g e l y achieved through exoticism, and i n this

matter, too, nostalgia and ambivalence d i f f e r . In the nostalgic mode,

the gothic world i s exotic i n d i r e c t proportion to the g o t h i c i s t ' s

 181

antiquarian interests or d i s a f f e c t i o n with the present. The i d e a l world

may be more or less h i s t o r i c a l , more or less i n s i s t e n t l y a l i e n , but the

exoticism i s never a mask for threatening subjects since those are

rarely present. Scott has explained the value of the exotic f o r ambiva-

lent gothicism i n h i s preface to R a d c l i f f e ' s novels:

She has uniformly selected the south of Europe f o r her places

of action, whose passions, l i k e the weeds of the climate, are
supposed to a t t a i n portentous growth under the f o s t e r i n g sun;
which abounds with ruined monuments of antiquity, as well as
the more massive remnants of the middle ages; and where feudal
tyranny and Catholic s u p e r s t i t i o n s t i l l continue to exercise
their sway over the slave and bigot, and to indulge to the
haughty l o r d , or more haughty p r i e s t , that sort of despotic
power, the exercise of which seldom f a i l s to deprave the heart,
and disorder the judgment. These circumstances are s k i l f u l l y
selected, to give p r o b a b i l i t y to events which could not, with-
out great v i o l a t i o n of truth, be represented as having taken
place i n England.^

The exotic settings and characters not only prevent the v i o l a t i o n

of truth but also the v i o l a t i o n of the modern reader's confidence that

his own time i s e s s e n t i a l l y different from the gothic. Such confidence

i s a c r u c i a l part of the ambivalent p o s i t i o n , and i t i s expressed i n

that configuration t y p i c a l of the ambivalent mode, the confrontation

pattern.

Bertrand Evans has used the study of confrontation patterns to

extend the idea of exoticism beyond the geographical. Evans sees the

relationship between gothic protagonists and their persecutors as a case

of d i f f e r e n t cultures brought together by apparent h i s t o r i c a l accident.

The source of terror i s the f r i c t i o n between their mutually incomprehen-

s i b l e systems of moral and aesthetic values:

Walpole's Isabel [sic] and Mrs. R a d c l i f f e ' s Adeline, Emily,

and Ellena were no more born to the medieval scene than were
Pamela and Evelina. Enlightened, virtuous, and "sensible,"
 182

they had been uprooted from their proper society and, with
contemporary emotional and i n t e l l e c t u a l patterns i n t a c t ,
thrust into that era which was "barbarous." Subjected to the
various menaces of the Dark Ages, they served as projections
of the nervous system of their own time, as s e n s i t i v e r e g i s -
ters of emotional reaction to horrors, and, c l e a r l y , as
transmitters of the t h r i l l s of their exposure. When they
shuddered, their home-bound contemporaries shuddered. co

According to Evans, the persecutor i s the representative of the

barbarous, dangerous gothic era. His l a i r (castle, palace, chateau,

monastery) i s the physical symbol of that e r a — s p e c i f i c a l l y , of i t s

endurance or decay—and from the s t y l e of i t s construction and i t s state

of repair we may i n f e r much about the time and place that we, and the

protagonists, have entered. The placing of ruined castles and abbeys i n

medieval settings, against a l l chronological p r o b a b i l i t y , was not always

a novelist's oversight. Ruins bore significances which we have already

noted i n some d e t a i l . They were melancholy reminders of mutability or

cheerful reminders that tyrannical p o l i t i c a l and r e l i g i o u s i n s t i t u t i o n s

had been replaced. In addition, however, given the more pejorative

connotation of gothic as anachronistic, these ruins and their occupants

also represent the presence of outmoded tastes and manners i n the midst

of modern society. Thus, the presentation of.the c o n f l i c t between

gothic protagonist and gothic v i l l a i n i n h i s t o r i c a l or i n t e r - c u l t u r a l

terms i s a way of i s o l a t i n g aberrant forces within contemporary society.

Safely removed from immediate r e a l i t y , such gothic b a r b a r i t i e s may be

rendered contemptible and, at the same time, may be admired f o r their

sheer b r u t a l i t y and magnificence.

The convenient notion of "gothic manners" i s as adaptable within

the gothic novel as i n common usage; i n the novel, i t serves to mark off

the various gradations of v i l l a i n y and the l i n e s of c o n f l i c t .

 183

A s t r i k i n g example of c o n f l i c t which shows the effect of ambiva-

lence on gothic characterization occurs i n Ann Radcliffe's The Mysteries

of Udolphg (17,94). The heroine, Emily St. Aubert, and her aunt, who has

just become Mme. Montoni, are crossing the Alps into I t a l y . This par-

t i c u l a r journey had been the testing ground f o r picturesque and sublime

s e n s i b i l i t y at least since John Dennis made i t i n 1688, and the two

women react i'n>. waysjcharacteristic of their d i f f e r e n t positions on the

scale of taste. While Emily's soul r i s e s i n fashionable accord with the

sublimity of c l i f f s and gorges and bursts forth regularly i n poetic

effusions of s e n s i b i l i t y , Mme. Montoni's response i s recognizably o l d -

fashioned, and perhaps more r e a l i s t i c : she i s agitated by the dangers of

the passage and disgusted by the chaos of rock and snow around her.

This throwback to older ideas of order and security offends Emily

because i t i s stodgy and i n s e n s i t i v e , but there i s evidence from outside

the novel that R a d c l i f f e was not wholly i n sympathy with this opinion.

Writing i n her t r a v e l journals of her t r i p down the Rhine, she reports

that the c l i f f s , the high wind, the roar of the r i v e r and the force of

i t s currents "were circumstances of the true sublime, i n s p i r i n g terror

59

in some and admiration i n a high degree." Yet, l a t e r during the

ascent of Skiddaw she has trouble enjoying the sublime f u l l y : "But our

s i t u a t i o n was too c r i t i c a l , or too unusual, to permit the just impres-

sions of such sublimity. . . . We followed the guide i n silence, and,

t i l l we regained the more open wild, had no l e i s u r e f o r exclamation."^

Mme. Montoni's e t h i c a l , as well as aesthetic, i n s e n s i t i v i t y i s

rewarded through her marriage to the ruthless Montoni, whose tastes are

as s u p e r f i c i a l as his moral code. Since Montoni i s t r u l y a denizen of

 184

the gothic world (decadent Venice, the t e r r i f y i n g Apennine stronghold),

Emily seems entrapped i n the usual pattern of confrontation. But, as I

have suggested, much of the c o n f l i c t i s displaced, and Emily's side i s

by no means vindicated at once. If she i s a representative of a c e r t a i n

time or of a c e r t a i n recognizable character t y p e — t h e youth of exquisite

s e n s i b i l i t y — s h e also must bear the weaknesses of that time and the type.

So the confrontation's meaning cuts both ways. Although both the aunt

and Montoni are unsympathetic c h a r a c t e r s — t h e l a t t e r an a l i e n — t h e y

e f f e c t i v e l y question the usefulness of Emily's emotionalism. A good

part of the terror i n Emily's encounter with Montoni comes from the

r e a l i z a t i o n that violence does not require an active imagination like

hers i n order to be successful and magnificent. Montoni i s p i t i l e s s and

tasteless, but i n his world Emily's passions and appreciation of natural

beauty and sublimity are rendered rather s i l l y . They w i l l not save her

from him; for a time they prevent her from thinking inventively of her

own safety. The pattern of confrontation i n Udolpho both confirms the

conventional, reassuring assumptions about gothic dangers and presents

a feature of contemporary c u l t u r e — e x c e s s i v e s e n s i b i l i t y and the need

61

for fresh t e r r o r s — i n a less f l a t t e r i n g l i g h t .

Confrontation i s the natural pattern for ambivalence to assume i n

the gothic because i t r e f l e c t s d i v i s i o n s within society and the person-

ality. The battleground of the personality requires exotic distancing

more than the battleground of customs and mores, because i t i s so much

closer to i n d i v i d u a l fears and revulsions, and i s therefore more l i a b l e

to repel the reader. The exotic t r a p p i n g s — c a s t l e s , ruins, foreign

stereotypes, archaic language and manners—are necessary because they

 185

permit the setting apart of threatening yet fascinating p o t e n t i a l i t i e s

within society and within the s e l f . I t i s as i f such things were

merely, exclusively gothic, and consequently denatured. Exoticism

amounts to a compromise with the reader's i n t e r n a l and c u l t u r a l censor-

ship very much l i k e Walpole's compromise with p r e v a i l i n g a r c h i t e c t u r a l

taste. The advantage gained i s the same: a new area i s claimed for the

exploring imagination.

In the case of ambivalent gothicism, the area prepared for freer

exploration i s the realm of terror, extremity and abnormal personality.

That preoccupation explains why Burke's psychological theories reveal

so l u c i d l y the basis of the gothic s e n s i b i l i t y i n f i c t i o n ; f o r , as we

s h a l l see i n the detailed study of selected gothic novels i n the next

chapter, ambivalence, with i t s c h a r a c t e r i s t i c themes and methods,

dominates gothic f i c t i o n . It incorporates the nostalgic mode only to

corrupt i t , showing i t s idealism to be a delusory myth. Instead of

gothic ideals, the ambivalence of the f i c t i o n r e s u l t s i n an obsession

with dualities, of; which the t y p i c a l pattern of confrontation i s merely

the most obvious case. In the gothic novels we w i l l discover sexual

aggression juxtaposed with sexual p a s s i v i t y , b r u t a l i t y with g e n t i l i t y ,

i n s e n s i t i v i t y with s e n s i b i l i t y , selfishness with s e l f l e s s n e s s , coercion

with j u s t i c e , ambition with humility, and blasphemy with piety.

 186

FOOTNOTES

M d n t y r e , "Were the Gothic Novels Gothic?" and "The Later Career

1

of the Elizabethan V i l l a i n Hero"; for a counter-argument see Bertrand

Evans, Gothic Drama, pp. 11-12.
2
Diana Spearman, The Novel and Society (New York: Barnes & Noble,
1966), Ch. 4, "The Rise of the Far Eastern Novel and the Beginnings of
Romance i n Europe"; see B. Sprague A l l e n on gothic and "Chinois";
Lovejoy, "On the Chinese Origin of a Romanticism," Essays in the History
of Ideas (Capricorn e d i t . ) , pp. 99-135; Varma, Gothic Quest, Ch. 2, "The
Background: Origins and Cross Currents" (p. 23 f f . ) ; Harrison R. Steeves,
Before Jane Austen ?(iNew York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston, 1965), Ch. 25.
3
Walter Francis Wright, Sensibility in English Prose Fiction, 1760-
1814: A Reinterpretation, Ph.D. Dissertation, Univ. of I l l i n o i s , 1935;
Univ. of Illinois Studies in Language and Literature, 22, 3-4 (1937);
Nelson C. Smith, "Sense, S e n s i b i l i t y and Ann R a d c l i f f e , " Studies in
English Literature, 13, 4 (1973), 577-590.
4
James R. Foster, History of the Pre-Romantic Novel in England
(New York: Modern Language Association of America, 1949).
^Randolph Hoyt Hunt, "Hence, vain deluding joys . . .," Ph.D. Dis-
sertation, Stanford University, 1962.

^Ioan Williams, The Realist Novel in England: A Study in Development

(London & Basingstoke: Macmillan Press, 1974), pp. 3-11; Tompkins, The
Popular Novel, pp. 72-84, 129, 209 f f . ; Spearman, pp. 221-223; John
Tinnon Taylor, Early Opposition to the English Novel (New York: King's
Crown Press, 1943), pp. 101-114; Michael Hadley, "A C r i t i c a l Puzzle: A
Search f o r the German Gothic Novel," paper presented to the Samuel John-
son Society of the Northwest i n Seattle, Washington, 12 October 1974.

^W. E. Coleman, "On the Discrimination of Gothicisms," Ph.D. Dis-

sertation, City University of New York, 1970; Francis R. Hart, "Limits
of the Gothic: The Scottish Example," Studies in Eighteenth-Century
Culture, Vol. 3, Racism in the Eighteenth Century, ed. Harold E. Pagliaro
(Cleveland & London: Press of Case Western Reserve Univ., 1973), pp. 137-
153; Robert D. Hume, "Gothic versus Romantic: A Revaluation of the
Gothic Novel," PMLA, 84 (March 1969), 282-290; Robert D. Hume and Robert
L. Platner, "Gothic versus Romantic: A Rejoinder," PMLA, 86 (March 1971),
266-274.

Sir Walter Scott, "Prefatory Memoir," The Novels of Mrs. Ann

R a d c l i f f e (1824; r p t . , Hildesheim & New York: Georg 01m Verlag, 1974),
p. x v i i i .

Ibid., p. x x i i i .
 187

J . T. Boulton, ed., A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of

Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful by Edmund Burke (London: Rout-
ledge & Kegan Paul, 1958), pp. l x x x l - c x x v i i ; Walter J . Hippie, J r . ,
The Beautiful, the Sublime, and the Picturesque in Eighteenth-Century
B r i t i s h Aesthetic Theory (Carbondale, 111.: Southern I l l i n o i s Univ.
Press, 1957), pp. 83-98; Robert K i e l y , The Romantic Novel in England
(Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Univ. Press, 1972), pp. 12-17; Pamela Kaufman,
"Burke, Freud, and the Gothic," Studies in Burke and his Time, 13, 44
(1972), 2179-2192; Levy, pp. 68-69.
11
Ian Ross, "A Bluestocking Over the Border: Mrs. Elizabeth
Montagu's Aesthetic Adventures i n Scotland, 1766," Huntington Library
Quarterly, 28, 3 (1965), 225-227.
12
David Hume, "Of Tragedy," Four Dissertations (1757); r p t . Criti-
cism: The Major Texts, ed. W. J . Bate (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World,
1952), pp. 193-195.
13
Edmund Burke, A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our
Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful, 2nd edn. (1759; r p t . , Menston,
England: Scolar Press, 1970), p. 58. Subsequent references to the
Enquiry w i l l be to this facsimile e d i t i o n and w i l l be given within the
text.
14
Hume, p. 195, n. 4 (Hume's note).
"^Compare Hume, p. 193: " I t seems an unaccountable pleasure which
the spectators of a well-written tragedy receive from sorrow, terror,
anxiety, and other passions that are i n themselves disagreeable and
uneasy."

"^This follows Hume's doctrine (pp. 196-197) of conversion, by

which the force of the imagination dominates over the normal effect of
the passion, converting i t to i t s own d i r e c t i o n .

17
H i p p l e , pp. 91-92.
18
Miscellaneous Pieces in Prose by J . and A. L. A i k i n , 2nd edn.
(London: J . Johnson, 1775), p. 125.
19
"On the Supernatural i n Poetry. By the l a t e Mrs. R a d c l i f f e , "
New Monthly Magazine, 16, 62 (1826), 149-150. As the editor explains,
this i s not r e a l l y an essay but an extract from the introduction to
Radcliffe's l a s t published work, the novel Gaston De B l o n d e v i l l e , which
also appeared i n 1826.
20
Mario Praz, The Romantic Agony (1933; 2nd edn. rpt., New York:
Meridian, 1956), trans. Angus Davidson, p. 27. The only d i r e c t r e f e r -
ence to Burke comes i n the Introduction, p. 20, n. 15.
21
See Boulton, p. l v i i i ; K i e l y , pp. 12-13.
 188

22
K i e l y , p. 13.
23
Ibid., p. 15.
24
Giovanni B a t t i s t a Piranesi (1720-1778) published the second,
greatly revised edition of the Carceri i n 1765. See Drawings and Etch-
ings at Columbia University (New York: Columbia Univ., 1972); Aldous
Huxley, Prisons with the "Carceri" Etchings by G. B. Piranesi (London:
Trianon Press, 1949); for a response to P i r a n e s i from within the neo-
gothic period, see the "Pains of Opium" section of Thomas De Quincey,
Confessions of an English Opium Eater, 1st edn. (1821; r p t . , ed. Alethea
Hayter, Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1973), pp. 105-107. I t i s s i g n i f i c a n t
that De Quincey mistakenly c a l l s Piranesi's a r c h i t e c t u r a l fantasies
"Gothic h a l l s . "
25
K i e l y , p. 13; also see W. J . Bate, From C l a s s i c to Romantic:
Premises of Taste in Eighteenth-Century England (1946; r p t . , New York:
Harper Torchbook, 1961), pp. 153-156.
Boulton, p. e v i l .
27
Ibid., p. c v i i . Boulton quotes from Milner's introductory l e t t e r ,
"Means necessary f o r further i l l u s t r a t i n g the E c c l e s i a s t i c a l Architec-
ture of the Middle Ages," contained i n the symposium, Essays on Gothic
Architecture (1800).
28
Thraliana, quoted i n Boulton, p. x c i i .
29
The actual discussion of horizontal and v e r t i c a l comes i n Part
Two, Section VII of the Enquiry under "vastness." The difference
between vastness and i n f i n i t y i s n e g l i g i b l e .
30
Peter Quennell, Romantic England: Writing and Painting, 1717-1851
fLondon: Weidenfeld and Nicblson, 1970), pp. 28-32; John Rutter, Deline-
ations of Fonthill and Its Abbey (Shaftesbury: p r i v a t e l y printed, 1823).
31
Levy, pp. 641-642.
32
R a d c l i f f e describes this process i n "On the Supernatural,"
pp. 149-150.
33
Samuel Holt Monk, The Sublime: A Study of Critical Theories in
XVIII-Century England (1935; r p t . , Ann Arbor: Univ. of Michigan Press,
1960), Chs. I, IV, & X; Hippie, pp. 13-24; Henry V. S. & Margaret S.
Ogden, English Taste in Landscape in the 17th Century (Ann Arbor: Univ.
of Michigan Press, 1955), pp. 134-167; Marjorie Hope Nicolson, Mountain
Gloom and Mountain Glory (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell Univ. Press, 1959);
Ernest Lee Tuveson, The Imagination as a Means of Grace (Berkeley:
Univ. of C a l i f o r n i a Press, 1960).
W. F. Wright, p. 96.
 189

35 In architecture, at l e a s t , sensationalism and f l e x i b i l i t y were to

become important issues. In h i s History of the Gothic Revival, Eastlake
condemns v i r t u a l l y a l l neo-gothic building before Milner f o r excessively
free adaptation of t r a d i t i o n a l gothic features, yet, at the other end of
his h i s t o r i c a l period, he defends Street's and Butterfield's experiments
with modern materials and "imported" styles.
36
Joel Porte, "In the Hands of an Angry God: Religious Terror i n
Gothic F i c t i o n , " i n The Gothic Imagination: Essays in Dark Romanticism,
ed. G. R. Thompson (Pullman, Wash.: Washington State Univ. Press, 1974),
pp. 42-64; Peter Brooks, "Virtue and Terror: The Monk," ELH, 40, 2
(1973), 249-263.
Kaufman, pp. 2190-2191.
37

3 8
K i e l y , p. 17.
39
Anna L a e t i t i a Barbauld, "An.Inquiry into Those Kinds of Distress
which Excite Agreeable Sensations," The Works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld,
ed. with a Memoir by Lucy A i k i n (London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme,
Brown, and Green, 1825), I I , 214. This essay also appeared i n Miscel-
laneous Pieces in Prose.
I b i d . , I I , 215-216.
4 0

4 1
I b i d . , I I , 217-225.
42
"On Romances: An Imitation," Works, II, 171-175.
43
Compare Addison, Spectator, #418.
44
Nathan Drake, M.D., Literary Hours: or Sketches, Critical,
Narrative, and Poetical, 4th edn. (London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme,
and Brown, 1820), I, v i (preface). The preface i s dated August 1798.
45
Drake, "On Gothic Superstition," with "Henry Fitzowen, a Gothic
Tale," Literary Hours, I, 105.
46
Drake, "On the Government of the Imagination: On the Frenzy of
Tasso and C o l l i n s , " Literary Hours, I, 12-13.
47
Burke "On Gothic Superstition," p. 108. Note the close paraphrase of
48
Ibid., p. 112.
49

Ibid., p. 106.
5 Q
L i t e r a r y Hours, I, 269-275.
5 1
I b i d . , p. 269.
 190

5 2
I b i d . , p. 271.
5 3
I b i d . , pp. 273-274.
54
Sir Walter Scott, "On the Supernatural i n F i c t i t i o u s Composition;
and P a r t i c u l a r l y on the Works of Ernest Theodore William Hoffmann,"
o r i g i n a l l y published i n the Foreign Quarterly Review, collected i n On
Novelists and Fiction, pp. 312-353.
"'"'Thorp, "Stage Adventures"; compare Robert D. Mayo, "Gothic
Romance i n the Magazines," PMLA, 65 (1950), 762-789, "The Gothic Short
Story i n the Magazines," MLR, 37 (1942), 448-454, The English Novel in
the Magazines, 1740-1815 (Evanston, 111.: Northwestern Univ. Press,
1962); Dorothy Blakey, The Minerva Press: 1790-1820 (London: Printed for
the Bibliographical Society by Oxford Univ. Press, 1939).
56
W. F. Wright, pp. 107-108; see also Tompkins, pp. 258-259.

"^Scott, "Prefatory Memoir," p. x x i i i .

58
Evans, Gothic Drama, pp. 8-9.
59
Ann R a d c l i f f e , A Journey Made in the Summer of 1794, Through
Holland and the Western Frontier of Germany, etc. (London: G. G. & J .
Robinson, 1795), p. 294.
6 0
I b i d . , pp. 456-457.
61
Nelson C. Smith, "Sense, S e n s i b i l i t y and Ann R a d c l i f f e , " demon-
strates, contrary to usual opinion, a s t r a i n of c r i t i c i s m of s e n s i b i l i t y
in Radcliffe's novels, which makes her position closer to such s a t i r i s t s
of the gothic c u l t as Peacock and Jane Austen.
 CHAPTER IV

EROTIC DANGERS, MONASTIC TYRANNY, AND FAMILY SECRETS

Themes in the Ambivalent Gothic

If nostalgia for gothic ancestors results i n the creation of an

i d y l l i c realm i n f i c t i o n and fantasy which they may populate, ambivalence

towards the gothic produces a r a d i c a l l y d i f f e r e n t pattern. Permeated

with danger, violence and strange magnificence, the imaginary world of

the ambivalent mode i s often sustained by erotic themes. Power i s won

through sexual crimes or i s used to commit them. Persecutions are

mounted i n order to gain sexual prey. The v i l l a i n - h e r o suffers from,

and i s compelled by, his perverted e r o t i c passions, abetted by h i s

stunted emotional growth. The over-reaching that i s c h a r a c t e r i s t i c of

his career usually has sexual overtones and consequences. The thwarting

of f u l l erotic expression becomes, i n gothic f i c t i o n , the mark of a l l

destructive educational regimes, the source and instrument of a l l author-

i t y , including the parental. Victims who enter t h i s gothic world assume

that the expected assault against them w i l l be s e x u a l — a t least i n p a r t —

or that i t w i l l t r y to block t h e i r own sexual impulses, about which,

however, they may be confused. Whatever learning arises from their

predicament concerns the e r o t i c aspect of their character.

In this concentration on e r o t i c violence and depredations the

gothic novel follows a wider i n t e r e s t . In a survey of the sexual mores

reflected i n eighteenth-century f i c t i o n , Harrison Steeves has suggested

- 191 -
 192

that, a preoccupation with " l i b e r t i n i s m , callous intrigue, and even

sexual violence" was generalized, and that such a preoccupation arose

from r e a l problems and anxieties:

Love i n the modern sense; that i s , sexual interest associ-

ated more or less closely with other s p i r i t u a l and i n t e l l e c t u a l
r e l a t i o n s , i s , to be sure, the romantic theme of most eighteenth-
century f i c t i o n s , but s i n i s t e r sexual complication i s a charac-
t e r i s t i c adjunct of the standard theme. In the whole breadth of
that f i c t i o n we see sex i n a l l i t s fluctuating l i g h t s and shadows,
but very commonly as a road to misery of one sort or another.
. . . In the eighteenth century i t s material effects could be
. . . hopelessly t r a g i c . Perhaps with this picture before us we
can understand why the moralists- of the century spoke of seduc-
t i o n or sexual surrender as "worse than death." In the merely
physical sense i t often was. Morally, i t might i n the end r e s u l t
i n the utter annihilation of personality and self-respect. The
fears and compunctions of the heroines of f i c t i o n were not i l l u -
sions and not mere p i e t i s t i c sentiments; they were p r a c t i c a l
wisdom.

While the r e a l i t y of sexual danger and the effects of class anta-

gonism help to explain some features of the gothic n o v e l s — s u c h as their

great appeal to female r e a d e r s — g o t h i c f i c t i o n remains, nevertheless, a

special case. Gothic f i c t i o n treats power, violence, and sexuality not

as adjuncts of the standard, romantic theme but as a counterpoint to i t .

The nostalgic use of putative gothic ancestors requires that they be

moral superiors; therefore, the nostalgic mode acquires a taste f o r

romantic, c h i v a l r i c love, for fine ceremony, for s t y l i z e d eroticism at

the most. The ambivalent view of the gothic period requires, for p o l i -
2

t i c a l as well as psychological reasons, a strong, disturbing undercur-

rent of violence and sexual rapacity, which gradually overcomes any

pretense of h i s t o r i c a l accuracy or i d e a l i z a t i o n . As the ambivalent mode

r e s i s t s the nostalgic, the gothic novel becomes as concerned with the

psychology of the persecutor as with that of the victim. Mrs. Barbauld's

 193

p r e s c r i p t i o n — t h a t only the sufferings of the just should be depicted

sympathetically—does not apply. Moreover, although the gothic novel

includes, and r e l i e s upon, the tension generated by r e a l sexual aggres-

sion, i t i s not much taken up with redressing r e a l grievances, teaching

prudent behaviour, or proposing r e a l i s t i c solutions to problems. It i s

more an exploratory than a didactic kind of l i t e r a t u r e , and i t s natural

f i e l d of operation i s the landscape of extremity, which i s mainly i n t e r -

nal, whose denizens are the i n f l i c t e r s and sufferers of t o r t u r e —

frequently interchangeable pairs.

From the time of i t s inception, with.Otranto, the ambivalent mode

seeks to present "mere men and women . . . i n extraordinary p o s i t i o n s , "

and to put i t s audience, as nearly as possible, i n the same positions,

under the influence of terror and persecution. In doing so, i t s purpose

i s to investigate the esoteric regions of the psyche, by pursuing d i s -

turbing facts—abnormal sexuality, abuse of power, the a t t r a c t i o n of e v i l ,

the i n t e r n a l warfare of the mind—to their extreme manifestations.

Because the ambivalent mode succeeds i n conducting this pursuit under

cover of certain prejudices about the h i s t o r i c a l or geographical setting

of i t s a c t i v i t i e s , i t both censors and insinuates subjects which would

be h o r r i b l y p a i n f u l i f approached d i r e c t l y and r e a l i s t i c a l l y .

As Scott observed, the setting of gothic novels i s mainly adapted

to this purpose, and the more a p a r t i c u l a r setting i s normally associated

with extremes of behaviour and f e e l i n g the better suited i t i s for gothic

use. Existing prejudices and fantasy-images are most serviceable, and

none more so for gothic f i c t i o n than the conventional wisdom to the

effect that monasteries and convents were havens for criminals and
 194

sexual deviants. This basic tenet of r e l i g i o u s nationalism i n England

and of a n t i - c l e r i c a l i s m on the Continent was perhaps supported by what

were perceived i n the North to be Counter-Reformation crimes against

r a t i o n a l i t y and freedom, but the animus brought to bear against Catholic

i n s t i t u t i o n s i n gothic f i c t i o n , where they are an absorbing, regular

subject, i s on account of their unnaturalizess, and hence, their perfect

representation of forces that also strongly affect the non-monastic

society. In p a r t i c u l a r , the a b i l i t y of monks and nuns, i n f i c t i o n , to

shape, control, and d i s t o r t the i n d i v i d u a l character i s an exaggerated

account of the whole process of education, told only i n extreme, d i a l e c -

t i c a l terms. The recurrent monkish v i l l a i n s and monastic settings of

gothic novels provide an exaggerated model of personality development

and the abuse of power by authorities and i n s t i t u t i o n s .

Some examples w i l l make clear how nearly t h e o r e t i c a l this notion of

monasticism becomes, an unusual trend for a l i t e r a r y type which i s so

notoriously non-didactic. The f i r s t example involves, a comparison with

Denis Diderot's The Nun (La Religieuse, 1760), a novel based on a r e a l

case of conventual tyranny and meant to expose and combat the genuine

e v i l s of the monastic system. I t i s remarkable that the serious i n d i c t -

ment contained i n the f i r s t memorandum of defence drafted by M. Manouri,

advocate for the heroine Suzanne, raises many of the same objections

that are commonplace i n gothic f i c t i o n :

Are convents so e s s e n t i a l to the constitution of a state? . . .

What need has the Bridegroom of so many f o o l i s h v i r g i n s ? And
the human race of so many victims? . . . Does God, who made man
sociable, approve of his hiding himself away? Can God, who made
man so inconstant and f r a i l , authorize such rash vows? Can
these vows, which run counter to our natural i n c l i n a t i o n s , ever
be properly observed except by a few abnormal creatures i n whom
 195

the seeds of passion are dried up, and whom we should r i g h t l y

c l a s s i f y as freaks of nature i f the state of our knowledge
allowed us to understand the i n t e r n a l structure of man as
well as we understand his external appearance? Do a l l these
lugubrious ceremonies played out at the taking of the habit
or the profession, when a man or woman i s set apart for the
monastic l i f e and for woe, suspend the animal functions? On
the contrary, do not these i n s t i n c t s awaken i n silence, con-
s t r a i n t and idleness with a violence unknown to the people
in the world who are busy with countless other things?
Where do we see minds obsessed by impure visions which haunt
them and drive them on? Where do we see that fathomless
boredom, that p a l l o r , that emaciation which are a l l symptoms
of wasting and self-consuming natiure?^

The tirade drags on further, but the questions are r h e t o r i c a l ,

given Diderot's evident purpose. S i m i l a r l y , no one i s exposed to the

ambivalent gothic v i s i o n for long without learning that a l l the answers

point to the monastic target. There i s nothing i n Manouri's memorandum,

or i n Diderot's narrative, that i s not a c o n f i r m a t i o n — a l b e i t i n sensa-

t i o n a l i z e d form—of popular b e l i e f s , that i s not echoed i n gothic fic-

tion.

Thus characterized, the monastic system i s t r u l y gothic, i n several

senses of the term. It i s outmoded, an anachronism within the p r e v a i l i n g

p o l i t i c a l and i n t e l l e c t u a l order. It i s tyrannical, maintained by mental

and physical b r u t a l i t y . It i s barbarous and i r r a t i o n a l . Having decayed

l i k e the gothic ruin i t usually inhabits, i t avidly promotes the decay

of i t s unwilling members.

B e l i e f i n monastic perfidy, or at l e a s t i n the unnaturalness of the

monastic way of l i f e , penetrates even less rabid depictions of monks and

nuns. There are numerous reversions to this b e l i e f i n Ann R a d c l i f f e ' s

4

novels, each adhering f a i r l y well to the standard line.

In The Romance of the Forest, for example, Adeline, the extremely

emotional female protagonist, confides i n Mme. La Motte, the wife of her

 196

temporary guardian, some d e t a i l s of her education i n a convent. Like

many helpless young women i n gothic novels she i s pressured to take the

v e i l , but she i s sensible and reluctant:

Too long had I been immured i n the walls of a c l o i s t e r , and

too much had I seen of the sullen misery of i t s votaries,
not to f e e l horror and disgust at the prospect of being
added to their numbers.

The "Lady Abbess" uses the t y p i c a l propagandistic and coercive approach

of the unscrupulous pursuer of novices:

It was her method, when she wanted to make converts to her

order, to denounce and t e r r i f y rather than to persuade and
a l l u r e . Here were the arts of cunning practiced upon fear,
not those of s o p h i s t i c a t i o n upon reason [but i t i s clear
that R a d c l i f f e does not approve of either technique]. She
employed numberless strategems to gain me to her purpose,
and they a l l wore the complexion of her character. But i n
the l i f e to which she would have devoted me, I saw too many
forms of r e a l terror, to be overcome by the influence of.
her i d e a l host, and was resolute i n rejecting the v e i l .
Here I passed several years of miserable resistance against
cruelty and superstition.

Adeline goes on to describe the tedium of her existence:

. . . at length the horrors of the monastic l i f e rose so

f u l l y to my view that fortitude gave way before them.
Excluded from the cheerful intercourse of s o c i e t y — f r o m the
pleasant view of nature—almost from the l i g h t of d a y —
condemned to s i l e n c e — r i g i d formality—abstinence and pen-
ance—condemned to forego the delights of a world, which
imagination painted i n the gayest and most a l l u r i n g c o l o r s ,
and whose hues were, perhaps, not the less captivating
because they were only i d e a l — s u c h was the state to which
I was destined.

In The Mysteries of Udolpho, Emily takes refuge i n a monastic com-

munity after her father's death, and she i s treated well there, but s h e —

or rather R a d c l i f f e — c a n n o t r e s i s t c r i t i c i z i n g the unhealthy lassitude

of the monks, who lead a secluded, quiet l i f e contemplating the same

natural beauty that Emily herself admires so much, without her opportun-

i t y to re-enter active society.

 197

R a d c l i f f e i s less v i o l e n t l y anti-Catholic than some gothic novel-

i s t s , but her most charitable depictions of monasticism are tinged with

the same conventional suspicions. In The Italian she imagines an i d e a l

house, the convent of the Santa della Pieta, which i s run according to

the p r i n c i p l e s of Shaftesburian benevolence instead of the regular

discipline. R a d c l i f f e makes the abbess and s i s t e r s exceptionally com-

passionate and virtuous, while emphasizing that "the society of Our

Lady of Pity was such as a convent does not often shroud." In f a c t , the

goodness of the Abbess l i e s i n her less-than-perfect observance of the

l e t t e r of Church law and her improved, but h e r e t i c a l , grounds for b e l i e f :

Her r e l i g i o n was neither gloomy, nor bigotted; i t was the

sentiment of a grateful heart o f f e r i n g i t s e l f up to a Deity,
who delights i n the happiness of h i s creatures; and she con-
formed to the customs of the Roman church, without supposing
a f a i t h i n a l l of them to be necessary to salvation. This
opinion, however, she was obliged to conceal, l e s t her very
v i r t u e should draw upon her the punishment of a crime, from
some f i e r c e e c c l e s i a s t i c s , who contradicted i n their prac-
t i c e the very e s s e n t i a l principles, which the C h r i s t i a n i t y
they professed would have taught them.^

R a d c l i f f e contrasts the mild, equable r u l e and demeanor of the

Abbess with the treachery and ruthlessness of the Ursaline abbess from

whose dubious protection the heroine Ellena i s l a t e r abducted. This

running comparison sets i n proper perspective R a d c l i f f e ' s creation of an

idealized female community very much l i k e the most successful real con-

vents. The convent of the Santa della Pieta i s an- authentic matriarchy,

and i t i s easy to see why Ellena succumbs to i t s attractiveness. She i s

a helpless o r p h a n — l i k e most gothic "innocents"—who has l o s t her sole

guardian and i s searching desperately for r e a l , or even surrogate, par-

ents. The Abbess of the Santa della Pieta temporarily f i l l s the place
 198

of mother u n t i l E l l e n a can meet her r e a l mother ( S i s t e r O l i v i a of the

U r s a l i n e s , who remains unknown to her through most of the novel, and who

i s persecuted by the e v i l "mother" of the order). The motherliness of

the good Abbess o r i g i n a t e s i n u n i v e r s a l q u a l i t i e s of humane leadership

and a c t i v e v i r t u e . Like the i d e a l c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s of Clara Reeve's

protagonists i n The Old English Baron, these are backward projections of

values that d e f i n i t e l y are not gothic:

In her l e c t u r e s to the nuns she seldom touched upon

points of f a i t h , but explained and enforced the moral d u t i e s ,
p a r t i c u l a r l y such as were most p r a c t i c a b l e i n the s o c i e t y to
which she belonged; such as tended to soften and harmonize
the a f f e c t i o n s , to impart that repose of mind, which per-
suades to the p r a c t i c e of s i s t e r l y kindness, u n i v e r s a l c h a r i t y ,
and the most pure and elevated devotion. When she spoke of
r e l i g i o n , i t appeared so i n t e r e s t i n g , so b e a u t i f u l , that her
a t t e n t i v e auditors revered and loved i t as a f r i e n d , a r e f i n e r
of the heart, a sublime consoler. . . .
The society appeared l i k e a large family, of which the
Lady abbess was the mother, rather than an assemblage of
strangers.
o

By means of such benign f i g u r e s , the n o s t a l g i c a t t i t u d e towards the

gothic o c c a s i o n a l l y appears against the darker, more threatening back-

ground. But i t i s the "assemblage of strangers," not the i d e a l community,

to which the gothic novel returns with greatest i n t e r e s t . Here i s the

subject of the n o v e l i s t s ' deepest psychological penetration. Here are

t h e i r most d i s t u r b i n g r e v e l a t i o n s of the desolation of souls. Monasti-

cism i s made to provide a complete pattern of the d i s t o r t e d s o c i e t y and

the fragmented psyche. F u l l e x p l o i t a t i o n of i t s p o t e n t i a l to represent

the decay of normal f e e l i n g s and attachments begins with M. G. Lewis'
9

The Monk. Lewis o f f e r s the most c o n s i s t e n t l y e r o t i c i n t e r p r e t a t i o n of

"monkish malignancy" i n any gothic novel, an i n t e r p r e t a t i o n which, once

noticed and misunderstood, made both novel and n o v e l i s t infamous."^ In

 199

fact, The Monk i s an odd mixture of voices and techniques. I t s frequent,

l u r i d sadism connects i t with the s u b - l i t e r a t u r e of excess and t i t i l l a -

tion, yet the flagrancy of i t s sexual imagery i s deceptive; for, beneath

the l u r i d surface where Ambrosio's utter ruination i s avidly described,

there i s a l e v e l of acute, subtle observation of motives and compulsions.

At this l e v e l , The Monk progresses beyond the mere stimulation of fear

and excitement, and i t would be f a i r e r to associate i t with the minute

i n t e r n a l analysis of Maturin's Melmoth the Wanderer than the blandish-

ments of sensationalism.

The Monk i s worth examining closely f o r i t s successful transforma-

tion of stereotypes and stock figures into a repellent yet fascinating

image of human viciousness and self-deception. Many of the sardonic

comments with which the narrative i s laced seem to reinforce the stereo-

types, as i f to suggest—and the contemporary reader would probably

agree—that crudeness, violence and d u p l i c i t y are what one should expect

of barbarous times and a barbarous people. Despite such reassurances,

however, the threatening implications of the "gothic manners" displayed

in The Monk are not r e s t r i c t e d to the a l i e n environment.

In The Monk the familiar elements of monastic e v i l — p e r s e c u t i o n ,

hypocrisy, lasciviousness, power-hunger—are put i n service to a peculiar

v i s i o n of human disease. Starting with caustic but rather juvenile

s a t i E e , based on immediately recognizable comic types, Lewis gradually

builds a darker, more h y s t e r i c a l account of the d i v i s i o n and destruction

of the personality. Although the emotional centre of the narrative i s a

single, extended catastrophe—the temptation and surrender of Ambrosio—

Lewis p e r s i s t s i n l i n k i n g Ambrosio's v u l n e r a b i l i t y , h i s pride and h i s

 200

compulsions, with the weaknesses of the ostensible representatives of

normality i n the f i c t i o n a l world. The master stroke of Lewis' technique

i s h i s insistence on tracing the various d u a l i t i e s of personality

involved i n Ambrosio's downfall i n the sympathetic characters as w e l l ,

his delight i n subjecting them to the same Satanic, chaotic, subcon-

scious forces, on a minor scale. The corruption of the " v i l l a i n " finds

a r e f l e c t i o n i n the innocent faces of the other male figures, rendering

their heroism much less certain. Lewis even raises the p o s s i b i l i t y that

they do not have the courage, or the desperation a r i s i n g from accidental

circumstances, to follow through with their own obsessions, that a f a i l -

ure of w i l l and imagination, more than a triumph of v i r t u e , separates

them from Ambrosio's c i r c l e of damnation. The subversive—because the

a t t r a c t i v e — l i n e i s the one the mob and the "heroic" figures take, the

one that Lewis i n v i t e s the reader to take, only to be trapped by i t : a

confidence i n one's self-righteousness before Ambrosio's example, as i f

there were no i d e n t i f i c a t i o n with him and no vicarious enjoyment of h i s

career.

The Monk opens with references to many useful stereotypes: Spanish

lustfulness, hypocrisy coupled with devoutness, cunning Catholic propa-

ganda. The reader i s not allowed to lend any credence to the trappings

of piety, nor to develop any nostalgic interest i n them, for they are

made ridiculous as soon as they are introduced. To a l e r t our suspicions,

Lewis sets the f i r s t scene i n the Abbey Church of the Capuchins where a

large crowd has pressed i n , apparently to witness the sermon of the

famous abbot, Ambrosio. The s p i r i t u a l bankruptcy of this throng i s a

f i t t i n g complement to that which Ambrosio has so f a r managed to conceal,

 201
even from himself:

Do n o t e n c o u r a g e t h e i d e a t h a t t h e Crowd was a s s e m b l e d
e i t h e r from motives of p i e t y or t h i r s t of i n f o r m a t i o n . But
v e r y few w e r e i n f l u e n c e d by t h o s e r e a s o n s ; and i n a c i t y
w h e r e s u p e r s t i t i o n r e i g n s w i t h s u c h d e s p o t i c sway a s i n
M a d r i d , t o seek f o r t r u e d e v o t i o n would be a f r u i t l e s s a t -
tempt. The A u d i e n c e now a s s e m b l e d i n t h e C a p u c h i n C h u r c h
was c o l l e c t e d b y v a r i o u s c a u s e s , b u t a l l o f them w e r e
f o r e i g n to the o s t e n s i b l e m o t i v e . The Women came t o show
t h e m s e l v e s , t h e Men t o s e e t h e Women: Some w e r e a t t r a c t e d
b y c u r i o s i t y t o h e a r a n O r a t o r so c e l e b r a t e d ; Some came
b e c a u s e t h e y h a d n o t b e t t e r means o f e m p l o y i n g t h e i r t i m e
t i l l t h e p l a y b e g a n ; Some f r o m b e i n g a s s u r e d t h a t i t w o u l d
be i m p o s s i b l e t o f i n d p l a c e s i n t h e C h u r c h ; and one h a l f o f
M a d r i d was b r o u g h t t h i t h e r b y e x p e c t i n g t o meet t h e o t h e r
half. The o n l y p e r s o n s t r u l y a n x i o u s t o h e a r t h e P r e a c h e r
were a few a n t i q u a t e d d e v o t e e s , and h a l f a d o z e n r i v a l
O r a t o r s , d e t e r m i n e d t o f i n d f a u l t w i t h and r i d i c u l e t h e
discourse. A s t o t h e r e m a i n d e r o f t h e A u d i e n c e , t h e Sermon
might have been o m i t t e d a l t o g e t h e r , c e r t a i n l y w i t h o u t t h e i r
b e i n g d i s a p p o i n t e d , and v e r y p r o b a b l y w i t h o u t t h e i r p e r -
c e i v i n g the o m i s s i o n (p. 7).

Lewis reverts to this cynical, flippant v o i c e whenever he needs to

reaffirm the c o r r e c t n e s s of h i s r e a d e r ' s expectations, to remind the

reader that the curious behaviour of the Spaniards should not surprise

him. Y e t , as the c y n i c i s m wears t h i n , we come t o r e a l i z e t h a t the

opening scene serves another purpose: this is the first of several

attempts to reduce the m o t i v a t i o n for all actions, including the pro-

tagonists', to the lowest common d e n o m i n a t o r . Lewis appears to delight

i n r e v e a l i n g t h e ambiguous meaning o f n o r m a l l y "pure" actions—prayer,

courtship, heroism, charity. For t h i s reason the somewhat unwieldy

comedy o f the initial Church scene does not dilute t h e menace flowing

beneath i t . Innocent g e s t u r e s and i n t e n t i o n s may b e r e g i s t e r e d for

later reconsideration.

One e x a m p l e o f such c u l t i v a t e d ambiguities will be e s p e c i a l l y use-

ful later in this d i s c u s s i o n when we l o o k a t the s i g n i f i c a n c e of peri-

p h e r a l c h a r a c t e r s and p l o t - l i n e s . It i s an a p p a r e n t l y comic i n c i d e n t in
 202

the opening scene. The young cavalier Lorenzo i n s i s t s on removing

Antonia's v e i l i n order better to observe her charms (p. 11). The

obvious reading of the incident emphasizes Antonia's v i r g i n modesty and

Lorenzo's f l i r t a t i o u s boldness. Subsequently, however, this unmasking

i s incorporated into a more s i n i s t e r pattern. Antonia's physical beau-

t i e s are progressively exposed, l i t e r a l l y l a i d bare, not only i n the

self-seductive dreams of Ambrosio and the magical spectacle arranged by

Matilda, but also i n the ominous dream of Lorenzo himself. As Antonia,

l i k e the image of the V i r g i n , i s transformed from chaste maiden into

"Medicean Venus," becoming the stimulus for Ambrosio's l u s t f u l fascina-

tion, the encounter with Lorenzo and i t s dream-sequel seem less innocuous

than at f i r s t . The confused erotic motives i n Lorenzo are complemented

by the sexual misadventures of the other "heroic" figure, Raymond de l a s

Cisternas, whose subterranean surname i s s i g n i f i c a n t .

The sense of impending sexual disaster i s evoked at once. Leonella,

Antonia's f o o l i s h aunt and companion, offers to explain the niece's shy-

ness and p r o v i n c i a l ways by t e l l i n g the story of her parents' unfortunate

marriage. The mother, E l v i r a , had f a l l e n i n love with a young nobleman

whose father, the former Marquis de l a s Cisternas, v i o l e n t l y opposed the

match and f i n a l l y drove the couple into e x i l e i n the West Indies. The

outcast nobleman succumbed to homesickness and t r o p i c a l fever, leaving

his family i n a state of utter dependency (p. 13).

This exposition i s important on three d i f f e r e n t l e v e l s . The history

of E l v i r a ' s suffering supplies us with the background for one of the

major p l o t - l i n e s — t h e unsuccessful e f f o r t to secure Raymond's protection

for E l v i r a and Antonia. Lewis develops this f a i r l y conventional melo-

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dramatic theme of f a m i l i a l r e c o n c i l i a t i o n very l i t t l e beyond the i m p l i -

cation that assistance i s always t a n t a l i z i n g l y close yet strangely

unavailable, a f a i l u r e due to accidents and miscues. At a second l e v e l ,

the story hints at the eventual solution to the mystery of Ambrosio's

o r i g i n , for Leonella mentions the presumed death of E l v i r a ' s infant son

after he was taken away by the angry grandfather.

Despite her overly earnest treatment of i t , the greatest importance

of Leonella's tale i s thematic, for her burden, the tragic perversion of

love through r e b e l l i o n and repression, becomes the p r i n c i p a l subject of

The Monk. The various tangential episodes and p l o t - l i n e s are a l l elabor-

ations of this theme, and i t i s s i m i l a r l y carried through successive

generations. As i f by a perverse l o g i c of inheritance, E l v i r a ' s unhappy

union brings not only Antonia into the world but also her ravisher and

murderer, and E l v i r a ' s hard-earned wisdom enforces the priggish moralism

that helps give the one control over the other. E l v i r a i s the v i c t i m of

an i n t e r f e r i n g parent, yet she too intervenes—though on the side of

purity and goodness—with equally disastrous r e s u l t s . She d e l i b e r a t e l y

f a i l s to arm her daughter's innocence with discernment, deriving from

her own misfortunes the extreme remedy of censorship. The remedy i n -

flames the i l l n e s s ; innocence i s as seductive as wantonness. In return

for her devotion, E l v i r a i s strangled while trying to stop Ambrosio's

i l l i c i t "marriage" with h i s s i s t e r . This i s a highly complicated revi-

sion of E l v i r a ' s own story. As i s c h a r a c t e r i s t i c of The Monk, motives

and moral positions are freely substituted. The structure of The Monk

i s founded upon exactly such repetitions-with-variations. The attentive

reader soon discovers that he must read a story l i k e Leonella's both for
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exposition and for warning.

When Ambrosio f i n a l l y appears, he i s clothed i n such a glowing

reputation that h i s v i r t u e , l i k e the hubris of the hero of c l a s s i c a l

tragedy, demands reduction. At this point the reader learns another

p r i n c i p l e of the novel's process which closely resembles the magnetic

p r i n c i p l e of the a t t r a c t i o n of opposite poles. For Lewis there i s a

n e c e s s i t y — p s y c h o l o g i c a l as well as dramatic—that compels the possessors

of perfect virtues or vices to encounter their opposites. The encounter

often produces a conversion i n which the energy devoted to one extreme

position i s transferred to the other.

Under questioning from Leonella, Lorenzo.paints a p o r t r a i t of

Ambrosio which sets him forthaas just such a perfect being, but at the

same time i t i s clear that he has paid the price of unnaturalness for

his perfection:

"He i s now t h i r t y years old, every hour of which period has

been passed i n study, t o t a l seclusion from the world, and
m o r t i f i c a t i o n of the f l e s h . T i l l these l a s t three weeks,
when He was chosen superior of the Society to which He
belongs, He has never been on the outside of the Abbey-
walls. . . . His knowledge i s said to be the most profound,
his eloquence the most persuasive. In the whole course of
his l i f e Ifehas never been known to transgress a single rule
of h i s order; The smallest s t a i n i s not to be discovered
upon h i s character; and He i s reported to be so s t r i c t an
observer of Chastity, that He knows not i n what consists
the difference of Man and Woman. The common People there-
fore esteem him to be a Saint" (p. 17).

In accord with this report, after h i s sermon the congregation scramble

to honour Ambrosio as i f he were indeed a l i v i n g saint.

Lewis' sardonic tone throughout the scene renders the r e l i g i o s i t y

contemptible, giving h i s readers the outlet of their own superiority to

"goths" and ignorant Spanish Catholics. The c r e d u l i t y and misplaced

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loyalty of the congregation deserves to be betrayed through Ambrosio's

depravity, and the trust of the community i s partly responsible for h i s

boldness i n embarking upon h i s career of sexual adventure. In f a c t ,

Lewis makes sport of the p l i a b i l i t y of the matrons of Madrid and the

ease with which Ambrosio may lose his v i r t u e . Where there are no saints,

i t i s f o l l y to believe i n them, but Lewis also recognizes that groundless

f a i t h i s p o s i t i v e l y dangerous. He allows the usual ambivalent view of

the problem. On the one hand, excessive credulity may be dismissed as a

c h a r a c t e r i s t i c of gothic times or gothic manners, and may be approached

solely i n terms of certain prejudices and expectations. Yet, on the

other hand, the problem of d u a l i t y , of public morality and inner compul-

sions, i s made so r e a l and immediate that i t cannot be relegated e n t i r e l y

to the a l i e n realm of fantasy. After a l l , Ambrosio's predicament i s

psychologically plausible outside the preconceived l i m i t s of monastic

evil. The epigraph of The Monk i s drawn from Measure for Measureand

Ambrosio i n many respects resembles the regent Angelo, who i s a type of

secular, governmental saint.

From the moment when Ambrosio's sainthood i s invoked^ The Monk

moves toward h i s exposure and ruination. As John Berryman has observed,

"the point i s to conduct a remarkable man u t t e r l y to damnation." The

speed of the movement i s governed by what Berryman i d e n t i f i e s as Lewis'

"main insight": " I t i s surprising, after a l l , how long i t takes—how

12

difficult i t i s — t o be certain of damnation." I t i s the search for

certainty, at the subjectively accurate pace, that requires the novel-

i s t ' s painstaking attention, that keeps the reader perched on the edge

of s p i r i t u a l hopefulness, w i l l i n g , perhaps, to follow either to salvation

 206

or to damnation, but preferring the l a t t e r . As Ambrosio withdraws into

the Abbey, Antonia exclaims, ironically and p r o p h e t i c a l l y : "'He is

separated from the world! . . . Perhaps I s h a l l never see him more!'"

(p. 20). Of course she i s wrong, and i t i s the spectacle of Ambrosio's

immersion i n the world and befoulment by i t that occupies the bulk of the

novel.

After the r e q u i s i t e physiognomic description of Ambrosio (whose

face "seemed to announce the Man equally unacquainted with cares and

crimes") with i t s suggestive equivocations, we are shown the source of

his s e l f - d e s i t r u G i t i o n n with l i t t l e delay. Lewis points i t out almost too

i n s i s t e n t l y , as i f , caught up i n the importance of his psychological

enterprise, he does not always know how best to use his enthusiasm and

his r e a l a n a l y t i c a l powers. In a long foreshadowing speech, Lorenzo

accurately assesses Ambrosio's l i k e l y behaviour:

. . . a Man who has passed the whole of his l i f e within the

walls of a Convent, cannot have found the opportunity to be
g u i l t y , even were He possessed of the i n c l i n a t i o n . But now,
when, obliged by the duties of h i s s i t u a t i o n , He must enter
occasionally into the world, and be thrown into the way of
temptation, i t i s now that i t behoves him to show the b r i l -
liance of his v i r t u e . The t r i a l i s dangerous; He i s j u s t at
that period of l i f e when the passions are most vigorous,
unbridled, and despotic; His established reputation w i l l
mark him out to Seduction as an i l l u s t r i o u s Victim; Novelty
w i l l give additional charms to the allurements of pleasure;
and even the Talents with which Nature has endowed him w i l l
contribute to his r u i n , by f a c i l i t a t i n g the means of obtain-
ing his object. Very few would return v i c t o r i o u s from a
contest so severe (p. 21).

Without much conviction Lorenzo adds: "'By a l l accounts He i s an excep-

tion to mankind i n general, and Envy would seek i n vain f o r a b l o t upon

his character'" (p. 22). Leonella fears that Ambrosio's intolerance of

sin w i l l make him an unmerciful confessor, and Christobal agrees:

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"Too great severity i s said to be Ambrosio's only f a u l t .

Exempted himself from human feelings, He i s not s u f f i c i e n t l y
indulgent to those of others; and though s t r i c t l y just and
disinterested i n h i s decisions, h i s government of the Monks
has already shown some proofs of h i s i n f l e x i b i l i t y " (p. 22).

For Ambrosio, as for h i s counterpart i n Mrs. Radcliffe's work, Schedoni,

the insistence on an i n f l e x i b l e regime for the community i s an over-

compensation for the anarchy of personal desires. That Lorenzo should

suspect v u l n e r a b i l i t y to temptation i n the monk without l a t e r heeding

his own suspicion i s less surprising i f we notice the a p p l i c a b i l i t y of

his remarks about Ambrosio to himself. In p a r t i c u l a r , i t must be seen

that Lorenzo i s also "at that period of l i f e when the passions are most

vigorous, unbridled, and despotic," and, though he i s more resistant to

temptation than Ambrosio, simply because he i s more familiar with i t , he

too i s on t r i a l .

It i s a f a i l u r e to r e a l i z e and acknowledge the complexity of h i s

own motives and desires that prevents Lorenzo from using f u l l y the warn-

ings he receives about Ambrosio and Antonia. Not only does he ignore

his r a t i o n a l misgivings, but he i s unable to integrate with them the

clues that the i r r a t i o n a l , including h i s own subconscious mind.; sends up

to him. He i s so attached to the image of h i s essential decency that he

cannot read any contrary message.

After the meeting with Antonia and Leonella and an interview during

which Christobal blunders by implying that Lorenzo has gained f i n a n c i a l l y

from his s i s t e r Agnes' confinement i n the convent of St. Clare, Christo-

bal takes h i s leave, while Lorenzo remains i n the "gothic obscurity of

the Church." There he f a l l s into a melancholy reverie:

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He thought of h i s union with Antonia; He thought of the

obstacles which might oppose h i s wishes; and a thousand
changing visions floated before his fancy, sad ' t i s true,
but not unpleasing (p. 27).

The mixture of sadness and pleasure i s a f a i r description of melancholy

i t s e l f and, though Lewis' inexactness i n assigning each f e e l i n g to the

corresponding t r a i n of thought i s disturbing, there i s the fashionable

emotion to account f o r i t . Soon, however, the ambiguities become unavoid-

able. The reverie deepens into sleep, and Lorenzo dreams of subjects

suggested by "the tranquil solemnity of h i s mind when awake." He recog-

nizes the s e t t i n g of the dream as the Church of the Capuchins where a l l

i s ready for a wedding feast:

[The Altar] was surrounded by a b r i l l i a n t Company; and near

i t stood Antonia arrayed i n b r i d a l white, and blushing with
a l l the charms of V i r g i n Modesty.
Half hoping, half fearing, Lorenzo gazed upon the
scene before him. Sudden the door leading to the Abbey
unclosed, and He saw, attended by a long t r a i n of Monks,
the Preacher advance to whom He had just listened with so
much admiration. He drew near Antonia.
'And where i s the Bridegroom,' said the imaginary
Friar.
Antonia seemed to look round the Church with anxiety.
Involuntarily the Youth advanced a few steps from h i s con-
cealment. She saw him; The blush of pleasure glowed upon
her cheek; With a graceful motion of her hand She beckoned
to him to advance. He disobeyed not the command. . . .
She retreated f o r a moment; Then gazing upon him with
unutterable d e l i g h t ; — ' Y e s ! ' She exclaimed, 'My Bridegroom!
My destined Bridegroom!'

Destiny i s disrupted by the appearance of "an Unknown," a huge, "swarthy"

figure with " f i e r c e and t e r r i b l e " eyes. He breathes f i r e "and on h i s

forehead was written i n l e g i b l e c h a r a c t e r s — ' P r i d e ! Lust! Inhumanity!'"

The monster attempts to ravish Antonia upon the a l t a r , but before Lorenzo

can spring to her a i d the Church crumbles and the a l t a r sinks, to be

replaced by "an abyss vomiting forth clouds of flame." The monster

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t r i e s to drag Antonia with him into the p i t ; however, she i s "animated

by supernatural powers" and ascends a n g e l i c a l l y (though minus her gown)

i n a glorious apotheosis complete with heavenly choir and overwhelming

radiance.

The most obvious function of this dream i s to warn against a crime

which, i n this case, has not even been thought of by i t s perpetrator.

Similar warning-dreams occur i n The Romance of the Forest (where Adeline

receives three of them at one time) and i n The Old English Baron—for

a l l i t s lack of interest i n the i r r a t i o n a l . T y p i c a l l y the warning i s

not very useful to the recipient because i t i s c r y p t i c or incomplete or

untimely. Lorenzo's dream presents another kind of d i f f i c u l t y , on

account of i t s resemblance to r e a l , rather than f i c t i o n a l , dreams. In

r e a l dreams, the dreamer may obtain knowledge he wants, but often this

is mixed with awareness of painful things unacceptable to the conscious

mind; the dream-process does not c a r e f u l l y d i s t i n g u i s h between good

advice and s e l f - r e v e l a t i o n . In Lorenzo's dream there i s one prudential

message: Take care of Antonia or she may be swept away. A more pene-

t r a t i n g i n t e l l i g e n c e might even notice the clues that l i n k "the Preacher"

and "the Monster": the swarthy complexion, the burning eyes, the v i c i o u s -

ness that Lorenzo has already foreseen as a trap set before the monk.

The prudential message, however, i s blocked by the disturbing mes-

sage of the unconscious. This second message concerns Lorenzo's

confused desires. In dream as i n waking, Lorenzo i s unsure how to

prosecute, whether to prosecute, h i s suit for Antonia's hand. The

obstacles are as much i n t e r n a l and emotional as f i n a n c i a l . His i n s t i n c t

i s to hide. As i n r e a l i t y he i s obliged to undertake complicated

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negotiations before he dares to court Antonia, so i n dream he hesitates

to declare that he i s her bridegroom. The circumstances are seconded by

Lorenzo's mixed feelings, and the complexity of the l a t t e r i s a l l the

more remarkable because Lorenzo has not yet had a chance to form any

serious doubts about Antonia.

In his dream he discovers the same emotional law that Ambrosio

invokes to cast o f f Matilda, and to murder Antonia. This i s the pattern

of desire and revulsion with which Lewis i s fascinated, the pattern that
13

conjoins eros and death. According to this law of masculine rapacity,

the v i r g i n who has been "spoiled" ( i . e . , raped, i n r e a l i t y or i n the

mind) i s suited only for death. I f she was perfect before, she must be

again perfected, and death i s the means, the appropriate complement to

the degradation of sex. Ambrosio imagines himself provoked by Antonia's

angelic features, which he takes as a challenge; i n Lorenzo's dream,

Antonia becomes an angel i n order to escape further debasement at the

hands of a dark power. In both cases, however, the same assumptions

run through the fantasies: there are whores and angels, they are trea-

cherously yet conveniently interchangeable, there i s no s a l v a t i o n — o r

normal sexual f u l f i l m e n t — f o r ordinary women, or with ordinary women.

If we assume, as the early part of the sequence c e r t a i n l y i n v i t e s

us to do, that the dream represents latent wishes as well as fears

( i . e . , the whole range of i n t e r n a l p o s s i b i l i t i e s ) , we understand why a l l

Lorenzo's heroic measures to save Antonia are belated and i n e f f e c t u a l .

14

This i s not to say that Lorenzo would also l i k e to rape her .(the

i d e n t i f i c a t i o n of the Monster i s not quite so tenuous). Nevertheless,

i t i s important to see how Lorenzo's dream exposes p o t e n t i a l i t i e s for

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action and desire which Lorenzo, despite h i s claims to worldly exper-

ience, cannot admit i n any man. To protect h i s confidence i n the

natural decency of human motives he must dismiss both dream-messages:

When He woke, He found himself extended upon the pavement

of the Church. . . . For a while Lorenzo could not persuade
himself that what He had just witnessed had been a dream,
so strong an impression had i t made upon h i s fancy. A
l i t t l e r e c o l l e c t i o n convinced him of i t s f a l l a c y (p. 29).

But h i s mind i s s t i l l " f u l l y occupied by the s i n g u l a r i t y of h i s dream"

when he encounters the "Man wrapped up i n his Cloak" who turns out to be

Raymond. The dream's significance and.its compelling r e a l i t y are soon

l o s t i n the intrigues between Raymond and Lorenzo's s i s t e r , Agnes.

Only rarely do Lewis' characters learn to appreciate the control

that i r r a t i o n a l forces exercise over their l i v e s . I t i s easier for

them, and for Lewis' audience, to o b j e c t i f y and externalize such f o r c e s —

to turn them into supernatural agents, f o r example, than to confront

their presence within the personality. In f a c t , i n The Monk the super-

natural tends to have l i t t l e r e a l , i n t r i n s i c importance. Demons, ghosts

and witches are superfluous mechanisms, sensational projections of

i n t e r n a l struggles. They may deceive us temporarily into supposing that

r e s p o n s i b i l i t y f o r the c o n f l i c t l i e s elsewhere, but the supernatural

trappings, though highly entertaining most of the time, are mainly a

means of excusing the narrowness of the repressive mind. Thus, when

Matilda uses witchcraft to entrap her jaded lover with the sight of

Antonia at her bath, the voyeuristic image i s only s l i g h t l y more v i v i d

and enticing than what the monk has already imagined without her a i d .

The external demons are unnecessary; the demons of the s e l f are s u f f i -

cient .
 212

Yet, they are regularly denied. The obliviousness of l i f e on the

normal surface to the i r r a t i o n a l , l i k e the closely related idea of

sexual calamity, i s an idea that i s multiplied continually i n The Monk.

For example, when Antonia receives from a gypsy fortune-teller an u t t e r l y

transparent warning against "one more virtuous . . . than belongs to Man

to be" (p. 38), she suspects nothing: "The Gypsy's prediction had also

considerably affected Antonia; But.the impression soon wore o f f , and i n

a few hours She had forgotten the adventure, as t o t a l l y as had i t never

taken place" (p. 39). Familiar gothic conventions make this omission

natural: a gypsy witch may t e l l the truth, but an innocent, sensible,

unimaginative g i r l i s not supposed to l i s t e n . This supposition agrees

with the inverse r e l a t i o n s of Lewis' psychology: the more truth i s

spoken and the more urgent the need for i t , the more quickly i t must be

ignored.

A s i m i l a r l y f a t a l obliviousness to the promptings of the i r r a t i o n a l

i s the basis of the long t a l e of the Bleeding Nun which Raymond t e l l s

Lorenzo. The tale i s interpolated at. precisely the moment when Ambrosio

i s about to enjoy sex with Matilda for the f i r s t time. Tension between

the two and within the monk has been building toward this moment, the

atmosphere i s heated with expectation of the "crime"; therefore, the

interpolated episode creates a suspense which some readers have found

tedious and puzzling.'*'"' But the story of the Bleeding Nun has a p o s i -

t i v e value which i s usually overlooked i n the search for i t s sources and

i t s flaws. I t i s , simultaneously, a parable of the shortcomings of

modern enlightenment, a prolonged joke about the fulfilment of desire,

and a morbid r e f l e c t i o n upon the closeness of desire and death.

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Faced with the hardened opposition of the Baroness Lindenberg, who

has mistaken Raymond's love for Agnes f o r an interest i n h e r s e l f , the

lovers must turn, l i k e a l l victims of gothic parental interference, to

unusual measures. Neither of them believes i n the l o c a l legend of the

Bleeding Nun, which contains the r e q u i s i t e elements of a "haunting"

superstition modified to suit the themes of The Monk—monastic anomie,

hypocrisy, l u s t , and treachery. But the legend does provide a conven-

ient occasion for their elopement. This purely instrumental use of

superstition resembles i t s treatment i n gothic f i c t i o n i t s e l f , where

f o l k l o r e and pseudo-historical settings are employed f o r the sake of

evoking artificial terror. Sometimes the old b e l i e f s suddenly regain

their v i t a l i t y ; that i s how the lovers' plan turns into a s i n i s t e r joke.

Instead of Agnes, masquerading as the Bleeding Nun, the genuine Nun

joins Raymond i n his carriage and drives him on a t e r r i f y i n g f l i g h t

across country. The hideous, rotten crone i s the embodiment of erotic

impulses gone wrong, and her n i g h t l y v i s i t s to Raymond's sick-bed where,

vampire-like, she drains him of h i s physical and s p i r i t u a l strength,

indicate the persistence of sexual excess, not only as a curse against

Agnes' family but as a d e b i l i t a t i n g force i n Raymond's l i f e . The necro-

p h i l i c overtones of this odious union foreshadow the end of two love

a f f a i r s i n the crypt: Ambrosio's rape and murder of Antonia, and Agnes'

h o r r i f i c sufferings, with the c h i l d Raymond has given her. The magical

and r e l i g i o u s hocus-pocus with which the Wandering Jew exorcises the

succubus cannot gloss over the basic sexual dilemma with f a l s e symbolism

or sentimentality. Raymond must help remove the curse, but i n his own

generation he reinforces i t with a new "crime." Even while he t e l l s h i s

 214

t a l e to Lorenzo he has set i n motion the cycle of f a t a l i t y which

requires Agnes, i n turn, to be enslaved. The meaning of the elaborate

joke, of the Nun's example, of the pattern of sexual disaster, i s l o s t

on Raymond."*"^

Lewis does not give an explanation for Raymond's and Lorenzo's lack

of awareness of the i r r a t i o n a l . The technical demands of a suspenseful

plot, complicated with dramatic i r o n i e s , do not permit their ignorance

to be r e l i e v e d , and their lack of insight i s consistent with the general

trend i n gothic writing to diminish the conventionally heroic figures to

manniquins.^ Moreover, we must suspect Lewis of a delight i n l u r i n g

the reader into a judgmental trap. Raymond and Lorenzo, inasmuch as we

think of them at a l l , are f a i r l y sympathetic characters, whereas Ambrosio,

for a l l his self-delusion and v i c t i m i z a t i o n , i s a criminal. The reader

i s forced to overlook i n Lorenzo and Raymond the same denial of s e l f that

he condemns i n Ambrosio.

Lewis reserves close analysis for the extreme counterpart of the

decent average men—for Ambrosio, "the Man of Holiness." Because Ambro-

sio's suffering, l i k e Raymond's, f i n a l l y i s referred to natural, psycho-

l o g i c a l causes, Lewis wastes l i t t l e time i n delaying our awareness of

his d u p l i c i t y . I t i s not the mere fact of Ambrosio's fragmented con-

sciousness that concerns him—though he plays upon i t with a heavy hand

at f i r s t — b u t the history of the monk's flawed personality, the growth

of h i s obsession and i t s fulfilment. The drama of temptation and sur-

render i s , i n a sense, a secondary matter, for i t i s superimposed on the

examination, conducted almost from within, of a desolate soul. As The

I t a l i a n and Melmoth the Wanderer were to demonstrate, such an examination

 215

has i t s own fascination, outside the framework of Faustian bargaining

and t h e a t r i c a l spectacle.

As a l u l l i n the p a i n f u l scenes of antipathy between Ambrosio and

Matilda, Lewis i n t e r j e c t s a lengthy account of the perversion of the

monk's character (p. 235 f f . ) . The account meshes well enough with

e a r l i e r ones f o r us to be able to detect the dangers of matricide and

incest towards which Ambrosio i s about to rush. Ambrosio undergoes the

kind of monastic miseducation already f a m i l i a r from l u r i d anti-clerical

f i c t i o n and from immediate, non-monastic experience. That the description

18

of this system i s f a l l a c i o u s or inaccurate i s i r r e l e v a n t , f o r the

touching of conventional responses simply makes the acceptance of sensa-

t i o n a l , disturbing material easier by permitting that material to be

regarded as a l i e n . The e s s e n t i a l problem i n The Monk i s neither reli-

gious nor p o l i t i c a l , but psychological.

Abandoned by an uncaring r e l a t i o n , Ambrosio i s handed over to the

monks, who w i l l also betray him by refusing to give him proper emotional

nourishment. He i s educated i n fear, through fear; he i s made v i c t i m of

a l l the devices of intimidation and persuasion which are t r a d i t i o n a l l y

at the monks' disposal, i n order to become master of those tools himself.

His natural virtues are p l e n t i f u l , but those which are unnecessary f o r

his duties i n the Order, such as compassion and mercy, are suppressed,

while v i c e s , such as pride and envy, though not nurtured, are overlooked.

His passionate nature i s harnessed to the involuted routine of the monas-

tery. He i s converted into a perfect monk, and, therefore, a perfect

goth.
 216

Although many of the features of this account are part of the usual

a n t i - c l e r i c a l formula, Lewis elevates the whole pattern to the plane of

personal tragedy. For this reason Ambrosio cannot be dismissed as a mere

criminal, and Lewis retains the a b i l i t y to play upon our uncertain f e e l -

ings for him. Enumerating Ambrosio's s t r e n g t h s — h i s keen i n t e l l e c t , his

impressive physique and bearing, his active and aggressive i n s t i n c t s —

Lewis shows how they have been wasted. His upbringing by the Capuchins

has inculcated a f a l s e concern for d i s c i p l i n e , yet i t has l e f t his active

f a c u l t i e s with no suitable outlet. Tremendous energy has been confined

within an extremely limited sphere. The n a r c i s s i s t i c l i f e of the monas-

tery precludes any s o c i a l l y useful pursuit and requires instead that the

monks devote themselves to a s p i r i t u a l regime which i s an imposition upon

the believer. The oppressive awareness of severe l i m i t a t i o n s , which i s

rendered even more t e r r i f y i n g i n Melmoth, here turns the supernaturalism

and the Faustian c r i s e s into an empty show; for the Church has stolen

Ambrosio's soul before he can deal i t away to Matilda or Satan. Thus

there i s established a pattern of self-destruction that i s not as common

as the Faustian bargain i n gothic f i c t i o n but i s a much stronger source

of h o r r i b l e irony: the f a l s e parent (the Church) so corrupts the child's

soul that he can k i l l his true parent (Elvira) without f e e l i n g much

remorse. The irony i s accentuated by the c h i l d ' s eagerness for his own

corruption and for the rewards of the eventual crime. By the time

Ambrosio strangles E l v i r a , we are convinced that he would do so even i f

he knew her r e a l i d e n t i t y , so powerful i s h i s fascination with Antonia

and h i s fear of detection.

 217

The corruption of Ambrosio involves more than emotional impoverish-

ment. In the world of The Monk sexual f a t a l i t y i s accompanied by sexual

confusion which assumes three forms: object i s confused with subject,

masculine i s confused with feminine, and health i s confused with mor-

bidity.

As i s usual i n h i s treatment of serious matters, Lewis f i r s t

approaches the issue of sexual confusion through a joke. In the banter

among Lorenzo, Christobal, and Leonella, i t i s alleged that Ambrosio i s

so pure of mind that he does not know the difference between man and

woman; Leonella adds that Antonia too i s uninformed, and there i s some

argument about whether she should be. Yet, even when Ambrosio has seen

the difference, i n the form of Matilda's bare breast, and has partaken

of i t s advantages, h i s sexual preferences remain muddled. Citing evi-

dence of "homoerotic emotions" i n biographies of Lewis, his l e t t e r s , and

his writings, E l l i o t t Gose argues that i n The Monk "we s h a l l find a

19

study of the disintegration of an 'undecided character'," and nowhere

i s the undecidedness more pronounced than i n Ambrosio's.relations with

Rosario/Matilda.

Here i t i s hard to keep genders and roles i n order. Ambrosio i s at

f i r s t f l a t t e r e d by the admiration and charmed by the sweet manner of the

gentle novice, Rosario, for whom he begins to f e e l something more than

benign fellowship. Though highly sentimentalized, the a f f e c t i o n i s

c l e a r l y homosexual as well as f i l i a l ; Ambrosio imagines the "boy" as h i s

son, but the main a t t r a c t i o n i s Rosario's effeminacy. Yet, when Rosario

reveals herself to be Matilda (hers i s a stock story of impossible i n f a t -

uation) , the reversals are compounded. Matilda i s bold, enterprising,

 218

ruthless; she i s unmistakably female and desirable, but her 'behaviour i s

not feminine. As she scorns Ambrosio's womanish fears of the demonic

and h i s hesitancy, the monk's misgivings grow; he regrets the disappear-

ance of the quiet, subservient, chaste Rosario and the substitution of

the aggressive, domineering, sexually potent Matilda, who actually

desires the same pleasure that Ambrosio cannot quite j u s t i f y for himself.

Like Lorenzo, Ambrosio appears to have no middle choice between the

whore and the angel; only the s h i f t i n g , blending ppposites are l e f t for

him i n his world of extremes. That Lewis manages to delve beneath that

appearance—as well as to affirm i t — i s a sign both of h i s own divided

a f f i n i t i e s and of the dual perspective common to the ambivalent mode of

the gothic. The dark inner l i f e with i t s uncomfortably recognizable

fantasies and obsessions i s enjoyed and dismissively analyzed at the

same time.

Ambrosio feels compelled to loathe the very object on which he

stakes his reputation and his prospects for s a l v a t i o n — p s y c h i c a l and

theological. Once i n h i s possession, the dazzling prize immediately

becomes a corrupt thing. Lewis further aggravates the dilemma, under

the guise of anti-Catholic r i d i c u l e , by i d e n t i f y i n g Matilda with the

image of the Madonna that has been the object of the monk's constant

adoration. But since Ambrosio's worship i s a sublimation of physical

love, an attachment to the symbolic image, not the idea symbolized, he

is unable to distinguish the icon from the f l e s h l y model. And, given

the monastic context, Lewis' readers would be s a t i s f i e d , even pleased,

with Ambrosio's confusion. However, for Ambrosio, the treachery of h i s

delusion i s the r e a l , intolerable f a c t . Now incarnate, the V i r g i n i s

 219

"the P r o s t i t u t e " Matilda. Lewis' narrative voice, however, cannot

r e s i s t commenting on the unreasonableness of Ambrosio's submission to

such f a n t a s t i c reversals as the monk r i p s the icon from the wall of his

c e l l and spurns i t , the narrator remarks:

Unfortunate Matilda. Her Paramour forgot, that for his sake

alone She had f o r f e i t e d her claim to v i r t u e ; and his only
reason for despising her was, that She had loved him much
too well (p. 244).

That i s not the only reason, but i t i s the primary one. Compliant

and victimized a l i k e , women are associated with the uncleanness, the

unholiness of Ambrosio's passion; i f they accede to his wishes—which

hardly can be s a t i s f i e d — t h e y condemn themselves.

This disjunction of desire and esteem i s a c l a s s i c subject of

20

psychoanalytical inquiry, but Lewis i s mainly interested i n i t s path-

ology for the tortuous fantasy l i f e that i t leads to. Lewis' evident

delight i n sudden reversals, i d e n t i f i c a t i o n of opposites, and gender

ambiguities i s more consistent with the methods of sexual fantasy than
21

case h i s t o r y , and most of Ambrosio's assumptions, delusions, or fanta-

sies are those of a male protagonist i n erotic f i c t i o n .

The prevalent delusion results from the p r a c t i c a l i m p o s s i b i l i t y ,

e s p e c i a l l y for a man who has denied his i r r a t i o n a l , i n s t i n c t u a l side, of

distinguishing between seduction and projection. This problem a r i s e s ,

i n p a r t i c u l a r , i n trying to assess the motives and behaviour of Matilda,

and the reader must share i t with Ambrosio because Lewis himself i s so

undecided on this point. Ambrosio and the narrator regularly bring up

c e r t a i n questions: Is Matilda's magic at the service of e r o t i c mastery

or destruction? Is i t r e a l magic, or i s i t the prompting of Ambrosio's

starved imagination? I f Matilda i s a witch or an agent of Satan, does

 220

that release Ambrosio from blame for whatever crimes she causes him to

commit? And does she r e a l l y cause him to do anything or does she simply

abet his crimes?

Lewis supplies inconsistent, equivocal answers. The accusation

that Matilda i s the lure i n a great demonic plan, for example, comes

after a l l from the devil's l i p s as he tortures Ambrosio with the thought

of his own foolishness. For most of the narrative, Matilda's t h i n l y

concealed autobiography—the story of Rosario's s i s t e r J u l i a and her

desperate passion for a man betrothed, to a n o t h e r — i s equally plausible.

The facts of Ambrosio's experience, and of h i s career as we follow i t ,

f i t either explanation. And i n either case, great expertise, almost

prescience, i s apparent. The snares.that Matilda throws i n the way of

Ambrosio are numerous, and they are fashioned as i f with h i s weaknesses

and h i s secret i n t e r n a l l i f e i n mind. F i r s t Matilda c a r e f u l l y plays on

the mystique surrounding Rosario because i t piques the c u r i o s i t y of the

monk. When she has revealed her true i d e n t i t y , the s o p h i s t i c a l arguments

with which she urges their union depend upon the defects i n h i s character,

p a r t i c u l a r l y his pride and vanity, which Matilda, l i k e h i s monkish

teachers, p e r s i s t s i n treating as i f they were v i r t u e s . The whole i n c i -

dent of the snake-bite, with Matilda's s a c r i f i c e and threatened suicide,

culminates i n the "accidental" baring of her breast, exploiting the most

22

important of Ambrosio's fetishes. On her deathbed she places h i s hand

on her bosom, which i s s t i l l "the seat of honour, truth, and chastity,"

and the monk, "confused, embarrassed, and fascinated . . . withdrew i t

not, and f e l t her heart throb under i t " (p. 90). So great i s Matilda's

a l l u r e , so thorough her f a m i l i a r i t y with even his unacknowledged

 221

impulses, that Ambrosio seems j u s t i f i e d i n believing that she controls

the circumstances of temptation, that she i s the i n s t i g a t o r , not the

convenient object, of his dangerous obsession.

The reader might be forced to concur i n that b e l i e f i f Ambrosio did

not transfer i t to Antonia. Lewis i n v i t e s us to consider Matilda as a

femme fatale, but Antonia i s so p e r f e c t l y g u i l e l e s s that the projective

nature of Ambrosio's loathing.is self-evident. In addition, the accu-

r a t e l y duplicated cycle of conversion—the Madonna to the P r o s t i t u t e ,

the angelic, chaste Antonia to the Venus of the b a t h — i s symptomatic of

a tendency that i s peculiar to Ambrosio.

The fantasy that women compel, h i s desire dominates the monk's very

diction. Notice, for example, the verbs of coercion or entrapment i n

this comparison of Matilda and Antonia:

Matilda gluts me with enjoyment even to loathing, forces me

to her arms, apes the Harlot, and g l o r i e s i n her p r o s t i t u -
tion. Disgusting! Did she know the inexpressible charm of
Modesty, how i r r e s i s t i b l y i t enthralls the heart of Man, how
firmly i t chains him to the Throne of Beauty, She never
would have thrown i t o f f (pp. 242-243.).

Matilda's " l u s t f u l favours" and Antonia's "inexpressible charm of Modesty"

are thus equated, not contrasted, through a common capacity for mastering

Ambrosio's imagination.

The pattern of sharp, i r o n i c reversals prepares us for the trans-

ference of Ambrosio's aggression to i t s objects. Once again i t i s a

c u l t u r a l stereotype, sharpened by the c y n i c a l narrative voice, that

supplies the f i r s t element of the pattern. The narrator examines the

monk's chances for varying h i s steady diet of Matilda, and finds him

both fortunate and unfortunate:

 222

Above a l l the Women sang forth his praises loudly, less

influenced by devotion than by his noble countenance,
majestic a i r , and well-turned graceful figure. The Abbey-
door was thronged with Carriages from morning to night; and
the noblest and f a i r e s t Dames of Madrid confessed to the
Abbot their secret peccadilloes. The eyes of the luxurious
F r i a r devoured their charms: Had his Penitents consulted
those Interpreters, He would have needed no other means of
expressing his desires. For h i s misfortune, they were so
strongly persuaded of his continence, that the p o s s i b i l i t y
of his harbouring indecent thoughts never once entered their
imaginations. The climate's heat, ' t i s well known, operates
with no small influence upon the constitutions of the Span-
i s h Ladies . . . the F r i a r was l i t t l e acquainted with the
depravity of the world; He suspected not, that but few of
his Penitents would have rejected his addresses (pp. 239-
240). 23

Once Ambrosio loses the innocent b e l i e f i n the exclusiveness of h i s

l u s t f u l thoughts, h i s suspicions surpass the narrator's. A l l women

become f a i r game for his imagination. Rather than face the r e a l extent

of h i s passion and the r e a l process of dream fulfilment by which h i s

imagination t r i e s to serve i t , Ambrosio reverses the subject-object r e l a -

tion, and supposes that the women he most desires seek to provoke him.

After one sight of Antonia, he i s stricken with desire for h e r — a s was

Lorenzo—and, i n h i s c e l l , he i s "pursued by Antonia's image" (p. 242);

already i t i s she who has burned the hunter. When Antonia, accompanied

by a reluctant Leonella, comes to beg that Ambrosio bring comfort to her

pious mother, who i s desperately i l l , the monk's immediate reaction

derives from this r a t i o n a l i z a t i o n and from his experience with Matilda:

"So!" thought the Monk; "Here we have a second Vincen-

t i o d e l l a Ronda. Rosario's adventure began thus," and He
wished secretly, that this might have the same conclusion
(P. 2 4 1 ) .
24

Lewis promotes this confusion of subject and object, especially as

applied to Antonia, with the effect that the reader i s placed discon-

certingly close to the monk's state of extreme arousal. He presents

 223

Antonia's innocent beauty with an odd combination of sentimentality and

prurience—perhaps not so odd i n l i g h t of the events i n Ambrosio's mind.

It i s Ambrosio's active dreaming imagination that converts Antonia from

innocent to whore, yet the reader shares i n the f i n a l , e x p l i c i t image of

her, the maddening purity of her form. This i s a t r i c k of pornographic

sensationalism—making the reader an eager witness of what he might

otherwise condemn—but i t i s also a key to Lewis' v i s i o n of the elusive-

ness, and pervasiveness, of the darker impulses i n men, and a symptom of

the deep s p l i t i n ambivalent gothicism between a sympathetic and a nar-

25

rowly m o r a l i s t i c treatment of problems, of e v i l and i r r a t i o n a l i t y .

For Lewis, and for h i s characters, a l l the sexual confusions end i n

the tomb. Not only i s this the imaginative terminus for sensationalism

(as Burke foresaw), but i t i s the appropriate r e a l i z a t i o n of the obses-

sions and denials on which the emotional l i f e of The Monk i s based. If,

as i n most pornography., desire does not conclude with any single event

or succession of events, i f there i s i n fact no s a t i a t i o n , then the body

appears a tyrant which may be indulged or rebelled against. Lewis pur-

sues the horror of this perception beyond the monotony i t produces i n

pornography, and his treatment of i t s implications i s considerably more

complex. Sometimes indulgence and r e b e l l i o n are contained i n the same

working out of the problem. Sex becomes a process of mastery and of

extending power, a process which may culminate with the death, and thus

the perfect possession, of the partner; or i t becomes a continuing

occasion for self-punishment, for embracing that which, l i k e the Bleed-

ing Nun, i s born of desire and i s capable of destroying desire by laying

waste to the body.

 224

In e i t h e r case, death and d i s e a s e a r e shown as n e c e s s a r y comple-

ments, and i n s t r u m e n t s , of p a s s i o n . It i s logical, t h e r e f o r e , t h a t the

u n i o n o f Agnes and Raymond s h o u l d produce a p u t r i d , loathsome thing,

s c a r c e l y an i n f a n t .(another complete t r a n s f o r m a t i o n ) , and t h a t Agnes

should have to watch i t s t a r v e t o death and decompose. Having come as

c l o s e t o t h i s f a c t as he can, t o the p o i n t o f a v i d i n t e r e s t i n decay,

Lewis imbues Ambrosio w i t h the same f a s c i n a t i o n as a l a s t d e s p e r a t e

protection. Ambrosio t h i n k s o f the s i t e o f h i s rape o f A n t o n i a ( i n the

c r y p t s beneath t h e convent and monastery) as an a d d i t i o n a l prop f o r h i s

resolution. Here they a r e removed from the s u r f a c e w o r l d o f r e p u t a t i o n s

and decorum. Here they a r e s a f e from i n t e r f e r e n c e , but o n l y because

they a r e surrounded by the d e a t h l y and u n l o v e l y . When a l l r e a s s u r a n c e

fails, the monk takes h i s cue from.the n a t u r e o f t h e p l a c e , which i s

a l s o the n a t u r e o f h i s s o u l .

What i s more d i s t u r b i n g than. Lewis' p r e d e l i c t i o n f o r gruesome

detail (e.g., h i s p r o l o n g i n g o f the death of Ambrosio) i s the sense o f

b l i n d doom. The morbid a s s o c i a t i o n o f sex and death i n c l u d e s b o t h pas-

s i o n and t h e d e n i a l of p a s s i o n ; they a r e i n d i f f e r e n t l y rewarded, and

Lewis does n o t suggest any way out o f the impasse he has c r e a t e d .

E v i d e n c e of the impasse, however, i s everywhere i n The Monk. The

reader searches i n v a i n f o r some e m o t i o n a l or moral s t i l l p o i n t , such as

a n o s t a l g i c goth would r e a d i l y p r o v i d e , f o r some p o i n t where the e n d l e s s

j o k i n g i s suspended. I n s t e a d , Lewis g i v e s o n l y the empty forms o f

s e n t i m e n t a l i t y , s t a b i l i t y , and heroism. T h i s might appear t o i n d i c a t e a

l a c k o f s e r i o u s n e s s o r c o n c e n t r a t i o n i n Lewis' method, and indeed the

f r i v o l o u s , s p o r t i v e tone o f The Monk i s unmistakeable. But the tone i s

 225

also c h a r a c t e r i s t i c of the whole gothic f i c t i o n a l enterprise, and partic-

u l a r l y of i t s divided purposes. Like Walpole's several self-censorship

devices i n Otranto, what Drake c a l l e d the "sportive gothic" becomes i n

Lewis' hands a means of distancing the pain inherent i n his sensational

treatment of gothic themes. Yet, despite such marginal allowances for

dismissing the central experience of The Monk, there i s no settled, com-

f o r t i n g idea of what the imaginary past should mean. Lewis parodies

romantic f i c t i o n a l conventions, including the notion of gothic barbarity,

while exploiting them. He contrasts gothic adventure and colour with

gothic bleakness, balancing the foreignness and absurdity of h i s charac-

ters with the desolation of their f a m i l i a r inner world.

The events of the novel's "resolution" make this technique p l a i n .

For example, the mission that frees Agnes i s accompanied by mob sadism

of a t y p i c a l l y gothic b r u t a l i t y , i n t e n s i t y and obscenity. Lewis sets

our s a t i s f a c t i o n with the rescue and sympathy with the happiness of the

reunited lovers against the background of the mob's i r r a t i o n a l i t y and

the protagonists' i n a b i l i t y to r e s t r a i n i t . Even our well-founded con-

tempt for the Prioress of St. Clare's cannot quite j u s t i f y the manner of

her murder.

Lewis s i m i l a r l y undercuts the romantic p l o t - l i n e s . Antonia's death

i n the arms of Lorenzo i s heightened by sentimental, melodramatic touches,

but these do not conceal a haste to get r i d of her i n order to simplify

the system of a l l i a n c e s , i n which she can have no part. In accord with

her image of purity and s e l f l e s s n e s s , Antonia greets death with graceful

acceptance; she understands the rules of courtship well enough to r e a l i z e

that she i s "damaged goods" and cannot marry Lorenzo. However, Lewis'
 226

declaration that, "deprived of honour and branded with shame, Death was

to her a blessing" (p. 392), i s disturbingly s i m i l a r to the r a t i o n a l i z a -

tions that might occur to Ambrosio, or even to Lorenzo. Having been

tainted by the lower world of sexual violence, Antonia i s no longer f i t

to l i v e on the surface.

After Matilda and Ambrosio have been captured, there i s a spate of

match-making and realigning of affections that requires an embarrassing

amount of exposition and contrivance. The b e a u t i f u l V i r g i n i a i s elevated

from the ludicrous band of nuns whom Lorenzo had discovered trapped i n

the crypts. She w i l l replace Antonia as Lorenzo's bride. The match has

been promoted by Agnes and the Duke de Medina, and V i r g i n i a ' s name d i s -

plays her p r i n c i p a l q u a l i f i c a t i o n . In e f f e c t , she i s a cure for

Lorenzo's love-sickness and g r i e f , just as the return of Agnes, who i s

f l a t t e r e d to learn that her lover has nearly pined away for her sake,

immediately leads to Raymond's recovery, Justice i s meted out to the

nuns, marriages are concluded, and Lorenzo's love i s transferred, i n

short order. We are told that "Antonia's image was gradually effaced

from his bosom; and V i r g i n i a became sole Mistress of that heart, which

She well deserved to possess without a Partner"; the f l u i d i t y and super-

f i c i a l i t y of Lorenzo's feelings makes the persecution and murder of

Antonia seem t r i v i a l . After we have been drawn to the depths of deprav-

i t y and disintegration, the contentment of marriage i s an unconvincing

prospect, and those who are s a t i s f i e d with i t suddenly appear shallow.

Unlike Reeve or R a d c l i f f e , Lewis does not rest when the f e l i c i t o u s

arrangements have been made. He continues the degradation of Ambrosio

to the utmost point, so that i t i s the spectacle of h i s hopeless

 227

suffering with which we are l e f t . Even.the meagre consolation of fame

is gone; while the d e v i l bears Ambrosio away, h i s reputation, h i s crimes,

his satanic rescue fade from public interest and he i s soon forgotten.

The gorgeous boyish demon who f i r s t appeared to Ambrosio, at Matilda's

summons, now stands forth as the jaded, hideous Lucifer and exposes the

actual extent of Ambrosio's crimes: incest and the murder of h i s mother

and s i s t e r . Lucifer's version of the testing of Ambrosio i s suspect,

since i t may be intended to aggravate Ambrosio's mental tortures, and

the ironies which the d e v i l unravels are rather mechanical and super-

fluous. The landscape i n which this f i n a l scene occurs, however, sug-

gests the means of interpreting i t . Ambrosio has exchanged the lush,

perfumed garden of the Capuchin Abbey, where he courted Rosario/Matilda,

for a s t e r i l e wilderness, broken by c l i f f s and dry ravines. In such a

place, the d e v i l ' s j e s t i n g commentary i s hardly necessary. Incapable of

recognizing the a r i d i t y and treachery of his inner l i f e , Ambrosio has

been overtaken by i t s outward manifestation.

Thus, the scene of Ambrosio's suffering serves as a l u c i d , concrete

representation of the tendency of his whole career and of the ultimate

condition of h i s soul. However, by depicting the f i n a l agonies i n nearly

mythic terms (there are obvious allusions to Prometheus and the Creation),

Lewis reminds us that Ambrosio's story, though of immediate, compelling

i n t e r e s t , i s also a means of gaining access to disturbing, painful

themes.

In most of Ann Radcliffe's novels we discover themes that overlap

the themes of The Monk: the misuse of. the i r r a t i o n a l , the c o n f l i c t

between f e e l i n g and common sense, the oppressive exercise of authority,

 228

the destructive power of the e r o t i c . On the other hand, two character-

i s t i c s of Radcliffe's method d i s t i n g u i s h i t from Lewis'.

F i r s t , as we noted i n the previous chapter, R a d c l i f f e expresses her

ambivalence toward the imaginary gothic world through a pattern of con-

frontation i n which familiar values are not t o t a l l y vindicated nor are

a l i e n values t o t a l l y condemned. In The Monk the narrative voice occa-

s i o n a l l y gives enlightened commentary—or what passes for i t — b u t there

is no r e a l sense of c o n f l i c t between mismatched cultures; on the contrary,

the narrator eventually presents the whole world of The Monk as a t a v i s t i c .

For R a d c l i f f e the meeting with the gothic ancestors must be dramatic;

the confrontational pattern requires the active p a r t i c i p a t i o n of a

v i s i t o r or representative from the reader's environment. Often the

v i s i t o r i s a representative of a f a m i l i a r fictional type as well; she i s ,

for example, a sentimental heroine transported to a realm where b r u t a l i t y

is as much appreciated as fine sentiment.

Because the female protagonist usually i s a creature of exquisite

s e n s i b i l i t y , Radcliffe's work shows an understanding of the nostalgic

mode and includes many of i t s common elements. This a d d i t i o n a l l a t i t u d e

also separates R a d c l i f f e from Lewis. For Lewis, sensationalism i s mainly

an interest i n forbidden psychic t e r r i t o r y and the grosser features of

physical suffering. Damnation i s universal, the i d e a l merely an i l l u -

sion. In this climate there i s no object for nostalgic r e c o l l e c t i o n .

In contrast, R a d c l i f f e approaches her darker perceptions more by sugges-

tion than by sensationalism, and her palette of strong feelings consists

not only of imaginary fear and e r o t i c compulsion but also of nature

worship, f i l i a l piety, and love of the sublime, feelings consistent with

 229

26

a nostalgic rendition of the gothic. Consequently, there are long

i d y l l i c interludes i n many of R a d c l i f f e ' s novels, such as Adeline's stay

with the family of La Luc i n The Romance of the Forest, Ellena's period

of refuge at the Convent of the Santa della Pieta i n The I t a l i a n , and

27

Emily's early domestic routine i n The Mysteries of Udolpho. For a time

the heroines seem to have found a way back from the terror that encircles

them, but the i d y l l ends and the figures within i t are altered: La Luc's

son i s imprisoned, the Abbess turns out to have l i t t l e protective power,

Emily's parents die and she.is l e f t to the guardianship of her f o o l i s h ,

unfeeling aunt. Nostalgic attitudes have some play i n the novels, but

they remain a l i m i t e d , secondary mode, because they are the raw material

for the victims' misapprehensions.

Nostalgia helps to account for the prudential moralism, the exten-

sive scenic descriptions, and the sporadic attempts at pseudo-historical

28

detail, elements of the novels which are less accessible to the

present-day reader.

What i s s t i l l accessible i s the central problem within the novels,

for which the solutions that nostalgia offers are inadequate. It i s

natural, however, that one mode of response should be nostalgic, for the

problem i s a loss of i d e n t i t y and of family connection, the disruption

of the secure boundaries of childhood, and any means that may restore

the old s i t u a t i o n must be t r i e d . For Clara Reeve, as we have seen,

return to the past i s a way of redressing present grievances by imposing

an i d e a l structure on the loose h i s t o r i c a l framework. For R a d c l i f f e ,

i d e a l structures are f r a g i l e . a t best; return to the a l i e n past i s a way

of creating personal r e a l i t y and developing resistance to an e v i l which

 230

i s not r e s t r i c t e d to the past, and which cannot be e a s i l y evaded.

Recognizing the true nature of that e v i l i s the ultimate d i f f i c u l t y

for the protagonists; they must follow a process of detection i n which

some of the suspenseful devices are e n t i r e l y gratuitous, l i k e the famous

29
v e i l e d " p o r t r a i t " i n The Mysteries of Udolpho, and others are the
r e s u l t of manipulation, l i k e Schedoni's deception of the credulous
30

V i v a l d i i n The I t a l i a n . But the most immediate emotional need i s for

parents and protection. Fathers and mothers die, or are l o s t , or prove

false. In any event, the children are thrown back on their own slim

resources of fortitude and wisdom, i n a s e t t i n g which they suddenly per-

ceive to be h o s t i l e .

There are numerous surrogate parents but they invariably f a i l to

perform their duties s a t i s f a c t o r i l y ; many of them have v i l l a i n o u s aims

for their young charges, while others reverse the relationship between

parent and c h i l d . Mme. Cheron, l a t e r Mme. Montoni, i n Udolpho, i s an

example of the l a t t e r sort of f a l s e parent. A lack of discernment

delivers both herself, and her niece, Emily, into Montoni's power; when

he imprisons her for refusing to r e l i n q u i s h her fortune, she becomes

increasingly dependent on Emily's cheerfulness for consolation; she

herself has no strength to share.

In The Romance of the Forest treacherous f a l s e parents multiply;

Adeline i s given over to a succession of them. F i r s t there i s D'Aunoy,

whom she believes during most of the narrative to be her r e a l father but

who has been given custody of Adeline by the Marquis de Montalt, her

r e a l father's murderer. D'Aunoy consigns her to a convent; there she i s

subjected to the tyrannical designs of a f a l s e mother, the Abbess (see

 231

pp. 195-196 above). From the convent Adeline i s taken to D'Aunoy's l a i r

where she i s eventually handed over to the outlaw La Motte over whom

Montalt has control. La Motte develops genuine fatherly feelings for

Adeline, yet he i s insecure and powerless; the Marquis holds the threat
31

of blackmail over La Motte, and r e l u c t a n t l y he plays procurer for

Montalt, delivering Adeline to him, ostensibly for rape, i n fact for

murder. For a while i t also appears that the Marquis i s Adeline's r e a l

father, and i f Adeline i s confused by D]Aunoy's motives, when she

believes him to be her father, we are even more puzzled by the Marquis'

intentions u n t i l we discover the mistake that has concealed his i d e n t i t y .

Adeline i s hampered i n penetrating this maze of substitutions by her

overly trusting nature. We learn that "confidence i n the s i n c e r i t y and

goodness of others was her weakness" and receive an example of this con-

fidence from her own account of her f i r s t sight of Paris:

"Every countenance was here animated either by business or
pleasure, every step was a i r y , and every smile was gay.
A l l the people appeared l i k e friends; they looked and
smiled at me; I smiled again, and wished to have told them
how pleased I was. How d e l i g h t f u l , said I, to l i v e sur-
rounded by friends!"^2

But friends are scarcer than Adeline thinks at f i r s t . I t i s the

fate of R a d c l i f f e ' s heroines to be denied friendship as often as they

are denied parental care. Sometimes, indeed, these losses are combined,

as when Ellena, i n The Italian, i s separated from her new-found friend

O l i v i a before she can discover that the d e l i g h t f u l woman, who has suf-

fered i n order to defend her, i s her r e a l mother. Of course, the loss

of friendship provides another occasion for the expressions of fashion-

able melancholy i n which the female protagonists love to indulge. On a

less s u p e r f i c i a l l e v e l , however, the loss i s part of the general pattern

 232

of i s o l a t i o n which sets up the conditions necessary for persecuting the

heroine.

The parent-as-persecutor i s the darkest, most complex figure i n

Radcliffe's gothic complement. Certainly the type had been established

in Richardson's Clarissa and i n the contemporary French domestic melo-

drama with which R a d c l i f f e was undoubtedly f a m i l i a r , but her development

of i t i s remarkable for depth of sympathetic psychological insight and

for balance maintained between the persecutor's and the victim's sense

of being trapped i n the situation. With the cruel Marquis of The Sicil-

ian Romance, of whom Catherine Morland i s presumably thinking when she

33

spins her fantasies about General Tilney, R a d c l i f f e begins a series of

parental tyrants which culminates i n The Italian. Here she attempts her

f u l l e s t , most mature treatment of the relations between parents and

children; the novel i s centred on the subject, the various episodes and

relationships r e f l e c t i n g various aspects of the c o n f l i c t .

But Radcliffe's sense of decorum, which i s an instrument of the

nostalgic mode i n the forming of her novels, prevents her from represent-

ing the c o n f l i c t d i r e c t l y . There i s an evident reluctance to depict

parents as actual persecutors, i f some means of deflecting their respon-

34

s i b i l i t y can be found. In The Romance of the Forest this i s another

reason for the m u l t i p l i c a t i o n of f a l s e fathers who, i n some fashion,

turn out to be involved i n the persecution of the heroine. The reader

is brought to the edge of a disturbing r e c o g n i t i o n — t h a t parents may

resent, thwart, destroy their c h i l d r e n — o n l y to be stopped short by the

35

same i r o n i c reversals that save Adeline from utter disappointment.

In The Mysteries of Udolpho, the f a l l i b i l i t y of a father i s s i m i l a r l y

 233

tendered and then withdrawn: misconstruing c e r t a i n r e l i c s which her

father has asked her to destroy after his death, Emily suspects that he

has had a disastrous love a f f a i r , that he too i s a sexual being, and we

share that growing, uncomfortable suspicion u n t i l we learn with Emily

36
the innocuous truth.

In The Italian there i s also an evasion of the domestic c o n f l i c t s .

P a r a l l e l s between the power of parents and the power of the Church

define the natural obligations of subjects (e.g., children) and author-

i t y figures, but they also transfer the idea of crimes against sexuality

from one conventional a r e a — t h e family—where the fact of persecution i s

harder to confront, to another a r e a — t h e monastery—where such crimes are

popularly supposed to be common.

The transfer i s so successful that i t i s l i a b l e to cause readers to

overlook the connection between V i v a l d i ' s parents and the lovers' mis-

fortunes. We forget that the haughtiness and vindictiveness of the

Marchesa set i n motion the scheme against Ellena because Schedoni appro-

priates the scheme, and i t s rewards, for himself. The monumental scale

of his ambition, power, c r i m i n a l i t y , and f i n a l suffering sustains our

emotional tension and our interest. We are released only when the l a s t

obscurity l i f t s , only when the cycle of s e l f - d e s t r u c t i o n ends with the

detection and t r i a l of Schedoni.

R a d c l i f f e aids this concentration on Schedoni not only by magnifying

his proportions and deepening the mystery that surrounds him, but also

by diminishing the e f f e c t i v e opposition. Though somewhat more r e s i l i e n t

than her t y p i c a l gothic s i s t e r s , Ellena remains a passive object for

others to manipulate—a f u g i t i v e or a prisoner. V i v a l d i i s as i n e f f e c -

 234

tual and credulous as Schedoni thinks he i s , hardly capable of saving

37

himself, l e t alone acting h e r o i c a l l y .

The process of diminishment a f f e c t s V i v a l d i ' s parents even more.

The Marchese scarcely appears u n t i l his miserable wife dies of chagrin,

somehow reconciled with her son without need for repentance; even then,

he merely serves to dispense material rewards to the survivors. Rad-

c l i f f e implies that i t was an imbalance between husband and wife that

gave the Marchesa scope for her interference, thus d i f f u s i n g responsi-

b i l i t y for her maliciousness. I f only the man would take h i s proper

place, i t seems, the domestic c o n f l i c t would be smoothed over.

There i s good reason for weakening the parents' r o l e as persecutors.

The V i v a l d i s are deprived of magnitude, but also of c u l p a b i l i t y . They

are not genuine criminals, as Schedoni undoubtedly i s . They must be

saved, with moral standing r e l a t i v e l y unhurt, for the mechanical n i c e t i e s

of the resolution, when, l i k e Clara Reeve, R a d c l i f f e t r i e s to climb out

of the gothic darkness into the bright c i r c l e of domesticity. The nos-

t a l g i c impulse i s to purify the parents, as i t i s to i d e a l i z e the past;

i n both cases there i s a securing of i d e n t i t y . Thus, the awful fate of

Schedoni i s almost l e f t behind, except that i t looms larger than any-

thing else i n The I t a l i a n . In t h i s matter of proportion and impressive-

38

ness, at l e a s t , R a d c l i f f e does not improve upon Lewis' practice.

In e f f e c t , a l l potential for criminal tyranny i n parenthood i s con-

ferred upon Schedoni. There i s a l i t e r a l representation of the transfer,

i n the form of the Marchesa's commission to Schedoni. At f i r s t she

simply consults with her confessor, sharing anxieties about her son's

welfare. As the extent of those anxieties becomes p l a i n , as Schedoni

 235

feeds her fears and antagonism, the necessary solution appears.

Radcliffe's insight into the developing a l l i a n c e i s subtle. It i s

a measure of the degree to which Schedoni stands for the e v i l latent

within.his patroness that the early planning i s a mutual a f f a i r . Already

complicit i n one murder and greedy for the power that the Marchesa can

give him, Schedoni draws on a ready supply of e v i l to advise her. What

he shows her, however, i s the image of her own desire. It does not

matter—except for the Marchesa's sense of righteousness—that she does

not know, or care to know, what shape the conspiracy w i l l eventually

assume. Once her dark purpose has been given over to a w i l l that i s not

opposed by the usual decent r e s t r a i n t s ( i . e . , a t r u l y gothic will), i t

i s set free i n the world with a tremendous power of i t s own.

But the process does not stop with projection, with the monk taking

up wishes which the lady does not acknowledge. The r e a l terror of the

novel arises from the exaggeration or enlargement of those wishes i n

their fulfilment. As the conspiracy gains momentum, the measures needed

to keep i t going become more and more extreme, u n t i l the crime turns

against Schedoni and i s too enormous for him to handle. This process of

enlargement and exaggeration explains the relationship between Schedoni

and the Marchesa: the more purely gothic figure i s a distorted, magnified

image of the more f a m i l i a r , less barbarous one. At the same time, the

more purely gothic figure i s an outlet for the unrealized forces i n the

more f a m i l i a r , less barbarous world.

That relationship i s compounded i n The Italian; successive tyrants

are themselves tyrannized. If Schedoni acts out an exaggerated version

of the Marchesa's e v i l impulses, beyond her e f f e c t i v e control, the Church

 236

h i e r a r c h y of which he i s a p a r t a c t s out an even more s e v e r e l y exagger-

ated v e r s i o n of h i s own dreams of power. The Church, and particularly

the I n q u i s i t i o n , i s the u l t i m a t e l o c u s of extreme p a r e n t a l oppression.

It i s both a parody and an e x t e n s i o n of the f a m i l y , but of the frag-

mented f a m i l y , the f a m i l y as an "assemblage of strangers."

Envy and m a l i c e a r e the u n n a t u r a l p r i n c i p l e s of l i f e i n such a

f a m i l y , and even a good daughter of the Church l i k e E l l e n a cannot h e l p

but r e c o g n i z e them. As she approaches the convent of San Stefano, even

the g o t h i c a r c h i t e c t u r e of the p l a c e seems s i g n i f i c a n t :

. . . the t a l l west window o f the c a t h e d r a l w i t h the s p i r e s

t h a t overtopped i t ; the narrow p o i n t e d r o o f s of the c l o i s -
t e r s ; angles o f the insurmountable w a l l s , which fenced the
garden from the p r e c i p i c e s below, and the dark p o r t a l l e a d -
i n g i n t o the c h i e f c o u r t ; each of these, seen a t i n t e r v a l s
beneath the gloom of cypress and s p r e a d i n g cedar, seemed as
i f menacing the unhappy E l l e n a w i t h h i n t s of f u t u r e s u f f e r -
ing. 3 9

The darkness and narrowness of the b u i l d i n g corresponds e x a c t l y to the

q u a l i t i e s of the l i f e w i t h i n . Hearing the s t r a i n s of the vesper-service

w a f t i n g over the s i l e n t a i r , E l l e n a t r i e s to summon up an image of

s i s t e r l y harmony:

She i n d u l g e d a hope t h a t they would not be w h o l l y i n s e n -

s i b l e to her s u f f e r i n g s , and t h a t she should r e c e i v e some
c o n s o l a t i o n from sympathy as s o f t as these t e n d e r - b r e a t h i n g
s t r a i n s appeared to i n d i c a t e . ^

But her hope i s d e s t r o y e d by the "symbols of the d i s p o s i t i o n of the

inhabitants." The disposition i t s e l f , the d e s o l a t e i n n e r l i f e , i s

especially threatening:

. . . as she passed through the r e f e c t o r y where the nuns,

j u s t r e t u r n e d from v e s p e r s , were assembled, t h e i r i n q u i s i -
t i v e g l a n c e s , t h e i r s m i l e s and busy w h i s p e r s , t o l d her, t h a t
she was not o n l y an o b j e c t of c u r i o s i t y , but of s u s p i c i o n ,
and t h a t l i t t l e sympathy c o u l d be expected from h e a r t s which
 237

even the o f f i c e s of hourly devotion had not p u r i f i e d from

the malignant envy, that taught them to exalt themselves
upon the humiliation of o t h e r s . ^

With mention of humiliation and "malignant envy" we return to the

conventional gothic wisdom about monastic psychology: a community of

frustrated, sexually neutral n a r c i s s i s t s cannot bear the sight of any

vestiges of freedom or sexual potency i n new a r r i v a l s ; everyone must be

42

reduced to the same ghostly state. For a l l i t s t r i t e n e s s , this notion

has a wider importance. I f the Abbess usually acts in loco parentis,

here she does so e x p l i c i t l y ; for the Abbess of San Stefano i s i n league

with the Marchesa l i k e Schedoni, and her e f f o r t s to b u l l y Ellena into

taking the v e i l are simply an answer to the Marchesa's desire that the

g i r l be eliminated as a sexual object.

The connection between the ascetic mentality of the monastic and

the repressive mentality of the parent-tyrant i s shown most c l e a r l y i n

Schedoni. Like Ambrosio, he i s unable to accept the fact of his own

sensuality; Schedoni, however, has better j u s t i f i c a t i o n , for sensuality

has led him to r u i n . For the sake of his brother's power and h i s wife,

he has plotted and murdered, yet he has gained l i t t l e except grinding

43

remorse and a need for seclusions ; 5

As a r e s u l t , he too develops a

b e l i e f that only extreme positions e x i s t : there i s the l i f e of sensual-

i t y and passion, which i s disastrous, and there i s the l i f e without

those pressures, which i s equally insufferable because i t i s without

delight.

It i s l o g i c a l that Schedoni become a monk, for he has cut himself

off as much as possible from the physical world. There are several out-

ward signs of this retreat. Schedoni resembles an e a r l i e r Radcliffean

 238

outcast, Montoni, i n his t o t a l lack of s e n s i t i v i t y to natural beauty

or sublimity. The reaction to scenery i s an index of the vigour of the

imagination, and the contrast between the monk and Ellena, as they r i d e

toward Spalatro's hideout, i s remarkable:

To the harassed s p i r i t s of Ellena the changing scenery was

refreshing, and she frequently yielded her cares to the
influence of majestic nature. Over the gloom of Schedoni,
no scenery had, at any moment, power; the shape and paint
of external imagery gave neither impression or colour to
his fancy. He contemned the sweet i l l u s i o n s , to which
other s p i r i t s are l i a b l e , and which often confer a delight
more exquisite, and not less innocent, than any, which
deliberate reason can bestow.,,
44

It i s as a devotee of "deliberate r e a s o n " — i n the sense of s e l f - c o n t r o l —

that Schedoni wants to appear. He i s s i n g u l a r l y observant of the rules

of his order, and does not spare himself any occasion for confession and

mortification. The other monks watch t h i s l a s t p e c u l i a r i t y of his con-

duct with mingled awe and suspicion, for his severity makes him both a

rigorous and an intolerant "father" of the house. He seeks to extirpate

the minor weaknesses around him that remind him of the great torturing

weakness within.

He cannot succeed because, l i k e the Marchesa, he has performed a

deed whose consequences he does not f u l l y control. He i s as much a ser-

vant as a master of passion. Paradoxically, i t i s when Schedoni seems

most l i k e a parent, and, therefore, most capable of c o n t r o l l i n g the c h i l d ,

that his nerve f a i l s ; a n d the powers of reason and detection lead him

astray. Entering Ellena's bedroom i n Spalatro's hideout with the intent

of murdering her, Schedoni discovers, just as his dagger i s about to

pierce her breast, a locket which would declare Ellena his own daughter.

He r e c o i l s at the sign and spares her.

 239

The scene i s dramatically impressive, the sequel psychologically

skilful. Circumstances of the most t e r r i b l e kind i n v i t e a strong emo-

t i o n a l response: a father has almost murdered his daughter to s a t i s f y a

wicked, cold woman's vendetta; i n addition, c e r t a i n features of the

scene—Schedoni's dagger, Ellena's recumbent, f r a g i l e innocence—suggest

that the monk has narrowly avoided a sexual attack. We have been

brought to the edge of an unbearable spectacle. Yet, R a d c l i f f e r e f r a i n s

from making Schedoni's revulsion a matter of conscience or an occasion

for an abrupt change of heart. Schedoni i s a secretly power-mad man,

and a conscience, though he cannot evade i t e n t i r e l y , i s mainly an

encumbrance for him. What h o r r i f i e s him i s that he has nearly destroyed

his best chance for securing the influence that he desires. He saves

Ellena, not for the sake of.compassion, but for the sake of greed; he i s

eager to see her married to young V i v a l d i i n order to exploit his con-

nection with her. In abetting one unnatural parent ( i . e . , the Marchesa)

he has unwittingly worked against his own unnatural parental f e e l i n g s —

or lack of f e e l i n g s .

The rather ponderous i r o n i e s of the t h i r d volume of the novel

originate i n this strange reversal. Schedoni's peasant guide acts as

i f herwere aware of the monk's secrets, as i f he were playing an elabor-

ate game of cat-and-mouse with his master, but his most stinging remarks

are probably inadvertent. The monk believes himself exposed as a c h i l d -

45

murderer by this underling; however, there i s no safe way of testing

the man's knowledge without further giving himself away. A harsher

torture i s Ellena's puzzled yet genuine gratitude for Schedoni's a i d .

The more f o r c e f u l l y she expresses this natural, f i l i a l a f f e c t i o n , the

 240

more Schedoni i s compelled to admit his unworthiness to receive i t .

It i s from the obscure region of memory and buried deeds, a region

partly restored to mind by mistaken recognition of Ellena, that Sche-

doni' s nemesis comes. Nemesis i s aided by a f a l s e sense of security, a

f a i l u r e of perception. Schedoni does not believe i n forces that are

greater, more obscure, more i n s c r u t i b l e than his own, he does not expect

to be victimized; therefore, when he f i n a l l y i s made a v i c t i m , he suf-

fers because he i s emotionally unprepared for fear. In the chain of

oppressors and c o n t r o l l e r s , he has power over Ellena and V i v a l d i and the

monks of his order, but he does not have as much power or awareness as

he needs. It i s appropriate that he be detected by the agents of the

Inquisition. Not only i s i t the severe parental authority within the

Church, but i t s secret workings and manipulations are even more devious

than Schedoni's. The same lack of s u s c e p t i b i l i t y to the sublime that we

notice i n his response to nature prevents Schedoni from r e a l i z i n g the

impending danger.

R a d c l i f f e shows that lack of imagination and s e n s i b i l i t y i s as

dangerous as excessive s e n s i b i l i t y , and she uses the main antagonists,

V i v a l d i and Schedoni, to prove the point. Her depiction of the Inqui-

s i t i o n , for example, i s vague, i n comparison to l a t e r uses of the

i n s t i t u t i o n i n gothic f i c t i o n , but the vagueness i s deliberate, for i t

gives us the opportunity to watch R a d c l i f f e demonstrate what she has

discovered about a r t i f i c i a l terror.

Schedoni i s impressed with the I n q u i s i t o r s , of course, but he also

underestimates the extent of their network: he i s a reasonable man, who

does not exaggerate dangers i n order to obtain the a r t i f i c i a l t h r i l l of

 241

fear.

In contrast, V i v a l d i , as we learn i n the f i r s t volume, i s a f o l -

lower of Burke's p r i n c i p l e s . In her understanding of his vulnerable

s e n s i b i l i t y , R a d c l i f f e exhibits an understanding of the process of

reading gothic f i c t i o n . Thus she accounts for V i v a l d i ' s decision to

continue his search at P a l u z z i :

. . . he once more determined to ascertain, i f possible,

the true nature of this portentous v i s i t a n t . . . . He
was awed by the circumstances which had attended the
v i s i t a t i o n s of the monk . . . by the suddenness of his
appearance, and departure; by the truth of his prophecies;
and, above a l l , by the solemn event which had v e r i f i e d h i s
l a s t warning; and h i s imagination, thus elevated by wonder
and p a i n f u l c u r i o s i t y , was prepared for something above
the reach of common conjecture, and beyond the accomplish-
ment of human agency. His understanding was s u f f i c i e n t l y
strong and clear to teach him to detest many errors of
opinion, that prevailed about him . . . and, i n the usual
state of mind, he probably would not. have paused for a
moment on the subject before him; but his passions were
now interested and his fancy awakened, and, though he was
unconscious of this propensity, he would, perhaps, have
been somewhat disappointed, to have descended suddenly
from the region of f e a r f u l sublimity, to which he had
soared—the world of t e r r i b l e shadows—to the earth, on
which he d a i l y walked, and to an explanation simply
natural.,,
46

R a d c l i f f e purveys simply natural explanations. That i s her way of

reducing the gothic darkness to a system, of returning her protagonists

and her readers f a i r l y unscathed to the immediate realm of common sense.

For the most part the r e s u l t i s supposed to be educational: V i v a l d i

loses some of his useless gallantry and paralyzing credulity; Emily

discovers the correctness of her father's lectures on the p i t f a l l s of

sensibility. However, at the same time,.the a l l u r e of the i r r a t i o n a l ,

which delights i n exploring and magnifying obscurity, i s none the less

real. The protagonists are eventually removed from the influence of the
 242

i r r a t i o n a l , but they are not forever released from i t . The capacity of

the imagination to choose and to create terror s t i l l exists after the

gothic enemy seems vanquished. Both R a d c l i f f e and her readers are

required to compare the feebleness of the f i n a l reassurances with the

internal r e a l i t y of terror.

In Charles Robert Maturin's Melmoth the Wanderer (1820), the study

of the victims' mentality i s intense, unrelieved by anything except the

most f r a g i l e moments of nostalgia. The f i c t i o n a l events which, thanks

to the Chinese-box-like structure of the narrative, stretch out i n

apparently i n f i n i t e regression, are a continual source of pain and d i s -

illusionment. Despite the close attention.to the psychology of extremity

i n Melmoth, which often reveals how fear and pain, are self-made, obscur-

i t y and terror assume for Maturin an independent r e a l i t y , beyond the

reach of mere projection or masochistic invention. When the delights of

sublimity are endless, they cease to be d e l i g h t f u l and the complicity of

the imagination becomes i r r e l e v a n t . Drawn by the impressiveness of

Maturin's objects of terror, the reader i s sucked inward by the cycle of

narrators, each of whom has less r e l i e f to promise. Maturin establishes

a plausible, alternative gothic world of pain that i s shared by perse-

cutors and persecuted. The l a t t e r , perhaps, are vindicated i n Heaven,

but the novel holds out no firm evidence of that, speaking mainly of

Hell.

In Melmoth obscurity and terror are i n s t i t u t i o n a l i z e d ; they are the

chief instruments of the unhappy tyrants and the c o n s p i r a t o r i a l tyran-

nies. This i s a l o g i c a l extension of previous gothic preoccupations.

It i s as i f Maturin had decided to pursue to the farthest point the

 243

isolated reference i n Burke's Enquiry to the usefulness of sublimity i n

r e l i g i o n and p o l i t i c s . At that point aesthetic enjoyment—the cult of

the sublime—passes away, and persecution begins, without r e l i e f for

v i c t i m or vicarious sufferer.

The breadth of the v i s i o n makes Melmoth more menacing, disturbing

and desolate than s t o r i e s of gothic v i l l a i n y based on monastic, criminal

or national stereotypes—though many of those are invoked i n Melmoth as

well. Maturin.restricts the number of r a t i o n a l i z a t i o n s or evasions; as

a r e s u l t , his fantasies and excursions into history are less susceptible

to nostalgic i n t e r p r e t a t i o n . What distinguishes Melmoth and gives i t

enduring value i s the choice of settings, s i t u a t i o n s , and incidents from

outside the usual gothic repertoire. In addition, many of i t s observa-

tions about the perversity of i n s t i t u t i o n a l authority are s t i l l pertinent,

because the same i n s t i t u t i o n a l targets have survived.

Unless the p r i n c i p l e of organization i s found, Maturin's rummaging

through history and geography seems tiresome, random and pointless.

There i s an extraordinary chronological range: from a roughly contem-

porary "present" the narrative reaches back to the time of the Wanderer's

o r i g i n a l pact, over four centuries e a r l i e r . The Wanderer's travels

extend—in reverse order—from Ireland to England to Spain to Germany to

the Indian Ocean—and those are only the encounters werare told about.

Maturin abandons any r e a l pretense of order or sequence. A r t i c u l a t i o n

between l e v e l s of narration i s often mechanical or haphazard. For

example, Maturin r e l i e s on the worn-out device of the testamonial docu-

ment, l i k e St. Aubert's accidental "message" to Emily or the account

that Adeline discovers, i n order to introduce the c r u c i a l tale of the

 244

47
accused madman Staunton. Similarly, i n the middle of the a n t i - i d y l l

on Immalee's island, Maturin i n t e r j e c t s the gratuitous b i t of informa-

tion that the Wanderer i s conducting h i s campaign against Staunton's

soul i n the intervals of h i s love-making with Immalee; except for remind-

ing us of the Wanderer's true nature, a fact that i s i r o n i c a l l y over-

emphasized anyway, the coincidence i s empty.

There i s no accounting for such clumsiness except by noting that

the actual unifying p r i n c i p l e i n Melmoth i s psychological, and that the

plot has to bend i n some odd ways to accommodate i t . What t i e s together

the various l e v e l s of narration i s a state of mind that Maturin fixes

before our attention through r e p e t i t i o n and r e f l e c t i o n : i t i s the exper-

ience of utter a l i e n a t i o n , the conviction that suffering, once prolonged

past a c e r t a i n personal l i m i t , i s a mark of damnation.

This.experience occupies a l l of Melmoth's consciousness, and the

shape of the narrative i s determined by the Wanderer's desperate search

for someone who w i l l take over his burden. Lewis takes a man who i s

already cut o f f from the world and drives him deeper into i t i n order

to present the spectacle of h i s damnation. Maturin, on the other hand,

takes a man who has set himself a d r i f t from the world—with the purpose,

paradoxically, of enjoying i t longer—and refuses to l e t him re-enter

the world on his own terms. Melmoth can save himself ( i . e . , die i n

peace) only by l u r i n g someone else to the same damnation-through-immor-

tality. Melmoth's singular, prolonged existence i s the curse that he

longs to transfer, i t s pain and loneliness the contagion that he sheds

on those he comes into contact with. Like Ambrosio, he i s trapped i n a

t e r r i b l e , i r r e c o n c i l a b l e dilemma: his greatest desire i s for human

 245

contact, which h i s unnatural history, although i t has allowed him a wide

view of l i f e , has denied him; yet, he undertakes each contact with the

knowledge beforehand that he must turn d i a b o l i c a l agent i n order to save

h i m s e l f — t h a t he must b l i g h t what he starts to love. The rule that

prevailed i n The Monk prevails i n Melmoth: the erotic impulse i s u l t i -

mately destructive.

Maturin traces the pattern of alienated souls who a t t r a c t the great

outcast from the opening of Melmoth. The circumstances by which the

Wanderer again appears i n the f i c t i o n a l world are especially s i g n i f i c a n t .

The whole assemblage of stories i s received by young John Melmoth, a

descendant of the Wanderer, from the shipwrecked Spaniard Moncada, one

of the Wanderer's chief victims. John Melmoth t r i e s to save the Spaniard

from the tumultuous sea, but he i s incapable and almost drowns, u n t i l

the Spaniard saves him. John Melmoth i s unprepared to b a t t l e with the

chaotic, drowning element; he i s rescued by a man who i s p a r t i c u l a r l y

well-equipped to bring him word from that element, however, for Moncada

has survived i s o l a t i o n , blind persecution, and i r r a t i o n a l hatred.

Need, as w e l l as accident, has brought the two young men together.

John Melmoth has arrived at the western I r i s h coast to await the death

of h i s wealthy uncle; he i s an orphan whose only connection with h i s

uncle has been f i n a n c i a l dependency—and the uncle i s a mean provider.

Melmoth feels no p i t y at the old man's death. Indeed, emotional barren-

ness seems to be the family heritage, for the uncle has a reputation for

cruelty and coldness i n the neighbourhood. John Melmoth i s edging

towards the emotional condition that made possible his ancestor's f a t a l

48
bargain; Moncada i s "sent" to warn him.
 246

The tremendous catastrophe i n which the Wanderer i s consumed pre-

cludes our finding out whether John Melmoth has been moved or educated

by the long r e c i t a t i o n of Moncada, but the lesson i s delivered with

unremitting force. As narrative unfolds from narrative, the same

elements are varied and compounded. The constant theme i s the perver-

sion and destruction of family r e l a t i o n s . Staunton's family commits

him to an insane asylum f u l l of r e l i g i o u s and p o l i t i c a l fanatics i n

order to seize his wealth. Moncada i s consigned to a monastery which i s

a v e r i t a b l e dungeon by the fatuous, superstitious fears of his parents,

fears encouraged by the ministers of the Church. More than any other

gothic novelist Maturin succeeds i n representing the Church as a model

49

of the perfect, impenetrable, c o n s p i r a t o r i a l organization, and as a

monstrous d i s t o r t i o n of the natural family. The Church i s the e v i l

genius of power raised to magnificent yet t e r r i b l e proportions; i t acts

out a parody of parental anxieties about the independence and e r o t i c

potency of children, and i t s answer to the anxieties i s to capture and

desexualize everyone. Its b l i g h t i n g influence descends on figures i n

the other narratives: on the Jewish magician Adonijah i n the form of the

Inquisition, on Isidora/lmmalee through the agency of her pious, imbe-

c i l i c parents. Religion, as a kind of a n t i - e r o t i c tyranny, also destroys

the l i v e s of the English lovers, who are plagued by sectarian differences

and r e l i g i o u s war.

The Wanderer, always hopeful for release, aggravates each miserable

situation. Like the mysterious Armenian i n S c h i l l e r ' s Ghost-Seer^ he

keeps himself and his purposes deliberately obscure."'"'"

 247

Yet Maturin w i l l not permit us the luxury of simply detesting him.

The divided attitudes c h a r a c t e r i s t i c of the ambivalent mode of gothicism

show p l a i n l y i n Maturin's treatment of the Wanderer, and i n h i s general

52

appreciation of suffering as a means of sensational stimulation.

It would have been r e l a t i v e l y easy for Maturin to have made Melmoth

some sort of gothic demon and to have e l i c i t e d our t o t a l sympathy for

the poor victims whom the Wanderer t r i e s to tempt into changing places

with him. Instead, Maturin renders the anguish of the Wanderer as r e a l

as that of the victims—perhaps more r e a l , for the Wanderer i s not given

the chance to present his s i t u a t i o n i n sentimental terms, as the various

narrators often do. Unlike the d i f f e r e n t s t o r y - t e l l e r s , whose informa-

tion Moncada and John Melmoth are busy putting together, the Wanderer i s

aware of a l l the ironies of h i s position, but, though he does not suffer

from the normal victim's paralysis and fear (equivalent to an exaggerated

sublime response), he i s unable to save himself.

It i s natural, given his combined impotence and awareness, that he

should respond with g r i s l y humour and a teasing of his prey. That pro-

cess becomes especially painful during his relationship with Immalee,

whom he dares to love him, while warning her i n d i r e c t l y about the conse-

quences, and cursing himself for the game he must play with her. Maturin
goes to some length to disclaim any i d e n t i f i c a t i o n with Melmoth's blas-
53

phemies, yet his most f o r c e f u l writing i s devoted to an examination of

Melmoth's sentiments and opinions, including h i s dark thoughts about

human love and heavenly salvation. We learn rather l i t t l e about Melmoth

u n t i l Maturin allows him to meditate on the value of h i s existence.

 248

The remainder of Maturin's considerable s k i l l as a psychological

observer goes into h i s description of the victims' mental conditions.

The psychology of those who are placed i n "extraordinary positions"

becomes such a strong sustaining factor i n Melmoth that the unending

account of suffering seems necessary, i f the narrative i s not to d i s -

solve i n a mass of m o r a l i s t i c conclusions wrenched from i t s basic tone

of unbelief.

Many of the images i n Melmoth are exceedingly repulsive. There i s ,

for example, the extended agony of Moncada's hopeless attempt to tunnel

out of monastic c a p t i v i t y , a night-long crawl through cold and darkness,

with a murderer for his guide. There i s the midnight mock wedding cere-

mony that binds Isidora/lmmalee to Melmoth, a ceremony presided over by

the animated corpse of a monk.

Moreover, many of Maturin's fundamental interests have a question-

able tendency. Melmoth i s a misogynistic f i c t i o n , r i c h i n d e t a i l s of

the torture of women's minds, i n p a r t i c u l a r . Maturin's extremely close

scrutiny of the sufferer's mentality pushes sensationalism beyond the

decorous range described by Burke and his c r i t i c a l successors, although

his psychological experiments are, i n f a c t , dedicated to the objectives

that Burke l a i d out for the a r t of terror.

What i s most uncomfortable about Melmoth.as a work of ambivalent

gothicism i s that i t provides the reader with r e l a t i v e l y l i t t l e protec-

tion, i n the form of exoticism or assimilated nostalgic elements, and,

in that sense, less ambivalence. Maturin brings before us most of the

usual gothic stock of character types and i n c i d e n t s — t h e f i e n d i s h monks,

the naive female victims, the subterranean adventures, the reversals and
 249

confusions of i d e n t i t y , the blasted love a f f a i r s — y e t a l l of these are

merely instrumental i n furthering his sensationalist purposes, none of

them s u f f i c i e n t l y convincing so as to explain away Maturin's v i s i o n of

what the gothic world means. Maturin. is.unable to o f f e r us any satis-

factory means of distancing his objects of terror because they are not

distant i n his imagination, and because he wants to maintain their

impressiveness and their capacity to demand our admiration. Melmoth,

for example, must be made to suffer more magnificently than we think he

deserves; his fate must be spectacular, not, i n the end, contemptible.

Maturin cannot demonstrate very convincingly that the fantasies he

superimposes upon h i s t o r i c a l or foreign settings are simply matters of

gothic barbarity, i n a diminuitive sense. He cannot suggest that what

he represents are the manners of the gothic ancestors who tortured their

children and murdered each other out of passion, who ignored their

inherent i r r a t i o n a l i t y , yet succumbed to i t . The. system of power-

through- terror that Maturin analyses i n such minute d e t a i l i s tangible,

and Maturin r e f r a i n s from a t t r i b u t i n g any response to that system to

accidents of an a l i e n time or place. The ambivalence of Maturin's gothi-

cism l i e s i n t h i s : he makes damnation r e a l , psychologically i f not

theologically, yet he also makes the view of i t , from the inside, spec-

tacular and strangely a t t r a c t i v e .

In this treatment of t e r r i f y i n g objects, Maturin's method depends

on the t y p i c a l ambivalent attitude towards the gothic. It remains now

to examine the e s s e n t i a l differences between gothic ambivalence and

nostalgia as shown i n the selected gothic novels that have been con-

sidered here.
 250

FOOTNOTES

""Harrison R. Steeves, Before Jane Austen, pp. 98-99.

2
I d e n t i f i c a t i o n of the gothic period as a time when i n d i v i d u a l
power was excessive ( i . e . , the whiggish application of "goth" as an
i n s u l t against tory authoritarianism) i s strengthened by the i n c l u s i o n
of sexual rapacity among the gothic abuses.
3
Denis Diderot, The Nun (La Religieuse), t r . Leonard Tancock
(London: The F o l i o Society, 1972), pp. 91-92.
4
W. F. Wright, however,^denies the contention (found i n the work of
A l i c e K i l l e n and Jacob Brauchli) that Mrs. R a d c l i f f e ' s attitude toward
monasticism i s purely a n t i - c l e r i c a l , claiming instead that "the novel-
i s t ' s i n t e r e s t i n the r e l i g i o u s houses was that of a sentimental a r t i s t "
(p. 107) and that the monastery was simply another exotic s e t t i n g , so
imperfectly known as to be highly adaptable. For a partisan c r i t i q u e of
gothic anti-monasticism, see S i s t e r Mary Muriel Tarr, Catholicism in
Gothic Fiction(Washington, D.C.: Catholic Univ. of America Press, 1946).
Compare A. L. Barbauld, "On Monastic I n s t i t u t i o n s , " Works, I I , 195-213.

^Ann R a d c l i f f e , The Romance of the Forest (London: George Routledge

& Sons, 1904), pp. 45-47.

^Ann R a d c l i f f e , The Mysteries of Udolpho (London: Oxford Univ.

Press, 1966), pp. 639-640. Percy SheU'ey, who was, as Peacock represents
him i n Nightmare Abbey, intimately f a m i l i a r with the conventions of
gothic f i c t i o n , l i n k s monastic miseducation with the excessive, romantic
s e n s i b i l i t y that destroys his heroine, E l o i s e de St. Irvyne, by rendering
her overly vulnerable and giving her a mind "comparatively imbecile."
See St. Irvyne; or, The Rosicrucian i n The Compl-ete Works of Percy Bysshe
Shelley, ed. Roger Ingpen and Walter E. Peck (New York: Gordian Press,
1965), V, 162. The novel was o r i g i n a l l y published 10 December 1810.

7
Ann R a d c l i f f e , The I t a l i a n (Oxford Univ. Press, 1968), p. 299.

' Ibid., pp. 299-300.

8

9
Matthew Gregory Lewis, The Monk: A Romance, ed. Howard Anderson
(London: Oxford Univ. Press, 1973). Anderson follows the text of the
manuscript version of The Monk i n the c o l l e c t i o n of the Wisbech and
Fenland Museum, a version which comes closer to the f i r s t published
editions (1>795, 1796) than to subsequent editions that Lewis was com-
pelled to expurgate. O r i g i n a l orthography i s preserved. A l l citations
refer to this edition and w i l l be given within the text.

"^For divergent views on Lewis' notoriety, see Mrs. Cornwall Baron-

Wilson, The Life and Correspondence of M. G. Lewis (London: Henry Col-
burn-, 1839) and Louis F. Peck, A Life of Matthew G. Lewis (Cambridge,
 251

Mass.: Harvard Univ. Press, 1961). The general background given i n

Quinlan's Victorian Prelude and the detailed analysis of Lewis' l e g a l
harassment i n Parreaux's study of the publication of The Monk indicate
that the indecency or blasphemy of the novel was magnified by the
author's announcement that he was a Member of Parliament.

"'""'"The epigraph also i r o n i c a l l y connects c a r n a l i t y and the inanimate:

Lord Angelo i s precise;
Stands at a guard with envy; Scarce confesses,
That h i s blood flows, or that his appetite
Is more to bread than stone.
(Measure for. Measure, I.iii.50-53)
12
John Berryman, "The Monk and Its Author," The Freedom of the Poet
(New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1976), p. 131. This essay appeared
o r i g i n a l l y as the introduction to the Grove Press edition of the novel
(1952).
13
Pamela Kaufman places this conjunction at the centre of the
gothic v i s i o n (pp. 2190-2192). Compare Lowry Nelson J r . , "Night Thoughts
on the Gothic Novel," Yale Review, 52, 2 (Winter 1963), 238.
14
Nevertheless, the desire to unmask Antonia i n the preceding scene
i s here more than f u l f i l l e d , and i t i s Lorenzo's dream-imagination that
divests her of her b r i d a l gown. E a r l i e r , i n h i s argument with Christo-
b a l , Lorenzo inadvertently names.the latent alternative to h i s super-
f i c i a l decency, when he declares: '"I should be a V i l l a i n , could I think
of her on any other terms than marriage'"'(p. 85).
"'"^Berryman complains: "I have scarcely ever read an excellent novel
which for so long f a i l s to declare i t s quality. Up to the sixth chapter,
or halfway through the book, i t i s charming and interesting i n varying
degrees, eminently readable, but hardly remarkable" (p. 130).

"^The same kind of warning against sexual dangers, and p a r t i c u l a r l y

against deceptive lovers, occurs i n the song which Raymond's spy, Theo-
dore, uses to try to t e l l Agnes of h i s presence i n the convent, "The
Water-King: a Danish Ballad." The element of the Water-King i s the
f l u i d of sexual experience, and the gradual immersion of the song's
female v i c t i m represents a dangerous i n i t i a t i o n . The song i s perfectly
suited to Agnes' s i t u a t i o n , for i t warns i n a r e f r a i n : "Believe not
every handsome Knight" (p. 291).

"^Evans, pp. 56-59.

18
Tarr l i s t s these solecisms at great length and seems to regard
them as a s u f f i c i e n t l y damning comment on gothic techniques; Berryman
notes some of them too (p. 133), but does not consider them major flaws.
19
E l l i o t t B. Gose, J r . , Imagination Indulged: The Irrational in the
Nineteenth-Century Novel (Montreal: McGill-Queen's Univ. Press, 1972),
 252

p. 28. The phrase "undecided character" i s from B.-W.'s biography of

Lewis.
20
Sigmund Freud, "A Special Choice of Object Made by Men (Contribu-
tions to the Psychology of Love I ) , " "On the Universal Tendency to
Debasement i n the Sphere of Love (Contributions to the Psychology of
Love I I ) , " and "The Taboo of V i r g i n i t y (Contributions to the Psychology
of Love I I I ) , " Complete Psychological Works, ed. James Strachey, et a l .
(London: Hogarth Press, 1957), XI, 163-208.
21
Taylor Stoehr, "Pornography, Masturbation, and the Novel,"
Salmagundi, 2>.?2 (1967-68), 28-56; Susan Sontag, "The Pornographic Imagin-
ation," Styles of Radical Will .(1969; r p t . New York: Delta, 1970),
pp. 35-73.
22
Lewis appears to share t h i s fascination; he i s especially metic-
ulous i n d e t a i l i n g Ambrosio's "captivation" by Matilda and i n presenting
Antonia at her bath, not only to Ambrosio but to the reader. The play-
f u l adventure of the pet linnet at Antonia's breasts i s a sight too much
for the monk to bear, and Lewis makes the mixture of coyness and sexual
ripeness extremely a t t r a c t i v e /
23
"Had h i s Penitents consulted those Interpreters": see John Graham,
"Character Description and Meaning i n the Romantic Novel," Studies in
Romanticism, 5, 4 (1966), 208-218, f o r a discussion of physiognomic prac-
tices i n the novel and their supposed value. This deception has a more
s i n i s t e r r e f l e c t i o n i n Antonia's cry "Oh! I was not deceived i n him"
which precedes another rape attempt (p. 250). I r o n i c a l l y , Ambrosio's
chief access to A n t o n i a — h i s h o l i n e s s — s e t s him apart from far easier
and safer prey.
24
Vincentio d e l l a Ronda: This f i c t i t i o u s i l l friend supplies the
pretext for Rosario/Matilda to v i s i t Ambrosio i n his c e l l .
25
Nelson asserts that "The Monk, with other novels of the school,
presented under the license of sensationalism s i g n i f i c a n t and basic
t r a i t s of human nature that elsewhere, i n ' p o l i t e ' f i c t i o n , went unex-
pressed" (p. 242). Nelson notes that the apparent sensationalism (or
pornography) i s the means by which "the gothic novel seems to have freed
the minds of readers from d i r e c t involvement of their superegos and
allowed them to pursue daydreams arid wish fulfilment i n regions where
i n h i b i t i o n s and g u i l t could be suspended" (p. 238). Compare Railo,
Haunted Castle, p. 280)
26
Levy argues that the p r i n c i p a l difference between the novels of
R a d c l i f f e and The Monk i s that i n the former the protagonists are able
to emerge from their v i s i o n of h e l l , to regain a l e v e l of r e l a t i v e con-
sciousness and r a t i o n a l i t y , to explain away what has happened to them;
for the protagonists of Lewis or Maturin, " l e reveur est a l l e s i profond
q u ' i l ne peut plus remonter" (p. 640).
 253

27
Tompkins, Popular Novel, p. 131.
28
R a d c l i f f e pretends to assign each novel a s p e c i f i c h i s t o r i c a l
setting; i n The Romance of the Forest, for example, she adopts an e l a -
borate and irrelevant e d i t o r i a l device i n order to suggest that the
f i c t i o n i s based on plausible fact derived from documentary sources.
Such e f f o r t s have l i t t l e effect on the actual conduct of the novels,
nor do Radcliffe's h i s t o r i c a l interests produce more than s u p e r f i c i a l
knowledge of other times and places.
29
Udolpho, pp. 662-663. The deception continued to prey on the
g u l l i b l e . In Chapter 6 of Northanger Abbey, Catherine Morland, reading
Udolpho for the f i r s t time, exclaims to her new friend Miss Thorpe, a
more experienced reader of the gothic: "Oh! the dreadful black v e i l !
My dear Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina's skeleton behind
i t " (Penguin edn., 1972, p. 62).
30
Schedoni rather contemptuously explains to V i v a l d i how he has
r e l i e d on the young man's superstitious fear i n his schemes to keep
V i v a l d i away from Ellena (Italian, p. 397).
31
La Motte "knew himself to.be i n the power of the Marquis, and he
dreaded that power more than the sure, though distant punishment that
awaits upon g u i l t " (Romance of the Forest, p. 247).
32
Ibid., p. 49.
33
In Chapter 23 of Northanger Abbey, Catherine cannot quite accept
General Tilney's explanation for his wakefulness while she goes to b e d —
that he has many p o l i t i c a l pamphlets to read. Her own ideas are t y p i -
c a l l y gothic: "There must be some deeper cause: something was to be done
which could be done only while the household slept; and the p r o b a b i l i t y
that Mrs. Tilney yet l i v e d , shut up for causes unknown, and receiving
from the p i t i l e s s hands of her husband a nighly supply of coarse food,
was the conclusion which necessarily followed" (p. 191). The fantasy i s
l i f t e d d i r e c t l y from The S i c i l i a n Romance.
34
Tompkins, p. 84 f f . , pp. 147-148.
35
The coyness of Radcliffe's technique i s a d i r e c t product of
ambivalent attitudes. During most of The Romance of the Forest Rad-
c l i f f e suggests a measure of incestuous, aggressive intent i n the suc-
cession of f a l s e fathers, and the suggestion i s made e x p l i c i t when the
Marquis de Montalt i s i d e n t i f i e d as Adeline's r e a l father. R a d c l i f f e
leaves the puzzle of his motives unsolved only long enough to impress
Adeline—and the reader—with the pain of mistaken connection; when
Adeline's distress has been s u f f i c i e n t l y aggravated, she retracts the
threatening information.
36
Nelson C. Smith, "Sense, S e n s i b i l i t y and Ann R a d c l i f f e , " p. 590.
The idea of an education i n e r o t i c r e a l i t i e s i s c a r e f u l l y examined i n
 254

R. W. Mise, "The Gothic Heroine and the Nature of the Gothic Novel,"
Ph.D. d i s s e r t a t i o n , Univ. of Washington, 1970.
37
The Abate who pretends to a i d Ellena and V i v a l d i speaks of the
young man's heroic pretensions as an anachronism: "'You are a knight of
chivalry, who would go about the earth f i g h t i n g with every body by way
of proving your right to do good; i t i s unfortunate that you are born
somewhat too l a t e ' " (Italian, p. 122).
38
There have been frequent, usually unsupported claims that Rad-
c l i f f e wrote The Italian i n outrage against the excesses of The Monk.
Tompkins, for example, argues that. The Italian, was an ilattempt to redeem
the subject of monastic tyranny, and to treat i t i n a manner that should
be quite t e r r i b l e and yet consistent with perfect delicacy. In The
I t a l i a n there i s no lust and no luxurious cruelty; i n place of them
there i s bigotry and ambition" (p. 278). This l a s t contrast i s p a r t i c u -
l a r l y inaccurate.
39
R a d c l i f f e , The Italian, p. 64.
40
Ibid., p. 65.
41
Ibid., p. 68.
42
Ellena's imagination, as she watches one of the nuns, makes this
transformation e x p l i c i t : she sees "the countenance of the nun character-
ised by gloomy malignity, which seemed ready to i n f l i c t upon others some
portion of the unhappiness she herself suffered. As she glided forward
with soundless steps, her white drapery, f l o a t i n g along these solemn
avenues, and her hollow features touched with the mingled l i g h t and
shadow which the p a r t i a l rays of a taper she held occasioned, she seemed
l i k e a spectre newly r i s e n from the grave, rather than a l i v i n g being"
(Italian, pp. 66-67).
43
For a comparison of the monastic recluse and the noble hermit, see
Tompkins, p. 286.
44
R a d c l i f f e , The I t a l i a n , pp. 62-63.
45
Schedoni,'Ellena and the peasant guide enter a v i l l a g e where
Carnival i s being celebrated. Part of the f e s t i v i t i e s i s a performance
of John Webster's Appius and Virginia. Schedoni i s disturbed by two
remarks from the guide. F i r s t he delights i n the s k i l l of a juggler
who '"has turned a monk into a d e v i l already, i n the twinkling of an
eye.'" At the climax of the dramatic performance, the guide exclaims,
as i f i n accusation against Schedoni's contemplated deed: "'Look! Signor,
see! Signor, what a scoundrel! what a v i l l a i n ! See! he has murdered his
own daughter!'" (p. 274).
46
Ibid., p. 58.
 255

47
Charles Robert Maturin, Melmoth the Wanderer (London: Oxford
Univ. Press, 1968), p. 28 f f . (Vol. I, Chapter 3).
48
A similar pattern has been noted i n Mary Shelley's Frankenstein,
or the Modern Prometheus; see L. J . Swingle, "Frankenstein's Monster and
Its Romantic Relations: Problems of Knowledge i n English Romanticism,"
Texas Studies in Literature and Language, 15, 1 (Spring 1973), 51-65;
Martin Tropp, Mary Shelley's Monster: The Story of Frankenstein (Boston:
Houghton M i f f l i n , 1976). The relationship between Walton and Victor
Frankenstein, however, i s considerably more complex and equivocal.
49
Tompkins, pp. 281-285; compare the Marquis von Grosse's Horrid
Mysteries, t r . Peter W i l l (1796; rpt. London: F o l i o Press, 1968).
"^Johann Christoph F r i e d r i c h von S c h i l l e r , "The Ghost-Seer: or
A p p a r i t i o n i s t , " Schiller's Complete Works, t r . and ed. Charles J . Hemple
(Philadelphia: Kohler, 1861), I I , 294.

"'"'"As Burke's theory would predict, Melmoth's intermittent appear-

ances and the obscurity of h i s purposes increase his impressiveness and
the terror associated with him. A good deal of the reader's tension
originates i n the expectation that he w i l l intervene i n the succeeding
episodes and i n the uncertainty of how he w i l l do so.
52
Mario Praz, Romantic Agony, pp. 116-120.
53
Maturin, Melmoth, p. 342 f f .
 CONCLUSION

This study began by considering various images of the gothic,

a r i s i n g from h i s t o r i c a l fact and f o l k t r a d i t i o n , and by assessing their

potential usefulness for the creative imagination and popular a r t .

Through examples drawn from c r i t i c a l theory and selected gothic f i c t i o n ,

i t has shown that, once the imaginative value of the gothic had been

recognized, there were two possible attitudes towards i t , each support-

ing a r a d i c a l l y d i f f e r e n t kind of gothic f i c t i o n .

The nostalgic attitude, f i r s t expressed through the work of a n t i -

quaries, such as Hurd,. Warton and.Percy, and. poetic revivers of f o l k l o r e ,

such as Gray, Macpherson and Chatterton, transformed the e s s e n t i a l bar-

barity and crudeness of the gothic world into a v i s i o n of a more primi-

t i v e , simple existence, elevated by ceremony and dignity, p u r i f i e d of

the most disturbing effects of modern, l i f e . The imaginary era embodied

the ideals that the present age had f a i l e d to preserve. As the short-

comings of sophistication and "improvement" became increasingly evident,

i t was natural that this s e l e c t i v e perception of the past should have

become more appealing and convenient. For both conservative and r a d i c a l

reformers of the nineteenth century, l i k e Carlyle and Ruskin, identifi-

cation with the gothic ancestors exemplified an heroic resistance to

the encroachments of modernity."'"

We have seen the adaptability of the nostalgic attitude to conserv-

ative, p i e t i s t i c ends i n Clara Reeve's Old English Baron (1777). Her

dedication, i n f i c t i o n and theory, to bourgeois moralism, and her

- 256 -
 257

opposition to revolutionary ideas produced a r e l a t i v e l y bland, r a t i o n a l -

i s t i c , reassuring sort of gothic story, i n which d i s s a t i s f a c t i o n s with

the existing order, p a r t i c u l a r l y with changes i n family l i f e , were

redressed through the power of nostalgic i d e a l i z a t i o n . For Reeve, as

for other nostalgic g o t h i c i s t s , the gothic world ultimately offered a

refuge from violence and revolution. For some i t also l i f t e d the banal-

i t y of everyday life. 2

We can derive a sense of the nostalgic attitude from works that

are not simply, exclusively nostalgic, as The Old English Baron, The

Recess (1785), or Longsword (1762) undoubtedly are. Though her outlook

i s less tinged with middle-class aspirations than Reeve's, a degree of

nostalgia affects Ann Radcliffe's f i c t i o n . There are, after a l l , the

scenic and emotional i d y l l s which her early readers enjoyed so much: at

La Vallee and i n the Alps (udolpho, 1794), at the convent of Santa della

Pieta (Italian, 1797), i n La Luc's pastoral cottage (Romance of the

Forest, 1791). The pleasures of sentiment and s e n s i b i l i t y associated

with a nostalgic version of the gothic are a constant source of delight

for protagonist and reader.

In many gothic novels there i s a r e j e c t i o n of c e r t a i n aspects of

modernity that has a nostalgic overtone. In Udolpho, for example, St.

Aubert warns repeatedly against the empty temptations of c i t y l i f e . His

wisdom i s corroborated by the attractiveness of the r u r a l alternative,

by the nearly ruinous career of Valancourt i n Paris, and by Emily's own

experience with Venetian luxury and degeneracy.

Occasionally a similar c r i t i c i s m of modernity forms a part of

gothic ambivalence, but the c r i t i c i s m has no nostalgic e f f e c t , since no

 258

p o s i t i v e a l t e r n a t i v e to modern l i f e i s presented or intended. A prime

example occurs i n The Monk (1795) where Lewis exhibits a delight i n

emphasizing the inadequacy of rationalism and skepticism when confronted

by objects of ancient, primitive b e l i e f or by i r r a t i o n a l forces. Having

conjured her up as a t r i c k , Raymond almost succumbs to the Bleeding Nun.

Lorenzo, Antonia and E l v i r a a l l ignore the promptings of their ominous

dreams u n t i l i t i s too l a t e . The obtuseness of these characters repre-

sents, i n extreme form, the enlightened reader's weakness of imagination:

l i k e them he supposes himself above s u p e r s t i t i o n , only to discover the

disastrous consequences of complacency. The f a i l u r e of rationalism

shows most c l e a r l y i n Ambrosio, whose s t r i c t external d i s c i p l i n e can

neither aid nor control the i n t e r n a l , demonic chaos.

The f u l l y nostalgic attitude pushes the c r i t i q u e of rationalism one

step further, and makes the gothic openness to the i r r a t i o n a l , s p i r i t u a l

and supernatural a point of superiority. This giudgment i s interwoven i n

c r i t i c a l defences of the gothic from Hurd's " f i n e f a b l i n g " through

Drake's "sportive gothic." For antiquaries, poets, novelists and b u i l d -

ers, expansiveness i s the imaginative reward of the gothic taste, but

the nostalgic treatment usually selects outlets for i t which are not

threatening or sensational.

In i t s a r c h i t e c t u r a l and s o c i a l manifestations, the nostalgic a t t i -

tude advocates a return to more splendid forms of r e l i g i o u s r i t u a l ,

design, and s o c i a l order, such as are supplied by Roman Catholicism,

gothic s t y l e s , c h i v a l r i c manners, and gothic l i b e r t a r i a n i s m . However,

there i s also a strong nostalgic component i n the central psychological

interest of many gothic n o v e l s — t h e problem of i d e n t i t y and authority.

 259

The working out of the problem i n v a r i a b l y requires a f u l f i l m e n t obtained

from the past, which i s the r e s u l t of a more complete awareness of the

past.

I t i s the perfect parent, and hence the perfect childhood, that the

p r o t a g o n i s t - v i c t i m i n gothic f i c t i o n wants to recover. Adeline i n

Romance of the Forest and E l l e n a In The I t a l i a n are m y s t i f i e d and f r u s -

trated by t h e i r uncertain parentage; t h e i r eventual happiness depends on

t h e i r h i s t o r i e s being set s t r a i g h t . In Udolpho Emily i s d i s t r a c t e d by

the question of her father's f a i t h f u l n e s s and her own o r i g i n s . Parallel

a n x i e t i e s about lineage and parental sexual conduct appear i n o v e r t l y

n o s t a l g i c works ( v i z . Edmund's v i g i l and h i s parents' ghostly assistance

in Old English Baron), and i n works which are not n o s t a l g i c . In The

Monk, f o r example, personal h i s t o r i e s play a very important part i n the

whole i r o n i c pattern, exacting a t e r r i b l e p r i c e from those who are

ignorant of them. The-discovery of the past brings no s a t i s f a c t i o n to

Ambrosio, only greater agony.

The pathos and tension inherent i n the search for o r i g i n s r e g i s t e r s

on a personal l e v e l , of course, but i t also has a wider s o c i a l s i g n i f i -

cance. The quest f o r authentic, p r o t e c t i v e , sexually n e u t r a l parents

draws the protagonist f u r t h e r and f u r t h e r i n t o an archaic region whose

features are compounded from equal parts of personal anxiety, fantasy,

and c u l t u r a l h i s t o r y . Under the guise of domestic adventure and con-

f l i c t ( i . e . , the s o l v i n g of family mysteries), the gothic n o v e l i s t s

often pursued a c o l l e c t i v e , n o s t a l g i c desire f o r a more p r o t e c t i v e , more

secure, l e s s v i o l e n t r e a l i t y , a goal which could only be reached by

penetrating a l a b y r i n t h of dangers and t h r e a t s — b y breaching the

 260

chambers of Udolpho, by exposing Schedoni's machinations—or by purging

the danger from the gothic world altogether, as Clara Reeve t r i e d to do.

The dangers are a l l the more treacherous because they are a t t r a c -

t i v e and i m p r e s s i v e — l i k e Montoni's arrogance and sexual potency, or

Manfred's defiance of certain doom i n The Castle of Otranto (1764). The

nostalgic attitude locates the essence of the gothic safely beyond the

r i n g of dangers, and i t i s not much interested i n them. For ambivalent

gothicists the reverse i s true.

The ambivalent g o t h i c i s t s remained skeptical about the actual

superiority of gothic manners, because they endowed the gothic with a

d i f f e r e n t set of c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s . They accepted, and exploited i n their

a r t , much of the received wisdom about the gothic world, c u l t i v a t i n g the

image of i t as a realm of barbarity, violence, superstition, tyranny,

and sexual aggression. . The excitement and terror generated by Otranto,

The Monk, The Italian, or Melmoth (1820) drew support from the b e l i e f

that such features were t r u l y gothic.

For the ambivalent g o t h i c i s t s , the superiority of the gothic lay

not i n i t s r e c e p t i v i t y to imposed s o c i a l , p o l i t i c a l or r e l i g i o u s i d e a l s ,

but i n i t s unlimited imaginative potency, i t s value as a place where

sensational, extraordinary subjects might be examined intensively, where

unusual forms and techniques might be adopted f r e e l y . The cues which

key gothic o b j e c t s — s u c h as castles, convents, hermits, monks, nuns, or

outlaws—gave the reader established immediate, predictable responses

which, i n turn, provided the gothic n o v e l i s t or builder with a great

deal of creative leeway. Builders could r e l y on such responses because

the imaginary effect of neo-gothic buildings arose from l i t e r a r y

 261

a s s o c i a t i o n s of t h e same k i n d . When L e w i s r a i s e d t h e o l d s p e c t r e of

monasticism, or R a d c l i f f e that of the Inquisition, when W a l p o l e wrote

i n amusement o f t y r a n t k i n g s and e l i g i b l e daughters, the reader knew

w h a t d e g r e e o f v i o l e n c e and l i c e n c e t o expect. Once t h e b a s i c premise

of gothic barbarity was a c k n o w l e d g e d , t h e a m b i v a l e n t gothicist was able

to e x p l o r e p s y c h i c t e r r i t o r y and to evoke s e n s a t i o n a l responses which

were o t h e r w i s e forbidden, under the p r o t e c t i o n . o f his persistent ambiv-

a l e n c e towards the e n t e r t a i n i n g , terrifying, strange objects themselves:

W a l p o l e ' s contempt f o r Manfred and sympathy f o r his sexual dilemma,

Lewis' diminishment o f A m b r o s i o and i d e n t i f i c a t i o n w i t h him.

To d i f f e r e n t degrees the g o t h i c novelists followed a process of

compromise w i t h e s t a b l i s h e d t a s t e s t h a t was a d i r e c t function of their

ambivalence towards the gothic itself. T h i s was t h e same p r o c e s s that

3

Walpole, M i l l e r and K n i g h t b r o u g h t to n e o - g o t h i c building. T h i s was a

means o f ensuring the r e a d e r ' s comfort by p r o v i n g that the gothic was,

at the same t i m e , alien, exotic, d a n g e r o u s , and c o n t r o l l a b l e . It was

a l s o a means o f excusing the r e a d e r ' s f a s c i n a t i o n w i t h the terrifying

e x p e r i e n c e s t h a t he had e a g e r l y sought out. Each ambivalent gothicist

f o u n d some m e t h o d o f m a k i n g t h e f i c t i o n open t o a m b i v a l e n t readings:

editorial devices (Walpole, R a d c l i f f e , even C l a r a R e e v e ) , n a r r a t i v e tone

(Walpole, Lewis), n a r r a t i v e commentary (Lewis, R a d c l i f f e , Maturin),

s u p e r f i c i a l moralism (Radcliffe). We h a v e a l r e a d y n o t i c e d , h o w e v e r , in

the d i s c u s s i o n of The Monk a n d Melmoth the Wanderer, how t h e reassuring

aspect of the ambivalent attitude gradually f a d e d a n d became l e s s con-

vincing, l e s s n e c e s s a r y , as g o t h i c barbarity, violence, eroticism, and

s e n s a t i o n a l i s m assumed a p o s i t i v e v a l u e and a c o m p u l s i v e attractiveness

 262

of their own.

My aim i n distinguishing between the two attitudes towards the

gothic has not been to devise yet another system for categorizing the

gothic novel. I believe that an understanding of these attitudes helps

to reveal the complex mixture of h i s t o r i c a l , dramatic, p o l i t i c a l , and

psychological elements that entered into the composition of gothic fic-

tion. The tension between nostalgic and ambivalent attitudes has

enabled some account to be given of many features of tone, structure,

and characterization which are so unusual that they tempt one to dismiss

gothic f i c t i o n as merely chaotic or t e c h n i c a l l y incompetent.

More important, a r e a l i z a t i o n of the various impulses behind the

gothic taste evinced i n the novels studied makes clearer i t s connection

with l a t e r c u l t u r a l developments: the growth of Anglo-Catholicism and

High Anglicanism, the rise, of the h i s t o r i c a l - novel, the revived interest

in medieval i n s t i t u t i o n s as s o c i a l and p o l i t i c a l models, and the contro-

versy over the proper s t y l e for the V i c t o r i a n English c i t y . The gothic

novels do not contain, of course, coherent explanations of such phenomena,

but they do o f f e r a v i v i d impression of the s e n s i b i l i t y which gave b i r t h

to them.
 263

FOOTNOTES

"""See, for example, John Ruskin, The Nature of Gothic, with preface
by William Morris (London: George A l l e n , 1899).
2
For various opinions on the relationship between r e a l violence and
revolution ( i . e . , the French Revolution) and the gothic novel, see Par-
reaux, p. 36 f f . Parreaux c i t e s Sade's essay on the gothic i n Idees sur
les Romans, i n which Sade argues that the violence of contemporary l i f e
forced the gothic novelists to outdo r e a l i t y .
3
Duncan Simpson, "Introductory Essay," Gothick (Catalogue) (Brighton:
Royal P a v i l i o n , Art Gallery and Museums, 1975), pp. 14-15.
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Addison, Agnes. Romanticism and the Gothic Revival. 1938; r p t . New

York: Gordian Press, 1967.

Addison, Joseph. Spectator, No. 62 (11 May 1711). Addison and Steele:
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A l l e n . New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston, 1957, pp. 104-110.

. Spectator, No. 415 (26 June 1712). Eighteenth-Century English

Literature. Ed. Geoffrey T i l l o t s o n et a l . New York: Harcourt,
Brace & World, 1969, pp. 340-343.

A i k i n , Anna L a e t i t i a . "On the Pleasure Derived from Objects of Terror."

Miscellaneous Pieces in Prose by J . and A. L. A i k i n , 2nd edn.
London: J . Johnson, 1775, pp. 119-137. See Anna L a e t i t i a
Barbauld.

A l l e n , B. Sprague. Tides in English Taste. Cambridge: Harvard Univ.

Press, 1937.

Aubin, Robert A. "Grottoes, Geology, and the Gothic Revival." Studies

in Philology, 31 (1934), 408-416.

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