Samuel Richardson and the theory of tragedy: Clarissa's caesuras

Samuel Richardson and the theory of tragedy

Samuel Richardson and the theory of tragedy

Clarissa’s caesuras

J. A. Smith

Manchester University Press

Copyright © J. A. Smith 2016

The right of J. A. Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Published by Manchester University Press

Altrincham Street, Manchester M1 7JA

www.manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data applied for

ISBN 978 0 7190 9793 5 hardback

First published 2016

Typeset by Out of House Publishing

Printed in Great Britain

by TJ International Ltd, Padstow

For my wife, Nicola

Contents

Abbreviations

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Conclusion

Bibliography

Name index

Abbreviations

Acknowledgements

My first acknowledgement goes to Jeremy Tambling, whose commitment as a teacher, scholar and friend will always be a model for me. I have also been helped by Hal Gladfelder, Daniela Caselli, Jeremy Gregory, David Punter, David Miller, and by the late P. N. Furbank. The initial period of research was supported by a grant from the Arts and Humanities Research Council. Thanks too to Manchester University Press for their interest and encouragement.

The earliest draft of this book was read and scrutinised by Joel Swann, and the final complete draft by Mareile Pfannebecker. Thank you both for that generous work. With these great friends – and with another great friend and influence, Alfie Bown – I hope there is a long conversation to come.

At the time when this book was contracted, I was helped a great deal by the hospitality of Lynne Harrowell and Richard Thompson in London, and Sam and Theo Austin and Mareile in Manchester. Cheers also to Leo Cookman, Matthew Judge, Mike and Michelle Collier, Naya Tsentourou, Dan Bristow, Paul Fung, Iain Bailey, Irene Huhulea, Colm MacCrossan, Andrew Rudd, Henry Power, and everyone at the Everyday Analysis Collective, #MCRPoetry, and Jeremy’s theory reading group; as well as to my students at Manchester, MMU and Exeter.

My love and thanks go to my family: to my parents, Andrew and Wendy, to Lauren, to my grandparents, and to Ari and Diane.

Introduction

In the preface to the first edition of Clarissa, Richardson makes the familiar eighteenth-century gesture of reassuring his reader of the moral lessons the text is to impart:

In the great variety of subjects which this collection contains, it is one of the principal views of the publication: to caution parents against the undue exertion of their authority in the great article of marriage: and children against preferring a man of pleasure to a man of probity, upon that dangerous but too commonly received notion, that a reformed rake makes the best husband. (C 36)

Clarissa’s scope may be vast in addressing a ‘great variety of subjects’ and in being an epistolary ‘collection’ of different writers’ letters and viewpoints, but it can nonetheless claim to be reducible to two main points of argument. Parental tyranny in the sphere of love is likely to bring misfortune, and young women shouldn’t be fooled by the apparently attractive prospect of the ‘reformed rake’: the man who claims to have abandoned his days as a seducer while retaining the wit, manners and sensuality that allowed him to fulfil that role in the first place.

It is not unusual for authors of Richardson’s time to begin their books by identifying certain follies in the world and to claim (with varying degrees of sincerity) that they have only written about them in order to put them right. But Richardson’s preface is distinctive in intimating a quite specific process or mechanism by which those follies have come to be in first place. For Richardson, we might say, there must indeed be something ‘dangerous’ in the very way that public knowledge is constituted if such demonstrably false ideas can, through the various iterations they undertake in the culture, become ‘commonly received’: enshrined as truth, received wisdom or doxa. In this book, I should say from the start, I am less interested in the specific content of those ideas about tyrannical parents and reformed rakes than I am in the mechanism by which Richardson suggests they have perpetuated themselves.

The first argument of this book, then, is that Richardson’s positioning his novel against the ‘received notion’ is not simply a passing remark in a conventional moralistic preface, but rather is one of the organising principles of the whole novel. I take it that whatever else it is, Clarissa is a diagnosis of a certain malignity in what we think of as common knowledge, or what Richardson sometimes refers to as ‘public talk’ (C 94). In Clarissa’s use of repetitions and quotations between and within the letters written by the novel’s characters, Richardson seems compelled to show this dangerous ‘public talk’ at work, demonstrating how damaging ideas can become axiomatic simply by being repeated by the right people in the right way. We can say that the problem Richardson is analysing receives its parodic embodiment in a remark made by a man who speaks almost entirely in other people’s proverbs, Lovelace’s uncle, Lord M: ‘what everyone says, must be true’ (C 606).

Once Richardson has made this analysis, the other challenge for his novel is to find some means by which to respond to or resist this problem of information. The privileged means – such is my book’s second main argument – comes in the form of a figure of tragedy. Clarissa herself, by her unexpected and self-destructive resistance to the ‘received notions’ of her community, becomes the novel’s greatest retort to them. This in turn effects a transformation not only in the way information is treated in the novel but also in the novel’s own resources of representation: a transformation, I contend, that can rightly be called ‘tragic’. To begin to sketch out this argument, this introduction does three things. First, it considers what it means for Richardson to turn to tragedy as a way of combating the dangerous situation of mediation into which the novel suggests discourse has been thrown. Second, it details Richardson’s own arguments about tragedy in his fiction and conduct writing. And, third, it draws on nineteenth- and twentieth-century theorists of the disruptive power of tragedy to suggest how its importance to Clarissa extends well beyond Richardson’s own sometimes contradictory statements about it.

I

Late in Clarissa, Lovelace’s friend, John Belford, meditates on the phrase from Richardson’s preface, ‘a reformed rake makes the best husband’, and expresses concern for the ‘many worthy women betrayed by that false and inconsiderate notion, raised and propagated no doubt by the author of all delusion’. Such women, he says, do not realise

what a total revolution of manners, what a change of fixed habits, nay, what a conquest of a bad nature, is required to make a man a good husband, a worthy father, and true friend, from principle; especially when it is considered that it is not in a man’s own power to reform when he will. (C 1393)

The rake’s profligacy begins with his fallen state, and, while the Devil – ‘the author of all delusion’ – may lie about how easily that fall can be reversed and reformation found, it is too much inscribed in ‘fixed habits’ and repeated behaviours to be straightforwardly purged. True reformation, says Belford, would take nothing short of a complete transformation in identity: ‘a total revolution of manners’.

The terms of Belford’s argument are conventionally Christian, but the demarcation it makes between the part of subjectivity that is supposed to be inherent and the part merely produced in ‘habit’, as well as its interest in how the false information about ‘reformed rakes’ might have got around, puts it in line with the interests of a certain ‘Enlightenment’. While it has become unfashionable to think of the eighteenth century as uniformly driven towards the principles of secularism, democracy and reason, Clifford Siskin and William Warner have argued that the category of the ‘Enlightenment’ nonetheless retains its usefulness if we take it as marking out the period as ‘an event in the history of mediation’.¹

This is to say that the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were constituted by an unprecedented proliferation of means by which information could be dispersed, alongside an unprecedentedly detailed and adventurous cultural vocabulary for discussing those mediating processes of dispersal. In this view, the eighteenth century was not uniformly the ‘age of reason’ it has often been described as, but it did make the problematisation of knowledge, its provenance and its dissemination, its reigning conceit.

Clarissa’s preoccupation with the dissemination of information and with the self-consciously mediated status of its epistolary form makes it consistent with this Enlightenment conceit. This interpretation finds support in the work of Mary Wollstonecraft, who seems to have Belford’s remarks from Clarissa in mind in the section on rakes and women’s attitudes to them in A Vindication of the Rights of Women (1792). Whereas Belford’s concern is with the aggressive rehabilitation required to rescue a rake, Wollstonecraft is more interested in what it is that makes women attracted to rakes in the first place. This is her more pressing ‘revolution of manners’, one concerned not so much with good and bad men as with the coordinates of female desire itself. ‘In its present infantine state’, she argues, feminine sexuality is little more than ‘a set of phrases learned by rote’, ‘hackneyed in the ways of women’, and, given the paucity of the culture supplying those phrases, it is unsurprising that in turn ‘half the sex … pine for a Lovelace’. ‘Supposing’, by contrast, ‘that women were, in some future revolution of time, to become, what I sincerely wish them to be’, Wollstonecraft says, ‘even love would acquire more serious dignity’, meaning finally that women ‘would turn with disgust from the rake’.² For Wollstonecraft, a culture that consistently represents women as lascivious objects for men cannot subsequently be surprised to find the desire of its women interpellated by this representation in some way.

As with the moral claims of Richardson’s preface, I am for now less interested in Wollstonecraft’s specific views on problems in sexuality (as fascinatingly ambivalent towards their subject as they are) than in emphasising the mechanism of obscurely originating received notions by which Wollstonecraft proposes those problems have come about. Wollstonecraft’s subtle adaptation of Belford’s words from Clarissa raises Richardson’s intuition about the dangers of ‘public talk’ to the level of an explicit, and newly feminist, political programme. But what, for either author, is the way out of this deadlock when, quite apart from knowledge and information conventionally defined, even the deep subjective reaches of desire itself are coded by dangerously self-confirming ‘phrases learned by rote’? ‘If such be the force of habit’, as Wollstonecraft puts it, how are we to ‘guard the mind from storing up vicious associations’?³

For Wollstonecraft and her circle, the meta-discourse that will get one beyond this fog of desire and hearsay is reason. Reason, imparted through education, will allow received notions to be circumvented and less damaging forms of desire to emerge. This radical kind of reason is one of the great democratic inheritances of the eighteenth century, and it is not going too far to say that it is the basis of modern critical thinking. What Wollstonecraft and her colleagues were practising was, at heart, a form of ideology critique: its central insight was that the areas of experience which appear to be outside politics are the most political spaces of all, and that which appears most intimately personal to us is the first thing that needs interrogation. But, at the same time, the terms available to Wollstonecraft clearly have their limits, and to address these we must have recourse to later tendencies in anti-Enlightenment thought.

If the keystone Enlightenment insight, that knowledge is not self-evident but is constructed and mediated in culture, is taken in all its radical force, what claim can reason have to rise above and speak over these other notions? Who is in a position to be so sure of themselves as to speak for what Wollstonecraft’s compatriot Thomas Paine called ‘common sense’? Certainly, the political duplicity of reason and common sense couldn’t be any more clear today, when it is most often those on the right who appeal to them as a way of rejecting the supposed obfuscating abstractions or hopeless utopianism of left-wing intellectuals. The most polemical and important formulation of the wrinkle in reason’s claim to clamber above the obfuscations of mediation and habit came from Friedrich Nietzsche. As Martin Jay summarises, whereas the Enlightenment radicals never quite abandoned their faith in a historically ‘real’ existence of reason somewhere beyond the mess of cultural mediation, ‘Nietzsche’s more radical gesture was to deny the premise of historical reality in itself … All that was left was an irreducibly nontranscendental riot of interpretation without an external object to serve as the standard by which their veracity could be measured.’⁴

If this part of Nietzsche’s argument is no doubt familiar to many readers, it is still worth emphasising just where he does identify truth if it is not to be found in some sort of transcendental reason or liberated common sense. In The Birth of Tragedy (1872), Nietzsche formulates an approach to truth that does not depend on Enlightenment reason, in what he calls ‘tragic knowledge’, a kind of knowledge with no final metaphysical referent outside what he calls ‘eternal suffering and contradiction’.⁵ Whereas the project of the Enlightenment radicals was to find in reason a truth that would redeem the contradictory distortions of culture, the articulation of tragedy is that the only available ‘truth’ emerges precisely from the gap of non-recognition between these areas of contradiction. I will explain what I mean by this a little more later on, but for now it is enough to say that as much as Nietzsche’s association of tragedy with a traumatic ‘other’ kind of knowledge has been of constituent importance to subsequent critical theory, it can also be read backwards as part of the articulation of Clarissa. In Clarissa, Richardson had already intuited his own response to the deadlock of the ‘received notion’, which is different to the one Wollstonecraft later tried to use his novel to make. As with Nietzsche, the resources of response Richardson finds are not in reason but in tragedy.⁶

II

Richardson published the seven volumes of the first edition of Clarissa in three instalments in December 1747 and April and December 1748. Rumours began circulating after the publication of the second instalment that the novel’s hitherto muted intimations of tragedy were to build to define its final three volumes. The revelation that the rake Lovelace was to do something that would place him beyond marriageable reprieve, and that Clarissa should die in the aftermath, provoked remonstrations from Richardson’s circle of confidants, who had expected that the pair would finally be united in marriage.⁷ As one critic remarks, Richardson seems to have been determined to ‘challenge … current notions of tragedy’, even at the risk of ‘social and financial liability’; in the words of another, he went as far as to consider ‘the desire for a happy ending’ among his readers as itself ‘a mark of moral fault, an ameliorating concession to the religious laxity that plagued British culture at mid-century’.⁸

Richardson responds to the minor crisis the turn to tragedy presented for the serial publication of Clarissa in a postscript appended to its final volume. This begins by dramatically breaking the big illusion of all Richardson’s novels: that the letters are real and that Richardson himself is merely their discoverer and editor.⁹ Here, ‘the author of the foregoing work’ steps forward to describe the correspondence he has received from readers pleading that Clarissa and Lovelace be spared this dreadful mutual destruction. Richardson attributes their disquiet to the ongoing influence of the doctrine of ‘poetical justice’, a seventeenth-century addition to the theory of tragedy developed in France but becoming influential to the point of being axiomatic in the English drama of the Restoration. In The Tragedies of the Last Age Considered (1678), the critic Thomas Rymer had imagined a version of the birth of tragedy in which the genre was created by the Greeks to undo in art the moral mistakes of ‘real’ history:

Finding in history, the same end happen to the righteous and to the unjust, virtue often oppressed, and wickedness on the throne: they saw these particular yesterday-truths were imperfect and unproper to illustrate the universal and eternal truths by them intended. Finding also that this unequal distribution of rewards and punishments did perplex the wisest, and by the atheist was made a scandal to the Divine Providence. They concluded, that a poet must of necessity see justice exactly administered, if he intended to please.¹⁰

In this analysis, tragedy is superior to the ‘yesterday-truths’ of history because it secures a space in which dreadful actions and dreadful consequences neatly coincide in the same person: tragedy may represent the most wicked behaviour, but it also demands that it is punished in full measure. It was only, one might add, by logical tricks such as this that the genre traditionally most preoccupied with incest, murder and dismemberment could become what Timothy Reiss has called ‘the ideal ordering and instructive mode’.¹¹

For Richardson, appealing to poetical justice as a way of arguing against his killing the innocent Clarissa is inadequate on two grounds. First, its