Pastoral Forms and Attitudes

PASTORAL FORMS AND ATTITUDES

PASTORAL

Forms and Attitudes

HAROLD E. TOLIVER

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS

BERKELEY LOS ANGELES LONDON 1971

University of California Press

Berkeley and Los Angeles, California

University of California Press, Ltd.

London, England

Copyright © 1971 by The Regents of the University of California

ISBN: 0-520-01896-6

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 74-142747

Quotations from the poems of Wallace

Stevens are protected by copyright and are

reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

Quotations from Robert Frost are from

The Poetry of Robert Frost,

edited by Edward Connery Lathem.

Copyright 1916, 1923, 1928, 1930, 1934, 1939, 1949, © 1969

by Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc.

Copyright 1936, 1942, 1944, 1951, © 1956,

1958, 1962 by Robert Frost.

Copyright © 1964, 1967, 1970 by Lesley Frost Ballantine.

Reprinted by permission of Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc.

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To Brooks and Tricia

Preface

So variable a form as pastoral, with its capacity to devour elegies, lyrics, plays, fairy tales, masques, odes, and even to gnaw ambitiously at romances, epics, and novels, is especially challenging and likely to have different kinds of implication for practical criticism. Whether or not the texts examined here need all be considered pastorals is not as important finally as our discovering something in them through this lens that would be less noticeable through another. Thus in attempting not to deprive the idea of the genre of its potential usefulness, I have extended the principles of the old shepherd poem freely to literature that abandons many of its conventions while illustrating its theme and attitudes. Most critics who have dealt with pastoral theoretically since Empson’s Some Versions of Pastoral have done the same, among them Renato Poggioli, Leo Marx, and John Lynen. Though the conventions of pastoral that are first identifiable in the idylls and eclogues of Theocritus and Virgil are obviously important to a theory of pastoral, too many themes and strategies converge even in earlier texts to make conventions the dominant interest of the form; and when we add the equally important themes that Ovid contributes to the tradition, the possibilities of the form increase several fold. Fairy tale marvels, romance journeys, the domestic trials of fishermen and housewives, the immanence of gods capable of granting or taking away paradise, the seasons and biological life that are the context of pastoral games and activities, the collision of social attitudes, the incongruity of certain intruders in Arcadia’s idyllic place, the tension between naturalness and artifice, and metamorphosis are a few of pastoral’s recurrent concerns. Moreover, literary forms do not develop in a vacuum but respond continuously to pressures of a complex kind, from social history to discoveries in science to the impact of individual poets who have reconceived inherited conventions in the light of their own experience. The historical vagaries of pastoral require that we practice sociological as well as generic criticism at times. Conventions and inventiveness, creation and imitation, established form and changing social contexts wage such an indecisive battle in the history of pastoral that neither formalistic nor sociological criticism can deal with it satisfactorily unless they learn to keep channels open to each other.

In order not to place too many initial barriers between the reader and the main texts to be examined, I have consigned some largely thematic and formalistic matters to appendixes, one of which considers the Ovidian elements in the pastoral tradition and should be read primarily in conjunction with the essays on Sidney, Spenser, and Shakespeare.

Because studies of the main figures considered here, Sidney, Spenser, Shakespeare, Herbert, Marvell, Milton, Pope, Wordsworth, Keats, Hardy, Bellow, Stevens, and Frost, have proliferated in the six years during which this book has been in the making, I have not been able to engage relevant criticism as often as I would have liked. With a few exceptions, I have not added citations of articles and books appearing after 1965.1 am especially indebted to those who have written about pastoral in a theoretical way, and those whom I have used for particular purposes are mentioned in appropriate places. My general debt to Kenneth Burke and William Empson will be obvious; I have disagreed with Renato Poggioli’s article The Oaten Flute freely, as one does only with interesting and useful criticism. I am grateful to the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation for providing an unencumbered year in 1963—64 and to several readers since then whose criticism has caused the main outlines to emerge more clearly than in early drafts. One section of chapter eight concerning Pope has been published previously, in Concerning Poetry (1968).

Contents

Contents

ONE Pastoral Contrasts

TWO Pastoral Hierarchy and Entelechy

THREE Sidney’s Knights and Shepherds

FOUR Spenser: The Queen and the Court Singer

FIVE Shakespeare’s Inner Plays and the Social Contract

SIX Poetry as Sacred Conveyance in Herbert and Marvell

SEVEN Milton: Platonic Levels and Christian Transformation

EIGHT The Augustan Balance of Nature and Art

NINE Industrial and Romantic Versions of Nature

TEN Wordsworth’s Two Natures

ELEVEN Keats’s Pastoral Alchemy as Therapy

TWELVE Hardy’s Novels of Scene and Manners

THIRTEEN Stevens s Supreme Fiction and Its Printed Fragments

FOURTEEN Bellow’s Idyll of the Tribe

FIFTEEN Frost’s Enclosures and Clearings

APPENDIX I Pastoral Romance

APPENDIX II Idylls, Eclogues, and Masques

Selected Secondary Bibliography

Index

ONE

Pastoral Contrasts

The specific critical tasks that follow may come into focus more easily if we begin with some of the broadest implications of the idyllic element of pastoral—usually imaged as a paradisal place where Sei piace, ei lice, or where if you like it you may have it—which habitually calls forth an opposite and promotes a variety of perspective by incongruity. Whether the scene is an explicit Arcadian society or some place of enclosed quiet, it is likely to be exposed to such things as industrialism, death, unrequited love, unjust property division, or merely an opposing idea of perfection.¹ D. H. Lawrence touches upon a typical pastoral contrast when he remarks that a conquered universe, a dead Pan, leaves us nothing to live with. … And whether we are a store-clerk or a busconductor, we can still choose between the living universe of and Thrysis is contained in an outer narrative of Meliboeus, whose work is countered by their pastime." In the eighth, a previous contest between Damon and Alphesiboeus is recited and reveals two inner matches between lovers, one that has dissolved in nostalgia as the lover is thought to be about to die unrequited and the other having led to an attempt to enchant a reluctant lover through magic. In the ninth, Moeris has been turned off his farm as politics and war invade the normal peace of Arcadia. The tenth concerns the anguish of Gallus over hapless love.

Love in these poems is treated as a yearning for what one cannot possess, not as the unrestricted erotic indulgence of softer and less anguished Arcadias; it underlies many of the artificial pastoral devices of ornamental lament, beseeching, and melancholy resignation that characterize the songs of shepherds in the tradition. (The songs themselves offer some consolation for its woes and contribute to its passivity.)

William Empson in Some Versions of Pastoral (London: Chatto and Windus, 1935) and Renato Poggioli in "The Oaten Flute/’ Harvard Library Bulletin, 11 (1957), 147-184, stress aspects of pastoral quite different from these strategic contrasts. Poggioli writes: The function of pastoral poetry is to translate to the plane of imagination man’s sentimental reaction against compulsory labor, social obligations, and ethical bonds; yet, while doing so, it acts as the catharsis of its own inner pathos, and sublimates the instinctual impulses to which it gives outlet. It therefore performs with especial intensity the role that Freud assigns to art in general: that of acting as vicarious compensation for the renunciations imposed by the social order on its individual members, and of reconciling men to the sacrifices they have made in civilization’s behalf (p. 174). Though quite valid in itself, this view leads to a puzzling generic notion: "The poetic of the pastoral fully reveals that its subgenres must be reduced to the common denominator of the lyric mode. The epyllion is not epic; the pastoral romance is not narrative; pastoral drama is not dramatic. While most idyllic moments are lyric, pastorals" as distinct from idyllic passages are often dramatic, and even relatively pure idyllic moments fit well into epic and dramatic modes such as Paradise Lost and As You LiAe It. We can avoid some basic difficulties by not arbitrarily excluding prosaic and dramatic elements from pastoral and by observing closely the ways in which even vicarious compensations encounter reality indirectly as they seem to dodge it.

Pan, and the mechanical conquered universe of modern humanity (Pan in America," Phoenix). Traditionally, such contrasts not only vary a good deal from one period to another but tend to elicit different potentials from the pastoral setting according to how it is opposed. When society and nature are juxtaposed, for instance, such characteristics as the following emerge:

Such contrasts permeate the pastoral tradition from Theocritus to the eighteenth century and create similar tensive structures in pastorals with less definite conventions thereafter.

Not all pastoral makes explicit or full use of them, however. At one extreme, in the pure idyll, the poet leaves it largely to the reader to remember whatever contrasts the normative world affords—as Marlowe’s passionate shepherd ignores the harsher realities that occur to Raleigh, Donne, and C. Day Lewis in their answers to him. At the opposite extreme, forms of realism and naturalism concentrate on what is rather than what might be or what ought to be, even when the setting seems designed to capitalize on pastoral contrasts. Robinson Crusoe on his semiparadisal island, for instance, is absorbed almost completely in material goods that can be arranged, labeled, traded for other goods, consumed, or wielded against those who would subtract from the total—with provender and produce, with seeds, slaves, goats, waterholes, linens, and other aspects of a pragmatic life. His basic impulses are closer to georgic than to pastoral in that he watches over the processes of fertility and renewal by which nature, through timely and efficient labor, is coaxed from a dormant period, brought to fruition, and prepared for harvest. Pastoral nature is more ceremonial than useful; it has no need of planting, cultivation, or harvest, and its periodic renewal is less economic than symbolic or miraculous. Crusoe begins where the pastoral phase of Milton’s Adam ends, as he is exiled to a landscape that requires management and contains dangers. Crusoe progresses from that primitive georgic occupation to the more complex economy of the marketplace and toward the social relations of the more typical documentary novel whose society belongs to the drawing room and city.

Such enterprising programs of accretion as Crusoe’s assume the importance of possession and property distinctions—which as a French anarchist once insisted, cause one to be inspected, directed, docketed, indoctrinated, assessed, taxed, valued, admonished, extorted, squeezed, hoaxed, and betrayed, among other things unknown to Adam. A pastoral society, in contrast, is noncompetitive or else converts a limited competition into such games and ceremonies as the friendly exchanges of rival singers. To the winner, the society of shepherds offers humble gifts more ornamental than practical. A pastoralist writing in this tradition might not have given Crusoe’s island greater abundance than Defoe does, but the scene would have yielded its gifts much more easily, and if capital expansion had proved unavoidable, every increase would have brought a corresponding loss in simplicity and quiet. That Defoe is not concerned with such pastoral devices and themes is of course no criticism of Robinson Crusoe as a novel: the point here is a limited one, that where the potential contrasts between a golden age and the normative world are not exploited, we do not have the dialectical, tensive structure characteristic of all worthwhile pastoral.

Such a structure is not in itself difficult to isolate as an abiding feature of pastoral, but it operates on many levels and changes significantly in the evolution of pastoral forms. One of the tasks of a theory of pastoral is to explain the interaction of these levels and to use them to gauge the influence of the social and intellectual context on variations of pastoral form. Obviously lyrics, odes, elegies, romances, and novels and epics with pastoral elements handle that tension quite differently, and every period interprets and reconstitutes them in its own ways.

LEVELS OF PASTORAL

When we consider the images of the golden age that the classical and Christian tradition bequeathed to the Renaissance, it becomes clear that they tend to arrange themselves not as equals but as elements of a dynamic, vertical spectrum. A given shepherd may pass from one of these levels to another, undergoing a metamorphosis from a rustic figure to a devotional celebrator of the gods, for instance, as the poem transposes from one style to another. Marvell’s shepherdess Clorinda does something like this, as she begins by trying to entice Damon into simple rustic pleasures and then joins him in a hymn to great Pan or Christ. The following shepherd’s song from the renaissance collection England’s Helicon is typical in putting its combination of levels in terms of musical styles, one level based on the humble literary shepherd of the tradition, the other on a vision he has of the shepherd’s possible elevation:

Sweete Musique, sweeter farre

Then any Song is sweete:

Sweete Musique heavenly rare, Mine eares (O peeres) dooth greete.

You gentle flocks, whose fleeces pearl’d with dewe, Resemble heaven, whom golden drops make bright: Listen, O listen, now, O not to you

Our pipes make sport to shorten wearie night,

But voyces most divine

Make blisfull Harmonie:

Voyces that seem to shine, For what else cleares the skie?

Tunes can we heare, but not the Singers see: The tunes divine, and so the Singers be.

For loe the worlds great Sheepheard now is borne A blessed Babe, an Infant full of power: After long night, up-risen is the morne, Renowning Bethletn in the Saviour.

Sprung is the perfect day, By Prophets seen a farre: Sprung is the mirthfull May, Which Winter cannot marre, In Davids Cittie dooth this Sunne appeare: Clouded in flesh, yet Sheepheards sit we here.

[The Sheepheards Song, E. B., England’s Helicon]

The pagan shepherd who provides the starting point for such transformations from sportive pipes to blisfull Harmonic Renato Poggioli describes as one who

by picking berries and gathering straw … may fill his bowl and build a roof over his head. This redeems him from the curse of work, which is part of man’s estate, and the specific lot of the peasant, who earns his daily bread by the sweat of his brow. It is this triumph of the days over the works, rather than the mere replacement of a rural with a pastoral setting that marks the difference between the bucolic and the georgic. … The shepherd of fiction is likewise neither a pioneer nor a settler, but rather a homesteader, or better, a stay-at-home; he is never a nomad, as real shepherds are often forced to be.

He lives a sedentary life even in the open, since he prefers to linger in a grove’s shade rather than to wander in the woods. He never confronts the true wild, and this is why he never becomes even a part time hunter.2

This traditional literary shepherd is so lowly and unambitious that he requires a miraculous change to become a citizen of David’s city.

Even in Theocritus and Virgil, however, he occasionally reaches surprising heights. We find the rustic and the sacred mixed almost from the outset in the pastoral tradition. In Virgil’s fourth eclogue, for instance, Arcadia is newly exalted by the consulate of Pollio, which some commentators in the Renaissance read allegorically as the coming of the Christian reign:

Muses of Sicily, sing we a somewhat ampler strain: not all men’s delight is in coppices and lowly tamarisks: if we sing of the woods, let them be woods worthy of a Consul.

Now is come the last age of the Cumaean prophecy: the great cycle of periods is born anew. … In thy consulate, in thine, O Pollio, shall this glorious age enter. … He shall grow in the life of gods, and shall see gods and heroes mingled.3

The romantics, too, contrast the intimations of immortality that nature makes possible to the common men who are most available to receive them. Wordsworth’s pastoral manifesto in the Preface to the Lyrical Ballads calls for a new marriage between the lowly and the exalted; Keats’s mortal shepherd Endymion seeks the love of a high goddess; and Shelley’s Adonais is translated from the realm of physical nature to a quite different realm of Platonist verities. Modern figures such as Bellow’s Henderson and Frost’s rural speakers are rustic and yet capable of commerce with higher powers.4

Though the central figure in these levels is no longer a shepherd after the classical conventions of pastoral disappear, patterns of contrast and transformation are repeated in unexpected places in modern texts. Since our concern later will be not only traditional forms of pastoral but also their metamorphosed modern equivalents, I will pause long enough on an example here to suggest ways in which recurrent pastoral attitudes have assumed new forms. One of the more striking examples of transformation and the dialectical conflict of levels is G. K. Chesterton’s novel The Man Who Was Thursday. Chesterton initially contrasts simply anarchists and lovers of order, but these unmask and turn into one another in a strange comic pantomime of opposites reminiscent of riot and order in the old pastoral masque and antimasque. Chesterton eventually translates his masquers into somewhat startled and awed archetypes of the divine creator’s peace and the devil’s chaos, and looking backward from that conclusion we realize that various episodes have foreshadowed the pageant of the six days’ creation. The wood of witchery, for instance, gives us a glimpse of the cosmic dimensions of the contest:

The sun on the grass was dry and hot. So in plunging into the wood they had a cool shock of shadow, as of divers who plunge into a dim pool. The inside of the wood was full of shattered sunlight and shaken shadows. They made a sort of shuddering veil, almost recalling the dizziness of a cinematograph. Even the solid figures walking with him Syme could hardly see for the patterns of sun and shade that danced upon them. Now a man’s head was lit as with a light of Rembrandt, leaving all else obliterated; now again he had a strong and

transformations of which Tolkien describes as an eucatastrophe in which we see "in a brief vision … a far-off gleam or echo of evangelium." Whereas in explicit pastoral, such an evangelium is grafted onto clear reminders of Virgil’s prophetic eclogue or the Christian equivalent, in the fairy tale it is a miraculous reversal of unspecified origin. A sacred cause reveals itself behind the apparently capricious and cruel surface of nature, and lowly people are given a sense of Gloria higher than anything they could have imagined. See The Tolkien Reader (New York: Ballantine Books, 1966), p. 74.

staring white hands with the face of a negro. … Was anyone wearing a mask? Was anyone hiding anything? This wood of witchery, in which men’s faces turned black and white by turns, in which their figures first swelled into sunlight and then faded into formless night, this mere chaos of chiaroscuro (after the clear daylight outside) seemed to Syme a perfect symbol of the world in which he had been moving for three days, this world where men took off their beards and their spectacles and their noses, and turned into other people. … He found the thing which the modern people call Impressionism, which is another name for that final scepticism which can find no floor to the universe.⁵

But Chesterton quickly removes the figures in the chase from the forest, where these opposites shatter and shake each other by a succession that leads toward final scepticism; he sets them securely in the sunlight of the comedy, where sinister plots can be easily converted into the farcical plotting of God’s cops and robbers. There the people of the seven days are transformable into the works of nature during the creation presided over by Sabbath, the peace of God … contentment, optimism … and ultimate reconciliation, which links the daily cycles to their archetypal source. These seven days become aspects of the divine being entering a temporal phase where it unfolds as veiled or masked becoming. The transformational goal of the book might be described as the saving of the idyllic feeling by a conversion of sinister elements into lighthearted playthings, all mobsters becoming picnickers, and so on up the scale to Eden’s creation and the devil’s ineffectual resistance.

Such transformations, spells of magic, and unmaskings of obscure divine and demonic forces, are recurrent themes of pastoral romances and masques. But the presence of higher levels of idyllic peace may also be a source of nostalgic longing or despair if the shepherd is unable to find the key to transformation. In the elegy, the shepherd’s lament is often left unresolved, or the poet may simply look backward from a distance toward a time when gods and goddesses appeared to lowly shepherds and made possible miraculous changes from wintry blight to vernal renewal.

The paradisal archetype is useful to gain perspective on such situations beyond cure, and it too crops up in a variety of modern texts. In Strindberg’s Miss Julie, for instance, the main characters (Miss Julie and Jean the valet) are tempted to think that they can put aside class differences and other barriers between them and recapture the freedom of a classless society. But their positions prove incompatible with that hope: those below on the social scale cannot avoid the need to advance, and those on top cannot escape their own suicidal impulse to leap down. The dream of transcending property and station recoils upon them destructively. Moreover, the dream itself is plagued by hierarchy:

Julie. … Life, human beings, everything, just scum drifting about on the water until it sinks—down and down. That reminds me of a dream I sometimes have, in which I’m on top of a pillar and can’t see any way of getting down. When I look down I’m dizzy; I have to get down but I haven’t the courage to jump. I can’t stay there and I long to fall, but I don’t fall. There’s no respite. There can’t be any peace at all for me until I’m down, right down on the ground. And if I did get to the ground I’d want to be under the ground. … Have you ever felt like that?

Jean. No. In my dream I’m lying under a great tree in a dark wood. I want to get up, up to the top of it, and look out over the bright landscape where the sun is shining and rob that high nest of its golden eggs. And I climb and climb, but the trunk is so thick and smooth and it’s so far to the first branch.6

Jean’s paradise is hemmed around with the same guilt and fear that infect all hierarchy: If it’s true that a thief can get to heaven and be with angels, it’s pretty strange that a labourer’s child here on God’s earth mayn’t come in the park and play with the Count’s daughter. The park of the Count is a Garden of Eden, but it is also guarded by many terrible angels with flaming swords; it contains the tree of life but also the forbidden apple. After the daughter has been in fact played with, Jean confesses that even when he watched her among the roses from his onion patch I had the same dirty thoughts as all boys. Infernal realities break through the dreams, which collapse into the minimal realities of biology and common sinfulness. The only course remaining for Julie is to seek peace underground, and for Jean to resume the empty life of the servant. As to transformation: the magical power of the Midsummer Eve festival allows Jean to play with the new identity he imagines for himself and encourages Julie to come down, because only if they sleep in nine midsummer flowers will their dreams … come true. The awakening finds them beyond the reach of pastoral’s benevolent atmosphere.

Both Chesterton’s novel of fantasy and Strindberg’s play illustrate modern versions of pastoral’s fluid exchange of identities and the vicarious participation of levels and classes in each other. In the elegy, the shepherd mourners sometimes awake to a sacred influence beyond nature’s ordinary surface and discover death redefined as transfiguration; in the old pastoral masque, courtiers pretending for an evening to be shepherds discover ancient powers in nature that have been concealed from them in their more rigidly costumed moments; in pastoral romance, a knightly wanderer stumbles upon a pastoral realm where his heroic pursuits are held in abeyance while he shares in a shepherd life that, though below him and foreign to him, is possessed of a natural simplicity and magical atmosphere. The interpenetration of levels in these variations of pastoral is not merely the wooing of hierarchical social elements that Empson finds central to pastoral but also a discovery of unfamiliar dimensions of nature and a common sacred ground in the landscape, the mysteries and primitive symbols of which are so basic that all participants in them are leveled upward.

THE POEM AS PASTORAL ENCLOSURE

A related theme in many pastorals is the contrast between reality and the poem itself, as a fictional construction—as its own kind of transforming locality capable of reshaping nature in art (to make poetic is in part to pastoralize), and one of the important threads in the evolution of pastoral is the shifting relationship between the poetic enclosure and the exterior world. Poggioli writes of the conventional shepherd figure that he "represents man neither as homo sapiens nor as homo faber, but only as homo artifex: or more simply, as a musician and a poet." ⁷ This association of the poet with the shepherd and of the poem with Arcadia comes about partly because when shepherds retreat to an enclosed and harbored world of song they are in a privileged position to indicate the nature of aesthetic distance and poetic transformations of reality. The force of the analogy between the poem and paradise is evident when whole books of verse in the Renaissance are taken to be bowers of bliss in which a reader can browse for idyllic or erotic pleasure.

An Arcadian retreat is not necessarily a lyric sublimation of unpleasantries, however (as Poggioli suggests); it is an image of nature so clearly artful as to suggest openly the poet’s inevitable improvements on it. (If the poet assumes that reality is badly arranged or scattered, he may imagine its possible reconstruction in the order of words as perhaps the only reconstruction it is likely to receive.) The analogy between a poem and a perfect landscape holds to some extent even when the poet makes no explicit claim for it. Consider Emily Dickinson’s description of a storm:

The leaves unhooked themselves from trees And started all abroad;

The dust did scoop itself like hands And threw away the road.

The storm is scarcely gentle, but the stanza cannot help taming its violence and suggesting a locus amoenus or pleasant place in spite of itself. It humanizes the leaves and the dust and appeases our desire to find correspondences between the human and the natural world. (The two sentences develop in units of eight and six syllables in almost identical metrical arrangements, syntax, and grammar: the twenty-eight syllables move in exact formation, commanding the event to take part in their poetic ritual.) Though these elements do not make the stanza explicitly pastoral, they do in a sense quiet discord and produce a pastoral harmony and transformation. With its rhyme of daily and seasonal recurrence, its songs, and its graciously integral harmony, paradise often converges aesthetic ideal and scene in this way. That literary shepherds should spend more time singing than tending sheep is entirely in keeping with the impulse that a pastoral place indulges to celebrate nature rather than improve it with the georgic arts of the gardener or the home economist.

Rather than imposing a total harmony on nature, however, pastoralists in the main tradition usually suggest that paradise is beyond the reach even of poetry. It stands apart as the poet tries to imagine it, so that his description of it becomes a selfconscious artifice. Arcadia’s dreamlike quality is especially marked from the romantics onward, as poets find it difficult to reconcile the harbored bowers of pastoral with a world given over increasingly to industry and social strife. The poet must come forth from his dreams, Moneta tells the Keatsian dreamer in The Fall of Hyperion, and speak directly to the social problems of the times: he must put his pastoral vision to use as social therapy. At the same tíme, the poet cannot claim too much for whatever therapy poetry and its idyllic dreams may work on its subject or on the minds it touches, since it is after all merely verbal. Every good poem is very nearly a Utopia, W. H. Auden writes, an idyllic community of substances forced to yield their disagreements for the sake of the poem, and therefore an attempt to present an analogy to that paradisal state in which Freedom and Law, System and Order are united in harmony. ⁸ But its harmony is possible and verbal only. When it issues forth to do its work in society it may accomplish very little, and it may itself be changed in the minds of hearers—the only place where it really exists. The words of a dead man [Yeats specifically] are modified in the guts of the living. Ireland’s madness and her weather remain as they always have been, her madness as far beyond cure as her thunderstorms:

Poetry makes nothing happen: it survives In the valley of its saying where executives Would never want to tamper; it flows south From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs, Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives A way of happening, a mouth.

[In Memory of W. B. Yeats] ⁹

Since poems cannot pull the real world all the way into their paradisal orders, Ariel, the spirit of beauty, must learn to live with Prospero, who demands exacting truth:

The effect [of a poem’s] beauty … is good to the degree that, through its analogies, the goodness of created existence, the historical fall into unfreedom and disorder, and the possibility of regaining paradise through repentance and forgiveness are recognized. Its effect is evil to the degree that beauty is taken, not as analogous to, but identical with goodness, so that the artist regards himself or is regarded by others as God, the pleasure of beauty taken for the joy of Paradise, and the conclusion drawn that, since all is well in the work of art, all is well in history. But all is not well there. [The Dyers Hand, p.71]

Thus modern versions of pastoral often suggest that the distance between fictional idylls and the daily world precludes any geniune transformation of reality except an imagined one. Aware of pastoral’s artifice and of the contrast between fiction and reality, the modern pastoralist is likely to take a skeptical view of the pastoral tradition and use it primarily as a device for gaining perspective on the nature of the imagination itself.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT

This shift in emphasis constitutes one of the main lines of pastoral’s evolution. Although images of idyllic places, dialectical contrasts, and levels of pastoral ideality remain constant ingredients in the texts to be considered, each period does what it needs to with them, and it is part of our critical task to gauge the interplay between established conventions and the special social and intellectual topics of given periods. Any recapitulation of that interplay will inevitably oversimplify it, but it may be useful to anticipate here the sequential arrangement of what follows and its bearing upon the problems of form.

In Sidney and Spenser, nature and society are represented by and large by rustics and knights respectively. Both poets examine the stratification of feudal society from the perspective that a semidemocratic Arcadia assumes on the problems of social class, and they stress the difficulty of any permanent social transformation: the classes entertain each other only momentarily in the atmosphere of Arcadia before the world of social realities reasserts itself. Spenser’s contrast between knight errantry and shepherdom in the sixth book of The Faerie Queene is complicated somewhat by his use of the shepherd Colin Clout as a proponent of a simple and elegant poetry free of moral considerations of the kind that Spenser’s own didactic romance involves. Thus Arcadia harbors not only an ideally simple society but also an ideal aesthetic principle. It is dangerously attractive both to the hero, who should not abandon his quest when he discovers it, and to the poet, who should remember that he is an apologist for a set of courtly values and an imitator of moral and social realities. Neither Spenser nor Sidney can imagine an Arcadia that manages to stay intact; both work within a Christian framework that seeks a satisfactory good place only beyond the temporal world and fully expect the harbored places of the world to be ransacked. A poet who would remain true both to his idyllic vision and to the normative world of social strife and moral conflict may endorse feudal society as the best conceivable social arrangement, but he casts a longing eye on the simple life of Arcadia and the higher paradise that Arcadia at times seems to foreshadow.

Shakespeare, too, contrasts court and pastoral societies, but whereas a Calidore or a Musidorus undergoes no real change in his exposure to Arcadia, when Shakespeare exposes heroes and heroines to the green world they are significantly changed. In A Midsummer Night’s Dream, As You Like It, The Winters Tale, and The Tempest, he identifies the magical influence of nature with the powers of the imagination and implies that the capacity to change people which the forest’s fairy citizenry (or simply its atmosphere) exercises is similar to the poet’s power to work upon the mind. His poets, fairies, and magicians are in such complete command that they prevent the separation of idyllic wish and realizable social change: when they have finished working upon those who fall under their spells, the spirit of romantic pastoral reigns throughout the society, as it has not in Spenser and Sidney and will not in subsequent pastoral.

Despite a large flock of pastoral poems, plays, and romances in the first three decades of the seventeenth century, later poets tend to abandon social and political pastoral as the Puritan revolution approaches. For Herbert, Milton, Traherne, Vaughan, and Marvell, the social world is not compatible with the locus amoenus, not because of some inherent clash between courtly and shepherd cultures but because of more complex metaphysical and psychological reasons. To them the pleasant place is not a fiction or a metaphoric locality for the artist’s own magic but an example of divine creativity standing apart from the social order. The idyllic imagination in each of these poets therefore rejects, in its own way, the evaluation of courtly culture that Sidney, Spenser, and Shakespeare sustain in their pastorals. For the later Milton, for instance, Adam and Eve are above artifice and adornment, and paradise, once lost, becomes internal—until it can once again be realized in a rediscovery of God’s image in the wilderness.

Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained were in a sense anachronisms even when they were written, and the pastorals of Herbert, Marvell, Traherne, and Vaughan, too, obviously belong to a productive but short-lived phase of pastoral. PostRestoration pastoral takes a quite different direction. On one hand, it revives the conventions and artifices of the old shepherd play, the court masque, and the eclogue, and the bulk of the pastorals written during the hundred years after the publication of Paradise Lost are uninspired reapplications of new makeup to an aging countenance. On the other hand, going a step beyond this formalist concern with conventions, Pope, Swift, and Gay explore the relationship between artifice and nature and undermine the uncritical faith in formulas that most pastoralists of the period maintain. And beyond this mannerist self-consciousness about the mode are two other concerns—how in fact to construct enclosed good places by uniting the best of nature and art in an ideal compromise, and how to escape enclosed pastoral places altogether in an expansive, romantic vision of all nature as somehow sacred and spiritual. In one, some of the old inventories of the locus amoenus still prove useful; in the other, the poet seeks a sublimity beyond fixed forms and enumeration, beyond the garden.

The romantics, especially Wordsworth in his praise of simplicity and distrust of urban life, reconceive the tension between society and nature and between levels of nature itself, and they abandon the man-made bower as a suitable idyllic place. It follows that they would also abandon the artifice of the old shepherd poem and look to different exemplars of the idyllic life. Under their influence pastoral takes a divided road, one branch exploring the implications of the idealizing imagination and leading eventually to Frost and Stevens, and the other taking up social themes and abandoning the notion of a pastoral place except as a perspective on provincial towns or urban life, as in the novels of Hardy and such modern figures as Faulkner, Bellow, and Ken Kesey. The separation itself tells much of the historical drift of pastoral after the dissolving of public concepts of Eden or Arcadia. Hardy returns to an older, almost Shakespearean, interplay between rustic and sophisticated cultures, but confidence in the upper hierarchy is shaken, romantic magic has disappeared from nature, and marriage no longer serves either as a sign of the union of nature and society or as a promise of renewal. Henderson the Rain King brings the traditional theme of civilized men in retreat up to date and suggests that psychological terms have altered our sense of primitivism and what it has to offer mod- ern men. (Several other recent novels would serve as well to illustrate the modern collision of nature and society, Peter Matthiessen’s At Play in the Fields of the Lord and Ken Kesey’s Sometimes a Great Notion, for instance.)

For theoretical matters, the path that leads to Frost and Stevens is more interesting because it explores poetry’s harboring of pastoral visions and the imagination’s capacity to conceive of new supreme fictions. It is clear to Frost and Stevens, as to the later Keats, that much that was once considered real must be treated as invention and that once poets have ceased to assume the possible accuracy of the large pastoral fables of Western culture—the golden age, Eden, Arcadia, and various futuristic paradises—they necessarily become more concerned with the