Representing Reality: Strategies of Realism in the Early English Novel Clinton Bond

Some's fiction and some's not, and you can't be sure. I wanted that feeling of when you're lying, people think you're telling the truth.'

Ken Kesey

A lexander Pope read Samuel Richardson's Pamela "with great Ap- probation and Pleasure," and, according to Dr George Cheyne,

commented that "it will do more good than a great many of the new sermon^."^ However we read this comment, and I believe there are sev- eral layers of irony, Pope enjoyed the book well enough to make sure his appreciation and his understanding of it as a work of practical moral- ity were forwarded to its author. His linking Pamela to the sermon would have won Richardson's gratitude, by placing it in that world of homiletic morality where Richardson consistently believed his works belonged. That Pamela was a fiction Pope did not doubt, but those features that make the text a novel for the modem reader apparently made little im- pression on him. He seems not to have responded to Pamela's originality, nor did he recognize that the work's subtext attacked the world he had dedicated his life to defending.

1 Intemiew. Son F r ~ e i s e o Ermniwr. Sunday 26 October 1986. p. A29. 2 Quoted in Maynard Mack, Pope: A Life (New York: W.W. Notton; New Haven: Yale Univmity

Press. 1985), p. 761; quoted in T.C. Duncan Eaves and Ben D. Kimpel, S m c l Richardson; A Biography (London: Oxford University Press. 1971). p. 124.

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Pope's sort of humanism, descended from the Roman Catholic thinkers of the sixteenth century, was in decline, and even though Pope would "not bear any faults to be mentioned in the story" of Pamela,) he was certainly willing to offer advice about the sequel, advice which Richardson could not or would not follow. Pope was so insensitive to the nature of the work that, according to Warburton, he suggested that Richardson turn the continuation of Pamela into a set of satirical "spy" letters, written by the nalve sewing girl:

Mr. Pope and I, talking over your work when the two last volumes came out, agreed, that one excellent subject of Pamela's letters in high life, would have been to have passed her judgment, on first stepping into it, on every thing she saw there, just as simple nature (and no one ever touched nature to the quick, as it were, more certainly and surely than you) dictated. The effect would have been this, that it would have produced, by good management, a most excellent and useful satire on all the follies and extravagancies of high life; which to one of Pamela's low station and good sense would have appeared as absurd and unaccountable as European polite vices and customs to an Indian. You easily conceive the effect this must have added to the entertainment of the book; and for the use, that is incontestable. And what could be more natural than this in Pamela, going into a new world, where every thing sensibly strikes a stranger.'

As a moral tale, Pope links Pamela to sermons and, as an epistolary tale, he links it to the Lenres persanes type of satirical comment- genres which, I argue below, were displaced and subverted by the noveL5 Richardson, however, understood that what he had created was some- thing very different and very new and, as we shall see, he sought to deflect Warbunon's further solicitations when he readied Clarissa for publication.

As Pope's response to Pamela indicates, eighteenth-century novels were at first misunderstood; the tasks of the present essay are to explore the cultural fissures that separated authors and, more particularly, to dis- cover what the unspoken and elusive claims of realistic fictions were.

3 Cheyne, quoted in Eaves and Kimpel, p. 124. 4 Anna Laetitia Barbauld, The Correspondence of Samuel Richmison. 6 vols (New Yo*: AMS

Press. 1966) 1:134-35. 5 In Nowlr ,$the 1740.~ (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1982). Jerry C. Beasley remaks

that Pamela, along with other "heroes and heroines of the major novels," bears a "resemblance to the moralizing spies of M a m a and Montesquieu" which "may well have seemed more than just casual to the Rrst readers of their stories" (p. 75). 1 believe, however, that A.D. McKillop's association of Pnmclo with "conduct-books and collections of commonplaces" is much closer to actuality. See The Early Marterr vf English Pmsc Fiction (Lawrence: University of Kansas Press, 1956). p. 62.

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The novel's claim to be real, eveeperhaps, particularly-while recog- nized as fiction, lies at the very heart of the genre, and should be seen less as a bizarre attempt to pass fiction as true than as a characteris- tic strategy built on the assertion that novels occupy exactly the same world-ideological and concrete-as their readers. Although they are preceded by a host of less successful attempts, Pamela and, more cer- tainly, Chrissa stand out as probably the first texts in English which satisfactorily insert themselves into the world; as Edward Said remarks, such works insist "not only upon their circumstantial reality but also upon their status as already fulfilling a function, a reference, or a mean- ing in the wo~ld."~ Because they already insist upon their "meaning" or particular function in the "real" world, it is clearly crucial to both the development of the genre and its place in the development of eighteenth- century culture that Richardson's first two novels operate as accomplices of other attempts to substantiate and revise a social and political world that had not yet come fully into being. This world, in many ways the one we call "modern," for the most part still holds ideological sway, but is beginning to be recognized as a "concept" to be penetrated and re- vealed as a creation of European humanism. Indeed, so powerful is the hold of eighteenth-century thought that even today, when "we have be- come uneasy about our whole way of constituting reality," many writers simply assume that in some way the Enlightenment represents transpar- ent reality, and not merely the "age of realism.''' Early novels, because they represented themselves as functioning parts of this world, anchor- ing themselves in realism, acted not only to refine but also to validate that connection between humanist ideology and "reality," which began in the Renaissance.

At the centre of the Richardsonian novel's relationship to the modem cultural formulation lies the claim that the world presented is the one

6 Edward W. Said. The World, the Text, ood the Critic (Cambridge: Harvard Univenity Press, 1983). o. 44. Said continues. "Cervantes and Cide Hamete come immediatelv to mind. More .. . immessive is Richardson olavine the role of 'men' editor for Clnrisso. simolv olacinz those

7 , - .. . leners on succewre order aRer they haw done uhat they have dam, ananpng lo fill the lexl wah pnnlcr'r dewces, reader's ads. analync contents, remspectlve m d ~ t u ~ u n s , commcnwy. w that a collcclmn of leeen grour to nll Ihe uorld and accup) all space, lo k c o m a circumstance as large and as engmssing as the reader's very understanding."

7 Stephen G~enblatl . Renairsmcc Self-Fashioning: From More to Shakepenre (Chicago: Univer- sity of Chicago Press. 1980). p. 174.

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true reality, a world that has moral meaning precisely because its patterns can be measured and reproduced as in the laboratory. Yet, at the same time, the concrete reality presented must be seen as peculiar and unique; that is, the "facts" of the novel should be specific and particular while simultaneously contributing to a general and repeatable pattern. On the general and repeatable, the early novelist seeks to impress a traditional pattern of morality. Richardson convinced himself that his primary goal was moral reformation, and he hoped that through Clarissa "the present age can be awakened and amended."s As I hope to show, however, the Richardsonian narrative never permits the sort of moral closure he sought, in part because the general pattern, as it was formulated by Richardson and other eighteenth-century novelists, is finally always subverted by the particular-the unique attributes characteristic of the "true History." I argue that it is the subversion of this mediation between particular moments and general notions that leads to the novel's "open" narrative flow, the feeling that the "novelist is drawn toward everything that is not yet ~ompleted. '~ At the conclusion of a novel, in spite of the author, we are left, not with a traditional homiletic pattern, but with something akin to the "lesson" Dr Johnson sought in biography: "to learn how a man 'was made happy; not how he lost the favour of his prince, but how he became discontented with himself.""0 Like Johnson's sort of biographical narrative, after much turmoil the novel eventually does forge a stable psychological acceptance of "reality," a psychic construct that

8 Sckcted Lmers ofSmuel Richardson. ed. John Carmll (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1964). p. 142.

9 M.M. Bakhtin. "Epic and Novel: Toward a Methodology for the Study of the Novel," The Dialogic Imngimtion, ed. Michael Holquist (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1986). p. 27. Cf. Terry Eagleton, who, referring to the problem of Richardson's fictions, asks "how is a structural openness, the esantial medium of transformed relations between producers and audiences, to be reconciled with a necessary doctrinal closure?" The Rope ofClorissn: Writing, Suualiry and Closs Struggle in Smuel Richardson (Minneapolis: Univenity of Minnesota Press, 1982). p. 22. I differ with Eagleton because I believe there is no real doctrinal closvre for the reader, in spite of all the author's attempts.

10 Quoted in W. lackson Bate. Somuel J o h m n (New York: HarcouR Brace Jovanovich, 1979), p. 122. 1 disagree with 1. Paul Hunter about the relation of didacticism and moral pattern to the novel; in his valuable Before Novels (New York: W.W. Norton. 1990) Hunter assem that "the didacticism of the early novel is central to the wnception of the species. Its origins are so tied up with needs of wntemporary readers and its early history is so dependent on the didactic assumptions in popular non-narrative forms that to mis-r excus-its characteristic didacticism is to misapprecia iD features and misdefine i s n m " (p. 226). 1 believe, as I will suggest more fully below, that Hunter is t w willing to take at face value authorial assertions of a work's moral end. The novel itself "excuses" or subverts "its characteristic didacticism" In spite of all his protesmianions to the conway, in Before Novels Hunter seems to search for a "definition" of novel--albeit an inclusive one. For me the "novel" is far less stable than he implies.

REALISM IN THE EARLY ENLISH NOVEL I25

is not merely an accommodation contained in traditional ideas about the world, but a limited and necessarily personal ordering and mastering.

Consequently, each time a reader seeks traditional patterns of co- herence in a novel's action, more particulars intervene, forcing the acceptance of a character's (or narrator's) ever-changing psychologi- cal structuring." This continuous restructuring of moral patterns-the constant subversion of stable or closed patterns by unstable or unan- ticipated incidents impossible to fit neatly into current constructions- parallels the novel's restructuring of traditional narrative patterns. Even though Richardson sought to place his novel within other, older, liter- ary traditions-he speaks of Chrissa as "of the Tragic K i n d and as "the history (or rather dramatic narrative) of C1arissa"'Lthe actual experi- ence of reading the book, the participation in its bewildering array of particularities, subverts his theorizing about the moral and formal goals of the novel.

In Chrissa the language rushes ever onward; the narrative is unques- tionably "dramatic," but its world, unlike that of a drama compressed in time and space, seems sprawling and formless. Richardson uses literary techniques such as allusion and irony in his work, but they scarcely af- fect our perception of the narrative and operate essentially to provide his characters with poses struck only for the moment; they merely elucidate aspects of personality before the plunge back into the novel's relentlessly unfolding action. In some respects, of course, we can see that Clarissa is acting out the story of Job. This realization helps us later to under- stand some of the moral patterns in Richardson's mind, but we hardly stop to ponder the significance of the parallel as we read the novel. For Clarissa, in fact, the Bible only seems to come alive when she rearranges it in her meditations so that the scriptures more efficaciously reflect her peculiar case. Even Clarissa sacrifices the general moral pattern to the particular history, and its concomitant psychological reality.

Because the eighteenth-century novel stands in opposition to the "purer" artistry of the closed narrative and changes the ways fictions relate to readers and hence to society, it participates in a particularly

In The Country and the Ciry (New York: Oxford University Press, 1973). Raymond Williams argues that this internalization d e s the novel a less effective force for change. For example, he believes that no formal ideological "confrontation" occurs in Clnrisso, a novel which dramatizes "the long p m s s between economic advantage and other ideas of value," because "the action becomes internal, and is experienced and dnunatised as a problem of character" (pp. 6142).

12 Carmll. Selected Lcncrs, p. 99; Samuel Richardson, Postscript to Chissa, or. The Hirtory of o Young Lady. 4 vols (London: Dent and New York: Dutton, 1932). 4554. References are to this edition.

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crucial shift in the development of modem culture: the transformation of those habitual means and techniques for producing and disseminating ide- ologies that had, previously, largely been the province of political and ecclesiastical institutions. Novels, to my mind, subvert traditional rep- resentations and interpretations, rejecting what Foucault argues was the essential use of intellect in the sixteenth century: the "function proper to knowledge is not seeing or demonstrating; it is interpreting."I3 As Lennard Davis points out, this earlier "attitude toward reality dimin- ishes the value of the literal train of events" because interpretation was meant to reinforce established institutions. Until the sixteenth century, discourse had been controlled, but humanism put into motion discourses which no one fully controlled or understood. Earlier, "Histories, sto- ries, and news accounts ... were important ... only insofar as they clearly taught lessons and offered interpretations. If they were not new, if they were not accurate, or even if they were completely fabricated, they could still serve this p~rpose."'~ The closed narrative depends on interpretation and, hence, helps empower the institutional desire for social stability. The novel, on the contrary, is in the beginning at least a destabiliz- ing force, relying first and foremost on the descriptive fact and in this way contributing to the establishment of a cultural reformulation that had been long in coming. According to Stephen Greenblatt, in the six- teenth century there was a shift "from the consensusfidelium embodied in the universal Catholic Church to the absolutist claims of the Book and the King";'$ but because, in Britain, the seventeenth century graphi- cally and brutally declared the claim of "King" null and void and moved the "Book" from the absolutist claims of the church to the private, the in- dividual, and the domestic, the shift from Church to King constitutes no more than a brief, although powerfully evoked, interlude. Only the shift to subjective representations of the Book created lasting changes. In ad- dition to subverting the traditional structures of absolutism, this move inward paradoxically validates "the fact" and helps us trace a number of processes which we recognize as modem. The novel's appropriation of the fact and the individual's relation to it show how intimately con- nected it was to these cultural development^.'^ At the same time, the "new

13 Michel Foucault, The Older of Things: An A~holo logy of lhc Human Sciences (New Yak: Pantheon. 1970). p. 40.

14 Lennard Davis. Factual Ficlions: The Originr of the English Novel (New York: Columbia Uni- versity Press, 1983), p. 82.

15 Greenblatt, p. 157. 16 Foucault has attempted to chan the shifts fmm earlier "mechanisms of power" such as the French

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techniques of a minute parcellization and ordering of time, space and ges- ture," often remarked by F o u ~ a u l t , ~ create a new sort of openness. For example, in the developing economic structures of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, specificity reigned supreme; and yet so concrete an object as a contract, while binding particular individuals, could at the same time open the worlds of time and space. As Joyce Oldham Ap- pleby remarks, "A single transaction could extend through the space of the globe and the lapse of a year, yet the connecting links were a let- ter dispatched, an instruction given, or two human beings engaged in a few minutes' negotiations."18

The novel at first seems to operate within a precise and traditional set of contraries, but the very execution of realistic particularity and psy- chological necessity generates new sets which demand new processes both for writing and reading these narratives. The early novelist claims that the work represents a ' k e History," singular and unreproducible, and yet the action (because the author asserts it is a "moral fiction") de- mands that it be interpreted as mote than a particular history. As the novel grows, it changes (even while under the hand of the author) be- cause the open narrative demands new and, in the early days of novelistic narratives, unanticipated sorts of formulations; new constructs appear be- cause to a certain extent the author--even while striving to impose a moral pattern-is at the mercy of the forces unleashed: "fervent discus- sions around the gradually evolving Clarissa or Grandison, anguished contentions over their desirable destinies, became modes of ever finer ideological formulation, scrupulous probings of precise meanings. Trans- forming the production as well as consumption of his works into a social practice, Richardson half-converts himself from 'author' to the focal point of his readers' own writings."l9 Early novelists and readers dis- cover that an open narrative continually resists the moral and coherent pattern, despite the author's attempt at control. The pre-eminence of re- alistic particularity and psychological realism distinguishes the works

monarchy, which he characterizes as a "discontinuous, rambling, global system with litlle hold an detail," to those in the eighteenth century when "'economic changes ... made it necessary to ensure the circulation of effects of power through pmg~ssively finer channels, gaining access to individuals themselves, to their bodies, their gestures and all their daily actions." Michel Foucault. PowedKnowledge, ed. Colin Gordon (New Yo*: Pantheon. 1980). pp. 151-52.

17 Peter Dews. "Power and Subjectivity in Foucault." New Lefr Review I44 (March-April. 1984). 89.

18 Joyce Oldham Appleby, Ernnomic Thought and Ideology in Seventeenth-Century England, (Princeton: Princeton University h s s , 1978), p. 206.

19 Eagleton, p. 12.

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of Richardson and Defoe from those more traditional fictions derived from French prose, with their characteristically heavy doses of ideal- ized incident and character; it was the treatment of realistic incident rather than the moral content which differentiated the early English mas- ters of fiction from their French counterpart^.^ And this "treatment," by its own volition, created shifts which changed traditional structures; as these structures changed, the traditional ideological (and idealized) messages were invariably subverted.

As the new narrative form began the process of "becoming,"z1 it was rather roughly stitched together; no one saw the full scope of the enter- prise. At those junctures where an author forced traditional patterns of morality onto the apparent patternlessness of realistic particularity with- out regard for his characters' developing perceptions, the seams between general and particular elements became obvious and disruptive. Defoe and Richardson are the first to produce seamless and realistic narratives, and even in their works ruptures occasionally occur. Some examples have been long noted, one celebrated incident occurs during Robinson Crusoe's musings while he ransacks the wrecked ship:

I discover'd a Locker with Drawers in it, in one of which I found two or three Razors, and one Pair of large Sizzers, with some ten or a Dozen of good Knives and Forks; in another I found about Thirty six Pounds value in Money, some European Coin, some Brasil, some Pieces of Eight, some Gold, some Silver.

I smil'd to my self at the Sight of this Money, 0 Drug! Said I aloud, what art thou good for, Thou art not worth to me, no not the taking off of the Ground, one of those Knives is worth all this Heap, I have no Manner of use for thee, e'en remain where thou art, and go to the Bottom as a Creature whose Life is not worth saving. However, upon Second Thoughts, I took it away, and wrapping all this in a Piece of Canvas, I began to think of making another Raft.?z

20 As lohn I. Richetti points out, the sam is uue of English scandal novels, which "possess none of the unity of theme or characterization thaf makes a narrative meaningful to us. There is in them no attempt to render that sense of a conditioning milieu, that biographical density and verisimilitude which make charanerization possible and relevant. ... There is ... a deliberate and awkward artificiality." Populnr Fiction before Richnrdron (Oxford: Clxendon Press. 1969), p. 121.

21 Bakhtin, p. 22. 22 Daniel Defoe. Robinson Cnrsor (London and New York: Oxford University PRss. 1972). p. 57.

Ian Watt believes that the "discontinuities" in Defae's fiction "suongly suggest that [he] did not plan his novel a coherent whole, but worked piecemeal, very rapidly. and without any

REALISM IN THE EARLY ENLISH NOVEL 129

Here we see what happens when the essential struggle towards partic- ularity becomes reversed, however briefly; in these paragraphs, Defoe permits the general moral platitude to efface Crusoe's habit of speci- ficity. The traditional pattern of homiletic morality is so compelling for Defoe that the concrete situation is for a moment forgotten or ig- nored; it occupies such a different mental landscape that it no longer exists as a part of his visualization of the particular or as a character- istic habit of Crusoe's mind: this money, now abstracted in the moral imagination, is referred to in conventional terms as lying on the ground, whereas in the particulars of the story, it is in one of the locker's draw- ers. The platitude overwhelms the realist's artful habit of particularity; no matter how precisely the characters' inner shifts may be depicted dur- ing the course of the fiction, complete psychological coherence cannot be expected in early novels.

This passage has been crucial to arguments that Defoe's fictional nar- ratives are intentionally ironic, but such a rupture can be thought of as intentional irony only by readers who come to it with interpretations forged by generations of more seamless narrative models. In fact, De- foe's passage represents a backward glance in novelistic discourse; it is a moment where the novel turns from the open narrative back towards an earlier form that had privileged textual interpretation in which par- ticularity existed primarily as an opportunity for moral discourse. I do not wish to imply that the moral appeal of "natural law" did not ex- ist for Defoe, but rather to argue that it was not finally what powered his narrative^.^) Even though the impulse towards general moral pat- terns seemed necessary to early novelists as they sought to square the world of realism with the world of natural moral law, their attempts were subverted by the methods of realism.

It was Richardson's genius to adapt epistolary techniques to the novel,

subsequent r e v r w n " The R m uf the Novel (Berkeley Un~ven~ly of Callfornta Rcsr. 1964). p 99 More pemncntly. ree Rehenr's ~mponanl rccognmon rhar "the vwuus tncons~stenc~es and contradmons thm several gcncrauons of commentators have found ~n Dcfae's namwes and tried to resolve by putting him on one side or another ... are Rally ... signs of the process of confrontation and mediation within the totality of perception and experience which mimetic fiction by its nature and tendency sets in mmion." Defoc's Narratives: Situations and Snucnrres (oxford-c~vendon k s s , w s j , p. 11.

23 See far example, Maximillian E. Novak's questionable contention t M all Defoe's "characters operate in a universe of unchanging natural law." Defne and fhe Nature of Mnn (Oxford: Oxford University Rcss, 1963), p. 129.

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and this adaptation enabled him to avoid many of the problems of co- herency in earlier narratives. In some respects the epistolary novel con- stitutes the perfect metaphor for this developing form; the exchange of leners written "to the moment," with its point-counterpoint of ideas, and its potential for temporal confusion and intellectual contradiction, alleviates the need for seamless coherency while it emphasizes psycho- logical development and realistic observation. Although the epistolary form, particularly when different letter writers are involved, creates the sort of "restless shifting of perspective" that has been associated with the dialogue and is increasingly recognized as a crucial component of the novel as a genre," Richardson's use of the form demands that we attend to what is uppermost in the characters' minds, the physical imple- ments for writing and the physical situations in which they write. The words themselves become objects to be perused with great care; at the same time the letters may seem ungraspable since they may be inter- preted in ways that emphasize their open-endedness. They are at once concrete and infinitely changeable: "For writing ... does indeed possess a body, a thick and violent material being: it is a matter of record and contract, seal and bond, tangible documentation which may be turned against its author, cited out of context, deployed as threat, testimony, blackmail."^ Because they are open to such manipulations, and also be- cause they are simply letters, often written in haste and with little thought for the morrow, they serve to separate the abstract idea from the deed described or the act observed: "letters lack the equilibrium of literature. They embody an emotional situation still in process; they are undeto- nated, on the brink."x In Clarissa the separation of the narrative into a group of writers exchanging letters with varying points of view fur- ther fragments our ability to grasp conceptually the actual progress of the narrative, and mirrors the sort of point-counterpoint of opinion which is characteristic of the novel. This fragmentation of perspective was con- sciously contrived by Richardson: "In this sort of writing, something, as I have hinted should be left (to the reader) to make out or debate

24 7he p h m comes fmm Greenblm's discvssion of 'We close equivalent af the verbal level" in lhomas More's Utopia "to the visval technique of anamorphosis, whose etymology itself suggests a bad-and-forth movemnt, a consmat fonning and re-forming" (p. 23). Refuring to the lenws in Clorissa. John Preston points w t Ihat, "in the tern pmpwd by Frank Kermode" (Tk SLNC of on Endins, p. 46), they "arc dcfived of 'plot,' of 'the sense of an ending.' which will bestow upon the whole duration d meaning." T k Cnated Self: The Reader's Role in Eighteenth-Century Fiction Gndon: Heinemann. 1970). p. 40.

25 Eagleton. p. 48. 26 Preston, p. 39.

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upon. The whole story abounds with situations and circumstances debat- able. It is not an unartful management to interest the readers so much in the story, as to make them differ in opinion as to the capital ar- ticles and by leading one, to espouse one, another, another, opinion, make them all, if not authors, carper^."^' Moreover the very production of the novels themselves, throughout Richardson's life, involved seem- ingly endless discussions and obsessive revision: "The literary reception of his novels, as manuscripts pass from hand to hand and the fluny of letters increases, becomes an integral moment of their production, a con- stitutive force rather than retrospective respon~e."~~ The link between a realistic discourse-the novel-and an actual social discourse con- cerning the unpublished text-its shape, its meaning, its relationship to reality-involves readers, authors, and characters in an extraordinary cul- tural matrix that, even after publication, defines the ways that authors, novels, and readers must interact.

Because these early novels, l i e the developing discourses of history and newspaper, demand that they be perceived as having real meaning in the world, they compel us to see the ideological pattern only as it is im- pressed on the fully realized world of the concrete, not the abstracted and allegorized world of the intellect. From the very beginning, the realis- tic novel has sought to secure its place in this particularized world-the only one we have, it argues. And thus even when acknowledging it- self as fiction, it has refused to be designated as fiction: Richardson's "calculated hesitancy between fact and fiction is more than a generic muddle; it belongs to a fruitful crisis in the whole problem of liter- ary representation. The term fiction, let alone the contemptible novel, is ideologically impermissible-not because of some puritan neurosis about lying, but because it would seem merely to devalue the reality of the issues at stake."29 The novel came into the world insisting not only that it was already a part of that world but that the world it pre- sented was already accomplished fact. It finally and firmly helped bind us to an apparently immutable culture that we have only now begun to perceive is, at least in part, a chosen fiction, made so to some ex- tent unintentionally by a world powerless to withstand it. This is why we must attend to the novel's historical and social context, even though writers such as Jean-Marie Goulemot caution that as "literary histori- ans, we know that the events related in fiction are not proper matter

27 C m l l , Selected Lemrs, p. 296.

28 Eagleton, p. 12. 29 Eagleton, p. 17.

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for sociological studies. First and foremost a novel yields information about novels: literary devices and their effects on the reader. To use fic- tion as a source from which to determine social and historical reality is risky and often misleading."" Risky and misleading, perhaps, but the literary historian has to recognize that our belief in "social and histor- ical reality" depends, in part, on what novelists have taught us to see. For example, how do readers respond when Richardson asks them to draw precise conclusions about eighteenth-century social concerns, as he does in his footnote to letter 119 where Lovelace imagines his trial af- ter the fantasy rape of Anna Howe? Richardson observes of Lovelace's wildly applauded-albeit imaginary-march from Newgate to the court- room of the Old Bailey: "Within these few years past, a passage has been made from the prison to the Sessions-house whereby malefactors are car- ried into court without going through the street. Lovelace's triumph on their supposed march shows the wisdom of this alteration" (2423n). The novel claims to be true, and with that claim it turns an ideological con- struct into apparently unalterable fact. Thus when we are cautioned to separate "novel" from "society," we must respond that one of the forces which made our world was the realistic novel; even if we wish to read Lovelace's fantasy as Goulemot suggests, Richardson's note encourages us to slide not only to the margins of the text, but also to the margins of society.

Only when the characters themselves begin to grasp the significance of the novel's movement are they able to pause and read over the earlier letters which provide the keys to the novel's action, and finally compre- hend their situations. Their comprehension, a necessary step towards the work's stability, is dependent on the immersion in particularity, not the withdrawal from it as in traditional interpretive gestures. After the mo- ment of comprehension, a character may choose to withdraw from the social world, as Clarissa does, but this is a different sort of distancing, one still subject to the "law" of particularity and dependent on the under- standing of characters and readers. So much that is contradictory or new is revealed before the novel anives at its dhouement that we resist any design which simplifies the action or the characterizations. Notably, this resistance occurs in the fwtnotes which Richardson added to later edi- tions of Chrissa to convince us that Lovelace's character is consistently

30 lean-Marie Goulemot, "Sexual Imagination as Revealed in the Tmitd des superstitions of AbbC lean-Baptiste Thiers." trans. Odile Wagner and Arthur Greenspan, in Unouthor*ed S a u l Be- havior during the Enlightenment, ed. Robert P. Maccubbin, special issue of Eighteenth-Century Life 9, n.8. 3 (May, 1985). 22.

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base. We react to these notes with disbelief, refusing to acknowledge that the creator of Lovelace understands him any better than we. The ev- idence is before us; once the author appears to have relinquished his control, he cannot re-establish it. Richardson's notes on Lovelace sim- ply reinforce our sense of the character's independence fmm authorial control, and, consequently, from any sort of "objective" contml.3l

Unlike history, then, the eighteenth-century novel represents the world experienced but not fully conceptualized, a world which because of its de- pendence upon a subjective grasp of reality is not capable of being wholly abstracted or moralized. The open narrative refuses to adhere fully to the patterns of the past, and in the process, begins to adhere to the dimly apprehendable patterns of the future. In Richardson's work, the events become internalized and the distance between character and audience is erased. So his novels create a new social, but not particularly moral, vi- sion, one that in part gmws out of the patterns of Protestantism but which no longer can be controlled by that ancestry. The Richardsonian charac- ter is too fully immersed in particularity, is too fully defined by his or her words, and no longer necessarily by the ideas which the words tradition- ally have been taken to mean. Although Richardson would not agree, his editorial revisions and additions of footnotes argue tellingly that his text subverts his moral purpose. Finally, in Sir Charles Grandison, he sup- plants individuality in the characterization of his hem almost entirely by abstract moral pattern.

The earliest English novels offer a particular, exclusive picture, which was intended to be a universal one, but the language of realistic fic- tion undermines obvious universality, forcing the ideal, as it were, out of the tower and into the streets, where it finds itself embattled by the world of money and power-the gritty world of economic and socio- sexual struggles-far removed from the intangible world of Platonic abstractions. After Defoe the novel, unlike those genres that seek ex- planations in the traditional loci of power, excludes the monarchy and other institutions traditionally associated with power; if they do appear,

31 G.A. Starr m e s that Moll Planden. as well as Defce's olher fictionaI characters, eludes rrecise definition: readers bemme ambivalent because lhe characten are ambirrnous: Moll's "re&ions -~~~ ~~ ~~~~

never fully ' ~ c back' uhatcver she has siud or done: h e process i; always addtavc, ro that what appear to be clanfyng dcnlals mually lend to m&c her posioon mom arnb~guous." Dcfiw nnd Caruirrry (Pnnccron. Pnnceton Untvmtty Press. 1971). p 163.

134 EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY FICTION

they are subordinated to the character's subjective valuation of them- as when Roxana entertains Charles n by dressing and dancing "in the Habit of a Turkish Princess." Although suitably overwhelmed by the en- counter, she quickly subordinates her thoughts of the King to her own more pressing psychological needs: 'This magnificent Doings equally both pleas'd and surpriz'd me, and I hardly knew where I was; but es- pecially, that Notion of the King being the Person that danc'd with me, puff d me up to that Degree, that I not only did not know any-body else, but indeed, was very far from knowing myself."32

In Clarissa the struggles for power withim the family, as well as the battles between Clarissa and Lovelace, reveal the worldly struggles of money and land, class and sex. Richardson's moral point, dependent on the homiletic patterns of the past, is subverted by the subtle network of cmshing forces all inscribed on the individual body of C l a r i ~ s a ~ ~ This novel reveals the hidden sources of power in eighteenth-century society-less graspable than the concept of monarchy and court, church and bishops, but not less potent. Such delineations are variations of newly emerging awarenesses which, it seems to me, contribute immeasurably to the ideologies of Malthus and Gibbon, and in their turn, Danvin and M m .

Thus by its very nature, the realistic novel depends on a rendering of the power structure in society and history; at its inception, however, it was discerned only as it functioned in more traditional patterns, and in ways quite similar to modern readings of these texts by literary scholars who seek to relate them to eighteenth-century ideas of manners and morality. Such readings have a value, but for most later readers, who have grown up reading open narratives, Robinson Cmsoe's and Moll Flanders's spiritual quests are not merely counterpoised but overwhelmed

32 Daniel Defoe. R m m , The Fomuurte Mismss, ed. lane Jack (Lwdon: Oxfad Univenity Res. I W ) . pp. 173. 177.

33 In Clarima's Ciphers: Mmhg and Disnrption in Richwdron'r "Chrisso" (Ithaca: Cwncll Univenity Press, 1982). Terry Castle writes of %e tyranny of a sexual idedogy that inscribes the f e d body itself' (p. 25). but this s m far tw limited and limiting. Mom m w poim is Fouceult's assenion "hat one of the orimordial f m of class mnsdavsoess is t k && of rk body. at k w ths was thc c k far thc bovrgcnsx dlmng Ik nghtccnlh century '' Thc Hmvry oj Sexualtry Volumr I An I n r d u n o n . uans Roben Hurlcy (New York Panthean.

REALISM IN THE EARLY ENLISH NOVEL 135

by their quests for economic control and security-their a~quisitiveness.~ And it seems clear that this "na~ve" response to the text is more in keeping with the ways realistic novels actually function; as we have seen, in these first tentative, but successful, renderings of realist fictions, the discrete but overwhelming array of facts become transmuted into more supple and complex patterns when placed against the traditional, closed narrative patterns of the past. The patterns are impressed on the world that the novel insists it shares with its audience, even though at first these forms were only dimly discerned in those novels which seemed so particular, so singular and unreproducible.

The novelist's claim of factuality lies at the heart of the genre's partici- pation in this cultural transformation because it necessarily relies on those particulars which empower the subjective, thus reducing the claims of the shared ideal and subverting more general patterns of morality; in lit- erature this includes the subverting of traditional genres such as tragedy, and the restructuring of those such as spiritual biography which depend on eschatologies external to the text (even when those patterns may be traced in the work).)' Because the process of novel reading is more the "point" than any moral goal, the general audience does not necessar- ily grasp that peculiar tmth which the author seeks to represent--the novel's point resists precise location. Thus truth becomes an ideologi- cal attitude dependent on individual subjectivity, and traditional morality finds itself fragmented and dependent on the subjective apprehension of potentially patternless factuality.

The subversion, then, of interpretation-the traditional reason for read- ing and writing-is a necessary consequence of knowingly accepting any fiction as "real" in the senses considered above, of consciously accept- ing, that is, the false claims of the author for the sake of participating more fully in the work's particularity. And it is a curious fact that this strange dialectic-the pretence that fictionality constitutes reality-born in the minds of these authors, is precisely what realistic fictions demand.

I do not mean to imply that many people in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries did nM recognize the strength of economic matives; as Appleby remarks, "Aquisitivcncss, long suffend as a barely repressible vice, shared in Uu nsperability thal naturalness acquired in sevenfcmth- century thought. ... English economic cammenlalafors were aniculaling a new social d i t y in which the self-seeking drive appeared more powerful than instiNtional efforts to mold pcople's action" (p. 115).

35 G.A. S t m and I. Paul Hunter have convincingly argued lhaf patterns of spirihlal autobiography do exist in Defoc's fiction. See Stm. Dcfoc andSoidtun1 Avtobiorraohv (Princefon: Primton Unwerstly Rcrr , 1965). and Hunter. The Relvrlonr Pt$nm (Ballomore Johns Hopkms Untrentl) hew. 1966) but readers do na see Defac'r novels as essenhdly about splnNal rrgenerahon

136 EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY FICTION

Richardson emphasized this point in 1748 when he wrote to William War- burton, who had not tried to maintain the illusion of the work as a true history in the preface he provided for the first edition of volumes 3 and 4 of Clarissa:

I could wish that the Air of Genuineness had been kept up, tho' I want not the letters to be thought genuine; only so far kept up, I mean, as that they should not prefatically be owned not to be genuine: and this for fear of weakening their Influence where any of them are aimed to be exemplary; as well as to avoid hurting that kind of Historical Faith which Fiction itself is generally read with, tho' we know it to be Fi~tion.)~

Richardson makes two distinct points about realistic fictions: they are read with a "kind of Historical Fai th even when "we know [them] to be Fiction"; and, the "Air of Genuineness" should be maintained because this, he believes, contributes to their exemplary influences. At the same time he did not expect that his letters would be "thought genuine," but only that they should not be "owned" as fictions. Richardson's curious distinction is crucial to understanding the way realistic fictions work: one recognizes the fictionality, but dares not own it."

Richardson failed to realize, however, that precisely the "Historical Faith" that he rightly understood to be so necessary to his fictions worked against those exemplary goals. Far from contributing to our acceptance of his moral, Clarissa's particularity blurs the effect of these moral lessons. Once the claim to be "real" has been made and the audience has acqui- esced in the deception-as it must and as it desires to do-the novelist's moral designs (which depend on the willingness to interpret from a re- strictive point of view no longer demanded of the audience or provided by the author) become far less important than the audience's participa- tion in the "true History." Indeed, within a relatively few years, during which the ideological "lessons" of the novel were fully absorbed, this ex- act point was articulated by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who asserted that when we pretend to read Pilgrim's Progress (or any realistic fiction) as if it were real, then because we know it to be in actuality, a fiction, the work's moral designs are subverted:

36 Carroll, Sekcted Laners, p. 85. 37 As Michael MeKeon puts it (although he does not accept it): 'There has been considerable

intenst of late in the way Clarim undencores. and is 'abut,' the subjective powers of language and the lener form to render meaning radically indeterminate." The Origins of the English Novel. 16GO-1740 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1988). p. 421.

REALISM IN THE EARLY ENLISH NOVEL 137

in that admirable allegory, the first Part of Pilgrim's Progress, which delights every one, the interest is so great that [in] spite of all the writer's attempts to force the allegoric purpose on the reader's mind by his strange names- Old Stupidity of the Tower of Honesty, etc., etc.-his piety was bafiled by his genius, and the Bunyan of Pamassus had the better of Bunyan of the conventicle; and with the same illusion as we read any tale known to be fictitious, as a novel, we go on with his characters as real persons, who had been nicknamed by their neighborsJ8

Coleridge recognizes not only that the realistic story known to be fic- tional demands that its reader treat it and its characters as "real," but also that the reader simultaneously and without regret discounts the traditional moral impulse. Here indeed the moral pattern associated by Coleridge with Protestantism has been almost entirely discarded, because other, more compelling "illusions" are understood to be at stake. By Coleridge's time the factors that actually make up the novel's "truth"-moral or otherwise-had been assimilated. The means by which Richardson in- troduces reality diminish our willingness to accept his moral designs. Warburton-that heavy moralist-naturally recognized the unimportance of calling Clarissa a "fiction" if one wished to think of it primarily as a set of moral lessons.

The problems inherent in Richardson's twofold distinction regarding the nature of realistic fictions point towards a theoretical dilemma re- cently expressed by Lennard Davis: that "novelists had to claim that their works were true," because they sought to write works that were "morally verisimilar," but "factually realistic" works would be morally improbable. "If actual verisimilitude is then opposed to providence, and moral verisimilitude is antinovelistic in presenting the world as it should be and not as it is, then can we not say that the theory of the novel at this time was a reflexive or double one since it maintained two con- tradictory imperatives at once?"" In the minds of the writers, however, as Richardson's letter to Warburton makes clear, there was not so bald a contradiction; the moral and the realistic had always been split, even though they were assumed to be interdependent.

Richardson's enterprise was quite different from the foregoing model, and the author's understanding of it was a good deal more subtle.

38 This passage from Coleridge's Miscellnncous Criticism is quoted in Stephen Knapp, Psrsoni- fcarion and rhe Sublime: Milton m Cnleridge (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1985). p. 13.

39 Davis. pp. 133. 112.

138 EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY FICTION

Richardson believed that the moral was, in some way, a function of his- tory and that God's providence was operative in his world, but he also knew that such an understanding depended on the individual's moral val- uation of factuality; at the same time, he recognized that realism was a technique that led readers to believe in the story's truth. Richardson did believe that a realistic fiction could have an exemplary effect. The fact that a more modem response to these texts, such as Coleridge's, repudi- ates this belief does not mean that eighteenth-century novelists did not firmly believe in the connection between, rather than the opposition of, verisimilitude and morality. For them, the claim to be truthful was a technique which they fully believed would lead to an appropriate moral response from the audience. Moreover, even from a more modem point of view, the immersion of the novel in the realistic does not lead to the "doubleness" that depends on the contradiction between moral verisimil- itude and actual verisimilitude (which is merely a theoretical mirage, one perpetuated, it is true, by early writers and critics of the novel who did not fully understand or were unsympathetic to the genre's aims), but in- stead to the innumerable possibilities which emanate from the necessity for a subjective ordering of events. Arguing otherwise forces us to dis- count what I believe is a major effect of novels, the introduction to a more modem pattern of an individual's psychological comprehension and struggle for stability. This effect is emphatically not based on traditional Christian interpretive patterns, although it may be cast in a Christian light, depending on the character's predilections. The act of reading sub- verts the dialectic Davis proposes; it is the narrative's "openness" that powers the fiction.

In other words, only one element of Davis's dialectic-realistic verisimilitude-is necessary, even when the author seems to privilege the morally verisimilar, because the character-narrator's view of the world constantly reinvents, and thereby subverts, the traditional interpretive gesture. No author was fully aware of the consequences of realism, but as Richardson saw (and Davis's model does not), the claim to be fac- tual was separate from the drive to be exemplary, although he believed the two to be complementary: what powered the novel was the open nar- rative, not the push towards "moral" verisimilitude. In other words, the crucial "fiction" of the novel is precisely the possibility that the relentless plot, immersed in seemingly aimless particularity, could lead anywhere, even to moral conuption, while at the same time the novel promises to provide a coherent view of the world, even though necessarily a subjec- tive one. Thus, Richardson's novels, to some degree, contain a strategy,

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a submerged discourse (perhaps not fully grasped by either reader or au- thor), which inevitably finds itself reshaping the world, and this strategy depends on the work's appearing to be a true history, whether the audi- ence realizes it is a fiction or not. When such works are read as "real" (even when the reader knows they are not), then they function in a far more revolutionary way than is possible for a fiction that announces itself as "art."

L i e most authors, Richardson wrote in the belief his fictions could effect some change in the world he inhabited; and he understood that, for this, a realistic style was absolutely necessary. Irony and satire seemed more useful or acceptable styles to those eighteenth-century authors attached to or interested in defending the interests of the squirearchy as it then existed, however much they may have attacked specific instances of the abuse of power. Their works functioned to chastise the system but not to transform it. But for those, like Richardson, who participated-whether consciously or not-in changing the system in truly fundamental ways, realism was the discourse of necessity.

In the case of Clarissa, the fiction's power was fully established by the third edition (when Richardson's notes and Lovelace's letter fanta- sizing his trial for the abduction and rape of Anna Howe first appeared); Chrissa had become a cultural artifact-Angus Ross calls it "a story that became a myth to [Richardson's] own age, and remains so yet.""' It was a realistic text so interwoven with the emerging ideologies of the cul- ture that its characters' fantasies seem as real as the stones of Newgate and the streets of London. In thus embedding the idea in the concrete fact, the ideology in the stone, the novel inscribes the lessons of power on anyone who accepts its world as "real."

It was in the rejection of "artifice," the disdain for traditional rhetoric and the coupling of reportage to fact, where novelists found the power to help reshape the ideologies of the time. It is precisely this task of claiming factuality, of insisting on the "circumstantial reality" of the fictional text, which substantiates their version of the external world and largely differentiates the sort of writing we associate with Richardson and his precursors (such as Bunyan and Defoe) from other sorts of fictions.

40 Introduction to Chrisso. or, The Histoy of n Young Lady (Hmondsworth: Penguin, 1985). p. 18.

140 EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY FICTION

One might advance the axiom that an author of fiction who appears to disdain literary artifice (however much it may exist in the text) does so, as Edward Said has said, out of a desire to make the fiction a part of the world, to demand that the world conform to the fiction, to supplant the current ideologies apparently in control of that world. Realistic narratives demand that the exterior world conform to their exclusive vision; they seek to transform reality by forcing that reality into a fiction where it can be judged only on the novel's terms. A new conceptualization of culture is what is at stake in early eighteenth-century novels.

The operation of ideology in the novel is the antithesis of what Green- blatt has discerned in The Faerie Queene: "Spenserean allegory ... opens up an internal distance within art itself by continually referring the reader out to a fixed authority beyond the poem. Spenser's art does not lead us to perceive ideology critically, but rather affirms the existence and in- escapable moral power of ideology as that principle of truth towards which art forever yearns. It is art whose status is questioned in Spenser, not ideology."" The Richardsonian novel, on the other hand, denies power to the structures which lie outside its scope; its realism is ex- clusive and subverts all that is external to it. Spenser's artifice affirms the power of what lies outside its scope, whereas the demand that a fic- tion he accepted as real points to the assumed power of the fiction and implies an entire set of relationships between book and culture, and an entire set of beliefs about the power of reality. In short, if one ac- cepts the power of the real, one must accept the power of the fictional: "An art that displays its artfulness, that 'questions its own status,' as The Faerie Queene surely does, also undermines that status and, at the same time, 'protect[s] power from ... questi~ning.""~ In Clarissa and to a lesser extent in Pamela, it is precisely the ideology of the world repre- sented by Lovelace, Mr B., and the institution of the landed squirearchy and aristocracy that is being questioned.

Saint Mary's College of California

41 Greenblau, p. 192. 42 Barbam Leah Harman. review of Stephen Greenblatt. Renaissance Se$Fahioning, diacritics

(Spring, 1984). 59.