Haunted Museum: Longing, Travel, and the Art - Romance Tradition

Haunted Museum

Haunted Museum

LONGING, TRAVEL, AND THE

ART-ROMANCE TRADITION

Jonah Siegel

PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS

PRINCETON AND OXFORD

Copyright © 2005 by Princeton University Press

Published by Princeton University Press, 41 William Street, Princeton, New Jersey 08540

In the United Kingdom: Princeton University Press, 3 Market Place, Woodstock, Oxfordshire OX20 1SY

All Rights Reserved

An earlier version of chapter 6 appeared in the Henry James Review 23, no. 3 (2003): 233–45.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Siegel, Jonah 1963–

Haunted museum: longing, travel, and the art romance tradition / Jonah Siegel. p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 0-691-12086-2 (alk. paper) — ISBN 0-691-12087-0 (pbk.: alk. paper) 1. Literature, Modern—19th century—History and criticism. 2. Romanticism. 3. Art in literature. 4. Artists in literature. 5. Travel in literature. 6. Italy—In literature. I. Title. PN751.S54 2005 809′.93357—dc22 2004053456

eISBN: 978-0-691-22928-7

British Library Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available

pup.princeton.edu

R0

to Stefan Siegel and Nancy Yousef

It is Fate that I am here, insisted George, but you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy.

E. M. Forster, A Room with a View

Contents

Acknowledgments  xi

Preface: The Gesture Back  xiii

INTRODUCTION

A Haunted Form  3

PART ONE: The Art Romance  19

CHAPTER 1

The Song of Mignon  21

CHAPTER 2

The Art-Romance Tradition  41

PART TWO: James in the Art Romance  83

CHAPTER 3

Henry James: Impossible Artists and the Pleasures of Patronage  85

CHAPTER 4

The Museum in the Romance: James with Hawthorne  113

CHAPTER 5

Speed, Desire, and the Museum: The Golden Bowl as Art Romance  149

PART THREE: Learned Longing: Modernism and the End of the Art Romance  171

CHAPTER 6

Freud on the Road to Rome  173

CHAPTER 7

Speed, Romance, Desire: Forster, Proust, and Mann in Italy  195

AFTERWORD

James, Freud, and the End of Romance  227

Notes  239

Index  275

Acknowledgments

WORK ON Haunted Museum was aided by grants from Rutgers University, as well as from the Robinson and Rollins funds of the Harvard Department of English. Significant research was carried out at the National Humanities Center in 1998–99. More recently, final completion in distractingly beautiful surroundings was made possible by a Frederick Burkhardt Fellowship from the American Council of Learned Societies and a Rome Prize Fellowship from the American Academy in Rome, 2003–4. I am grateful for the support of these institutions and funding agencies.

I am happy to have the opportunity to thank publicly Isobel Armstrong, Bob Kiely, Tricia Lootens, Elaine Scarry, Helen Vendler, and Lynn Wardley, readers whose thoughtful comments on the manuscript were indispensable for the development of this book. More recently I have had reason to be grateful for the considered responses to particular chapters of Tom Birchenough, Jonathan Culler, and Adrian Lyttleton, and to a stringent but thoughtful response to the entire project from an anonymous reader at Princeton University Press. Early work on the topic profited from conversations with Scott Karambis and Sophia Padnos, and subsequent development was aided by the responses of audiences at the Yale English Department’s Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-Century Colloquium and at the American Academy in Rome. I am grateful to Susan M. Griffin for her thoughtful editing of an earlier version of chapter 6 when it appeared in the Henry James Review. The two who have done the most for Haunted Museum are James Eli Adams and Nancy Yousef, indefatigable, alert, and extremely patient readers who have always been ready to lend something of their own rigor and clarity to even the most recalcitrant material. Even as I try to express my gratitude for aid that often goes beyond practical counsel, however, it is only fair to absolve the generous souls I identify here from any blame for the failings that are bound to appear in the pages to follow.

I am glad to acknowledge an old debt to the librarians of the National Humanities Center and two more recent ones: to Silvia Fasoli at the Library of the Fondazione Primoli, and to the staff of the Photographic Archive of the American Academy in Rome, in particular the curator, Alessandra Capodiferro.

At Princeton University Press, I am grateful to Marry Murrell for her consistent support of this project and for her light yet effective touch in moving its author toward concluding. Hanne Winarsky saw the project through its very last stages with flexibility and enthusiasm, and Ellen Foos brought her characteristic frankness and ingenuity to bear on the production of the volume. Brian R. MacDonald was typically alert and painstaking in his attempt to bring order and accuracy to the manuscript he copy-edited.

I would like to register here my gratitude to my colleagues at the Department of English at Rutgers University for the warm welcome they extended when I joined them while working on this book. Particular thanks for kindnesses that have made its completion possible and more pleasant are due to John Belton, Matthew Buckley, Brent Edwards, Kate Flint, Billy Galperin, Jonathan Kramnick, George Levine, Meredith McGill, Richard Miller, Barry Qualls, Cheryl Wall, and Carolyn Williams.

The generous imaginations of friends from the National Humanities Center—Rochelle Gurstein, Jonathan Levin, Ashraf Rushdy, Elizabeth McHenry, along with Nancy Lewis and the late Dick Lewis—have been an inspiration during the completion of this project. More recently, I have had the opportunity to be grateful for the passion and vision of my companions at the American Academy in Rome. The long-standing support of Isobel Armstrong, Meredith McGill, Barry Qualls, Elaine Scarry, Helen Vendler, and Carolyn Williams has been vital at key stages in the production of this book, and I am pleased to have this opportunity to thank them yet again for their sympathy and generosity.

As this is a book about love, travel, and inspiration, it will only be appropriate to acknowledge a number of traveling companions who have done much for the conception and writing of Haunted Museum. Thanks are due especially to Molly Finnerty, Peter Gordon, Erich Hahn, Oliver Herring, Kamron Keshtgar, Peter Krashes, Manlio Narici, Audrey Oster, and Rachel Porter, as well as to Freddie Baveystock, Tom Birchenough, Tim Dowling, Jane Harvey, Julian Loose, Melanie Mauthner, Valentina Di Rosa, Adam Steinhouse, Kate Teltscher, and Zhang Daxing.

To arrive at an end is to recognize yet again the power of beginnings. My parents made the question of being abroad personal and urgent for me. I am often grateful to have had the chance to experience the imaginative boldness that has always taken them so far afield, and me sometimes with them. I am extremely grateful to Stefan Siegel for having been there from the beginning and being there still.

Nancy Yousef’s passion for Italy and her joy while there have been at once a special help and a challenge to a project that emphasizes the force of longing and the crises liable to be provoked by satisfaction. First, last, most generous, and most demanding reader, I am happy to have the opportunity to acknowledge yet again a debt so vast that her role in the production of this book—though immeasurably large—is only a small part of it.

This book is dedicated to my dearest traveling companions, first and last.

Cambridge-Chapel Hill-Brooklyn-Rome

Preface

The Gesture Back

Haunted Museum is a book about literary form and the desire for the South. It is also an essay on the vexed relations among originality, convention, and passion. Though largely concentrating on the nineteenth century, my aim is to describe the links uniting a set of works running from the eighteenth century to our own day and constituting a tradition whose force and longevity are due in no small measure to the overdetermined nature of the desires shaping the form. The literary tradition that developed around the representation of the encounter with the South of genius is what I call the art romance.¹ It is my hope that the interest of Haunted Museum will reside not simply in considering the permutations of a literary form, however, but also in engaging the historical and conceptual premises that have determined its shape. To recognize the tradition of the art romance not only brings into view an important element in the history of the nineteenth-century culture of art; it also presents an opportunity to study the disturbing relationship between desire and artifice as it has been imagined by writers for whom this relationship is a central theme.

How does one tell a story about culture? The nineteenth century worked from various models, many of which have been lost to modern taste, although they were pervasive in their own day. Writers throughout the period of this study wove their texts out of threads found in their predecessors, so that the engagement with the place of art was always an engagement with a prior fantasy. If the more educated upper classes could draw on a modicum of classical learning or affectation to inspire their imagination of the South of culture, the middle-class reader and tourist could look back to what was nothing less than a small but consistent and extremely effective tradition, including Germaine de Staël’s Corinne (1807), Lord Byron’s Childe Harold (1812–18), Letitia Landon’s Improvisatrice (1824), and Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Aurora Leigh (1856). This immensely popular tradition told the story of an artist, generally half English, half foreign (that is, Italian), shaped by the visual arts as well as poetry, yet doomed to emotional misery. The aspiration toward art is typically represented as a desire for the South and for its embodied avatar, a creature of mixed blood and of astonishing ability in the poetic and plastic arts. As the story of the artist is always necessarily allied to the story of the desire for prized art objects, the trajectory of that aspiration—no matter how individualized its expression—is typically determined by prior cultural myths, justified in relation to preexistent longings.

The art romance is one manifestation of that commitment to the aesthetic that is so important for the emergence of a culturally dominant middle class in the nineteenth century.² The tradition’s representation of treasured destinations is therefore always as modern as it is nostalgic.

Its evocation of memories of the fading aristocratic Grand Tour is given new force by the emerging practice of tourism. Similarly, while the importance of Rome as the longed-for center of art education is traceable to neoclassical sources and beyond, the significance of the eternal city was bound to be affected by technological and political developments following the Napoleonic Wars.³

Italy, a powerful international symbol well before it ever was a modern nation, has had an extremely rich and varied role in the European imagination, and I have endeavored to cite the extensive literature on the topic where appropriate. But this is not a study of the representation of that much-beloved country (much less does it do justice to the rich distinctions evident in the responses provoked by individual Italian cities). What is in question in Haunted Museum is not the voyage itself but the relation between artistic self-imagination and the fantastic encounter with what Europe stands for. Fantasies of access to the place of creative origin, the related but equally fallacious promise of the experience of unmediated reality—these are the preoccupations driving the art romance.

Although the passions at the heart of this book have been touched on in a number of studies, the tradition the project describes has always been likely to receive limited critical attention due to crucial developments in the history of art and travel, notably the emphasis on individual subjectivity as the true measure by which to understand the encounter with art and the related tendency to understand the significant effects of travel to be those that are deeply personal because fully autonomous and free or even liberated from prior expectations.⁴ But, the South of culture is never visited alone. One is always accompanied by memories—one’s own and those of others.⁵ As will be evident to the reader of the chapters to follow, the analysis of particular works in the art-romance tradition is consistently driven to reach back to earlier texts and images. Staël takes us back to Goethe; Landon to Byron; James to Hawthorne, and so forth. But each one of these source texts also gestures back, to even earlier texts or to childhood experiences (themselves often literary or artistic) that shaped the adult passion, in that way following the drives of the tradition itself, which is ever circling back to antecedents, to emblematic places or events identified by precursors. Indeed, these gestures back come to be one of the principal ways in which the art romance indicates its own inability to arrive at an origin for which it is nevertheless never able to stop reaching.

This study is offered as an essay in continuities among texts that I identify sometimes as part of a tradition, at other times as belonging to a subgenre or to a mode. I apply these related but distinct labels more opportunistically than with systematic rigor because the scope of the project is too wide to compel conviction that any of them will precisely capture the relations among all the texts I discuss, some of which are linked by very direct influences, some by more attenuated bonds.⁶ Although as a whole these works do not make up a single line of development, many of the texts addressed in Haunted Museum are explicitly and even ostentatiously in relationship with each other. They may also be seen to share an insistence that the experience of a desired destination will consistently provoke an imagination of antecedents.

The attempt to group together works from quite disparate fields of study necessarily risks touching on issues that are not unknown to specialists, particularly as the authors I consider are prominent figures within several national literatures and their works span a period usually divided into a number of important subdivisions. I have not shied away from material that has already had some life in critical discussion, however, because my priority is to make visible a line of connection that has been far from self-evident for contemporary readers. To use formal literary-historical terms in order to describe degrees of similarity among texts is to contend that more than individual idiosyncratic instances of influence are at stake in the interplay of works in the art romance. The extravagant confession of antecedents at moments when a much desired individual experience is finally at hand is itself one of the determinative characteristics of romance as it is understood in this project. Although the term tradition struck me as useful to characterize the relationship among the texts I discuss in the following pages, it is appropriate only insofar as it is understood to describe not an unavoidable destiny but a commitment to repetition. The actual origin of a tradition, it goes without saying, is generally less significant than the imagination of a relationship to origins the evocation of tradition entails. It is the gesture back inherent in the act of repetition that matters.

Haunted Museum

Giovanni Paolo Panini, Views of Ancient Rome, 1757, New York, Metropolitan Museum, Gwynne Andrews Fund. Photo: Metropolitan Museum.

INTRODUCTION

A Haunted Form

THE MUSEUM AND THE JOURNEY

A LONELY ARCADE of ornate classical columns leads from the beautiful sky of a tranquil day to an elaborate but rationally ordered interior. In this light-filled space elegantly dressed men are surrounded by canvases showing ruined buildings or fragments from classical sites or paintings and statues also from antiquity. Among the many admired objects, the eye picks out a few at a time: the Farnese Hercules and the Dying Gladiator are visible in the left foreground, the Laocoön is on the right, along with a statue far more famous in Panini’s day than our own—Silenus with the Infant Bacchus. Down the central arcade heading out, the Apollo Belvedere and the Borghese Gladiator are visible, accompanied by numerous other noted works. Near the center of the image, connoisseurs contemplate a rare example of antique painting—the Aldobrandini Marriage—while artists gathered near the Dying Gladiator look up, perhaps momentarily distracted from their studies. On the fancifully imagined walls, famous sites have been transformed into paintings—the Colosseum, the Pantheon, and various triumphal arches from the Forum among them.

Recent years have seen renewed popular affection for Giovanni Paolo Panini’s 1757 Views of Ancient Rome, a piece, like its companion, Views of Modern Rome, designed to evoke in some measure nostalgia, but also pleasure at the elegant conceit of an abundance of beauty elegantly displayed.¹ At once souvenirs of a voyage and fantasies of a perfect collection of admired art, these works of Panini, of which several versions exist, all painted for foreigners, may be understood to occupy an important point of transition between the soon-to-be-outmoded culture of the Grand Tour and the emergence of a dream that was to preoccupy later eras, that of the perfect museum. For a vision of clarity and organization such as that which covers Panini’s canvas to come into being, however, as much needs to be left out as invented. To experience all the admired works of ancient Rome together is an evident impossibility. Indeed, to transmute the Colosseum into a size comparable with that of the Pantheon is just one of the flamboyant and necessary falsifications required in order to gather all these admired objects into an assimilable form. We might go further and propose that the straightforward quality of Panini’s work stands against what we know of museums in general: that they are not perfect, that they cannot show us all we want to see, that we do not want to see everything they hold. Even in the most well-lit gallery each component part on display as much as the ensemble those parts constitute is shadowed by ghosts of promise or of disappointment.

Unasked-for gifts, trophies of plunder, voids suggested by the presence of objects always in surfeit though never quite sufficient—all museums are haunted in some measure. To gather together prized material in the hope that the Muses will thereby be encouraged to manifest themselves—that is the magic or necromancy promised by the institution. But every collection, be its aim novelty or conservation, becomes immediately historic, and it is the nature of repositories of the past to intimate more than any visitor can ever realize, to evoke memories not entirely one’s own, to speak at once about the endurance of things and the impermanence of individuals, about the seductions of fame along with its evanescence.

To describe Italy as a museum is to evoke the aspiration for a world like that imagined in the fanciful views of Panini, one of order, light, and clarity, of learning and pleasure coexisting in comfort, of the simulacrum of the thing successfully standing in for the thing itself. To describe Italy as a museum, however, is also to acknowledge the world in which that aspiration is born, one that is the absolute antithesis of Panini’s image, one in which admired sites can never be taken in at a view, in which works known from beloved reproduction seem different when confronted in their actual existence or, worse, in which the self that longed for a thing seems disturbingly different from the self experiencing the desired object.

Each of the texts discussed in this book describes a voyage at once toward something precious and new and toward something dangerous and old—a voyage in which the route is only valuable insofar as it is felt to offer the prospect of novelty, but is only recognizable because it is to an important degree already known. Although the museum and the voyage can seem all-too-material—and, indeed, the promise of the materialization of one’s desires is a vital part of their importance—both phenomena are traceable to notably conceptual drives. Whether something is displaced in order to be shown and admired or individuals make their way to centers of culture to see marvels that exist nowhere else, the aim is evidently to move from ignorance to immediate knowledge, to make actual or tangible an object of desire. As travelers never stop discovering, however, the objectification of desire entailed in journeys and collections will tend to yield—as Proust will put it—something less and something more than satisfaction.

What is Venice to London, Naples to Weimar, or even Paris to Boston? As with any object of longing, so with an important cultural center: certainty as to its importance cannot to be confused with clarity as to the sources of a passion. The new significance of the aesthetic in nineteenth-century culture, with the attendant interest in art, artists, and prized art objects still evident today, was contemporaneous with the development of a new set of relationships, practical and imaginary, between an ascendant North and a politically weak but culturally rich South. The nature of travel itself was bound to change from the eighteenth century on, and not simply due to the ever-greater practical ease brought about by technological developments or to the collapse of old political dispensations and the consolidation of new ones. The period of this study saw concepts of cultural identity that had been emergent throughout the eighteenth century meet new social arrangements in a manner that ensured ever-greater ease of arrival at longed-for destinations but that did not make arrival itself any less troubling.

Recent decades have witnessed a flowering of interest in travel writing, an important general category subsuming many forms. Promising lines of research have studied nineteenth-century literature in relation to the rise of modern tourism, scientific exploration, and the development of anthropology, and all of these cultural phenomena have been fruitfully considered in the context of imperial expansion. Analysis of the art romance benefits from work done in these areas, but the mode’s particular commitment to the fantastic and to the unavoidable force of other texts, its thoroughgoing intertextuality, makes it particularly resistant to forms of analysis that want to return to a real it has never inhabited, whether experiential or political. The argument of this book depends on recognizing the unblinking artificiality of the romance as its only access to whatever of the real it is able to represent.² While the cultural exploitation of an economically faded southern Europe by a newly predominant North may well offer insights for the understanding of forms of exploration or more self-evident modes of dominance that came to the fore late in the century, studies attempting to make the connection will need to begin from the insight that in the art romance access to the real is not an alternative to the tradition but the most florid and most dangerous symptom of fantasy. More convincingly the literary descendant of the Grand Tour than the ancestor of imperial exploration, the mode also only goes so far with recent work on travel and wonder.³

This is a book about the kind of story that emerges at the confluence of two related but distinct cultural phenomena, the nineteenth century’s fascination with creative genius and the same period’s insatiable appetite for tales of the European South, Italy in particular. As such, Haunted Museum draws on two further concerns, the genius as type and cultural difference as destiny. Where is genius born? Does it have a native land, the source of a fundamental nostalgia motivating creative souls? Today such queries, like the presuppositions about temperament and national characteristics underlying them, are likely to seem not only old-fashioned but deeply misguided. Nevertheless, the nineteenth century offered bracingly clear answers to both. Southern Europe—most compellingly Greece, most accessibly Italy (and sometimes France)—was considered to be, consistently, and with real practical results, the natural home of genius. And, indeed, longing for the South as for a lost birthright or homeland of the creative soul is a recurrent element in representations of the psychic makeup of the artist in the period, a wishful naturalization of a relation to classical antiquity that was not new in European culture but that saw a notable efflorescence in the era we have come to call neoclassical.

Haunted Museum is concerned with the two-way traffic between fiction and the culture of art during a period for which poems and novels often served as conceptual and even practical guides to the experience of art. The overlap between the exigencies of fiction and the elements of art culture was capitalized on by storytellers throughout the century, usually by referencing earlier texts in the tradition. While the art romance plays an important part in the diffusion of a notably troubled yet productive relation to art characteristic of the nineteenth century, its special interest in the phenomenon of creative ambition insistently foregrounds the complex and even embarrassing relations between passion and artifice.⁴ Behind the characteristically modern notion that true creativity takes no color from convention, that genius has no necessary native home, we may detect a wish to avoid recognition of the fact that important sources of creativity develop in the interplay of received idea and emotion. The works studied in Haunted Museum, however, are characterized by a tendency to run counter to modern wishes—indeed, to represent passion itself as running straight (back) into the arms of convention.

The special case of artists in an era committed to the idea that the sources of culture were only accessible at certain prized locations, the resting places of admired relics, is a particularly important instance of the difficulty of arrival. As artists and critics struggled to negotiate the relationship between modern creativity and admired art, the repeated productive crisis was to find representation not only in the nascent field of art history, but in works of self-conscious fantasy. That European culture has tended to trace the origins of much it admires, much that it aspires to do or to be, to the South, that Italy in particular and Greece are not only the sources of certain traditions in pictorial and literary arts but subsequently the resting places for the chief relics of those traditions—these are inescapable historical facts. That modern achievement came to find its validation in often unsatisfactory returns to these sources is no less deniable, if not quite so self-evidently necessary.⁵ The period in which the art romance emerged was one in which the possibility of fulfillment of aspirations toward the encounter with admired foreign culture was running only slightly behind the desire for that encounter. New technologies and new social arrangements made the wonders of the continent ever more available.⁶ And yet, the new ease of travel did not make much-longed-for arrival any less troubling for the artist. The art romance evokes the conventional frustrations of the romance form broadly understood in order to represent an overdetermined anxiety about intimacy with culture that is particularly pressing in the artistic self-imagination of the period. If romance has at its heart the inability to arrive at a prized but ever-deferred goal, Italy is an overdetermined destination for the artist, a passionately desired space combining the prospect of erotic pleasure with the hope for intimacy with the most profound sources of culture.

Starting with the fundamental influence of eighteenth-century neoclassicism, the nineteenth-century culture of art came to be marked by a tendency to validate itself in relation to privileged historical moments linked to specific locations. Rome, Florence, Athens, eventually Venice, and in its own way Paris—art always had its home elsewhere. Indeed, a related structure underlies and makes inevitable even such variations as the claims for southern France, Polynesia, Japan, Africa, and other lands championed by avant-garde art movements that have often been seen as antithetical to nineteenth-century historicism. Yet, on the other side of the power inherent in the longing for a distant center of art, authors recognized from early on a danger inherent in satisfaction itself. There is far more at stake than a romantic challenge to neoclassical values in William Hazlitt’s claim in 1827 that Rome is of all places the worst to study in, for the same reason that it is the best to lounge in, because [t]here is no end of objects to divert and distract the mind. While art throughout the century made recourse to admired models from the past for its validation, Hazlitt’s English Students at Rome recognizes a recurrent anxiety: If it were nothing else, the having the works of the great masters of former times always before us is enough to discourage and defeat all ordinary attempts. In his account of the challenge to modern achievement presented by the heterogeneity that is most recognizable in Rome, the critic draws on a striking classical reference: Modern art is indeed like the fabled Sphinx, that imposes impossible tasks on her votaries, and as she clasps them to her bosom pierces them to the heart.⁷ The Sphinx is a doubly appropriate image for the challenge Hazlitt has in mind; not only does the riddle it poses contain the shape of human development, but, as Oedipus discovered, the hero’s problems only worsen when he overcomes the challenge and enters the desired city.

To such high-cultural determinants as the centrality of Rome in culture and art education throughout the period of this study, we must add another, apparently more trivial source for the fascination of Italy: its temperate climate and the related tradition (not to say wishful reputation) of sensual license that from the eighteenth century forward made the South not only the native place of artistic beauty but the site of a much-desired physical liberation. As will be clear throughout this study, the distinction between physical passion and inspiration was not always clearly maintained, even in cases where it might be insisted on in theory. In Winckelmann’s seminal Reflections on the Painting and Sculpture of the Greeks (1755), for example, the ideal beauty of classical statues is in some measure traceable to a contingent fact of no little interest to the author—that the temperate climate of Greece allowed the natives of that fortunate land to pass much of their lives nude. Forty years later, Goethe’s Now on classical soil I stand, inspired and elated, like the rest of the Roman Elegies (1795) to which it belongs, only more forcefully links erotic passion, creativity, and the South. The student of Winckelmann counts out hexameters on his Roman lover’s back, a playfully erotic and naturalizing culmination of the yearning for culture indicated by the opening line of the poem.⁸

IN THE PALACE OF ART / THE UNANSWERED QUESTION

Although the kind of elation Goethe discovers on arrival in Rome is expressed by literary visitor after visitor in later years, the fantastic harmony between creativity and sexual passion suggested in his verse is far rarer. The sometimes overwhelming love for art of the past that is characteristic of the period running from the eighteenth century to our own day is, as Hazlitt noted, far more likely to result in the emergence of an apparently unavoidable and contradictory conflict between desire and fulfillment, aspiration and achievement than in simple pleasure. In the art romance the satisfaction of longing, particularly the apparent satisfaction of a longed-for return to sources, inevitably provokes a crisis. The balance of this introduction revolves around two such crises, one provoked by the fantasy of the perfect museum, the other by the fact of travel to a much-desired center of culture.

The mutual complication of art and passion at the point of satisfaction is a theme vividly developed in Tennyson’s 1832 poem, The Palace of Art, not an art romance but perhaps the most economical literary representation of the haunted museum. I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, declares the speaker boldly at the outset,

Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse,

Dear soul, for all is well."⁹

The speaker divides into a self and a soul at the moment of secluding himself from the rest of mankind, as if the fantasy of a perfect museum housing ideal aesthetic isolation somehow requires or provokes a doubling form of self-alienation.

Through nearly fifty stanzas the poem traces with loving attention the furnishing of the palace for the soul’s enjoyment, in itself beautiful and filled with works inviting aesthetic appreciation—an ideal museum before anything close to it was available in England. But, the claim of artificial perfection is not the main burden of the poem. The fundamental split determining the opening separation of self and soul returns with force at the center of the poem as the text swerves abruptly away from ease, merriment, carousal, and even from the indifferent intellectual self-indulgence in which the soul’s pleasures culminate:

Full oft the riddle of the painful earth

Flashed thro’ her as she sat alone,

Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth,

And intellectual throne.

And so she throve and prospered: so three years

She prospered; on the fourth she fell,

Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears,

Struck through with pangs of hell.

Lest she should fail and perish utterly,

God, before whom ever lie bare

The abysmal deeps of personality,

Plagued her with sore despair. (213–24)

At once a moralist and a psychologist, God summons an inborn despair to rescue the soul from selfish isolation:

When she would think, where’er she turned her sight

The airy hand confusion wrought,

Wrote, Mene, mene, and divided quite

The kingdom of her thought.

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude

Fell on her, from which mood was born

Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood

Laughter at her self-scorn. (225–32)

When the soul tries to reassure herself she traces the power of the palace not to that external, and therefore describable, beauty that had characterized it up to this point in the poem, but to its source in her earliest desires and knowledge:

What! is not this my place of strength, she said,

"My spacious mansion built for me,

Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid

Since my first memory?" (233–36)

The question is never answered directly. Indeed, the insistent conjunctions that characterize the stanzas that follow link nothing that is logically connected; the parataxis serves rather to evoke the shock of sudden unpleasant discovery of things that were always there, decaying though hidden:

But in dark corners of her palace stood

Uncertain shapes; and unawares

On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood,

And horrible nightmares,

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame,

And, with dim fretted foreheads all,

On corpses three-months-old at noon she came,

That stood against the wall. (237–44)

The poem’s cruel response to the soul’s plea raises the possibility that it may well be precisely because the palace of art is founded on her memories that the walls of the museum contain nightmares, blood, corpses, and phantasms. Appalling figures lurching out at soul (and reader) characterize the failure of the structure to offer the shelter promised at the outset; its stately beauty is transfigured into appalling images that are hellish, immediate, and grotesquely physical.

It is little wonder that the soul is finally driven out of the palace of art and down to the valley where the rest of humanity dwells. She dedicates herself to remorse and prayer, though her ambivalence toward the structure she has escaped is in no way resolved. If the opening of the poem identifies the museum as an everlasting site of solipsistic pleasure, its concluding lines make the palace of art into a place not of permanent habitation but of return: [P]ull not down my palace towers, the soul declares, that are / So lightly, beautifully built: / Perchance I may return with others there / When I have purged my guilt (293–96).

The Palace of Art belongs to a discourse about self-consciousness, isolation, and art that is familiar from any number of Victorian authors. Tennyson himself links the work to debates on the practical and aesthetic life traceable to the Cambridge Apostles. The poem has more recently been studied in the context of the reception of Goethe as a figure standing for a relationship to taste and erudition so dispassionate, so free from conventional human concerns, as to risk immorality.¹⁰ And yet, the ethical claims of The Palace of Art are overwhelmed by the more pressing claim for representation of the crisis of satisfaction. Recent critics, like many readers since the poem was written, have been struck by what Christopher Ricks describes as a despair that is grimly disproportionate to the soul’s error of Aestheticism. The combination of gorgeous fantasy with grotesque physicality, like the conclusion of so dramatic a crisis in so thoroughgoing an ambivalence, intimates something different from the moral-aesthetic themes openly present in the poem. Herbert Tucker writes of an extraneous moralism that invades the parable to deform its conclusion, an idea that contributes to his identification of a poem that is conspicuously of two minds.¹¹ The reading I propose emphasizes the force of the doubling Tucker identifies, but sees the undermotivated or disproportionate crisis less as a result of forced moralism than as an instantiation of the uncanny challenge provoked by the fantasy of satisfied desire.

The healthy response to danger, as to pain, should be avoidance of its causes, yet the soul looks forward to an eventual return to the palace. It is an inconclusive resolution that indicates the ambivalence driving the self from the outset, shaping not only the work’s quick shifts between desire and regret, its sudden swerve from fantasy to nightmare, but ultimately the soul’s inability to destroy this monstrous place. The poem moves from the opening claim of assured permanence, to dwell, to the tentative assertion of uncertain transience, perchance I may return, and that movement is closely related to the shift from a confident active voice, I built, to the passive recognition that the structure was built for me. Indeed, the ease for aye gives way to sore despair precisely as I built becomes built for me. The crisis of the poem suggests what the conclusion helps to clarify: at stake in the palace of art is not simply the moral error of isolating oneself in beauty while the rest of the world suffers, but the realization that the museum itself is never newly constructed.

Tennyson’s poem offers a number of useful points of departure for thinking about the special kind of disappointment inherent not in the postponement of the expected or desired, but in the realization that what lies ahead is nothing other than an appointment or return. The death of longing when faced with what appears to be satisfaction is all the more poignant when it becomes clear that what was sought with such effort was precisely what could not be avoided: this place had to be visited; this discovery had to be made; this passion had to be lived in this particular manner. The disappointing nature of such realizations tends toward uncanny terms of expression, such as those rotting corpses the soul discovers. The splitting of the self that opens the poem is a characteristic form of acknowledgment that one’s desire is