The Cultural Revolution of the Nineteenth Century: Theatre, the Book-Trade, and Reading in the Transatlantic World 9780755695119, 9781784531775

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LIST OF FIGURES

Figure 3.1. A Estac¸a˜o. Source: National Library of Rio de Janeiro.

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Figure 3.2. Jornal das Famı´lias. Source: National Library of Rio de Janeiro.

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Figure 3.3. Revista Feminina. Source: Archives of the Sate of Sa˜o Paulo.

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Figure 3.4. A Vida Moderna. Source: Archives of the Sate of Sa˜o Paulo.

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Figure 3.5. Revista do Brasil. Source: Tania Regina de Luca’s personal collection.

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Figure 3.6. Klaxon. Source: Tania Regina de Luca’s personal collection.

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Figure 7.1. Revue des Deux Mondes. Source: Francisco de Assis Barbosa.

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Figure 8.1. La Saison. Source: Lipperheide Costume Library, Berlin.

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Figure 8.2. O Brazil Elegante. Source: National Library of Rio de Janeiro.

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Figure 8.3. Young Christian ladies. Source: Society of African Missions, Rome.

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Figure 8.4. Correio das Modas. Source: National Library of Rio de Janeiro.

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Figure 8.5. Jornal das Famı´lias. Source: National Library of Rio de Janeiro.

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Figure 8.6. Burda. World of Fashion. Source: http://www. burdafashion.com/fr/index/1270777-1000019.html; jsessionid=B272289F6B67FD86F7921B91548D0B53 (accessed 10 July 2009).

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Figure 8.7. Die Modenwelt. Source: Lipperheide Costume Library, Berlin.

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Figure 8.8. La Saison. Source: Lipperheide Costume Library, Berlin.

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Figure 8.9. Ilustrac¸a˜o da Moda and Les Modes Parisiennes. Source: National Library of France.

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Figure 8.10. A Estac¸a˜o. Source: National Library of Rio de Janeiro.

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LIST OF TABLES

Table 4.1. Publishers of Paul de Kock’s work.

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Table 7.1. Number of articles with references to Brazil (1870– 1930). Source: Platform Gallica-BNF.

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Table 7.2. Typology of articles containing references to Brazil. Source: Platform Gallica-BNF.

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Table 7.3. Subject of articles containing references to Brazil. Source: Platform Gallica-BNF.

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Table 7.4. Most frequent authors of articles containing references to Brazil. Source: Platform Gallica-BNF. 136 Table 8.1. Adapted translation of an editorial from the French to the Brazilian edition of Die Modenwelt. Table 8.2. Content of the 18 issues of O Espelho: Revista de literatura, modas, indu´stria e artes (1859– 60). Source: The National Library of Rio de Janeiro.

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INTRODUCTION CONNECTING PEOPLE THROUGH BOOKS, PERIODICALS AND THEATRE — A CULTURAL REVOLUTION Ma´rcia Abreu and Ana Cla´udia Suriani da Silva

The texts collected in this book were first presented to a group of students from Argentina, Brazil, China, Czech Republic, England, France, Germany, Portugal, Romania, Spain, Switzerland and the United States, which congregated in Brazil for the Sa˜o Paulo School for Advanced Studies on the ‘Globalization of Culture in the Nineteenth Century’.1 It is difficult to imagine a better harmonisation between substance and circumstance, considering that the object of the School was globalisation of culture. Someone might think that an event such as that is proof of the narrowing of global relations, what with the advent of the internet (allowing worldwide advertisement of the course and online registration), the development of aeronautics (making it possible to bring together people from different parts of the world for a brief meeting) and of multilingualism in the academic world (enabling a deepening dialogue in the discussion sessions, coffee breaks, lunches and suppers). But the object of the course was precisely to review the notion that worldwide connections emerged in the twentieth century with the internet, aeroplanes and multilingualism by focusing on the globalisation of culture in the period that Hobsbawm called the ‘long

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nineteenth century’ – the time between the 1780s (marked by the Industrial Revolution and by the French Revolution) and 1914 (with the beginning of World War I).2 If globalisation is not a new feature of our time, neither the French Revolution nor the Industrial Revolution should be used to define the beginning of this process of worldwide connections. Frederick Cooper, a staunch critic of the idea that globalisation belongs to the end of the twentieth century, strives to show how different parts of the globe have been connected for many centuries.3 The Mongol Empire, for example, which extended from China to Central Europe in the fourteenth century, maintained a system of routes linking the various regions it covered, had a set of shared beliefs and a communication system that used a sophisticated network of horsemen to keep the centre of the empire well informed. On this subject, B.A.F. Manz wrote that ‘there have been few times in history when the world has been so closely interconnected – not only economically, but also in culture and tradition’.4 The great voyages of discovery, carried out from the sixteenth century on, have connected more regions of the globe, putting parts of Asia, the Americas, Africa and Europe in touch.5 Historians such as Kevin H. O’Rourke and Jeffrey G. Williamson believe that ‘the really big leap to more globally integrated commodity and factor markets occurred in the second half of the nineteenth century’. According to them, ‘world capital markets were almost certainly as well integrated in the 1890s as they were in the 1990s’.6 This increasing movement of integration was dramatically interrupted by World War I and still more shaken by World War II, forming a twentieth century that was more unintegrated than its predecessor, quite in contrast to what is commonly thought. Thus, the long nineteenth century can be better understood from a cultural perspective if the intense exchanges between different parts of the globe are considered. These were favoured by railway network expansion and by the development of maritime transports that began to make the routes between the continents shorter and more frequent. Dissemination of news and information was enabled by the electrical telegraph, which was introduced in the first half of the nineteenth century. In the 1850s, the telegraphic lines that had initially been created on a national level were linked, giving origin to a communication network that covered practically all of Europe. The next step was to connect places separated by sea, which was achieved by

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Great Britain in 1851 with the installation of an underwater cable connecting it to continental Europe across the English Channel. The first transatlantic cable between Europe and the United States was installed in 1866, while the connection between Brazil and Europe, via Portugal, took place in 1875.7 Technological advances in the production of books also favoured their diffusion. The mechanisation of paper manufacturing made them cheaper and more accessible, while the introduction of the steampowered printing press revolutionised printing techniques, exponentially increasing the volume of book production.8 The introduction of electricity at the end of the century provided a still greater boost to the production of printed material.9 None of these technological innovations would have had much significance if the number of readers had not increased throughout the century. Population growth, larger urban concentrations and the expansion of the educational system enabled the spread of literacy to lower economic social groups that had been, until then, excluded from written culture. The increase in the number of readers and the relative democratisation of access to reading favoured the publishing market, stimulating a notable growth in the production of didactic material, in the number of periodicals and magazines, as well as in the quantity of works for entertainment, including plays and novels.10 These technological advances associated with the exponential growth of print runs and the proliferation of libraries enabled a reduction in the cost of copies, making access to printed materials less elitist. Publishers, booksellers and theatre entrepreneurs knew how to make the most of this situation, seeking ways to broaden the market for books, periodicals and magazines, as well as reaching readers and spectators in distant parts of the world. They also knew how and where to look for the best typographic and economic conditions for printing works, noticeably decentralising the poles of composition, impression and sale of books and texts. In England, as early as the second half of the eighteenth century, almost all of the main booksellers and publishers were involved in commerce abroad, namely with the English colonies in North America, the Caribbean and India. Its true flowering, however, occurred in the 1820s, when English book exports spread across Europe and throughout the rest of the world, to the point that by the end of the century exports

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to the British colonies were a crucial source of income for the big publishing companies.11 The case of France is peculiar, because exporting books was just part of the cultural dominance the country enjoyed in that period, expressed as much by the spread of French as the language of the elites as by the extraordinary prestige of French literature on a global scale.12 During the same period, Portugal also participated in the transoceanic diffusion of printed material, an activity favoured by its status as a colonial power, which allowed it to circulate books among its possessions in the Americas, Africa and Asia.13 The activities of publishers and booksellers were not limited to the export of printed material. In order to promote sales, they had established themselves in the four corners of the world. Thus, in the second half of the eighteenth century at least 14 out of the 17 booksellers established in Lisbon were French.14 The presence of foreign booksellers and publishers is also relevant in Brazil, where, throughout the nineteenth century some of the most prominent booksellers were German (e.g. the Laemmert brothers), Belgians (e.g. Jean Baptiste Lombaerts and his son Henri Gustave), Swiss (e.g. Leuzinger), Portuguese (e.g. Francisco Alves) and mainly French (e.g Aillaud, Bossange, Garnier, Garraux, Martin, Plancher and Villeneuve).15 The performance of foreign booksellers and publishers must be seen as a two-way street. As Jean-Yves Mollier points out, the great publishers who emigrated from France would not have experienced the success they did if they had not been able to learn quickly from the countries in which they had settled, producing hybrid objects composed of foreign and local elements.16 Neither should it be thought that the transit of printed matter followed a unilateral flow from England and France to Portugal and from there to the Americas. The booksellers and publishers who settled in Brazil used not only local printing facilities, but also printers installed in France and Portugal to publish books and periodicals in Portuguese language. Throughout the century, they expanded their network of sales in Europe, with emphasis on the book trade in Portugal, reaching a point where competition with the works produced in Brazil – often counterfeit editions – became a cause for concern in Portugal.17 These booksellers and publishers, counting on the aid of incredibly agile translators, made it possible for the same work to be read in

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different parts of the world simultaneously. In the same way, theatre entrepreneurs enabled inhabitants of the Americas to become acquainted with the great European actors and actresses and to attend their performances in the same year of their debut in Europe. Both Europeans and Brazilians could follow the reports and criticism of international seasons and tours in newspapers and magazines. This shared experience created a new and peculiar connection between people that should not in any way be understood as a homogenising process, for the creative character of the appropriations articulated pre-existing local traditions alongside new and foreign materials.18 Thus, it is clear that the nineteenth century was an unprecedented period of expansion in the production of books and newspapers and of intense worldwide circulation of plays and printed material, which is shown in this book through the exchanges that took place between Brazil, England, France and Portugal. The works presented here not only contribute to re-evaluating the notion that globalisation is a phenomenon peculiar to the late twentieth century; they also challenge the periphery-centre model. The peripheral position of Portugal and Brazil in relation to British imperialism and the cultural dominance of France over them all cannot be denied. Nevertheless, looking at the transatlantic relations between these countries reveals a much more complex axis of encounters, very different from the domination of an active centre over a passive periphery. Instead of an axis of a bilateral relationship of the North over the South, there is evidence of a knowledge-sharing network that is constantly expanding and leads to the renewal of technology, transport and communication, then and still today. These changes of perspective are associated with a specific methodology, which the research gathered in this book has employed to track elements that go beyond the traditional scholarly concern with economic developments (as the motivation for cultural expressions), nations (as a way to demarcate the field of survey) and the canon (as supposedly the only element of interest in literary matters). The opening chapter by Roger Chartier addresses some of these issues by proposing to erase the ‘frontier previously established between the most common productions and practices of written culture and literature, understood as a particular field of creations and experiences’. In his methodological approach, Chartier attempts to overcome the

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traditional dichotomy between, on the one hand, ‘interpretation and comments on the works’ and, on the other, ‘the analysis of the technical or social conditions of their publication, circulation and appropriation’. This perspective underpins the research undertaken for this book and supports the importance given by our authors to the materiality of texts, to the various formats in which works circulated and to different appropriations and performances they have received on their transatlantic journey. The two other chapters of the methodological part of this book focus on a specific type of agent and printed matter respectively. In Chapter 2, Jean-Yves Mollier points out the undervalued role of publishers and booksellers in a tradition of studies that takes culture as something higher and immaterial, disregarding productions aimed at broader audiences and overlooking the relationship between cultural production and profit. In the perspective adopted in this book, they are taken as essential figures, given that they are largely responsible for the transformation of texts into books (an opposition largely discussed in Chapter 1) and boosting their transatlantic circulation. Mollier presents different ways of investigating the role of booksellers and publishers, from ‘the human and family aspect of a publishing “house”’ to the ‘economic dimension of the firm’, in its relation to the political, legal and social context. Among the sources that one can use to pursue research on publishers and booksellers, he draws special attention to the analysis of catalogues and advertisements, sources that are extensively examined in some chapters of this book. To close the methodological part, Chapter 3, by Tania de Luca, expands Chartier and Mollier’s discussion of the production and circulation of works and their agents by questioning the role of one specific type of printed matter, the periodical, in the writing of history. Due to their collective nature, when periodicals are seen from an interdisciplinary, cross-national perspective they can show us how concepts, ideologies, knowledge and technology are shared or promoted within and beyond national borders, providing us with a more holistic view of press history, of history of ideas, reading and literature. Throughout the book our authors return to the key concerns raised by Chartier, Mollier and Luca covering a time span from the last decades of the eighteenth century to the beginning of the twentieth century. Part II, ‘Editing, publishing and trading books around the world’, focuses on

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publishers and cultural mediators agents. Chapter 4, by Joa˜o Luis Lisboa, examines the professionalisation of the publisher in the Luso-Brazilian world as a family business and within a network of professionals linked to printing and book trade in other European countries. Lisboa also argues in his chapter that the professionalisation of the publisher is directly linked to the growing circulation of the European novel and to cataloguing published works according to genres. In Chapter 5, Lu´cia Granja presents an overview of the development of printing and publishing activities in Brazil, the involvement of foreign publishers and booksellers in the formation of a national literature and at the same time their attempt to internationalise the literary production of the country. In chapter 6, Claudia Poncini recovers a chain of mediators involved in the diffusion of socialist ideas among the north-eastern Brazilian elite from Louis-Le´ger Vauthier to Gilberto Freyre. The third part of this book is dedicated to the periodical press. In ‘The Revue des Deux Mondes in the Context of Transatlantic Exchanges’, Eliana de Freitas Dutra examines the cultural, economic and political bridge established between the Brazilian elite and France through the Revue de Deux Mondes (Review of Two Worlds). Chapter 8, by Ana Cla´udia Suriani da Silva, explores the innate international vocation of the fashion magazine, and Chapter 9, by Adelaide Machado and Ju´lio Rodrigues da Silva, presents a survey of the foreign press in Portugal and the press by Portuguese expatriates around the world, especially Brazil. In the fourth and last part of this book, ‘Plays and Novels between Europe and Brazil’, the chapters by Marcia Abreu, Daniel Melo, JeanClaude Yon and Orna Messer deal with the circulation of fictional works and plays, with emphasis on the French presence in Brazil which was central to the historical period covered in this book. In Chapter 10, Abreu presents the best-selling books in Brazil, Portugal and France during first half of the nineteenth century, revealing that readers not only shared the same taste but that their favourite fictional works have been excluded from national literary histories. Chapter 11, by Melo, discusses the impact of the modern novel, particularly the historical novel, on the construction of national and collective ideas in Portugal and Brazil. Jean-Claude Yon shows in Chapter 12 that French troupes spread the Parisian theatrical repertoire around the world by partially adapting the plays to the local audiences. Finally, Chapter 13, by Levin, analyses advertisements in bookshops and daily newspapers to prove the

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importance of the French plays that were staged in Rio de Janeiro and helped to form a theatre audience and expand the Brazilian readership. The extent of the changes that took place in the long nineteenth century and their deep implications allow us to characterise the process as a cultural revolution, or, perhaps, as a ‘silent cultural revolution’, to use the words of Jean-Yves Mollier.19 Although Mollier locates this revolution in the final decades of the nineteenth century, it is possible to extend it the whole century. According to him, this ‘silent cultural revolution’ is characterised by increasing literacy rates, the falling costs of printed matter, the enlargement of print runs, the increase of sales, the multiplication of newspapers, the widening of the field of action of publishers and booksellers to more countries, the increasing media culture and the development of a cultural industry aimed at the production of printed material for wider audiences. These developments extended throughout the 1800s both in Europe and in America. Other elements could be added, such as the emergence of serial novels, the extraordinary increase in the volume of works of fiction, the broadening of the number of writers capable of living of the profits derived from their writing, the spread of melodramas, vaudevilles and operettas on theatres, causing the world of the classic tragedy, of oratory, and of epic poems to seem to belong to a distant past. As Mollier observed, these modifications are more the result of changes that had been under way for several decades than a sharp turn resulting from a self-aware policy, since for a ‘silent cultural revolution’ to occur, it is necessary to have enough time so that its effects are felt. Even so, the term ‘revolution’ seems better than evolution to refer to a historic situation in which a deep change is observed in the lifestyle of the majority of inhabitants and in their relation with culture, with printed materials and with performances, a situation felt by them as belonging to a time of radical changes.

CHAPTER 1 LITERATURE AND WRITTEN CULTURE: STABILITY OF WORKS, MOBILITY OF TEXTS, PLURALITY OF READINGS Roger Chartier

At this conference, I would like to show the possible approaches of cultural history and textual criticism when they look at texts, books and readings. First, it appears to me that we should think about the ever-present tension between, on the one hand, the identity of the works, recognisable and perpetuated outside their materiality, and on the other hand, the mobility of texts, a mobility ensured by the multiplicity of their readings, of their material forms and modes of attribution.

Attribution In his famous 1968 lecture, ‘What is an author?’ Foucault stated that, far from being relevant to all texts and genres, the attribution of a work to a proper name is neither universal nor constant: ‘The authorfunction is characteristic of the mode of existence, circulation and functioning of certain discourses in society.’1 The attribution of a proper name to a discourse was for him the result of ‘specific and

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complex’ operations that place the unity and coherence of a work (or group of works) in relationship with the identity of a constructed subject. These operations merge in a dual process of selection and exclusion. First, the discourses attributable to the author-function – the ‘work’ – should be separated from the ‘millions of traces left by someone after their death’. Then, the elements pertinent to defining the author’s position need to be selected from the innumerable events that constitute the life of an individual. Today, the presence of abundant literary archives makes it more complex to delimit the work itself and the separation between literary texts recognised as such and the ‘millions of [written] traces left behind by an individual’. For Foucault, the problem is just as theoretical as it is technical: When undertaking the publication of Nietzsche’s work, for example, where should one stop? Surely everything must be published, but what is ‘everything’? Everything that Nietzsche himself published, certainly? And what about the rough drafts for his work? Obviously. The plans for his aphorisms? Yes. The deleted passages and the notes at the bottom of the pages? Yes. What if, within a workbook filled with aphorisms, one finds a reference, the notation of a meeting or of an address, or a laundry list: Is it a work, or not? Why not? And so on, ad infinitum.2 ‘Is it a work or not?’ Foucault’s question about the infinite ‘proliferation’ of Nietzsche’s writing should now be inverted to consider the possibility or necessity of its ‘rarefaction’ – to use Foucault’s vocabulary from L’ordre du discours.3 As convincingly proven by Mazzino Montinari, Nietzsche’s most canonical book, Der Wille zur Macht, was never written by him and must be considered a ‘falsification’ by Elisabeth Fo¨rster-Nietzsche. She cut up, gathered and ordered into book form several fragments (notes, sketches, thoughts) left behind by her brother, who, for his part, had not had any intention of transforming these into a book.4 So does The Will to Power5 exist as a work and should it be included in Nietzsche’s works or not? Let us take another example of the textual manipulations made possible by an author’s decision. Repeatedly, Jorge Luis Borges determined the limits of his ‘work’.6 He excluded from his Obras

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completas (Complete Works) published by Emece´ in 1974, three books he had published between 1925 and 1928: Inquisiciones, El taman˜o de mi esperanza and El idioma de los argentines, and he prohibited any republication of these three books, which were published again only in 1993 and 1994 by Maria Kodama, seven years after Borges’ death – and not without ferocious controversy. On the other hand, Borges chose with his publisher – in this case Jean-Pierre Berne´s, who published his Oeuvres comple`tes (Complete Works) in French in the ‘Bibliothe`que de la Ple´iade’ published by Gallimard – all of the texts he considered part of his ‘work’, not only books and anthologies, but also reviews of books and films, prologues, articles, chronicles and the first printed version of many poems or pieces of fiction.7 Modern literary archives, which allow such manipulations, produce effects on publishing practices concerned with works printed in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. On the one hand, they have inspired the search to identify the type of manuscript used to publish the printed texts and an obsession with lost manuscripts. On the other hand, the unstable delimitation of ‘work’ has inspired novel decisions for authors from early modernity; for example, the publication of two texts for a single play, such as the case of King Lear in the Complete Oxford Shakespeare or of A game at chess in the Oxford Middleton’s Collected Works, or even the recent and provocative inclusion by Gary Taylor and John Lavagnino in Middleton’s work of plays that are generally published under another name, such as The Tragedy of McBeth or Measure for Measure, plays in which both publishers consider that Shakespeare was not the only author.8 The most important consequence of the conceptual configuration that produced the need for the presence of the ‘author-function’, according to Foucault’s expression, is the relationship established between the literary work and the writer’s life. Since the mid-seventeenth century, literary compositions ceased to be thought of as being based on stories that were reused, shared common places or collaborations imposed by patrons or theatre companies or entrepreneurs and began to be seen as original creations that expressed the most intimate feelings and most decisive and singular experiences of their author. The first consequence was the desire to publish works in accordance with the author’s life chronology; the second was the writing of literary biographies. Regarding Shakespeare, Edmond Malone was the first to associate the

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two undertakings. He based his Life of Shakespeare (printed only in 1821)9 on ‘original and authentic documents’, breaking away from the compilations of anecdotes printed by Nicholas Rowe in his 1709 edition,10 and established the first (supposed) timeline of Shakespeare’s works. According to him, the plays should be published in the order Shakespeare wrote them and not according to the distribution of the plays in the tradition of the Folio, between comedies, historical plays and tragedies. Boswell followed this desire (except for the historical plays) in the 1821 new edition of Malone’s The Plays and Poems of William Shakespeare published in 1790.11 But it was no easy task, considering the absence of autograph and autobiographical documents – and the existence of very little information about Shakespeare’s life. In order to compensate for this scarcity of information, Malone inaugurated a fundamental device for any literary biography: locating the works in a life requires finding the life in the works. As Margreta de Grazia wrote: Life gave way to the work which passed back into life, all on a single temporal continuum. In lieu of archival documents, the plays were positioned to serve as the primary sources for information about Shakespeare’s life during his years in London. The arrangement itself suggested that only by scrutinizing the plays exhaustively, as if they were archival documents, could Shakespeare’s life in its entirety – from the beginning through the end – be known.12 After Malone, all Shakespeare biographies – including those coming from the ‘New Historicism’ – were now at the mercy of the traps of the retrospective imposition of an interpretive paradigm made possible only by the existence of literary archives and of a new comprehension and reading of literary compositions. A ‘radical incompatibility’, to use Margreta de Grazia’s expression, exists between romantic and preromantic aesthetics – when the work was written, as Diderot said, by the author’s heart – and a regime of earlier textual production that did not consider that ‘literature’ (a concept that did not even exist) should be attributed to an individual singularity. And it is with this incompatibility in mind that we should comprehend the effects produced on publishing practices and literary criticism by the

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conceptual mutations that, beginning in the eighteenth century, transformed them and invented ‘literature’.

Materiality Such a perspective presupposes the erasure of the frontier previously established between the most common productions and practices of written culture and literature, understood as a particular field of creations and experiences. Such an erasure demands approximation of two aspects that western tradition has long separated: on the one hand, interpretation and comment on the works; on the other, analysis of the technical or social conditions of their publication, circulation and appropriation. There are several reasons for this dissociation: the neoPlatonic permanence of the opposition between the purity of the idea and its inevitable corruption by matter, the definition of ‘copyright’, which establishes the author’s ownership of a text always considered identical to itself,13 whatever the form of its publication, and even the triumph of a post-Kantian aesthetic14 that judges works regardless of the materiality of their support. Paradoxically, in the twentieth century, the two critical perspectives that have brought to bear the most sustained attention to the material modalities of the inscription of discourses have reinforced rather than combatted this process of textual abstraction. Analytical bibliography or New Bibliography has rigorously investigated the different printed forms of a single work (editions, issues, copies) with the aim of recuperating an ideal text, free from the alterations inflicted by the publication process and identical to the text as it was written, dictated or dreamed of by the author. Hence, the radical distinction between ‘essentials’ and ‘accidentals’, the work in its essence and the accidents that have deformed or corrupted it.15 The deconstructionist perspective placed great emphasis on the materiality of writing and the different forms of inscribing language.16 Nevertheless, in its efforts to abolish the most immediate oppositions (between orality and writing, between the singularity of speech acts and the reproducibility of writing), it built conceptual categories (archiwriting and iterability) that necessarily distance the perception of the effects produced by the empirical differences that characterise the different modalities of publication of texts.

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Against such an abstraction of discourse, it is worth recalling that the production, not only of books, but also of the texts themselves, is a process that, beyond the writing, implies different moments, different techniques, and different interventions. The transactions between the works and the social world do not consist, then, only in the aesthetic and symbolic appropriation of common objects, of languages and of ritual or daily practices, as the New Historicism17 has demonstrated. They mainly concern the multiple, mobile, unstable relations between the work and its multiple appropriations and incarnations. The process of publication, whatever its modality may be, is always a collective process, which implies numerous interventions and that does not separate the materiality of the text from the textuality of the book or from the ‘performance’. Thus it is useless to want to distinguish the work’s ‘essential’ substance, considered forever similar to itself, and the text’s ‘accidental’ variations, considered unimportant and that the modern publisher should erase in order to bring the work back in its original identity. However, these multiple variations do not destroy the idea that a work conserves a perpetuated identity, immediately recognisable by its readers or listeners. David Kastan characterised as ‘Platonist’ the perspective according to which a work transcends all its possible material incarnations, and as ‘pragmatic’ the one affirming that no text exists outside of the material forms that make it be read or heard.18 This contradictory perception of texts divides both literary criticism and editorial practices and opposes those for whom it is necessary to recover the text exactly as its author wrote, imagined or desired it, mending the wounds inflicted upon it by manuscript transmission or typographic composition, against those for whom the multiple textual forms in which a work has been published and circulated constitute its different historical states that should be respected, comprehended or published in their irreducible diversity. Like others, or better than others, the Spanish authors of the Golden Age were aware of the processes that are the very object of every history of written culture. The first is given by the plurality of the interventions that characterise the publication of the texts. Authors do not write books, not even their own. Books, manuscripts or printed, are always the result of multiple operations that presuppose very diverse decisions, techniques and skills, for example, in the case of books printed in the age

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of the ‘old typographic regime’ between the fifteenth and eighteenth centuries, the copy of the author’s manuscript by a professional scribe, the examination of this copy by censors, the choices of the booksellerpublisher regarding the paper, format or print run, the organisation of the labour of composition and printing in the print shop, the preparation of the copy and composition of the text by typesetters, the reading of the proofs by correctors and finally the printing of copies that, in the age of manual presses, did not rule out corrections over the course of the print run. What is at stake here is not only the production of the book, but of the text itself in its material and graphic forms. The role of the scribes in the publication process was one of the reasons for the loss of authorial manuscripts at the beginning of the modern age. In the Castile of the Golden Age, manuscripts sent to the Royal Council to receive licence and privilege were never autograph manuscripts, but always copias en limpio, fair copies written by a professional amanuensis and at times corrected by the author, who may have wanted to change several words or sentences, introduce notes in the margins, cut several lines or even add loose pages to the manuscript.19 Once approved, and at times corrected, by the censors, the manuscript was sent to the publisher and then the printer. The printer’s copy was called the original in Spanish and submitted the text to a first series of transformations of both spelling and punctuation. While manuscripts in the author’s hand (for example, their letters) in general had very few punctuation marks and presented great irregularity in the spelling of words, the scribe’s originals (which were not in fact originals, but fair copies) needed to lend greater legibility to the text being sent to censors and typesetters. Once at the typographic stage, the scribe’s copy of the autographed manuscript was prepared by correctors, who added accents, upper-case letters and punctuation.20 After these textual interventions made by the copyist, censor or copy-editor, the autograph manuscript lost all its importance and was not preserved. Thus prepared, the copy was then transformed and deformed by the work of the print shop. Frequent errors by typesetters introduced multiple distortions: inverted letters or syllables, forgotten words and skipped lines. Not only that, but a single copy read by different proofreaders or compositors could lead, on the printed pages, to great variations in the use of pronouns, verb tense concordances and respect of grammar rules. Effectively, authors did not write their own books, even

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if some of them did intervene during reissues of the works and were fully aware of the effects produced by the material forms of their texts. This is the reality that Don Quixote perceived when he visited a printing shop in Barcelona (part 2, chapter 62) where he ‘saw them drawing sheets in one place, correcting in another, setting up type here, revising there; in short all the work that is to be seen in great printing offices’.21 In the seventeenth century, treatises dedicated to the art of typography insisted on this division of tasks in which authors did not play the main role. In 1619, Gonzalo de Ayala, who was himself a print corrector, emphasised that correctors ‘should know grammar, spelling rules, etymology, punctuation, accent placement’.22 In 1675, Melchor de Cabrera, a lawyer who defended the privileges of the printers of Madrid, pointed out that compositors should know ‘where to place question marks, exclamation points and parentheses; because frequently the writers’ intention becomes unclear by the absence of these elements, which are necessary and important to the intelligibility and comprehension of what is written or printed, because if one or the other is lacking, the meaning changes, is inverted or is transformed’.23 Several years later, circa 1680, Alonso Victor de Paredes, expressed that correctors should ‘understand the Author’s intention in what they send to print, not only to be able to introduce appropriate punctuation, but also to see if they have not committed any negligence, and warn them if so’.24 The forms and arrangements of printed text, in this way, do not depend on the author, who delegates to the one who prepares the copy or to those who compose the pages the decisions as to punctuation, accentuation and spelling. The first historicity of the text is the one arising from negotiations established between the order of the discourse that governs its writing, genre, statute and the material conditions of its publication. Hence a fundamental question: what is a book? In the seventeenth century, it was in the use of metaphors that the dual nature of the book could be announced. Alonso Vı´ctor de Paredes expressed this dual nature of the book, as object and as work, with strength and subtlety. He inverted the classic metaphor which described the body or face as a book and considered the book as a human creature, because, like a man, both have a body and a soul: I compare the book to the making of a man, who has a rational soul, with which Our Lord created with all the graces that his Divine

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Majesty wanted to give him; and with the same omnipotence he formed his elegant body, beautiful and harmonious.25 If the book can be compared to a man, it is because God created the human creature in the same manner that a printer prints a book. In 1675, Melchor de Cabrera gave the most elaborate form to this comparison, sketching an inventory of the six books written by God. The five first are the starry Heaven, compared to an immense chart of which the stars are the alphabet; the World, which is the compendium and map of all Creation; Life, identified as a register containing all the names of the disciples of Christ; Christ himself, who is both an exemplar and an exemplum, an original copy text that must be reproduced and an example proposed for all humanity; and the Virgin, the first of all books, whose creation in the Spirit of God preexisted that of the world and of the centuries. Among the books of God, which Cabrera associated with one or another of the objects of the written culture of his time, man is the exception, because he results from the typesetting work of God the printer: God put his image and seal on the press in order that the copy would be true to what it had to be [. . .] and he wanted at the same time to enjoy a great number and variety of copies of his mysterious original.26 Paredes takes up the same image of the book compared to the human creature. But for him, the soul of the book is not just the text as it was composed, dictated, imagined, by its creator. It is that text in an appropriate layout, una acertada disposicio´n: a perfectly finished book consists in a good doctrine, presented in the proper layout thanks to the typesetter and corrector, that is what I consider the soul of the book; and it is a beautiful print by the printer, clean and careful, which will make it possible for me to compare it to a graceful and elegant body.27 If the ‘body’ of the book is the result of the work by the printers, its ‘soul’ is not formatted by the author alone, but receives its form from all of them, the master printer, compositors and correctors, who take care of

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the punctuation, spelling and mise en page. Thus, Paredes refuses all separation between the essential substance of the work and accidental variations of the text that result from the operations in the printing house. For him, as for the cultural history or textual criticism, the materiality of the text is inseparable from the textuality of the book. What is a book? In 1797, in his Science of Right and in Metaphysics of Morals, Kant raised the question.28 His answer distinguished between the two natures of any book. On the one hand, a book is an opus mechanicum, the product of mechanical art and a material object (ko¨rperlich), which is the property of the one who has acquired it. On the other hand, a book is a discourse addressed to the public by its author or by the publisher who has received the power (mandatum) to speak in the author’s name. Every reproduction of a text made without this mandate is therefore illegitimate and can be considered a violation of the author’s ‘personal rights’. The publisher of a pirated edition becomes guilty of ‘a wrong committed upon the authorised and only lawful publisher, as it amounts to a pilfering of the profits that the latter was entitled and able to draw from the use of his proper right’.29 Hence the conclusion that should carry the force of law: ‘Unauthorized printing and publication of books is, therefore, forbidden – as an act of counterfeit and piracy – on the ground of right.’30 The book is, as a whole, a material good of which the buyer becomes the legitimate owner, and a discourse whose property is conserved by the author of the book ‘and it is a matter of indifference to the present consideration whether it is written by pen or imprinted by types, and on few or many pages’.31 In this second sense, the book, understood as a work, transcends all possible materialisations. According to Blackstone – a lawyer who defended the London booksellers publishers who in 1710 had seen threatened, by way of new legislation, their claim to perpetual copyright and ownership of the titles they acquired the identity of a literary composition resides entirely in the sentiment and the language; the same conceptions, cloathed in the same words, must necessarily be the same composition: and whatever method be taken of conveying that composition to the ear or the eye of another, by writing, or by printing, in any number or copies or at any period of time, it is always the identical work of the author which is so conveyed; and no other man can have a right

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to convey or transfer it without his consent, either tacitly or expressly given.32 In the course of a debate at the end of the eighteenth century about the illegitimate reproduction of books, where this was especially widespread owing to the fragmentation of the sovereign states, Fichte announced this apparent paradox in a new way.33 To the classic dichotomy between the book’s two natures, corporeal and spiritual, he added a second that distinguishes in every work the ideas expressed and the form given those ideas by the writing. Ideas are universal by nature, purpose and use; hence no personal appropriation of ideas can be justified. This is only legitimate because each individual has his own thought processes, his own way of forming concepts and connecting them. [...] Hence, each writer must give his thoughts a certain form, and he can give them no other form than his own because he has no other.34 Hence, ‘no one can appropriate his thoughts without thereby altering their form. Thus, this form remains forever his exclusive property.’35 The textual form is the sole – however powerful – justification for individual appropriation of common ideas, as they are conveyed by printed objects. Property of this kind has one very special characteristic, being inalienable, and anyone who acquires it (for example, the bookseller publisher) is entitled only to be its beneficiary or representative, whose actions are constrained by a series of restrictions – such as the limitation of the print run of each edition or a payment to the author for each reprint. The conceptual distinctions constructed by Fichte should, therefore, allow protection for publishers against pirated editions without in any way harming the author’s sovereign and permanent ownership of his works. Thus, paradoxically, in order for literary texts to be subjected to the laws of property governing material objects, it was necessary to divorce them conceptually from any particular materiality. It is why the autograph manuscript became the most fundamental witness of a work’s identity, the visible incarnation of the writer’s invisible genius. This was not the case in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when the signing could be delegated to someone else, whether it was in the parish records or for a will, and when even autograph signatures

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could vary widely from each other (for example, Shakespeare’s six authenticated signatures). At that time, the printed text could be considered a fiction of the author’s hand, without the need to show it. In his preface addressed to the ‘great variety of readers’, the two publishers of the First Folio by Shakespeare, John Heminge and Henry Condell, alleged that their printing of the Bard’s ‘writings’ truly offered the writing in his own hand: ‘His mind and his hand went together. And what he thought, he uttered with that easiness, that we have scarce received from him a blot in his papers.’36 In the eighteenth century, such an affirmation no longer sufficed and the actual writing of the author became a guarantee of the authenticity of his works. It is the reason why forging autograph manuscripts had become an art of that time. In February 1795, William Henry Ireland exhibited in his father’s house several recently discovered Shakespeare manuscripts: the autographs of King Lear and of two unknown pieces, Henry II and Vortigern and Rowena (which was produced once, at Drury Lane Theatre, on 2 April), the letters exchanged by the poet and his patron, Southampton, the Profession of Faith, very Protestant, by Shakespeare and a letter sent to him by Queen Elizabeth.37 In the twentieth century, the fetishism of the author’s hand led to the fabrication of supposed autograph manuscripts that, in fact, were copies of previously existing writings. For example, that is the case with the famous ‘original’ manuscript of Ulysses in the Rosenbach Museum and Library, in Philadelphia. It was written by Joyce not only as a clean copy of his drafts previously written on other supports, but also an autograph manuscript to be sold to a North American bibliophile.38 The strong relationship between autograph manuscripts and authenticity of the text was internalised by writers who became their own archivists and, before Hugo or Flaubert, composed their own literary archives. That is the case of the drafts, four autograph copies, corrected proofs and annotated copies of three different editions of La nouvelle He´loı¨se that Rousseau kept with him, composing a genetic ‘dossier’ of several thousands of pages.39 That is also the case for Goethe’s papers. In a letter written to chancellor Mu¨ller at the end of his life, Goethe indicated: My manuscripts, my letters and my archives deserve the greatest attention [. . .] A long time will pass before such a rich and varied

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collection from a single individual will be found again. [. . .] This is why I hope its conservation will be guaranteed.40 For both authors, not only the project for general publication of their texts, but also, or mainly, a very intense autobiographical relationship with writing led them to meticulously compose their own literary archives.

Reading So who dominates meaning? Is it the author, the copy editor, the corrector, the typesetter or the reader, ‘that someone who holds together in a single field all the traces by which the written text is constituted’, as Roland Barthes stated?41 In fact, the mobility of signification is the second instability that concerned and inspired the authors who accompany us. In the prologue to Tragicomedy of Calisto and Melibea, better known under the title of La Celestina, Fernando de Rojas, at the beginning of the sixteenth century, links the different interpretations of the work to the diversity of ages and humours of his listeners: Some tut-tut, that there is no wit, that the story is too much of a muchness, that the detail is wasted, that lots more stories could have been spun. Others wax fulsome about the jokes and common adages, praising them effusively, but ignore what makes them relevant and useful. Those who find everything amusing discount the heart of the story and tell it their way, select what they think is important, laugh at what is funny, and memorize the sayings and dicta of philosophers in order to repeat them at an opportune moment. So when asure reject the repeatable anecdote, retain the pith of it for their profit, ten people get together to listen to this comedy being read, and all have differing views, as is usually the case, who will deny there won’t be arguments over something that can be interpreted so differently ?42 Nearly five centuries later, Borges gave an identical attribution to the mutations of the manners of reading the variations of a work’s meaning: Literature is not inexhaustible, for the sufficient and simple reason that a single book is not. A book is not an isolated entity: it is a

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narration; an axis of innumerable narrations. One literature differs from another, either before or after it, not so much because of the text as for the manner in which it is.43 With such authorities, it is not so necessary any longer to justify the reasons that founded the project, broadly shared, of a history of reading, nor the heuristic validity of the notion of appropriation that refers as much to the intellectual and esthetic categories of the different audiences as it does to the gestures, practices, conventions that govern their relations with written culture. The essential question that is placed here is that of the process by which readers, spectators or listeners give meaning to the texts they appropriate. This interrogation led to a reaction against the strict formalism of the Nouvelle critique or New Criticism and laid the foundation for all the approaches that wanted to think about the production of meaning as built in the relationship between readers and texts. The project took on a variety of forms in literary criticism, centering the attention, be it on the dialogical relationship between the proposals of the works and the aesthetic and interpretive categories of their audiences – as in the Rezeptiostheorie44 – be it in the dynamic interaction between the text and its reader, understood from a phenomenological perspective by the reader-response theory,45 be it in the transactions that occur between the works themselves and the discourses or practices of the social world that are, at the same time, the matrices of aesthetic creation and the condition for their intelligibility, as New Historicism affirms.46 Similar approaches allowed breaking with all the structuralist or semiotic readings that referred the meaning of the works exclusively to the automatic and impersonal functioning of language. But they became themselves the target of criticism from cultural history or textual criticism. On the one hand, they frequently consider the texts as existing in and of themselves, regardless of the objects and voices that transmit them. A cultural and textual reading of works should remember that the forms given to the texts addressed to readers, hearers and spectators, also participate in the construction of their meaning. Hence the importance regained by the disciplines connected to the rigorous description of the written objects that transmit the texts: paleography, codicology, bibliography. Hence also the attention to the first historicity of the texts,

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the one that comes from the relation between the categories of designation and classification of a time’s own discourses and their materiality, understood as the mode of their inscription on the page or of their distribution on the written object. On the other hand, the critical approaches that consider reading as a ‘reception’ or a ‘response’ implicitly universalised the reading process, taking it as an act the concrete circumstances and modalities of which were of no importance. Against such an erasure of the historicity of the reader, it is necessary to remember that reading also has a history (and a sociology) and that the signification of texts depends on the rules of interpretation, and reading practices particular to the communities that make up, in synchrony or diachrony, their different audiences. The ‘sociology of texts’, as D.F. McKenzie understood it, will therefore take as its object of study the modalities of publication, dissemination and appropriation of texts. It considers the ‘text’s world’ as a world of objects and performances and the ‘reader’s world’ as that of the ‘interpretive community’ to which it pertains and which is defined by a series of abilities, norms and uses.47 The mobility of signification, the instability of works, and collective production of meaning: such are the topics that historical perspectives propose for literary analysis. Therefore, it obliges positioning the singular works or corpus of texts that are the object of the work at the crossing of two axes. A synchronic axis, which makes it possible to situate each written production in its time, or its field, and to locate it in relation to other discursive productions that are contemporary and belong to other registers of writing or experience. A diachronic axis that inscribes each discourse in the history of its genre or discipline.48 For literature, pasts are always, in some way, still living presents in which new creations are inspired or from which they distance themselves. Pierre Bourdieu saw in this contemporaneity of successive pasts one of the characteristics proper to the fields of intellectual or esthetic production.49 It makes it possible to understand the diverse relationships that new works can develop with the past: academic imitation, kitsch, the return of the ancients, satirical irony, aesthetic ruptures. By choosing as the target of his parodies books of chivalry, pastoral novels (when Don Quixote becomes the shepherd Quijotiz) and picaresque autobiographies (with the book of his life written by galley slave Gine´s de Pasamonte), Cervantes installed in the present of his

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writing three genres that had extremely varied temporalities and against which he invented a new manner of writing fiction. The interrogations of our present perhaps justify these historical perspectives. How do we maintain the concept of literary property, based since the eighteenth century on the perpetuated identity of the works, recognisable whatever the form of their publication, in a world where texts are mobile, malleable and open? How do we recognise an order of discourse, which was always an order of books and written objects, closely associating textual genres, forms of publication and authority of knowledge, when digital possibilities allow for the immediate and universal circulation of knowledge and opinions, but also of errors and forgeries? How do we preserve a perception of works as such when the new mode of transmission of texts imposes fragmented reading that erases the relationship between the fragment and identity of the work? In order to better situate these questions we must perhaps recall that the present is always made up of sedimentary pasts and that understanding it allows for a more lucid diagnostic about the ruptures that frighten or fascinate us today.

CHAPTER 2 SOURCES AND METHODS IN THE HISTORY OF THE BOOK, PUBLISHING AND READING Jean-Yves Mollier

The author begins with the assumption that a ‘publisher’, or a ‘publishing house’, as defined since the end of the eighteenth century, is never simply an individual (however clever), nor merely a group of managers. He traces the ideal process to be followed by the researcher who endeavours to understand, as a book historian, the reasons for the editorial and other choices made, and their effects, especially in the case of an important, enduring, influential publishing house. The successive steps consist in first studying thoroughly the human and family aspects of the publishing ‘house’ and then its economic environment, its commercial strategies, its titles, collections and authors. Beyond that, again using as many different sources as possible, the researcher should consider it from the angle of social history, taking into account the weight of its symbolic powers, and then in terms of the cultural context of its time, in a very different perspective from that of literary history. The method employed is comparative, most of the cases studied being major French or British nineteenth and twentieth-century publishing houses, together with a few other European examples.

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There were readers long before books came into existence, but reading requires some sort of support, be it a turtle shell, a whalebone or some other mammal bone on which a text is engraved, or a panel of wood or stone, or even an obelisk, such as those of ancient Egypt that we admire in Luxor or in Place de la Concorde, Paris, which tell the story of the Pharaohs in their own way. The book appeared in the shape of the volumen, a scroll of papyrus and parchment, long before the Christian era. China, like the West, produced many manuscripts, which today are preserved by national libraries or private collectors. The codex is somewhat more recent, going back more than 2,000 years, and it was constantly improved upon between the second and the fourteenth centuries. It gave rise to a proto-industry of the manuscript, produced from then on in series of 200–300 copies in the major scriptoria in the low European medieval period. Whether they were religious books, Bibles, Psalters, books of hours or school books for students, transcribing the courses given by their teachers in the universities that developed rapidly after the thirteenth century, the books of that time already included a title, page numbers, margins, footnotes, a table of contents, illustrations and a binding – in short, everything the printed volumes would adopt subsequently, so much so that one forgets that they did not owe anything to lead type printing. Gutenberg’s invention, which present data suggest was not a transfer of technology borrowed from Chinese typographers – who had no knowledge of the use of lead and therefore instead used porcelain or wood to engrave their characters – would allow multiple copies of a work and would contribute to the acceleration of human communication. Booksellers, who had already appeared in the Roman empire and who met at European trade fairs to exchange their goods, would go through a major development in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, without, however, giving birth to what is now called publishing.1 To publish, according to the Latin etymology, indeed means to ‘make public’, to bring to the attention of others, but in the Middle Ages, the term had a different meaning and was synonymous with introducing the work of a dead or living author, producing what could be called a scientific publication. Thus, the great Venetian printer Aldo Manucio (1449– 1515) is as famous today for his invention of the so-called italic type as for his editions of the Greco-Roman classics presented according to the principles held dear by Erasmus and the great humanists of the

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Renaissance.2 A printer, a bookseller and a scholar, he was not as yet a Verleger, neither a publisher, nor an ´editeur in the full sense of the term. We must indeed await the very end of the eighteenth century and the large scale marketing of Diderot and d’Alembert’s Encyclope´die for a revolution to occur in the Librairie, the generic term then referring to manufacturers of paper ( papetiers), as well as to printers, wholesalers, distributors and actual booksellers, the retailers who today make books available to the public. To perform this mutation and empower bookrelated professions, it was necessary for the logic within this sector of the market economy to be reversed, that is to move from the logic of demand – generating routine – to a logic of supply, which compelled them to be dynamic, constantly innovative, or else their customers, the readers, might not have been attracted and captivated. To achieve the extraordinary result calculated by Robert Darnton – 24,000 complete collections of the Encyclope´die disseminated within Europe and even in North America between the years 1770 and 1780 – booksellers had to forget their habits, relocate their production (although this was forbidden by the regulations), seek foreign financing and have recourse to advertising in order to increase sales.3 A first type of publisher was born, one that is embodied in the bookseller Charles Joseph Panckoucke (1736– 98), who bought the copperplates for printing as well as the privilege of publishing the Encyclope´die. He created the audiences that would buy the later editions of the collection, manufactured in less noble and less expensive formats than the first – the in-folio, meant for the richest readers – sold at prices that were obviously more compatible with the means of these new readers.4 Whether they were pirated – ‘counterfeit’ in the language of the time – and manufactured in Geneva, Livorno, Lucca or Neuchaˆtel or elsewhere, the editions of the Encyclope´die mobilised huge capital investment, had printers running at full capacity for a long time, thus permanently soliciting the booksellers responsible for their dissemination and distribution. It is in that capacity that the man who was at the centre of this maelstrom, Charles-Joseph Panckoucke, can be seen as the archetype or prototype of nineteenthcentury publishers, those Balzac immortalised in the character of Dauriat in his novel Illusions Perdues, a true social type then to be found in Britain, Germany or France and which would multiply around the world after 1830. Baptiste Louis Garnier, for instance, could emerge as the first national publisher in Brazil after 1850. Neither a printer nor a

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distributor, but still quite often a bookseller, the nineteenth-century publisher mediated between the writer and the audience, he performed a double function, being both an intellectual, the bearer of a project and a smart businessman, capable of performing that editorial mediation without which spreading the works of writers would have been difficult.5 If one wants to take a plunge into the history of the book, not only in respecting the rules taught by the tradition of ‘material bibliography’, well-established in Oxford and Cambridge as well as at the Sorbonne and major universities of the world, but also in including publishing and the sociology of reading in one’s field of observation,6 one must identify and gather the necessary sources with care and use a methodology that we endeavour to present here. To that end, we shall first study the human and family aspect of a publishing ‘house’, before scrutinising the economic dimension of the firm, which is located in given environment – political, legal and social – that should also be examined by using new sources every time, sources which will vary with the countries in which the firm one is researching did business. After treating the publishing house in some ways like any commercial company whose goal is to make a profit and provide a living for those who run it, we will come to the cultural dimension and focus on everything that distinguished this firm from another; a publishing house’s catalogues are the documents that best demonstrate these singularities. Beyond that quite vital source, the advertising accepted for the publisher’s books, the strategies followed to publicise the house’s titles, its collections and its authors are obviously valuable in our quest for the identity, the personality of each actor in that enterprise. Gallimard’s products were not more similar to Flammarion’s than Penguin books to Nelson’s or Macmillan’s. However, if one notices that the penguin that graced the cover of the first modern pocket book of the twentieth century,7 the one launched by the London firm Penguin in 1935, was imitated first in 1945 by a small Paris publisher who was the owner of the ‘Livre de Poche’ (‘Pocket Book’) trademark,8 and then a second time, in 1949, by Giangiacomo Feltrinelli, who released in Rome a small-sized volume which showed a baby kangaroo in his mother’s pouch reading a book, we discover everything that a comparative study of publishing houses can help us find, the circulation of ideas being extremely rapid in this area where everyone is constantly on the lookout for the innovations of one’s competitor, albeit thousands of miles away.

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A history of individuals and families The history of publishing is first of all a history of individuals with a highly developed zest for life, like Balzac’s and Stendhal’s heroes who, in order to succeed, challenge the city of Paris – Rastignac in La Pe`re Goriot – or the society they live in – Julien Sorel in Le Rouge et le Noir. It was not a coincidence if, in France, it was after the upheavals experienced in the aftermath of the Revolution and of the Napoleonic wars that booksellers of a new kind, now called publishers, stepped in. Whether we discuss Louis Hachette,9 the son of a laundress, or Pierre Larousse,10 the son of an innkeeper and a blacksmith, these two founders of large publishing companies had in mind nothing less than the desire to reform education in their respective countries and, to that end, to create their own publishing houses, as did the Garnier brothers, Hippolyte and Auguste, simple pedlars from Normandy who went to the capital to try their luck.11 It was the same in Britain, where the industrial revolution led William Henry Smith12 to devise his plan of setting up shops inside railway stations, in order to sell books, newspapers and anything likely to occupy the leisure time of a new class of individuals that flourished after 1848: the tourists.13 We observe similar phenomena in Germany, where Anton Philip Reclam and Friedrich Brockhaus became the emblems of modernity, as the collection ‘Universal Bibliothek’ [Universal Library] became one of the jewels of the company of the same name, and the Brockhaus portable dictionaries were imitated around the world.14 If we add John Murray, a British citizen,15 Carl Baedecker, a German, and Louis Hachette, a Frenchman, in the field of travel guides with red covers – the standard in the years 1830– 80 – we notice the emergence in the social space of a new type of men, the publishers, who are at the same time high-flying entrepreneurs and intellectuals pursuing projects that single them out in the world of their time. In order to study these men while avoiding the deceptive views conveyed by biographical studies when they tend to isolate individuals turned into heroes, we should summon the traditional sources of prosopography. Registry offices (for births, marriage[s], deaths), legal acts (marriage contracts, post-mortem inventories, sales, etc.), police sources based on surveillance – the control of individuals having become more common in Europe in the nineteenth century – judicial papers in case of bankruptcy/ies, or even specific documents pertaining to various

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religious practices (Catholic, Anglican, Lutheran, Calvinist, Jewish) or associations (Masonic lodges, upper middle-class clubs, youth societies), all these provide a wealth of information that helps place the character within his time. Thus Michel Le´vy, the son of a Jewish pedlar, who was born in Alsace and came to Paris with his family at the age of five, then was street educated at around 10 or 11 – like a Dickensian character – so as to learn the art of stopping a passer-by and selling him objects he did not necessarily need, retained from that training an intimate knowledge of trade and its implicit laws. Without the support of multiple documents to vouch for that individual adventure, his biography would look like a result of Storytelling, those think tanks that manufacture stories and formats minds, which twentieth century politicians are fond of.16 To avoid making that mistake, it should be noted that, on the eve of establishing himself as a book publisher, Pierre Larousse attempted to convince his sister and his family to lend him money to open an outlet for Burgundy wines in Paris. If fate – i.e. his relatives – had accepted his plan, he would surely have stored his young man’s intention of drafting the Grand Dictionnaire universel du XIXe sie`cle in his private dreamland and no one would ever have heard his name, which was to become synonymous with the word ‘dictionary’.17 It is therefore by being constantly attentive to the contingencies, the accidents that affect any human life, by denying all ex post facto explanations that the historians of publishing can try to preserve their ambition to shed light on the origins of the individual or the family that generated the publishing house on which they are working. Since we generally study firms that lasted through several generations, it is important to investigate the prosopography over several generations, by comparing the education level of their children, grandchildren and relatives, the professional and also marriage strategies adopted in order to integrate their offspring into the social environment. The instance of the children of the major Paris publisher Calmann Le´vy, all married to sons or daughters of French or foreign bankers in the period 1890– 1900, indicates both the cosmopolitanism of the French e´lite of the Belle E´poque and the financial success of a publisher. It was quite comparable to that of large merchants – Aristide Boucicaut of Le Bon Marche´ in Paris – or captains of the most powerful industries, like Eugene Schneider, who sold locomotives and guns, in Le Creusot.18 In the case of Britain, the Prime Minister of the 1960s, Harold Macmillan,

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was the descendant and owner of the eponymous publishing house. His first name undoubtedly had something to do with Byron and Childe Harold and the management of his firm was as conservative as the political party of which he was the leader. Even if he is the best known of this line of publishers who entered politics, he was hardly alone; nineteenth-century France had more than one publisher elected as congressman or senator, such as Ambroise Firmin Didot or Paul Dupont. In this area also, we should avoid the pitfalls of the kind of biography that tends to justify the sequence of facts by a sort of diabolical causality. Thus a comparison between routes, itineraries or social trajectories, terms used in the sociology of professions,19 helps us escape from that confining way of dealing with issues. The more fruitful the investigation, the larger the sample of concerned publishers, the fewer the risks of mistaken judgments will be. So, in order to explain the visceral refusal of the sons of some French publishers to see their mothers or sisters run the business after the father’s death, we have compared two very different families, that of Calmann Le´vy, Alsatian Jews, and that of Franc
ois Buloz, the Savoyard Catholic owner of the Revue des Deux Mondes. In both cases, it was the gut reaction of young bourgeois men who had attended the best schools, were friends with the descendants of the aristocracy, rode horses, practised fencing, owned sports cars as well as mansions with numerous servants, which led the sons to reject the claims of their mothers and so initiate family crises with inevitable repercussions. In so far as our purpose here is not to practise biography per se, but rather to draw from these preliminaries a number of features that may have had an influence on the catalogue, the selection of authors and the management of the business, we will not expect from the genealogical survey more than it can provide, but we will obviously take into account documents from police and judicial sources which, crossed against other sources, shed light on the paths taken by the publishers’ lives. In a country like France, where the existence of the ‘Controˆle Ge´ne´ral’ (‘General Control’), which became the ‘Renseignements Ge´ne´raux’ (‘General Information’), has meant the establishment of social control records that could be very extensive, the result yielded is often invaluable. Without these documents, we could not have brought to light the repulsive history of the ‘Otto list’, a catalogue of authors and titles banned by the German authorities when they occupied France in 1940. The reality is that the list had been drawn up beforehand by most

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of the French publishers of the period.20 When, in 2008, we disclosed this fact, which had remained carefully buried, we made a number of enemies, but the historian has to realise that the obstinate pursuit of the truth concerning the events he is attempting to reconstruct sometimes comes at a high price. In the twenty-first century, market censorship is more insidious than religious or police bans, which are of course more visible and so condemned by public opinion when it becomes aware of such events, as was shown by the Salman Rushdie case in 1989.21

A history of companies This dimension is of course fundamental, regardless of the size of the company; it is usually limited to a single person at the beginning, but sometimes tentacular, as Librairie Hachette eventually became – founded in 1826, by 1864 it had a monopoly on French railway station stands and had become in 2012 number five in the world. There is also the case of William Henry Smith, in Great Britain, still present today on the railway stations bookstalls market in the United Kingdom. A comparative study of publishing in the industrialised nations in the nineteenth century shows a strong trend toward the constitution of large firms founded by schoolteachers who were also reformers, namely Louis Hachette in France, Thomas Nelson in Scotland, Fre´de´ric Norstedt in Sweden, Fritz Payot in French-speaking Switzerland, Enrico Trevisini in Italy or Noah Webster in the United States. In the field of travel guides, the companies created by John Murray, Carl Baedecker and Louis Hachette, already mentioned, were later emulated in all the other countries. In France, for example, in 1900, the rubber tyre manufacturer Michelin launched its own red guide, intended both to compete with Hachette’s ‘blue guide’ and to convince new car drivers to stop at the garages and hotels that were recommended to the reader. In the general literature sector, in which fiction and all the collections dedicated to it predominated, the growth of the London house of Macmillan was just as important as that of its Paris rival and it was on the banks of the Thames that the first professional readers appeared, men and women paid to read the manuscripts submitted to the company and write an opinion designed to help the reading committees, the editors of the various series and the actual publishers make their strategic decisions. If we can sketch with a fairly high degree of precision the history of this

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professionalisation of publishing houses, which began shortly after 1848, we owe it mainly to the richness of the Macmillan and Hachette corporate archives. The first were deposited a long time ago at the British Library and researchers can find there not only the reading reports on the manuscripts sent to the firm, but also the correspondence between the editors and their authors, a duplicate of the letters written by the company accompanying the responses of the writers.22 This valuable example of correspondence, both active and passive, shows the importance of the editorial firms as sources; the archives of the Librairie Hachette were so rich and so remarkably preserved that the French State gave them the status of ‘historic monument’ in 2002, when they were filed with the Institut Me´moire de l’Edition Contemporaine (IMEC) (Memory of the Contemporary Edition Institute). To be found there are the print runs of individual books, which are of interest to cultural historians, as will be seen further, as well as all the financial and accounting documents that provide a clear vision of the profits – or losses, depending on the case – of the studied company. Since it is a company, it should be observed as an entity of that type, since it had to comply with a number of requirements to avoid errors or fatal accidents, like bankruptcy, although today historians can show that those did not necessarily point to impending death. For instance, the publisher Arthe`me Fayard went bankrupt twice before giving his son a firm that would become, in the 1900s, one of the major players in the field of popular fiction; Fayard published the Fantoˆmas series and then the first detective novels of Georges Simenon. In the twenty-first century, the existence of institutions dedicated to gathering publishers’ archives, the Mondadori Foundation in Milan,23 the University of Reading in Britain, the Fondation Me´moire E´ditoriale in Lausanne, the IMEC in the abbaye Ardenne, and many others elsewhere in the world, now ease the work of the researcher who must, however, take into account the dispersion of the collections, never kept in a single place. One example will show how vital the economic dimension in the history of books and publishing, and also of reading, is – the spectacular price drop of French books in the years 1838– 55. While the network of bookstores was still non-existent prior to 1850, books were mostly borrowed in the circuit of the ‘cabinets de lecture’, the British Circulating Libraries or German Leihbibliotheken, and print runs were limited – 800 to 1,200 copies for ‘circulating libraries books’, one of the

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equivalents of the English three-deckers – the Belgian counterfeiters offered books two or three times cheaper than their Parisian counterparts, which they copied. However, to make business profitable and attack French books on foreign markets, they had adopted the small portable format called in-18 in which they could print contents equivalent to two or three in-8. Product standardisation, rationalised manufacturing and its low introductory price had enabled them to make larger printings and so contribute to the democratisation of reading. In order to survive, the Paris publishers had to adapt to new standards, almost amounting to an industrial production of books. Gervais Charpentier was the first, in 1838, to give up the in-octavo format and the high price – ₣7.50 (francs) – for new books (novels) in order to launch his famous ‘Collection Charpentier’ – costing ₣3.50. Michel Le´vy was soon to imitate him and earn a lot of money with the Œuvres Comple`tes of Alexandre Dumas sold ₣2 a volume in 1846, before being threatened in his turn in 1853–4 by Louis Hachette’s Bibliothe`que des chemins de fer (Railway Library) and La Librairie Nouvelle’s ‘Bibliothe`que Nouvelle’ (New Bookshops’ ‘New Library’) at ₣1. So, in the autumn of 1855, he decided to start a massive advertising campaign to promote his ‘Collection Michel Le´vy’ costing ₣1 (e5 in 2014) for 350– 400 pages, small in-18 books which included two or three volumes of the so-called ‘circulating libraries’ novels. Madame Bovary, in its original version, would be one of its most glorious titles, in 1857.24 To summarise this cluster of technological innovations, as the economist Joseph Schumpeter would have called it if he had had to comment on this example, we should mention that first the paper manufacturers devised a print sheet format – the ‘Jesus’ – which is especially easy to fold, without waste or shreds, in the in-18 format, 36 pages printed recto–verso. The printers were then able to manufacture low-cost, small, compact books intended to supply a broad audience. In less than 20 years, the publishers who initiated these changes contributed to the reduction of the average price of a novel by dropping it from ₣15 to ₣1 (e75 to e5) and, above all, in order to clear their debts, they resolved to kill the circulating libraries. They increased print runs – 6,600 copies against the previous 1,000 – and thus justified the development of bookshops, without which the readers would not have been able to find the books meant for them. Louis Hachette’s ‘Bibliothe`que des chemins de fer’ did not start until 1853

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because a new channel of book distribution had just been devised, so that bookstalls had opened in railway stations. One of their most unexpected consequences would be the springing up of bookstores wherever the ‘steam horse’, as it was called, showed up. The process had come full circle so that, when Louis Hachette died in 1864, France was almost entirely equipped in specialised outlets. Michel Le´vy could explain to a rather sceptical George Sand that his goal was to create a desire to read as powerful as the need to eat and drink, which reflects the mood prevailing in Europe, at a time when Victor Hugo could write: ‘Whenever we open a school, we close a prison.’ No doubt a utopian dream, his prediction confirmed the immense hope that his so-called ‘progressive’ contemporaries placed in books. As ‘goods’, they provided Michel Le´vy and Louis Hachette with a luxurious existence in their magnificent Parisian mansions and their chateaux in the provinces, but, as ‘ferment’, they ignited the hearts and stimulated the most ardent spirits to embrace revolutions that would mark the century, from the one in 1830 to the Paris Commune in 1870, as well as all the others that broke out across Europe in 1848. For another example of the intertwining of economic and cultural history, we shall stop briefly on the second revolution of French book prices, which started in 1904. That time, it was on the initiative of Arthe`me Fayard’s son, a good connoisseur of the technical feats made possible by the new monotypes and linotypes, those large rotating machines that could print whole character lines at once and thus provide very large labour savings and resulted in circulation numbers of 50,000 copies or more. By launching the ‘Modern Bibliothe`que’ (‘Modern Library’) at ₣0.95, Arthe`me Fayard did not really lower book prices, but he offered nicely printed and illustrated volumes on satin paper, which helped stimulate the desire of low income audiences. One year later, encouraged by his first success, he raised a media storm by announcing the series entitled Le Livre populaire (The Popular Book), which contained thick novels sold at ₣0.65, with garish covers and teasing titles, like the first and most famous one, Chaste et fle´trie by Charles Me´rouvel. Compelled to follow, despite their ideological and aesthetic reticence, Arthe`me Fayard’s competitors all developed similar products and the most literary one, Calmann-Le´vy, released in 1906 the ‘Nouvelle collection illustre´e’ at ₣0.95, was to sell 512,000 copies of Peˆcheur d’Islande by Pierre Loti between 1907 and 1919, which gives a precise idea of the changes

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achieved in a decade by France’s finally entering the mass culture system.25 The appearance of the modern paperback in 1953, in France, compared to 1935 in London, 1939 in New York and 1949 in Italy and Belgium, is the most coherent explanation. In a country that was not used to a high price for hardback volumes, there was no hurry to invent the paperback since it was in that soft cover shape that the majority of the books intended for the general public circulated. Just as the tripledeckers that had appeared with the marketing with the Walter Scott novels quickly gave way, on the banks of the Seine, to the small standardised volume at ₣1, the same paper cover, blue or green in colour, then yellow, was adopted by all publishers around 1850– 5, making it possible for a ‘silent cultural revolution’ to take place. The publishing firms’ financial archives contribute significantly to our understanding of it; we shall return to them in our conclusion.26

A social history: the weight of symbolic powers We could give countless instances of what the archives of the trade courts or the tax registry reveal to researchers to help them reconstruct the life of companies, especially when they faced insolvency or bankruptcy filing, but several recent PhDs have borne out the correctness of the approach that focuses, at least initially, on accounting documents, yearly balance sheets, various bills and all those traces of economic life in which both publishing and the book participate.27 However, since our approach aims at being whole, it seems a good idea to present sources that pertain to the environment of the studied firm as well and to insist on anything that can help us fathom the personality of the publishers at the helm of these firms. From that angle, scrutinising the staff records, as we did for the Librairie Hachette, will highlight the slowness or, on the contrary, the speed of the turnover. In the latter case, it was a sign of the uneasiness caused by the organisation of labour, the pressure exerted upon the employees or their monitoring. In the huge printing house Mame, in Tours, and in its industrial binding workshops, two ‘crimes’ were immediately punished by dismissal: alcoholism and chatting. If, however, the employees accepted that they had to shut up and work conscientiously, they had everything a paternalistic social management could offer: day care centre, school, hospital, old people’s home, etc.28 Its fellow printer Firmin-Didot, settled in the countryside, in the Eure

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region, favoured the hiring of deaf and mute girls, cared for by nuns, because they were known for their docility. Larousse preferred family networks for hiring, so as to limit the inherent risks of a labour market that was not well managed by the employers. In addition to these initial elements of information lying in corporate archives, which can be complemented by union files, when they exist, or those from the police, as it may have been called upon to intervene in some more or less harsh conflict or strike – May–June 1936 and May 1968 left abundant records in France – an abundance of data can be found in the press, which is also a good observation point for publishers and their evolution. Sometimes, on the occasion of an award, a prize, a medal, an anniversary or a commemoration, the social and political opinions of their heads are discussed, approved or decried, depending on the case, which is also a valuable source of information about the particular men, the dynasties they have formed and their firms.29 The archives concerning sensitive periods, World War II and the Occupation of France, for example, are most likely to provide important data on the ideology of the entrepreneurs, their resistance or their submission to the dictates of the lords of each era. In countries such as Brazil, Argentina or Chile, which experienced dictatorship and repression, a search of this type can be risky, even physically, but it will be hard to abstain from if one wants to understand something of the process of political book publishing in the years 1960– 80. Here again, it is worth insisting on the fact that the composition of the catalogue of a publishing house or the choice of titles within a collection are not only signs of the editorial policies or strategies put in place by the editors. They can indeed be dictated, or simply suggested, by the powers in place, by the Churches if they can, or other, more or less discreet forces, as shown in the example of the authoritarian dismissal of Arnaldo Orfila Raynal, the charismatic director of the Fondo de Cultura Econo´mica de Me´xico, in November 1965. We now know that it was at the instigation of the CIA, which could no longer tolerate the political positions of that prestigious Latin American publishing house, that Orfila Raynal was expelled from his position and went on to head the publisher Siglo XXI in Argentina, where he resumed translating the most important writings in the field of social sciences.30 The scandal triggered by the Mexican authorities a year after the Spanish translation of the American anthropologist Oscar Lewis’ investigation, The Children of Sanchez, was just a pretext to get rid

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of a publisher who had become embarrassing for Washington; the North American intelligence agency acted in the matter as it had been accustomed to do in that part of the world, which it had considered, since the proclamation of the ‘Monroe doctrine’ in 1823, as its fiefdom. Other examples analysed at recent conferences have shown that entire translation assistance programmes, especially of liberal Anglo-Saxon economists into Arabic, had their origin in the strategy of the North American government and foundations, convinced that if the Middle Eastern students had whole series of cheap books at their disposal, they would rather read them than more expensive and provocative political economy treatises.31 The Progress Press in Moscow also did a lot for the diffusion of Lenin’s works in the same period and the People’s Press of Beijing printed tens of millions of copies of Mao’s Little Red Book, convinced that they would contribute to the rapid destruction of the ‘paper tiger’ which, to them, stood for American imperialism. Unknowingly, they acted just like the Protestant and Catholic churches which, in the nineteenth century, distributed hundreds of millions of copies of printed religious material, Bibles, catechisms or Biblical apologetics intended to spread faith in the hearts of the colonised peoples. The archives of the Pe`res Blancs in Africa, beautifully preserved in the headquarters of that institution, in Rome, await the researcher who will take the time to examine them and try to understand and then revisit the logic and implications of these findings, in the Maghreb and in francophone Africa. No doubt, one day, researchers will undertake the same type of work on the Opus Dei and the charities or congregations that have proliferated since 1950, Islamic,32 Buddhist or Evangelical ones. Their missionary zeal was often seconded by plans for the publishing of magazines or books released on a large scale, since religion or metaphysics sometimes have a very close relationship to ideology.

A cultural history: the book and its singularities After addressing the individual history of the publishing house’s founder, followed by the economic records of the company, and then attempting to understand its social, ideological and political environment, it is easy to come to the best-known aspect, with the largest number of documents. Too often, though, they are read in a way that does not help illuminate their background, their inscription in the

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cultural field. The study of the dynamics of the catalogue, not that resulting from elimination, when one wishes to retain only the major works, but the one the logic or lack of planning of which the researcher patiently strives to reconstruct, proves to be a fundamental exercise. Professional journals such as Bibliographie de la France, Publishers Circular (the ancestor of Publishers Weekly) or Bo¨rsenblatt, and the copyright archives, when they exist, are an essential mine providing indispensable documents for this archaeology, which other – private – sources, like publishers’ printing records, often written in chronological order, each title coming after the previous one, can help us reconstruct. However, Franc
ois Maspero, the well-known publisher of French dissenters in the years 1960– 70, has cautioned us against the illusion that this type of reconstruction can produce, when too positivist or too fetishist. Besides the catalogue of published authors, he said, is that of the writers whom we would have liked to publish but who were under contract with a competitor and, finally, a third catalogue, with the authors that were not included in collections, but whom we helped get published by a house that better reflected their horizon of expectation.33 It goes without saying that these connections, more or less identifiable, shall be recovered by book historians if they are not to limit their remarks to the visible tip of the iceberg. But then they enter an area of strong disturbance, for risky assumptions can be made where there is no documentary evidence to illuminate the invisible catalogues of a publishing house. We can see that, even though it is a fact that the authors or writers published here and there belong to the literary field, the latter cannot be understood only by following the criteria offered by literary history, since literary schools, manifestoes, petitions and ‘battles’ like that of Hernani had their own logic, which was not just based on aesthetics. Pierre Bourdieu,34 Gise`le Sapiro,35 Pascale Casanova,36 have insisted enough on this point, so that there is hardly any need to add to it, especially since, as early as 1912, a Belgian poet, Fernand Divoire, published in Paris his Introduction a` l’E´tude de la Strate´gie Litte´raire, which proved to be a valuable guide for anyone trying to understand the aggressive strategies developed a few years later by the Dadaists, the Surrealists and later, the Lettristes and the Situationnistes. In La Socie´te´ du Spectacle, Guy Debord condensed the theories that had appeared before 1914, at a time when manifestoes by the friends of Zola, of the

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‘Decadents’, of the ‘Symbolists’, of the Mercure de France, then of the NRF had accustomed the public to strategies that brought to mind all that Victor Hugo’s play, Hernani, first performed in 1830, had owed to the flame of the ‘Jeune France’ gathered around their leader.37

Conclusion To conclude this methodological survey aimed at showing the extent of the sources and archival deposits, public or private, that relate to books, publishing and reading, we would like to say that the researchers, be they historians, literature specialists, sociologists or anthropologists, should first endeavour to devise new ways of approaching their subject. Whether they return to documents already explored by their predecessors or uncover new ones, the most important thing to do is to question the documents they find, their status, their position in the period considered. No individual, no institution, no business has ever worked for the happiness or the comfort of future historians. A publishing contract, a catalogue of available books, an advertisement praising the launch of a novel or a philosophical essay fit primarily in a particular universe, that of publishing, which is in itself a key element in the literary field. Interviews, articles or correspondence written on the spur of the moment do not aim at the truth but, in general, at efficiency. So one should remain on one’s guard, for some traces have been deliberately altered so as to avoid any uncalled for revelations. Having been evicted from his publishing house, Bernard Grasset is known to have kept two kinds of accounting records, those he showed to authors, where the sales figures were significantly reduced, and those that were intended for his sole use, where the figures were closer to reality. Should we infer that all his colleagues mimicked him and tampered with their writers’ accounts? No, even if in their correspondence Ce´line or Giono often assert that Gaston Gallimard did the same with his younger authors. The world of publishing, a secret and opaque one, is difficult to reconstruct and understand from the inside, which does not mean that one should avoid approaching it. Indeed, for many centuries, our cultures have rested on writing and, largely, on the printed word – whether in the shape of the leaflet, the poster, the brochure, the newspaper or the book, without forgetting all the paper ephemera, that

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contributed to the acculturation of common people and to the circulation of ideas. With the advent of school for all, in the nineteenth century, in Northern and Western European nations, silent cultural revolutions took place, which profoundly altered the relationship of men, women, children and the common people to printed matter. No longer wholly content with the words of the priest or those of the teacher to interpret the world, since newspapers and cheap books were massively available in the cities, the inhabitants of large cities, and even of smaller ones, rushed to read the barely dry ink of newspapers and the series of small popular books to stimulate their imaginations. They did so by focusing on the faits divers that filled newspapers and novels between 1860 and 1914 or by feeding on romances, crime stories and adventures beyond the sea – or else up in the air and the depths of the sea with Jules Verne and his epigones – which brought them that dream element that some wanted to censor for fear of alienation and others tried to fight because of its real or alleged harmfulness.38 Writing the history of books, publishing and reading, therefore, implies everything but locking oneself into a scholarly and parched approach of reality. On the contrary, it means trying to probe the social representations of individuals, what until recently one called their mentalities, the part of themselves that says something of their time, its fears and its desires.

CHAPTER 3 MAGAZINES AND THE WRITING OF HISTORY: SOME INTERPRETATIVE CHALLENGES Tania Regina de Luca

The purpose of this chapter is to discuss the role of printed periodicals in the writing of history. A secondary source, once considered partial and unreliable, newspapers and magazines have since gained historiographical legitimacy and become valued as documents capable of revealing habits, customs, values, sensitivities, practices and social representations. Thus, it is important to track these transformations and explain their reasons, which can be traced back to changes within the discipline itself. On the other hand, if it is true that the use of printed periodicals has broadened, it has not been accompanied by its own methodology, which takes into account the specificity and complexity of this source. In addition to contributions from discourse analysis, this chapter draws on concerns addressed in cultural history and, more specifically, the history of books and reading, which draws out aspects related to materiality and the production process itself. Hence the attention to titles, covers, the internal structure of content, the absence/presence of iconographic material and its dialogue with the textual content and with publicity. The list of collaborators, publishers and authorities is another aspect that needs to be

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considered, since it allows us to define the motivations for releasing of the publication. Printed magazines have been brought into play more frequently by researchers in the Humanities, which has a bearing on discussing the challenges and potentialities surrounding the use of this type of documentation. However, it is important to remember that periodicals are products of the publishing world and so need to be referenced to this broader universe, where they constitute a specific genre. As with other types of printed material, newspapers and magazines are complex cultural objects, governed by devices that permeate materiality, that is to say, the layout of the content and its distribution on the page have repercussions for the effects, meanings and comprehension of texts. The same observation applies to images, whose forms of articulation with writing deserve special attention. These reflections, originating in studies on publishing and reading, have contributed to formulating new fields of questioning and to renewing the view of periodicals themselves and their process of circulation and appropriation. Given this broader context, the aim of this chapter is to present some theoretical and methodological issues that involve their use, as well as to discuss how researchers’ perception of this type of material has varied over time. The text is therefore organised in two parts: the first briefly addresses the broader universe in which issues concerning the use of documents in the writing of history are contextualised, while the second reflects on certain aspects of the use of printed media, specifically magazines, understood as both source and object.

Delineating the issue: documents, sources and historiography The use of periodical sources in the writing of history poses a number of theoretical and methodological problems and it is therefore important to clarify the terminology. An historical document is understood to be any vestige of the past, recent or distant, regardless of its medium and/or nature, while the term historical source is reserved for the set of documents assembled in a given study. This is why we speak of a centre for documentation, but not of a centre for sources. This apparently trivial distinction means that, when stating their sources, the historian has

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already conducted an intricate selection process, since among all the possible documents that can be drawn upon to respond to their inquiries, they have chosen a data set, condensed it and grouped it in a particular way; in other words, they have made numerous choices. It is precisely the work of historiography to reflect on the choices made by historians over time: the themes covered in a given period, the types of documents and archives selected, the analytical tools used and the questions formulated. Note that the term ‘historiography’ demands a complement, since it deals with the historiography of something – for example, of the Industrial Revolution, the Russian Revolution, the workers’ movement or the avant-garde artistic movements of the beginning of the last century. Historiography – the study of the history of the writing of history – cautions that choices are articulated not only according to tastes, interests, preferences and individual trajectories, but to contexts, demands, social representations, in short, factors that are not always obvious. This is the case, for example, for the opportunities provided by a given university to its undergraduate and postgraduate students: the professors’ interests, the established exchanges, lines of research offered, policies concerning the establishment or storage of archives, and not forgetting the watchful gaze of peers, all configure a social place, resuming Michel de Certeau’s formulation concerning the historiographical operation, which plays a decisive role in shaping the tastes, interests and choice of the objects of research.1 It seems unnecessary to emphasise that addressing the issue of historical sources means involving the core identity of the discipline, which was constituted as such over the course of the nineteenth century, when the prevailing conception of science was anchored in the notion of fact, observation and experimentation, based above all on Newtonian physics and biology. It was also a coherent, logically comprehensible universe and one endowed with everyday verisimilitude, very different from that which would emerge in the early twentieth century. Likewise, technological advances could be perceived by ordinary citizens, even though the distribution of the benefits was far from flowing much beyond the triumphant bourgeoisie. It is no surprise, therefore, that the intention to apply methods similar to those used for the natural world to the realm of human experiences predominated. Hence the effort to delineate rules, practices and methods considered capable of providing reliable results, anchored in the exhaustive survey of documents

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submitted to fierce internal and external criticism and presented in a narrative that sought scientific objectivity, all within an environment steeped in appeals to scientificity. It is not hard to find examples in the historiography of the nineteenth century that attest to a concern for approximating the practices of the emerging discipline to those of the dominant sciences. Thus, Hippolyte Taine (1828– 93) prescribed a path close to experimentation – ‘A historian will be permitted to act as a naturalist: I was facing my subject as if facing the metamorphosis of an insect’ – while Fustel de Coulanges (1830– 89), in turn, insisted that ‘the best historian is one who sticks closest to the texts’, in addition to warning that ‘history is not an art, it is a pure science, like physics or geology [. . .]. It seeks only to encounter facts, discover truths.’2 Although discordant examples can always be found, it would not be unreasonable to affirm that in the constitution and institutionalisation of the discipline of History, a tradition prevailed in which the practices and achievements of natural science were the desired horizon. Thus, manuals appeared that presented the rules that ought to guide historiographical practice; the most emblematic example of these was the Introduction aux e´tudes historiques (Introduction to the Study of History) (1898), written by professors of the Sorbonne, Charles-Victor Langlois (1854– 1942) and Charles Seignobos (1863– 1929), aimed at students in French higher education. Meanwhile, Germany already looked to the vigorous work of Leopold von Ranke (1795– 1886), the most illustrious representative of the so-called Prussian school, founder of the modern method of university education, who did not hesitate to affirm the dependence of historical science on direct testimonies and the most authentic of sources. Aside from recent reflections on the extremely simplistic and impoverishing comprehension not only of the aforementioned manual, but also of the remaining works of Langlois, Seignobos and Ernest Lavisse (1842–1922), to cite the most prominent authors and those targeted by the most virulent attacks, the methodical school was undisputedly guided by lexical precision, a predilection for politics, fixation on documents and belief in the possibility of objective knowledge, where distance and autonomy toward the topic under investigation must be maintained by the researcher. Specifically in relation to sources, Langlois and Seignobois express in their manual the

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naive prophecy according to which the historian completes their task ‘when all the documents are known, and have gone through the operations which fit them for use, the work of critical scholarship will be finished’ and warned: The quantity of documents in existence, if not of known documents, is given; time, in spite of all the precautions which are taken nowadays, is continually diminishing it; it will never increase. History has at its disposal a limited stock of documents; this very circumstance limits the possible progress of historical science.3 These observations sound particularly strange to contemporary practitioners of the craft, familiar with the renovations brought about by the different generations of the so-called Annales school. The banner brandished by the early reformers, Lucien Febvre and Marc Bloch, was based on the ideal of history open to questioning and problematisation – which should be understood as an abandonment of the political, of chronology, of facts and data taken by themselves, of the glorification of great men and their deeds, of the narrow notion of document and the short duration of the event. It was now more fully dedicated to addressing collective phenomena, the multitudes and the people, a character that stole the scene once reserved for distinguished personalities; with exploring the temporal complexity, with its different rhythms and varying durations; with abandoning the surface of events in favour of deep structures; with peering into the mentalities and the imaginary; with handling large document sets, constructing curves and graphs; and with appropriating the multiple vestiges of the past in search of an economic and social history. In his famous book Combats pour l’histoire (The fight for history), Fevbre argued against the fixation of methodical researchers for written documents and proposed a conceptual expansion that went uncontested. The quote, though long, is important to understand the assumptions of the new theoretical stance which took hold: History is made with written documents, undoubtedly, when these exist. But it can be made, it must be made without written documents when there are none. With all that the historian’s

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ingenuity allows him to use to manufacture his honey, in the absence of the usual flowers. Thus, with words, and signs. Scenery and tiles. With forms of fields and weeds. With eclipses of the moon and yokes of oxen. With expertise in rocks by geologists and analysis of metal swords by chemists. In a word, with everything belonging to man, that depends on man, serves man, expresses man, implies the presence, activity, tastes and ways of being of man. Is it all not part, and arguably the most exciting aspect of our work as historians, a constant effort to make dumb things speak, make them say what they cannot themselves say about men, about the societies that produced them – and, finally constitute together this vast network of solidarity and mutual support which compensates for the absence of a written document? If there are no statistics or demographics, or anything: we will respond with resignation to this deficiency? On the contrary, being a historian means never resigning. It means trying everything to fill in the gaps in information. It means exploring all our ingenuity, the true expression. We trick ourselves, or rather, we hurl ourselves twenty times enthusiastically along a path full of promise – and later realise that it does not take us where we wanted to go. So much the worse, we begin again.4 The stance was about replacing narrative history, now understood as synonymous with event history and typified by the practices of methodical historians. Based on very different perspectives from those that prevailed in the late nineteenth century and striving to differentiate themselves from them, the Annales scholars reaffirmed confidence in a History capable of manipulating its own instruments, broadening the scope of research and developing a knowledge that was safe and secured by models of intelligibility. Here was Science in the making, an often repeated saying that indicated confidence in the procedures of a discipline firmly established in the university structure and in basic education. Since then, the course of historiography shows that renovations in the thematic and methodological sphere were accompanied by the ‘discovery’ of new sources or, like Febvre’s beautiful image, historians that have shown the capacity to ‘make their own honey’. There are many new concerns, such as studies on the working classes and the excluded

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(the so-called history from below) or discussions of gender (no longer concerning sex, with its biological connotation). Changes in the scale of observation have been observed, such as microhistory, and the problems raised by an approach centred on the concept of culture or on oral history. Also important is the renewed interest in individual trajectories and the biography, the attention to diaries, letters, autobiographies and other records that comprise writing about oneself, whether by ordinary people or important characters. Added to these are the possibilities revealed by images, still or moving. Thus, with every change, a set of vestiges of the past has been assembled that had not previously integrated the horizon of historians. The history of printing and reading constitute one of these fields of research, with a list of questions that problematised the practice of reading and writing and enquired into the production of printed media and its circulation.5 Thus, it hardly seems unreasonable to state that the meanings, contents, forms of approach and even the understanding of what sources and historical documents are extends across the discipline and constitutes the cornerstone of various epistemological currents that have tried (and continue to try) to satisfactorily fulfil the production of knowledge in this discipline.

Magazines and the writing of History Outlining the broader picture, perhaps it is worth restating our goal: the intent is to present certain theoretical and methodological issues relating to the use of periodical sources in the writing of history, and so it is relevant to ascertain how the relative apprehension of printed periodicals has varied over time. Just two examples need be mentioned that reflect the prevailing environment in the 1960s. In the third edition of Teoria da Histo´ria do Brasil (Theory of the History of Brazil ), the historian Jose Honorio Rodrigues devoted two paragraphs to the history of the press and although he upheld the newspaper as one of the ‘principal sources of historical information’, he reflected that ‘the independence and accuracy of editorial content is not always dominant’, characterising it as a ‘mixture of the impartial and the biased, the true and the false’. He further warned that ‘the discussion of problems of this nature has rarely preoccupied historians of the press in Brazil. They have always limited themselves to the accurate or inaccurate narration of

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periodicals and journalists since the period of independence formed or expressed public opinion.’6 Jean Glenisson, a French professor who taught in the Department of History at the University of Sa˜o Paulo and author of the manual Iniciaca˜o aos Estudos Histo´ricos (An Introduction to Historical Studies), a frequently reedited book that inspired the creation of introductory courses in the discipline throughout Brazil, also pointed out problems, though of a different nature. When commenting on the critical procedures demanded by newspapers, Glenisson reflected that these were endowed with ‘daunting complexity. It will always be difficult to know how hidden influences are exerted at a given moment on a body of information, what role was played, for example, by the distribution of advertising, what pressure was exerted by the government.’ He endorsed the words of the historian Pierre Renouvin, who insisted on the crucial importance of inquiring about the sources of information of a given publication, its circulation and area of dissemination, its relationships with political institutions, economic and financial groups, aspects that are still neglected, whether by historians who resorted to the press or by those who devoted themselves to writing its history.7 It is worth noting an important shift, since it was no longer a matter of questioning the use of newspapers and magazines due to their lack of objectivity – an attribute that, in fact, no vestige of the past can uphold. Previously the intent had been to advise against the instrumental and naive use that considered periodicals as mere receptacles of information to be selected, extracted and used at the whim of the researcher. The resulting broad list of requirements calling for caution meant that some, when facing a lack of other documents, were willing to take numerous risks. Others, in turn, regarded the recommendations with great scepticism, since they considered the press to be subordinate to the dominant classes, as mere sounding boards of values, interests and ideological discourses. Thus, such readings contributed to breeding the contempt that professionals of this field conferred upon the press, though for very different reasons. The prevailing situation in the historiographical field is very diverse, since it is the very objectives of the discipline that have changed, a complex articulation between social demands and new epistemological stances, with the result that periodicals are now fully legitimised. Doubt no longer exists concerning the importance of

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pamphlets, newspapers and magazines, in their manifold modalities, in the reconstruction of history. Regarding Brazil, this kind of material is available for the period from 1808 onwards, the inaugural date of printing presses in Brazil, as Eliana Dutra has detailed in another chapter of this book. A closer reading of the catalogues of publishers, lists of dissertations and theses, the titles of lines of research and postgraduate disciplines, seminars and magazine dossiers indicates the centrality of such documentation in current historical knowledge production, where accusations of inaccuracy, imprecision, bias or lack of objectivity no longer carry weight. Assuredly, the print has not changed, rather the notions, concepts and assumptions of the discipline, highlighting the status of truth, as well as forms of use and the questions directed towards the documentation. The instrumental use of periodicals, viewed as mere receptacles of facts and ideas, which historians resorted to in order to obtain data that attested to their conclusions, has given way to studies that show, through discourse analysis, the partiality of the information, the relationships with the established powers, political groups and economic and financial interests. There is significant production that reveals how much news and controversy is subordinate to varied interests and the complexity of its confection. Moreover, questions concerning the isolation of excerpts, without the slightest concern for their settings and the meanings derived from these, is not limited to History, but has affected literary studies; in Brazil, it is not uncommon to see texts from famous figures being ‘retrieved’ from some long-forgotten page by the researcher, who did not think it necessary to consider the medium and possible implications in the context of text production. The need to trace the historical course of printed periodicals has thus become evident, since their status has changed significantly over time. Herein we consider the case in Brazil in particular; however, in respect of local specificities and specific temporalities, the general outlines would not be very different. For a significant part of the nineteenth century, newspapers and magazines continued to be produced by hand, by individuals driven more by an interest in participating in the public debate than by earning profits, as is explicit, for example, in the process of Brazilian independence. A very different situation prevailed from the twentieth century onwards, when the enterprise met with significant change and was subordinated to the logic of business. The press became

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an industry that was dependent on workers and had to manage the resulting conflicts. The novelties of the production line followed – linotypes, paper roll, ever faster printers – and opened up the possibility of printing thousands of copies, cut, folded and ready to be distributed by means that continually diminished the distance to the readership: trams, railroads, steamers. Circulation increased, the quality of the editions improved, prices fell and the area of dissemination expanded. The process was accompanied by increasing segmentation and specialisation in order to reach increasingly specific publics and social sectors (women, children, men, sports, education, agriculture, business. . .). Changes no less profound occurred in the internal structure and imagetic resources available. The mode of making periodicals began to require a diverse range of skills, the fruit of the division of labour and specialisation, which was not limited to the printing process but also affected content, requiring editors, columnists, critics, reporters, editors, designers and photographers, as well as administrative staff, a publicity department and workers to bring the copies into existence. The times when one or a few individuals could aspire to the condition of owner and of being responsible for the production and dissemination of print ceased to exist. New genres took shape – notes, reports, interviews, essays, critiques, inquiries, faits-divers – and collaborated in broadening the possibilities for the professionalisation of the artifices of text and image, in response to the importance assumed by information in an urban space that amassed, above all, in cities like Rio de Janeiro and Sa˜o Paulo. Employment in the press constituted the gateway to the world of letters and became the central activity for writers (including rare female writers); this in a country with fragile cultural institutions and a university system that had only been created in the 1930s. The issue of the status of intellectual work can be added to the no less challenging problems of the marks of that production for the press and the demands of the media left on literary technique and sensitivity. In the early twentieth century, news and information begin to gain ground at the expense of the political article and of indoctrination, a change with no chance of return, which was linked to new social demands and with the recorded changes in the circulation of facts, reflected in the organisation of international agencies. In a word, the internal structure and textual genres are also endowed with historicity and the changes

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observed therein over time derive from a complex interaction between available printing techniques, values and social needs. These lines of force should not be circumscribed by national borders, on the contrary, since the nineteenth century, on an international level, the press has been permeated by the circulation and exchange of ideas, formulas and genres, in a complex game of appropriations and resignifications, which facilitated questioning approaches anchored in notions of copying, importing and the use of models. These considerations may serve as a methodological guide given the huge diversity that characterises the world of periodicals. A cursory glance at printed media produced in different periods is sufficient to perceive the enormous variability in shape, cover/headline, paper type, print quality, absence/presence of images (lithography, engraving, photography) and their nature (caricature, cartoon, landscape, personalities and historical events, scenes of daily life, crimes, tragedies. . .). Such options, as we have tried to show, are not at all natural, on the contrary, they reflect the technical conditions of production that prevailed at any given time and the sociopolitical contexts, and these require analysis. Furthermore, new possibilities do not necessarily and immediately imply abandoning previous technologies. Thus, in the same space and time, publications aimed at the market, that incorporate the latest innovations available and with small working and union staff, coexist with neighbourhood or religious tabloids printed on old presses that are still in use. In short, once the publication (or set of publications) has been selected, it is important to keep the above framework in mind and clarify the specific role played by the periodical (or periodicals) in the history of the press. Paying attention to the material and typographical aspects, the nature and structure of the content, the visual resources and the way they are used constitutes an important step and may even precede a systematic analysis of the content itself. It is worth insisting on this aspect because the opposite has commonly prevailed in historiographical works: the texts of interest to the theme under study are selected, while the support is viewed as a secondary detail. As an example, observe the difference between magazines circulating in the nineteenth century (Figures 3.1 and 3.2), variety magazines that were typical of the initial decades of the twentieth century (Figures 3.3 and 3.4) and, lastly, one that was not intended for audiences eager for

Figure 3.1 A Estaca˜o (The Season). An illustrated periodical for the family (RJ/Porto, 1879– 1904), a long-running publication aimed at the female audience, allying fashion and literature. Source: National Library of Rio de Janeiro.

Figure 3.2 Jornal das Famı´lias (Magazine for Families) (RJ/Paris 1863 – 78). A monthly magazine, owned by the bookseller and editor Louis B. Garnier, printed in Paris, lavishly illustrated with excellent graphic quality. Source: National Library of Rio de Janeiro.

Figure 3.3 The Revista Feminina (Women’s Magazine) (SP, 1914– 36) circulated nationwide and was entirely dedicated to women, unlike contemporary magazines that only had a few sections dedicated to this public. Source: Archives of the State of Sa˜o Paulo.

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Figure 3.4 A Vida Moderna (Modern Life ) (SP, 1907 –15) was a variety magazine of good print quality that achieved great success with the public. Source: Archives of the State of Sa˜o Paulo

news and images, but directed towards the intelligentsia and offered solutions for the country’s problems (Figure 3.5). The first four attracted potential readers with mild content, mixing social notes, fashion, literature, leisure and entertainment, always using short texts and lots of images that, particularly in the twentieth century,

Figure 3.5 The Revista do Brasil (Review of Brazil ) (SP, 1916 –25) was the country’s leading literary and cultural magazine, which united a diverse group of collaborators and sought to reflect on the country’s problems and indicate ways to solve them. Source: Author’s personal collection.

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with the introduction of photography, were juxtaposed with the writing. However, the last example, which was on the list of cultural and literary buffs, dispensed with iconography, had an austere cover that was almost completely covered by the index, resembled a book and demanded an experienced reader capable of handling criticism and intertextuality. The options in the field of materiality immediately indicate the objectives and the public that the periodical intended to reach, inviting us to turn our gaze to those responsible for the conception of the project. Magazines, newspapers, publishing houses, coffee shops, bookstores and cultural associations allow us to map the dynamics of articulation of intellectual groups, meeting in sociable places that are distinguished by the debate and dissemination of ideas, an attitude inseparable from forms of intervention in society. The press, therefore, offers opportunities for analysing the process of the formation of organisational networks and the sensitivities cultivated therein. Moving beyond contextualisation is possible when the notion of intellectual field is taken into account, within which arguments are waged, individual and collective identities are established, boundaries are defined, according to the perspective proposed by the work of sociologist Pierre Bourdieu.8 One of the most interesting aspects of this alternative vision is the possibilities it unveils for the student of culture. However, this is not about immutable positions, rather configurations in constant mobility and reorganisation, according to social, aesthetic and/or political purposes. In reflecting on the significance of periodicals, in a statement that, besides calculation and strategy, incorporates relationships of a personal nature, Jean-Francois Sirinelli affirms: Magazines confer a structure to the intellectual field through opposing forces of adhesion – through underlying friendships, assembled allegiances and the influence they exert – and exclusion – of positions taken, debates raised, and the resulting schisms. At the same time as presenting a foreground observatory of the sociability of intellectual microcosms, they are a valuable place for analysing the movement of ideas. In short, a magazine is first and foremost a place of intellectual ferment and affective relationships and, at the same time, a vivarium and space for sociability, and can be, among other approaches, studied in this double dimension.9

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It is possible, therefore, to envisage periodicals as projects that assume a collective character, even when the publication results from the efforts of a selfless individual. Hence the importance of being attentive to the moment of release and the choice of the title and subheadings, of scrutinising programmatic manifestos – or texts that perform this function – for in these, intentions, values and expectations are expressed, clues that allow us to discern the readings of the past (diagnosis) and projects for the future (prognosis) shared by the proponents and they provide meaning to the editorial line adopted. The systematic study of the names that carried out the enterprise, the directors, secretaries and/or those responsible for the project, the principal collaborators and the roles they played, without neglecting any changes that may have occurred during the existence of the publication, is far from constituting an innocuous quantification exercise. Besides mapping content, ideas and the trajectory of concepts, the intellectuals can be captured as actors endowed with historicity, who positioned themselves, in various ways, in relation to the dilemmas of their time. Thus, to compose a general profile of the publication, which gives an account of how it fits into the universe of the period in which it circulated, it is necessary to resort not only to the description of its materiality, graphic design, typographic aspects, form of presentation and content distribution, previously alluded to, but also to articulate these aspects with data on circulation, periodicity, explicit and implicit goals, the group responsible for it and their characteristics, the editorial line, audience and sources of finance that ultimately determine the concretisation of the proposal. This set of elements encompasses not only the way newspapers and magazines were (and are) presented to their readers, but also other elements, not necessarily immediately evident to those who roam their pages. These considerations indicate that it is no longer about using periodicals as sources of information for research, but rather about taking them as they are, as the object, a perspective that demands a rigorous work of description and analysis. It concerns requiring a method of approach for periodical sources that takes into account the technical capabilities available at a given time and then the paths that they decided to follow. Thus, a study that carefully considers the title chosen allows us to put it into historical perspective and relate it to its precursors and predecessors, which presupposes dominion of the course

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of the type of printed material studied – a major newspaper, a workers’ paper, a cutting-edge literary magazine, a publication devoted to fashion, to the education of young people, to professionals, to political parties, to name but a few examples. The perspective of envisaging periodicals as poles around which forces and instruments of combat and intervention in the public space were united and disciplined, provides vantage points for clarifying and substantiating the struggles surrounding political and social projects and artistic-literary issues. In this mode, although diachronic analysis is essential to the long history of the press, it is not sufficient and it is still necessary to submit the publication to comparisons with its congeners. In other words, besides the temporal location and immersion in its content, it is worth asking: what were the options available to a contemporary reader, who had the chance to choose between different titles of the same nature? What were these titles? How do they differ in relation to the publication chosen? What struggles did it wage in its time? How has historiography referred to these titles? Rather than isolating the publication and its contents, it is about restoring the dialogue that it pursued in its own time and distinguishing differences and proximities, without neglecting the trajectory, since it is not sufficient to only consider the inaugural issue, looking intently at the series and analysing it in its entirety is important, perceiving the nuances and shifts in the course of its existence. See, for example, the cover of the magazine Klaxon, released in 1922 and which, like the example of the Revista do Brasil, was also a literary publication, but with very diverse objectives, as the mere sight of the cover makes evident: The proposal is far from simple, since it implies extending the scope of the research and incorporating other contemporary titles, which also have to be submitted to analysis. The procedure is important, however, because it allows us to accurately establish how the titles under study were articulated within the larger universe in which they were immersed and with which they established complex relations of identity/ alterity, thus contributing to distinguishing groups and competing projects. Note that this procedure allows multiple interconnections between synchrony and diachrony, a dynamic game that can give rise to previously unimagined hypotheses and interpretations. However, even if we refer to several titles, taken in all their complexity and analysed from different temporalities, it is rare that they

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Figure 3.6 The first journal of the Modernist movement, Klaxon (SP, 1922 – 3) united intellectuals who proposed new pathways for Brazilian art and literature. Nine issues were published. Source: Author’s personal collection.

contain details concerning the process that culminated in their release, the struggles surrounding their production, the quarrels and disputes that resulted in the index that was offered to the readers. It is here that correspondences, memoirs, autobiographical productions or texts, which evoke the trajectory of those who were involved in the founding and

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management, or who were frequent collaborators of the periodical studied, play a fundamental role. It is necessary to distinguish analytically between correspondence produced within a short period of the events, contemporary to the dramas and challenges of the moment lived, and later recollection, which, from the perspective of the historian, has diverse effects and meanings, as the theories of memory have made us aware by emphasising how the act of remembering is a work that does not replicate the experience itself, but appropriates it from the present. This documentation of a personal and biographical nature offers the chance to capture the routine of the newsrooms and the interactions of those responsible for the periodical, although it requires expanding the theoretical background and addressing the issue of the use of ‘writings about oneself’. In the case of Brazilian modernism, to cite a concrete example, the study of the correspondence of Ma´rio de Andrade, the Brazilian writer and poet and a central figure of Brazilian modernism, articulated with the modernist periodicals that the writer participated in founding or actively collaborated in, such as Klaxon (SP, 1922) (Figure 3.6), Este´tica (Aesthetics) (RJ, 1924), A Revista (The Magazine) (BH, 1925), Terra Roxa. . . e outras terras (Terra Roxa. . . and other lands) (SP, 1926), Revista do Brasil, second phase (RJ, 1926), Revista de Antropofagia (Anthropophagy Magazine) (SP, 1928) and Revista Nova (New Magazine) (SP, 1931), allows us to accompany the dissensions and disputes surrounding the definition of what was understood by modern and modernism and the vindication of different heritages concerning the origins of the movement. An approach of this nature could contribute to understanding why issues that were presented to contemporaries as an open horizon, traversed by tensions and multiple possibilities, end up naturalised and crystallised in history books and literary histories, as if they were the only possible path of apprehending a given context.

Conclusion The dissemination of the use of the press as a source for the historian was accompanied by new inquiries. The prohibitions imposed on newspapers and magazines, accused of being partial and incapable of expressing the truth of the facts, because they are produced in the heat of the moment,

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have lost their force, since it is now accepted that such ‘defects’ can be ascribed to any vestige of the past. However, the posture of those who search printed pages to extract texts, data and news, as representative as they might be, from a position approximating that of the explorer who enters a mine and carries off only stones of value, without concerning themselves with the remainder, also seems unsatisfactory. Diverse contributions, based on discourse analysis, the study of intellectuals and the history of reading allow us to examine a set of issues regarding periodicals that demand detailed analysis; this includes their situation in various temporalities and spatialities, comparison within a broader sphere than that of national boundaries, attention to the historicity of support and ordering of content, and the reconstitution of networks of sociability that, at a given moment, conformed to political cultures and aesthetic positions shared by those responsible and their collaborators. Although laborious and demanding, this set of procedures makes the press the subject and object of historical research and moves on from the notion of individual, solitary retrieval.

CHAPTER 4 FROM PUBLISHING TO THE PUBLISHER — PORTUGAL AND CHANGES IN THE WORLD OF PRINT IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY Joa˜o Luı´s Lisboa

The professional figure of the publisher was established in Europe and the Americas during the nineteenth century. This process took several paths. This chapter will show that in Portugal this included publishing initiatives, whether by families of professionals connected to the world of the printing press and the book trade, or through the highlighting of new professions linked to books and the press, particularly translators and individuals from the world of newspapers. Although these two paths seem to be at odds, in fact, in both cases the concept of genres and collections based on books pleased a growing number of readers, particularly with reference to the widely circulated European novel. The figure of the publisher was born both in Europe and the Americas during the nineteenth century, a profession that cannot properly be spoken of until that time. For centuries, those who requested printing privileges might have had no connection with the

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book trade, whereas books were printed by those who had mastered the art of printing and, in their workshops, worked with printing presses and, in turn, trained others in their trade. They could choose titles to publish, but that was not what identified them. They had to treat the text with care, but they did not consider themselves to be professionals acting on the content that was to be read. They could commission translations, but they did this as an expedient to obtain the material they needed to publish.1 Until the eighteenth century, there were book dealers, there were printers with greater or less initiative and there were people with varying interests in what was to be published. But the publishing agents and mediators were not recognised as publishers, a nonexistent professional figure. There was no activity based on producing a catalogue of one’s own publications and considering potential readers of that catalogue. There was no distinction between what a publisher should be and do and the skills of the dealer/bookseller, sponsor/ patron or printer. This lack of distinction was connected to another major change which was then taking place – the change in the regulation models concerning professional activities, which involved the decline of the role of the guilds, whether in the recognition of the training they helped provide or in the control of the members’ practices. Of note in Portugal was the decree of 7 May 1834 issued by King Pedro IV, which extinguished the Casa dos 24, the institution that brought the guilds in Lisbon together, and thus extinguished the areas that the trades associated with them controlled. The models of training and access to the art and its practice changed. The profile of professionals, along with their professional recognition, also changed and, accordingly, their forms of regulation and social representation changed as well.2 In addition, the growth of the number of readers, at the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth centuries, produced both a quantitative and qualitative effect. New readers implied new genres and new forms of reading. Periodicals multiplied, as did lighter reading material, with subsequent growing reductions in the costs of publications. The period saw the extension of publication into national languages and the proliferation of novels and reading for entertainment, which often had a female public in mind that had previously been irrelevant for the book trade.

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Inform and entertain At the end of the eighteenth century and, above all, in the first half of the nineteenth century, the need for political reading in all its forms was established, in terms of opinion, information or joke. This was generally made up of texts that were short in length, journal articles, critical or humorous leaflets. This reading marked the major difference between what was an actual skill for elites, in particular European urban elites, whatever their profile, and what was a necessary skill for the new concept of citizenship. It was not imagined that ‘everybody’ would become readers. But the cultural and political space that corresponded to reading habits was recognisably wider and was identified with a desired relationship between those who were in positions of administration and power, on the one hand, and all that were represented, on the other. This relationship, although clearly a theoretical one, was real in the sense that it was not necessary to adopt a romantic view of the citizen to understand that the models with which the reading practices were associated had been changed. Thus, throughout the whole of Europe, but also in the American ex-colonies, and on different scales and at different speeds, the world of reading was transformed in two ways: first, with the need for information and, second, with the new legitimacy of entertainment. It should be added that, although within local and national levels, this whole world was connected. We can think of this as based on a tension. In the first place, the need to supply texts for a growing number of readers was clear, taking commercial gain from this growth and that availability. What is more, this need was difficult to satisfy with only regional and national works. Secondly, this response relied on authors and references that, being well-known or, at the very least, belonging to area of international renown, would promote their circulation. The space had opened and was asking for texts. Many of these texts brought with them a seal of fame or appeal that responded to the growing demand and helped to enlarge the area of demand. This process was clearly international and intercontinental, although circulation was neither egalitarian nor balanced, as self production and translations in a given publishing space did not correspond to any reciprocity in the publishing spaces from which translations originated. In nineteenth-century France, for

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example, the importation or translation of texts from other countries held very little significance when compared to what was published internally. And, in Portugal, with certain variations, one could see an extremely strong presence of foreign books, in particular French, and often translations predominated.3 These imbalances (or unequal and unstable balances) would end up playing a role in enlivening publishing at various levels. The observable dynamics were clearly not just intellectual, given that the established and consolidated publishing spaces intersected with others which were weaker, benefiting from their development, in particular through using channels that were already open to this interaction. These channels, in the case of books, existed throughout Europe from early on and expressed themselves vigorously in the nineteenth century, both with regard to the circulation of copies and with regard to the translation and circulation of texts. It can be seen how, from the eighteenth to the nineteenth century, the transmission of sermons from France to Portugal was substituted by the circulation of novels. The imported sacred oratory (in book form or translated text) became residual, while the novels remained and went on to become the major interest of this new publisher figure. An in-depth view of the nature of nineteenth-century Portuguese publishing cannot be provided here. Although unequal and on a lesser scale in comparison to other European countries, this new reality took on a scale that requires more detailed studies. It is sufficient, for now, to state that the existing framework was neither uniform nor uniformly different from the previous reality. On the contrary, for a considerable time certain traits remained, as did the way that, in many cases, the experienced book traders and printers continued their activity of supplying services and how they adapted and took on their new roles as publishing agents. Institutions with decades of activity, such as the Academia Real das Cieˆncias, the Imprensa Re´gia or Coimbra University Press would take on this role, along with commercial initiatives that resulted from new political associativism such as the Typografia Patrio´tica of Carlos Jose´ da Silva. In analysing what continued and what changed, there are two central aspects to bear in mind. One is the way in which the institutions and companies took the initiative regarding what they published. Another aspect is what was present in their lists. Even in the 1840s or 1860s it

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was possible to find catalogues that could well, in terms of their titles and themes, have been drawn up many decades earlier.4 It is also notable that Portuguese novel production did not start in Lisbon or Oporto, but abroad, in Paris and in London, through Portuguese authors who lived there. An example of this is the case of Almeida Garret, an emblematic Portuguese romantic author, exiled due to the repression of his liberal positions. The result was the publication of his texts in books and newspapers in Paris (1825 – 6) and London (1828 – 9), particularly the poem Dona Branca, published in 1826 by Aillaud and considered to be one of the founding texts of Portuguese romanticism. Gradually also in Portugal, mainly from the second half of the 1830s, new authors and new aesthetic models started to be published.

Two families: from the workshop of Joa˜o Rodrigues Neves to the printing press of Sousa Neves Of the many publishing houses that existed throughout this century, some lasted longer, while others had a short life, often linked to a specific and precarious publishing project. Some are very well known, such as Bertrand, Parceria A.M. Pereira and Livraria Civilizac
a˜o.5 Their longevity, as in the case of Bertrand, did not imply management continuity or a consistent publishing conception. But the fact of maintaining a brand is significant for the importance that that name could have for the commercial world and for its readers. Artur Anselmo provides a long list with dozens of names of companies connected to the world of books, including booksellers, printers and publishers, mainly located in the cities of Lisbon, Porto and Coimbra, but also covering some companies, mainly in the north of the country and in the Azores. I will deal with some lesser known, but representative, examples. One of these examples is that of a succession of printing companies and managements based on one family name, which lasted throughout the nineteenth century. I am referring to the two Neves families, the Tipografia Nevesiana and the Tipografia de Joaquim Germano de Sousa Neves. These are two distinct companies, but curiously follow each other. The first was a product of the eighteenth century and continued its operation, under three different managements, until the middle of the

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century. The second was established in the 1840s and continued until the end of the 1880s. It is clear that one or two companies cannot show the full history of the nineteenth-century production of books. However, through the initiatives and commerce of these families it is possible to follow the process of publishing in Portugal from the first years of the century, when Joa˜o Rodrigues Neves, a printer with a catalogue typical of the Ancien Re´gime, was still working. He produced comedies and interludes, mainly of contemporary authors, but also the fables of Phaedrus, translated into dramatic verse. The various works that rolled off their presses include the name of Gomes Freire de Andrade (1806), works of reference such as Privile´gios da nobreza e fidalguia de Portugal (1806), successes such as Tardes Divertidas, which had been published from 1794 until 1804, or the start of the Piolho viajante, in 1803, which was continued by other printing presses and taken up again decades later by his descendants in Nevesiana. Medical and legal books also formed a significant part of its work and, in addition to its comedies and items intended as light reading, it published entertainment works of a moralist tone such as the translation of Marmontel (1804). Like many printers, it was very active in Portugal during the Peninsular War (1807– 14), producing abundant anti-Napoleonic material between 1808 and 1811. These few examples provide an image of the ‘editorial’ inheritance of this company when, in 1812, and for around 20 years, it was taken over by Neves’ widow as Viu´va Neves e Filhos. Within a line of continuity, we may acknowledge the importance given by the publishing company to the theatre publication, which still represented a guarantee of sales. Another line of continuity was the place given to medical works, among which was at least one leaflet published in French.6 The years from 1812 to 1820 also show the variety of interests, with the proliferation of grammars (Portuguese, but also French and English) and manuals for learning to read, along with forecasts and lunar calendars, representing academic knowledge as well as lighter pages and popular wisdom, but not necessarily corresponding to completely distinct publics. Also forming part of this variety was the successive publication of books with rules for games such as the card game Ombre. Games spread socially through print, gaining legitimacy and different publics, which justified the commercial interest in publication.7

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Meanwhile, this also reinforced, whether through pressures of reader demand or through the initiatives of those earning from what was written, a trend towards moral narratives, either translated or written by Portuguese authors.8 Finally, a new tradition also started in this company, that of printing catalogues and regulations. In this aspect of its work, the Viu´va Neves e Filhos, as well as the printers that would be taken over by its descendants, offered themselves as a provider of services. Here we do not observe the mind of a publisher, but the capacity of the printer being made available to those who needed to make orders and choose the printing works of which they would make use. Numerous library and bookshop catalogues would be made, with the additional curiosity of the first produced by Neves’ widow, in 1812, when she took over the company. It was a catalogue of books that had arrived from Rio de Janeiro and which were being sold in the Paulo Martin e Filhos bookshop.9 This variety was created using works with a safe sales record – and without neglecting the more promising genres – at a moment when the liberal revolution would introduce a significant change in publishing priorities and quantities. The period of management of the Viu´va is marked by a rise in publishing political texts. It is well-known that since the start of the century, politics had been present in legal publications, as well as in opinion periodicals, many of which had to undergo bans and did successfully circulate clandestinely. But it is understood that after the victory of liberalism in 1820, this involved not just a few publications and just a few readers as before: politics became a definitive part of the publishing landscape. The characteristics of the Neves family and its companies meant that they understood the necessity of navigating this wave of political publishing. Amongst the first publications from this workshop, after the revolution, was a manual for the constitutional citizen (Manual politico do cidada˜o constitucional). They also produced an anthology of writings by Edmund Burke, advertised as ‘very useful for the regeneration of Portugal’, edited by Jose´ da Silva Lisboa and published by Viu´va Neves in 1821, in at least two editions. But with the return of absolutism in 1823, the printing press then published various texts praising D. Miguel along with anti-Masonic texts. Another result of this new trend was the multiplication of periodicals, with which most printing presses and publishers were associated, and, at

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the same time, leaflets that mocked these periodicals and its writers. Immediately after the 1820 revolution, as expected, newspapers were more directly interventionist. In that same year the presses of Viu´va Neves published Minerva constitucional (November to December 1820) and O Patriota (September 1822 to December 1821). The number of periodicals rapidly increased, mirroring the readers’ degree of interest. In 1821, Jose´ Pinto Rebello, Manuel Ferreira de Seabra and Anto´nio Luiz de Seabra published O cidada˜o literato: periodico de politica e literatura. The constant upward trend of growth in the periodical press in Europe included a natural acceleration in Portugal in 1820 and the Neves group was part of this process. This completed a framework that would develop throughout the century, with the book and the political newspaper occupying centre stage. In the second half of the century the magazine appeared. It changed formats, layouts and the relationship between text and image. The periodicals extended their field of activity, bringing together politics, the arts, entertainment and commercial information. Later, publishers sought to occupy an international and transcontinental space, with publications such as Revista de Portugal e Brazil, which Luciano Cordeiro and Rodrigo Affonso Pequita edited (1873– 4). As a visible sign of these changes, the periodical began to increase in size, going beyond in quarto, although that continued to be the dominant format, and adopting formats of 30 or more centimetres. The periodicals Patriota and Minerva were 30 and 37 cm, respectively, and most of those which followed these two were between 26 and 36 cm. This new, larger format started to become established, although there are examples where older formats were maintained, often – and curiously – linked to publications of a more conservative nature. Another notable work that originated from the Neves’ printing presses was that by Anto´nio Joaquim Nery, who in 1863– 4 published O amarelo (The Yellow), a weekly publication 44 cm in size and printed on pink paper. It is in such cases as these that the intersection between transformations in the conception of an object and the technical reply to this by the workshops can be seen. In other words, publishing was the activity of conceiving the pages, along with the technology which produced it. With the consolidation of liberalism and the death of Neves’ widow, the company entered a new phase, taking on the name ‘Nevesiana’ from 1833 into the early 1850s. It still published Alexandre Dumas in 1859.

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Also of note during this period was the Biblioteca Familiar e recreativa oferecida a` mocidade portuguesa between 1835 and 1846. In the meantime, the Neves brothers had separated and, along with them, their printing and publishing work. Seemingly as a succession to this, another Neves soon appeared, who had no apparent relationship with the former. Joaquim Germano da Sousa Neves, the son of a barber and trained with various printers between 1835 (when he was 15 years old) and 1841. He set himself up in 1844 as a printer based at the Travessa de Santa Catarina, in Lisbon and operated until 1881 (after which his widow took on the management). Until 1859 at the earliest, it coexisted with the Nevesiana company. This was the stage in which the change of professional profiles, with the birth of the publisher, would be fully defined. This can be seen in the relationship between these publishing houses and their periodicals, which have already been given as examples. It is clear that, in many cases, the company limited itself to supplying a service, as happened with O Recreio, owned and edited by Mendonc
a e Costa and de Ribeiro de Sousa. But the direct association of the printer as publisher and director of publications also existed. Joaquim Germano da Sousa Neves was the director of the Gazeta do Povo, which published almost 1,000 issues between 1869 and 1872 and was a newspaper whose format had evolved to a most ample 47 cm. In this same year, the company started another newspaper, of greater longevity and influence, Dia´rio Ilustrado, which innovated in consolidating the face and large format of the periodical press. As regards the activity of Joaquim Germano, three aspects may be further underlined. The first is the presence of the name of this company in some of the key moments of cultural and political debate, in particular in the 1860s. In addition to the newspapers, a succession of brochures caused considerable controversy. Amongst those, the Tipografia Sousa Neves published a succession of ‘letters’ by Alexandre Herculano on civil marriage. The most important historian of his time, Herculano was the instigator of various controversies which had a major effect on the press. Another controversy, which had an even greater effect in the way in which it divided and enlivened Portuguese intellectual circles, was that of ‘good sense and good taste’, where a new generation of writers questioned the canons, literary authorities and the dominant taste in the

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1860s. Some of the brochures that formed part of this controversy found shelter with the printer Joaquim Germano. The fruit of this more interventionist side was a number of titles of various kinds, ranging from leaflets on the revolt of Maria da Fonte in the north of the country (1846), a brochure on higher education (1859), another by Luciano Cordeiro on the marriage of priests (1872), to regulations of the ‘Centre Promoting Improvements for the Working Classes’ (1868), the book Portugal e o Socialismo (1873) by Oliveira Martins, a project to set up a Masonic lodge (1877) and the material produced for the commemorations of the centenary of Camo˜es (1880). Joaquim Germano, a committed mason and member of various associations and professional organisations, expressed his citizenship in his work as a publisher, while he also produced publications with which he supposedly did not agree. An example of this was the periodical Lanterna (1868– 73), which resulted in his spending two months in prison when he refused to reveal the name of the author of an article. The second aspect to emphasise in the activity of this printer stemmed from the growing importance that literature, in particular works of fiction, had in catalogues and in sales. This option was already available in the company of the former Neves family. With Joaquim Germano, a special place of note is due to various Portuguese writers who were well known and who sold well, such as Camilo Castelo Branco, Pinheiro Chagas, as well as many translations of foreign authors, such as Alexandre Dumas, Samuel-Henri Berthoud, Charles de Bernard, Paul Fe´val, Fre´de´ric de Se´zanne and Paul de Kock, among others. Linked to this is the third aspect, which is more important to understanding what is being discussed. This concerns the professional status of the book, which sometimes had a publisher but frequently involved the sale of their work as a printer. In this sense, a symbolic significance can be attributed to the fact that the statutes of the Lisbon Typographical Association (Associac
a˜o Typographica Lisbonense e Artes Correlativas) had been printed in the workshops of Sousa Neves. As for the commercial process, several printing jobs were made for booksellers who bought a title or ordered a work. For instance, in this period the bookseller Campos Ju´nior started activity as a publisher and was responsible, along with Viu´va More´, Parceria A. M. Pereira and other less significant companies, for the edition of many books by the well-known writer, Camilo Castelo Branco.

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Analysing the erratic table of the editions and publishers of Camilo, and bearing in mind his published correspondence with one of them (the Parceria A. M. Pereira), it is possible to understand the way in which this author sold his books (or, rather, the rights to each book), one at a time, to whomever he believed was interested.10 Writers did not typically order an edition. They sold their book to a publisher – in this case, a book that had already appeared in instalments in a newspaper – and then they offered the contract to those who could produce it. Campos Ju´nior bought around a dozen titles from Camilo and, not having a printing press, in turn commissioned Sousa Neves to do the printing, publishing titles such as O Esqueleto, A queda dum anjo, Cavar em Ruı´nas, A bruxa de Monte-Co´rdova, Miste´rios de Fafe and O sangue. But Sousa Neves himself, although he was mainly a printer, bought the rights to other books, which he published and sold. Joaquim Germano was not just a typesetter. He had initiative, editing magazines and establishing collections. He was involved in both roles at the same time. Examples of that initiative are his theatre collections and the series of works on theatrical artists. However, he also bought the Diciona´rio Popular from Pinheiro Chagas when it reached its seventh volume in 1880 and the Almanak do Povo from the publisher Deside´rio Maques Lea˜o, and became its publisher.

Men of letters become publishers: following the trail of Paul de Kock The relationship between publishers, booksellers and printers is a long one and, mainly due to the lack of definition concerning a publisher’s work during this period, sometimes rather unclear. It has been seen that many publishers began with knowledge of the process of production and with high degree of familiarity with the authors. A curious example, in this regard, is the genealogy of the Civilizac
a˜o Editora, which traces its origins to the Tipografia Fraga Lamares (1879) and not to the Livraria Civilizac
a˜o, which is even older (1876) and whose business and family paths had in the meantime crossed. The initiatives in the publishing field had started life in the printing press and not in the bookshop. Although in the initial stages of the printing press it was not easy to distinguish the real result of its own

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initiative, in particular with the purchase of rights to titles, what is certain is that this process took place when the Livraria Civilizac
a˜o was just a sales outlet. In the same way, we may consider the development of the future publisher Romano Torres, the founding of which goes back to 1885, when the company was built around the publication of a newspaper. This newspaper started that year, but the company only launched in 1886, when Joa˜o Romano Torres, then 30 years old, took control of the publication. However, the publishing history of this family of printers began much earlier, when in 1870 Joa˜o’s father, Lucas Evangelista Torres, who had worked for many years in the profession, edited Educac
a˜o Popular by Pinheiro Chagas, which was then followed in the next quarter of a century by other titles. Having married into the family that owned the Machado bookshop, Lucas Evangelista Torres sent his children off into the printing profession before each of them tried the world of editing. Joa˜o did this in the 1870s, at first without great success and then in a more triumphant manner from 1885 onwards with the newspaper Recreio and also with the translation of the French novel A magnetizada,11 forming part of a ‘Romantic Library’ that included many successful authors. Novels provide good clues for various routes of enquiry. Concerning contemporary reading tastes, certainly, but also regarding the priorities of those who produced books and how this was carried out. Distinctions can be shown in their economic and even political dimensions. The most respected authors tried to fight what they considered to be a foreign imposition of tastes concerning books, above all in the middle and in the second half of the century. Alexandre Herculano and Almeida Garrett, for example, fought against the inevitability of literature being considered as merchandise. They attacked specific authors, those who would make publishers and printers happy and ‘force the tears from ladies with their most imbecilic stories’. Thus they fought against a wave of books, exaggeratedly sentimental, poorly written and surviving at the cost of pleasing uneducated, non-discerning individuals. Moreover, they were the fruit of foreign tastes. This type of literature was selling so well that Anto´nio Feliciano de Castilho, already a respected writer, seeking in 1842 to justify the distinction between good and bad reading, wrote in Revista Universal Lisbonense of a Lisbon dominated by books (of

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dubious taste) that united soldiers, cooks, shop assistants and menders right through to the usual ecclesiastical and legal figures.12 One of the authors successful in Europe was Paul de Kock (1793 – 1871), a former bank employee in Paris who had discovered the advantages and fortune to be made through dedicating himself to fulltime writing. He published copiously and his books sold well, both in France and abroad. Many dozens of editions of his books appeared in Portugal, with various collections, various publishers, and the wrath of the aforementioned Alexandre Herculano and Anto´nio Feliciano de Castilho, who, in contrast to so many contemporary male and female readers, abhorred the descriptions of the frivolities and feelings of the Paris bourgeoisie. Although this shows how the literary elites viewed the best-selling books, the bad-tempered bucolic poet who fled into Azorean isolation (Castilho) and the historian who exiled himself in Vale de Lobos (Herculano) are not of concern here. Rather, the interest in the case of Kock lies in what these readings tell us of the history of publishing and of Portuguese publishers from the midnineteenth century.13 Until this point, this article has considered specific printing presses and who created them. Focus will now turn to a translated author in the form of Paul de Kock. In this way, it is possible to identify the translators and the publishers who disseminated his work. The idea is simple. Here is an author of great success, one who was so widely read that his works achieved great commercial success. Repeatedly translated and published from the beginning of the 1840s until the first decades of the twentieth century, this author can point us towards the names of subsequent publishers and publishing companies, as well as the way in which these companies created specific identities for themselves. This can show how translation was important for various companies, not only for their viability, but even for their creation. Table 4.1 is a list of companies and names that published dozens of Paul de Kock’s works, which circulated in successive editions in Portugal until 1899. At the turn of the century, the Minerva printing press used some of the existing versions made by the Salles printing press in the previous century, but it was mainly the Empresa da Histo´ria de Portugal which, from 1907, took on the task of publishing de Kock’s complete works, in editions illustrated by Roque Gameiro. The fame of this author was closely tied to and to a large extent mirrored the training of the

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Publishers of Paul de Kock’s work Neryana Nery Nevesiana Hermenegildo Pires Marinho J. J. Mattos Lisbonense Salles n.n. (Rua dos Gallegos 38) Joaquim Germano da Sousa Neves Libaˆnio da Silva Tavares Cardoso & Irma˜os Libaˆnio & Cunha Antiga Casa Bertrand

publisher Henrique Marques, who was self-taught through engaging with texts such as this. That is, the actual publisher of the Empresa da Histo´ria de Portugal related his experience as a reader in Sa˜o Domingos, Lisbon, when he was employed in a tobacconist’s at the side of a shop between 1874 and 1876, years in which he devoured all the literature he could. He tells us that, while he ‘caixeirava’,14 I read all of Rocambole, and a significant part of the works of Paulo de Kock, for whom I have always had a weakness and such an admiration that, when I became an publisher, I published 73 volumes of his works and was intending to publish all the rest, and for which purpose I had and have mapped out a programme, according to which the collection should have 150 volumes, after that there is almost no novel from the French school, I mean novels of the imagination, which do not pass through my hands and which I read avidly.15 In considering the case of Paul de Kock, we have followed a reader in the 1870s, and his publisher 30 years later of a collection with the title Complete and illustrated works of Paul de Kock – a collection carried out with care and expense and intended to consecrate the author. And yet

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the image of Paul de Kock fluctuated over time. His work appeared in single volumes in the 1840s and discreetly formed part of other collections. The Salles Colac
o company placed him in a ‘Popular Library’ between 1863 and 1879. Libaˆnio da Silva, in the 1890s, included him in another volume with the title Happy Hours, while the company of J. J. Mattos included him in the more neutral ‘Lisbon Library’ in the 1850s. This was not a case of modesty or sobriety. It was rather one of transmitting the idea that the books it suggested were light, amusing and accessible. The latter option presented by Henrique Marques assumed an image that all publishers had wanted to avoid, by conferring on these books a status that they had never had, an intellectual status with which Marques, as a young cashier without any formal education and who had become part of the world of books through copious reading, identified. The translations and editions of Paul de Kock show us a way of carrying out business that in many cases was distinct from the stability of the former printing presses. While the Neves families owned houses that continued printing traditions, with their roots in the practices that the old workshops transmitted, in the cases born from translation, the strength of the companies was based on the vitality of their chosen literary genre. The printing presses were no longer central to the creation of these new companies. Those who had desirable texts to offer also had a major advantage and did not need to subordinate themselves to established companies. This second model may be an alternative one, but it is not contradictory to that which emanated from the professions traditionally linked to the book. It was henceforth possible to see publishers arising from the initiatives of translators, journalists, politicians, liberal professionals or various people associated with the world of arts. These new agents were not the typical new professionals. This merely reinforces the idea that what distinguishes the profession is not having been able to undertake training in the production or commercialisation of books, but rather the fact of having had the possibility to mobilise resources to keep a catalogue going and satisfy one or more publics, as conceived by the publisher, publics receptive to the books and the collections that the publisher wished to offer. The characteristics of this world had changed, but the extinction of the guilds and their rules only partially explains the change, given that a

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profession that did not actually yet exist could not be regulated. The opening up of the old world of the booksellers and printers to new men of letters demonstrated the possibility of commercially sustaining companies of an intellectual nature. That is, this relationship enabled the possibility of being able to earn a living from intellectual labour. This did not necessarily involve earning a living as an author, although some (few) cases did occur. It involved being able to live from various activities connected to writing, from journalism to translation, including the editing of entries for larger collective works or for newspapers (though this work could not be classified as journalism) or even acting as support for more well-known authors, in small or large tasks involving research or proofreading. The name of one translator, Anto´nio Joaquim Nery, stands out with regard to Paul de Kock’s emergence in Portugal. His journey tells us about reception and translation, but also about publishing initiative. This translator’s activity began in 1822 with the publication by Tipografia Patrio´tica of his translation of O salteador saxonico ou os subterraneos do castello de Honstein by Hyppolite Vaugeois. A second edition of this same translation appeared in 1837 (15 years later), with the name of Nery as printer. In fact, there were two Nerys, the brothers Anto´nio Joaquim and Filipe. The latter owned the company known as Tipografia de Nery during the 30 years when Anto´nio Joaquim published his numerous translations. At a certain point, the printer renamed itself simply Neryana, not distinguishing between the two. Throughout these 30 years, Filipe worked on publishing newspapers, pamphlets and other forms of political writings. Anto´nio Joaquim shared these liberal enthusiasms in various leaflets, some more serious, others more humorous. Politics was linked to the activities of writer and translator until the point at which they joined on the horizon of publishing. Anto´nio Joaquim had published in other printing presses, such as Comercial Portuense and a Patrio´tica, with originals and translations. Then Nery was published only by Nery. And from 1841 onwards, most of his work involved translating Paul de Kock, with more than 20 titles being published. Felipe did not limit himself to translating this writer. He introduced other works into Portuguese, mainly from French, but also from English. Amongst his final works, then again without his own printing press, would be the weekly O amarelo.

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There are two aspects that link the name of Anto´nio Joaquim Nery in the 1830s and 1850s to that of Henrique Marques in the final years of the century and the first decades of the following one. One is generic and based on individuals entering the world of publishing as translators or authors of small texts feeling capable of having their own publishing company before owning a printing press. The second is the importance that the translations of Paul de Kock had in both of their catalogues. Various other translators and publishers shared the same characteristics. One is that of the companies which bought books and resorted to the work of one, two or more translators. The best example of this is Typografia de Salles which, having published around 20 titles by de Kock, employed several translators to work on the texts.16 Others had only one or two translators for these books. Adolfo Barroso translated for J. J. Mattos. Rodrigues Trigueiros and Silva Vieira worked for A Lisbonense. Pinheiro Chagas translated the Memo´rias of Paul de Kock for Sousa Neves. Another pattern, which brought together Nery and Henrique Marques, involved other translators and publishing houses. The publisher Libaˆnio da Silva had been the translator of Paul de Kock. It also published translations by Jose´ da Cunha. A few years later, the publishing house was called Libaˆnio e Cunha (the two translators had merged) and was publishing translations by Silva Vieira and Silva Moniz. A similar example is that of Rodrigues Trigueiros, who translated Paul de Kock for the Typografia Lisbonense between 1857 and 1866. With his brother, he then set up a publishing house, where between at least 1863 and 1878 he published his translations of Alexandre Dumas, Ponson du Terrail and Xavier de Monte´pin, among others. In all these examples, whether through the action of the translators, or through mastery of printing, what was involved was clearly the work of the publisher who was making the choices and taking the risks. We will conclude with Henrique Marques, who started as a publisher (in partibus, to use his expression) in 1893 with the book of poems by Ju´lio Branda˜o, Saudades. This work appeared under the imprint of A. M. Pereira and was jointly paid by the author (paper) and by Henrique Marques (typesetting and printing). The imprint of the publishing house where he worked was intended to provide credibility to the first work of an unknown publisher. He began his activity during this period,

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following the experience he had acquired in companies where he had worked in contact with people of letters and with printers. He had no machinery. He had no capital. He had no extensive education. So what did he have? He had read, he had worked in the sector, he had many contacts, and he had a certain amount of support and initiative, with which in 1898 he established his own company, Empresa da Histo´ria de Portugal.17 He was already far from the earlier models of publisher trained in and depending on printing companies.

CHAPTER 5 CROSSING A CENTURY: PRINTERS, BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS IN NINETEENTHCENTURY BRAZIL Lu´cia Granja

This chapter presents the process of development for printing and publishing activities in Brazil during the nineteenth century, and narrates the expansion of bookselling during the same period. Additionally, it develops the reading of a specific historical moment that witnessed the expansion of and the attempt to internationalise the literary production of the country. This occurred through discussions about the concept of a ‘national literature’, the diversification of the types of texts produced, the methods of dissemination and propagation of these texts, as well as their production and reception. Besides the cultural and commercial practices taking shape during the formation of the Brazilian nation, the circulation of printed material and people between Europe and America, the main topic of this chapter, was the foundation for the process of the globalisation of culture – which was not a new development by the nineteenth century – in which was inscribed the nineteenth century’s quiet cultural revolution that is addressed more broadly in this book.

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The Brazilian nineteenth century: from colony to independent country Throughout the nineteenth century in Brazil, printing and publishing activities evolved and the book trade expanded. The circulation of printed material and people between Europe and America – the main question of this chapter – beyond the adaptations made by book and printing professionals to cater to the nascent American nations, was a fundamental element of that historic process. This chapter follows some of the actors, cultural transporters and mediators responsible for the activities that contributed to the greater expansion and circulation of cultural commodities, and for the concomitant developments. The world at that time already had technology that shortened distances significantly, which also facilitated exchanges. It was a time when Europe imagined the countries of the Americas to be Edenic places, but they were also promising markets, occupying an important place in contracts and trade routes. In 1893, the Republic had already been established in Brazil for four years and, between political and social fights, the new government was looking at ways to consolidate and stabilise itself. But on 7 October, the Jornal do Commercio, which had been circulating in Rio de Janeiro since 1827, seemed to be especially concerned with a certain monsieur who had been a part of that city since at least the beginning of the 1840s. A long article titled ‘B.L. Garnier’ was published that day in the place of the editorial column and the main sections of the newspaper’s first page. The reason was that the French bookseller-publisher Baptiste-Louis Garnier had passed away. The homage paid him by the Jornal do Commercio provides a measure of the importance, in Brazil, reached by a man who had ‘lived for half a century in the back of his store hunched over his working desk’.1 Eighty-five years before, on 13 May 1808, the longstanding prohibition of printing presses in Brazil ended by a decree signed by Dom Joa˜o, the regent who founded the Royal Press in Rio de Janeiro. While he dedicated that particular printing press to the publication of official government papers and ‘all and any other works’, he also granted it a monopoly on the practice of printing. According to Marcia Abreu, the official printing presses were intended for the printing of official documents, but they were also used to create diverse publications: from

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works on medicine and economics to didactic books and novels.2 In 1811 Manuel Antonio da Silva Serva obtained authorisation to establish a press in Salvador, thereby suspending the monopoly. Despite this, the Royal Press continued to be the only press authorised to function in Rio de Janeiro, at least until 1821 when the Portuguese Royal Family returned to its native land, and the regime of exclusivity was definitively broken.3 Over the course of the nineteenth century, the city of Rio de Janeiro became home to a new set of professionals: book, newspaper and press in general, most of whom were of Portuguese or French origin. The city modernised with the establishment of the Portuguese court there, resulting in the adoption of European standards as references for social and cultural life, including practices connected to books, printing in general and reading. Rio became the centre of Brazilian artistic and literary life, sheltering in its social circles contemporary men of letters, who could be seen walking through its narrow streets. In this process, Baptiste-Louis Garnier is seen as a kind of arrival point. Before him, as we will see, some Portuguese and Frenchmen had printed and trafficked books, but it was not until Garnier’s activity began that the practices of producing, collecting, publishing and circulating (domestically and internationally) printed material were completely professionalised. Finally, it is not an exaggeration to say that, even if he was primarily a businessman, his actions helped to configure Brazilian literary production and its national character.

The Portuguese royal family in Rio de Janeiro and the production/circulation of printed material Those who know a little about Brazil’s colonial history can infer what historian Lucia Bastos Pereira das Neves demonstrates through the analysis of primary sources: until the arrival of the Portuguese Court, the number of book merchants in Rio de Janeiro [city] was quite low, as shown by the register of the Almanaques of Rio de Janeiro of 1792 and 1794, which only mention one book trader, while the one from 1799 already referenced the existence of two bookstores, one of them probably that of Bourgeois.4

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With the arrival of the Portuguese royal family and the court in Brazil (1808), which historically parallels the Napoleonic expansion in Europe and predates the French Restoration (1815– 30), French traders, among them book dealers, gradually established themselves in Rio de Janeiro. In this phase, Paul Augustin Martin Fils (also known as ‘Paulo Martin Filho’, using the Portuguese manner of abbreviating names5) can be considered the most prominent individual given that his publishing activity was also very important. A descendant of one of the many French Briancon families that worked in book trading and had settled in Portugal in the last decades of the eighteenth century, he arrived in Rio de Janeiro at the end of the 1800s and established himself as trader in the city, on Quitanda Street. From the beginning, his activity as a bookseller was intense, as Lucia Bastos Pereira das Neves has demonstrated through a detailed analysis of newspaper advertisements, which Paulo Martin seems to have used heavily and constantly.6 Paulo Martin obtained exclusivity rights on sales and subscriptions of Gazeta do Rio de Janeiro, which was published by the Royal Press, from the time it was established in Rio de Janeiro, according to Ubiratan Machado.7 Some book historians believe that Martin contributed a lot to the activity of the Royal Press, even during the phase in which it held the monopoly on printing in Brazil, due to his publishing activity. Rubem Borba de Moraes attributes the publication of many novels, stories, poems, among others to Martin, whom he considers the first publisher of Brazil.8 Other historians, like Lawrence Hallewell, are more cautious, pointing out the difficulty of affirming with certainty that all of these works of literature and entertainment were printed through Paulo Martin’s initiatives.9 In any case, in terms of sales and production, technical and literary books, all agree on the fact that his presence in Rio de Janeiro surpassed his individual interest in business and profits, given the enormous stimulus he provided to publishing in Brazil. Amid his editorial activity, Paul Martin, just like Jean Robert Bourgeois, another Portuguese of Briancon origin, published books of all kinds, even those with antimonarchic and constitutionalist ideas, which in some way may have contributed to the process of Brazil’s independence from Portugal. According to Marcia Abreu’s research on this bookseller, Martin’s father, also named Paulo Martin, published works in Portugal during the same period and kept relations with France, his birthplace.10 The elder Martin’s last will and testament, written in September 1813, informed

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that his book activities were spread between both continents, where his children lived.11 The document indicates that he was in charge of a successful business with branches in Lisbon, Paris and in Rio de Janeiro: I Paulo Marten declare that [. . .] I have five children: namely Joa˜o Joze, Paulo Augusto, both established in the city of Rio de Janeiro, Luis Justino, presently in France, Ignacio Augusto, and Henriqueta Izabel, who lives with me [. . .] I declare that [. . .] I am the owner of a store that trades books all kinds that occupies the Portas de Santa Catarina in this city of Lisbon: another one in the city of Rio de Janeiro, which is managed under my orders by my sons Joa˜o Joze, and Paulo Augusto.12 As soon as printing became possible in Rio de Janeiro, Martin’s children Paulo Augusto and Joa˜o Jose´, also dedicated themselves to this activity. Two years after the Royal Press started work, there were already 24 titles advertised in the Catalogo dos folhetos impressos a´ custa de Paulo Martin filho (Catalogue of prints made at the expense of Paulo Martin fils), created through his initiative. Demonstrating mercantile tact, they printed booklets on a subject of great interest at that moment: the French invasions and the Peninsular War. The curiosity about the subject is clear, for example, in the publication of Manifesto da Reza˜o contra a (sic) usurpaco˜es Francezas (Manifest of Reason against the French Usurpations) by Jose´ Acurcio das Neves. The work, advertised in 1810 as having been printed at the expense of Martin in Rio de Janeiro, had also had a Lisbon edition in 1808, repeating the situation observed in diverse publications, which, in a short span of time, had gone into both Brazilian and Portuguese editions.13 Martin did not limit himself to ordering the printing of ‘novels, stories, political pamphlets, poems, funerary prayers’.14 He also worked on voluminous works of undisputed importance in the realm of letters, such as Marı´lia de Dirceu by Toma´s Antonio Gonzaga. This book was printed in three volumes in 1810 in Rio de Janeiro through Martin’s initiative. Another example is Ensaio sobre a crı´tica (An Essay on Criticism) by Alexander Pope, released in the same year as Marı´lia de Dirceu and advertised in the catalogue inserted in copies of Paulo e Virginia in 1811. In Lisbon, the elder Paulo Martin also played the double role of publisher and bookseller. Not only did he market the works that he and

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others printed in Portugal, but also the ones that came off the Carioca printing presses through the initiatives of his sons. This can be seen in the 1812 Catalogo das Obras impressas no Rio de Janeiro achao˜ de venda em Lisboa, na loja de Paulo Martin e Filhos (Catalogue of Works printed in Rio de Janeiro and that could be found for sale in Lisbon at the store of Paulo Martin and sons),15 in which 45 books printed in Brazil were advertised, with a roster of works on law, geography, medicine, mathematics, economics, agriculture, biology and belles-lettres. Martin showed tact in the selection of the material that he would advertise, including first editions, sold-out titles and successful works, and thus demonstrated the efficiency of the Carioca press and the competitiveness of its productions. With the establishment of the Royal Press in Rio de Janeiro, the inhabitants of Lisbon had to wait to receive and read works printed on the other side of the Atlantic, inverting a world order that had for a long time forced the inhabitants of Brazil to wait for printed material produced in Europe. The Lisbon bookseller’s interest in transporting and selling titles released in Rio de Janeiro reveals that the books that came off the Carioca presses seemed attractive, even to those who had various presses and printing houses at their disposal, as was the case in Lisbon. According to Abreu, other lettered men took the opposite path, ordering their prints outside of the kingdom in order to try selling them in Rio de Janeiro.16 In 1818, the French Pierre Constant Dalbin did exactly that by disseminating a Cata´logo de alguns livros impressos a` custa de P. C. Dalbin e Ca., que o mesmo tem em grande numero em Rio de Janeiro (Catalogue of some books printed at the expense of P. C. Dalbin and Co. and others, that he has in great number in Rio de Janeiro), released ‘in Paris, in the workshop of J. Smith’ and in which works in Portuguese were advertised alongside others in English, Italian and Spanish.17 While the Martin family used the presses of the Royal Press to publish works that they believed would be well received in both Brazil and Portugal, Dalbin made use of the Parisian presses with the same purpose. As publishers, they were both in search of the best printing conditions for the books that they published. Many other Portuguese men made their mark in such activities around books, as in the case of the Veiga brothers who had inherited a well-established business from their father, Luı´s Saturnino da Veiga. Having adopted Brazil as his home, Luis Saturnino established himself as a school master in Rio de Janeiro (1793) and later opened a bookstore

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there (from 1808 at the latest), in the same house where he and his family lived and in which he operated his elementary school. Next to Veiga and Bourgeois were Manuel Joaquim da Silva Porto and Manuel Antonio da Silva Serva, also Portuguese, who were friends and who were both significantly active in printing and publishing. Silva Serva operated mainly in Bahia and was the first bookseller to request permission from the new Brazilian government in 1808 to go to England in order to acquire a printing press.18 With authorisation granted, Silva Serva made the trip, acquired the machine, passed through Lisbon in search of the necessary artisans and requested, as early as 1810, a licence to start printing. In early 1811 in Rio, having obtained the licence, he produced a catalogue of works for selling books. Manuel Joaquim da Silva Porto, a trader established in Rio from 1821,19 had a fundamental role in the break-up of the Royal Press’s monopoly when in July 1821 he requested permission to order from England everything necessary to build a printing house in Rio. He justified his request, as Lucia Bastos das Neves and Taˆnia Bessone Ferreira remind us, by drawing attention to the slowness of the Royal Press, which could not fulfil all of its orders. As the historians conclude, once he had obtained the licence and set up the workshop, Silva Porto became the first bookseller of Rio de Janeiro to have his own print house. Soon after the establishment of the workshop, this Portuguese merchant, who had emigrated from Porto, confined his activities to the printing house and sold his bookstore to the children of Luis Saturnino da Veiga, considered the oldest bookseller of Rio de Janeiro.20

Independent Brazil After Brazil’s independence (1822), the flow of French traders to Brazil was even greater. In this brief review of the agents and actors in the production and transatlantic circulation of printed material, we point out two Frenchmen: Pierre Plancher and the figure who served as the introduction to this chapter, Baptiste-Louis Garnier. When Pierre Plancher, born in Le Mans in 1779, arrived in Rio in the 1820s he already had a career as a printer and prior to that as a bookseller in Paris (1815–23). Passionate defender of Bonapartist ideas, he was obliged to exile himself at the time of the French Restoration (1815–30). Sheltered by Brazil in 1824 after making an oath to abstain from politics,

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he established himself as a bookseller on Ouvidor Street, in partnership with another Frenchman, the printer Cremie`re, and filled the shelves of the Livraria Brası´lico Francesa with a variety of titles, material that he obtained through customs exemption. The company lasted only four months and, in June 1824, Plancher had already opened his own bookstore and printing press, the Plancher Bookshop on the main artery of Rio’s commercial district, Ouvidor Street. By that time he had published the first number of Spectador Brasileiro (The Brazilian Spectator), a newspaper that he continued until 1827, when he launched Jornal do Commercio in association with the English bookseller Thomas B. Hunt.21 Entrepreneur, journalist, printer, bookseller and man of passionate ideas, Plancher soon received recognition from D. Pedro I – the first Brazilian emperor, who reigned between 1822 and 1831, years in which he returned to Portugal to assume the Lusitanian throne. Consequently, Jornal do Commercio was for some years the repository of official notices from the Imperial Government, a kind of unofficial Dia´rio Oficial. With high quality printing and an eye on ways to modernise, Jornal do Commercio adopted publication practices used by French newspapers of the time: using free time for the production of other printed materials; producing books based on the publication of serial novels and using them as gifts for subscribers,22 thus maximising the effect of publicity related to books in the space dedicated to the advertisements, among other things.23 His contribution to Brazilian letters, including his role as a vehicle of cultural mediation, is therefore enormous. The fact that Jornal do Commercio endures to this day as a daily publication is enough to say that it was unequivocally the daily newspaper of reference. It was consulted for all sorts of business and for Brazilian commercial life, and even for a large part of the cultural novelties that came from France throughout the nineteenth century, such as the daily publication of serial novels. Plancher, who had always kept some business open in France, sold his bookstore and the Jornal do Commercio to Junius Villeneuve at the beginning of the 1830s and returned to Paris. From there, he assisted his compatriot in Brazil until he was mature enough to perform solidly and to expand, with profits from the Brazilian publication, the businesses initiated by Pierre Plancher. According to Halewell, the business continued to flourish under Villeneuve and his family. It is credited with the first mechanical printing press in the

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Southern Hemisphere and later the first Rotary press and the first linotype. In 1848, [...] it was easily the biggest printer in the city.24 In the 1840s, book merchants from non-peninsular Europe continued to open their doors in Rio de Janeiro, pushing the Portuguese towards the commercial streets surrounding Ouvidor Street, which had become the definitive avenue for the most prestigious volumes and editions. That is where the Belgian Desire´ Dujardin established himself in 1843, adopting Plancher’s strategy of bringing a great number of books from Europe. Specialising in French language, he marketed in subjects related to health and did not neglect literature.25 The Didot family, one of the most traditional in the realm of printed material in France, also ventured to Brazil and stayed there from 1840 until the end of the 1850s as printers and booksellers. Belgian bookbinder Lombaerts joined them. He would come to have the largest lithography of the city and to produce the best bookbinding service of the time.26 The Laemmert brothers from Germany and the Brazilian Francisco de Paula Brito also had very important roles in the history of Brazilian bookstores, but in here they are significant mainly as important actors in the publishing world. Francisco de Paula Brito was born in Rio de Janeiro on 2 December 1809. He was an apprentice in the printing press of the Tipografia Nacional (National Typography – the name adopted by the Royal Press after 1821) and later worked at the Jornal do Commercio as a press manager, editor, translator and storyteller. He settled in a small establishment off the Praca da Constituica˜o (Constitution Plaza) in 1831 with one printing machine and expanded the printing business in Brazil. Years later his shop would be the birthplace of ‘Sociedade Petalo´gica’, which assembled the members of Brazilian Romantic Movement from 1840 to 1860: Antonio Goncalves Dias (1823– 64), Laurindo Rabelo (1826– 64), Joaquim Manuel de Macedo (1820–82) and Manuel Antonio de Almeida (1831– 61), among others. All the elite of the time, from politicians to artists and writers congregated in the bookstore of Paula Brito. He was the publisher of several magazines, among them A Marmota na Corte (The Marmot in the Court), which brought fashion plates to its readers. It is this that caused him to bring from Paris the lithographer Louis Therier, who went on to make lithographs for the magazine. There is a register of more than 350 non-periodical

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publications on various themes by Paula Brito. Eighty-three of them are in the medical field, but, at the same time, Brito encouraged national literature and became the first genuinely non-specialised publisher of the country, since he dealt with a great variety of works and subjects, unlike his predecessors who dedicated themselves more to technical subjects. The Laemmert brothers, on the other hand, were remarkable for the success of their sales (Eduard Laemmert was settled in Rio de Janeiro from 1827), which led them to the Typographia Universal (Universal Typography) (1838) and to the publication of Almanack Administrativo, Mercantil e Industrial da Corte e Provincia do Rio de Janeiro (Administrative, Merchant and Industrial Almanac for the Court and the Province of Rio de Janeiro). The almanac was a complete guide of the city that followed its transformations during most of the nineteenth century.27 By all appearances, the publication of this material over so many years shows that there was a great demand for these almanacs,28 which can still reveal details regarding the behaviour and taste of the Brazilian reading public. Yet, focusing on men of books, it shows that, in this same period, Baptiste-Louis Garnier had settled as a bookseller in Rio and would immediately bring competition to Laemmert in the book market and later, from the end of the 1850s and 1860s, in the publication of Brazilian literature. The two men would also compete in other textual productions related to culture, history and collections for didactic purposes, among others.

From the height of the Empire to the establishment of the Republic Baptiste-Louis, the sixth Garnier brother,29 was the one, in the words of Ernesto Senna, who dominated the book trade in Rio de Janeiro in the second half of the nineteenth century.30 During his more than 50-year career in Brazil, he was decorated by D. Pedro II with the Order of the Rose, as well as with the highest Portuguese honour, the Order of Santa Cruz, in appreciation of the services he had rendered to letters in Brazil. This was not only due to the fact that he was a general supplier of French and foreign books of a varied range, but also because he was the great publisher of Brazilian writers and of books in Portuguese in the nineteenth century in Brazil. As Hallewell states, ‘altogether, B.L.G. is credited with having produced 665 works of Brazilian authors’.31

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Arriving from France at the beginning of the 1840s, Garnier opened his bookstore on Ouvidor Street as a branch of the one his brothers operated in Paris (Auguste and Hyppolite Garnier).32 From 1857, the winds blew Garnier more strongly in the direction of publishing. It seems to us that the bankruptcy (1857) and death (1861) of Francisco de Paula Brito cracked open the space necessary for Baptiste-Louis Garnier to occupy the niche in which he would affirm himself as a publisher in Brazil, in addition to bookseller, trader and negotiator, just like his brothers in Paris. With the aid of the intellectual milieu, among them Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis (1839– 1908), who would become the most important writer of Brazilian literature in the nineteenth century, Baptiste-Louis Garnier affirmed himself as a kind of patron of Brazilian letters, as history would effectively recognise him. It must not have been a coincidence, then, that in the year 1857 his business split from that of his Parisian brothers and his catalogues started to appear, though still published in French, as Catalogue de la Librairie de B. L. Garnier (Catalogue of the B. L. Garnier Bookshop) and no longer as Catalogue de la Librairie de Garnier Fre`res (Catalogue of the Garnier Brothers Bookshop). Also, as Eliana Dutra observed, in 1858 these same catalogues had started to experience major transformations in the format used for presenting the titles they sold. In 1863, they began to be written in Portuguese and offered a large number of original texts and translations in that language.33 At the beginning of 1860s, the newspaper columns of Machado de Assis reveal the extent to which Garnier was invested in affirming himself as a publisher of books of Brazilian literature, culture and history. Machado also leaves clues as to how those investments promoted the international circulation of those writings. In October 1864 Machado tells us: The Cantos fu´nebres [by Goncalves de Magalha˜es] will find the reception they deserve from the Brazilian public. They should look no further for the book since this volume is the sixth in the collection of the poet’s complete works, which Mr. Garnier will publish. The volume that I have in view is clearly printed. The impression was made in Vienna, before the eyes of the author, a guarantee that no error could escape; this being the

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definitive edition of the poet’s work, it is essential that it be free of errors. A good book, a beautiful edition – what more can a demanding reader desire?34 The text shows us that Baptiste-Louis Garnier led a publishing policy at his company that was similar to that used by his brothers and other important Parisian booksellers of that time.35 He invested in the publication of the collected works of authors deemed to be significant, whose work ought to be compiled and conserved – the book in question above was the sixth volume of the Complete Works, which Garnier was releasing as a definitive edition – intervening in what would become the classics of national literature. When mentioning the new volume by Goncalves de Magalha˜es, the columnist first underlines the quality of the edition: clear impression, made in Europe, error-free, composed under the watchful eye of the writer, who followed the production closely. He also calls the Brazilian public to give the work the reception it deserves. Ultimately, this reflects the development of an association between the publisher and the writer directed towards the affirmation of the existence of a national literature, focusing on the advertising of a certain diversity of authors and works, the existence of a readership for this literature, the need for the collection and preparation of complete and definitive works of writers, who were elevated by these practices and discourses to the Brazilian canon. But even before connecting Garnier with this national project, our literati had a more important motivation for surrendering to the French publisher: the printing quality. Brazilian writers complained of the difficulties of composition and revision encountered when publishing their texts, especially when they were composed in the workshops of Rio de Janeiro. But at Garnier’s workshop, with the professionalisation of the publishing processes in addition to the experience of the publisher, the problems related to book composition decreased with each printing. As the product quality was identified as one of the strategies for sales and for holding market share in Brazil, the publisher, from the early 1860s, maintained a proofreader in Paris, who is mentioned by Machado de Assis in these same chronicles. However, recently, a source never explored before shows that Garnier’s care and attention to the publishing business had been even greater than could be evaluated until now. A contract signed between

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Garnier and Jules Henri Gueffier on 10 February 1864 clarifies that Gueffier was recruited by Garnier to render, in Paris, printing services, representation at bookstores and, when necessary, translations, most likely of works in French into Portuguese, since Gueffier had lived in Brazil and knew the language.36 Another example of how Baptiste-Louis Garnier’s work influenced the international circulation of Brazilian literature can be seen through an analysis of some first editions of the novel O Guarani (first edition in 1857) by Jose´ de Alencar (1829–75). When the novel started to be published chez Garnier, beginning with the second edition of the book in 1864, the bookseller and publisher employed a marketing logic quite similar to the one that was developed by the publisher Michel Le´vy in France and was imitated by other French publishers. In the mid-1850s Le´vy developed a new system for the production and sale of books that created the equivalent to a revolution in the price of books in France. In this system, the titles were published in the cheap in-188 format; the editions were cheapened as much as possible in terms of materials used (paper, folio bindings, cover, etc.); the books were marketed at very popular prices (1 Franc or less); the edition had very large circulations (more than 3,000 copies); and made use of a wide distribution net (like kiosks in train stations).37 Upon publishing O Guarani, Garnier resorted to similar strategies. Analysis of the 52nd number of the Bibliographie de la France. Journal general de l’imprimerie et de la librairie (Bibliography of France. General Journal for the Press and the Book Trade) from 24 December 1864, shows that the publisher ordered the printing of O Guarani in Paris and simultaneously brought two new editions to the customers in Brazil: the second edition, in-88, and the third, in-188 (the format used by Michel Levy). By simultaneously printing two editions of Jose´ de Alencar’s novel in order to take advantage of the same typographical composition, Garnier destined the work for two different audiences, or, at least, for two different uses. The second edition of O Guarani was made with better quality paper, formatted in-88, had sewn book bindings and a quality cover (made of a resistant cardboard), to be sold in Brazil at the price of 4,000 re´is. The third edition, however, made in the popular in-188 format, was printed on quite ordinary paper, had a light-weight, coloured paper cover and was to be sold for 2,000 re´is.38 Still, comparing the activities of both Le´vy and Baptiste-Louis Garnier, both of them would buy the rights from the authors at the

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outset and then they would look for the profit in the circulation or in the sales. However, Garnier was obliged to adapt Le´vy’s project to the practices and the market of Brazil, which had smaller circulation sizes than in France, so he mixed Le´vy’s system with an older one that preceded the popularly priced editions in book form in France, in which the cost of a book was expensive. Garnier, like Le´vy, also printed his publications in Parisian print houses accustomed to working with the Portuguese language (Simon & Racon, for example). He also made his publications available for sale in Paris, at the Livraria Durand (Durand Bookstore), as can be read on the inside cover of the editions of O Guarani that we examined.

From Baptiste-Louis Garnier on Along the way, Garnier created a tradition. When Garnier passed away in 1893, the methods of Ferdinand Fauchon’s bookstore in Rio de Janeiro, resembled, in many ways, those of his great-uncle, BaptisteLouis.39 In the early years of the First Brazilian Republic, after the death of his grandmother’s brother, Auguste Fauchon’s son looked for a way to dedicate himself to the publication of Brazilian literature. In 1895, two years after the death of his great-uncle, Fauchon’s advertisements in Rio de Janeiro newspapers show that he tried to occupy the same niche as Livraria e Editora Garnier (Garnier Bookstore and Publishing House) by making business and publishing choices similar to those that Baptiste-Louis Garnier had made since the 1860s: publication in Paris of Brazilian literature, in high quality editions described as luxurious; investment in various genres and diverse subjects, with the objective of diversifying the collections and catering to the public in general. We see that Baptiste-Louis Garnier was a great role model who inspired Brazilian booksellers and publishers. Following this Frenchman, the Brazilian publishing market, already formed and professionalised, attracted talented, cultured, visionary, ambitious and determined men upon whom the lessons and publications of Baptiste-Louis would leave an indelible mark. Here, we followed some of the steps of those men, across almost a century, between the European and South American continents, around books, presses, types, tests, notebooks and all kinds of materials related

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to the world of print. The movements described by such actors, transporters of culture and mediators demonstrate that although national borders were defined in geopolitical terms in the nineteenth century, they were constantly being broken and crossed by cultural practices, as can be seen through the circulation of printed material.

CHAPTER 6 VAUTHIER AND THE CIRCULATION OF TECHNIQUES, BOOKS AND IDEAS IN PERNAMBUCO: THREE PASSEURS, TWO ERAS Claudia Poncioni

Louis-Le´ger Vauthier (1815–1901) was a French engineer who graduated from the E´cole Polytechnique and the E´cole des Ponts et Chausse´es. Vauthier lived in Brazil from 1840 to 1846, in the service of the Government of Pernambuco. He was hired by Francisco do Rego Barros (1802–70), Baron of Boa Vista, president of the province at the time. Boa Vista, who had studied in France, contracted Vauthier to modernise the city and build infrastructure that would aid in promoting economic progress. During his sojourn in Pernambuco, the Frenchman kept a diary in which he recorded his impressions of day-to-day life in the region and his own efforts to disseminate the philosophy of Charles Fourier (1772–1837). Vauthier imported and sold French books, technical magazines and other publications promoting ‘romantic socialism’. In 1846, with Antoˆnio Pedro de Figueiredo (1814–59), he established O Progresso, a Brazilian Fourierist magazine, which ran until 1848; copies of the magazine were also regularly shipped to France. He had been long forgotten, both in Brazil and in his native France, when, thanks to

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the efforts of Gilberto Freyre, a sociologist and man of letters usually associated with the right, Vauthier gained renown as the harbinger of socialist ideals in Brazil. Studying the connections established in the mid-nineteenth century between the French engineer, an apologist of progressive theories, and Barros, an eminent scion of an aristocratic sugar-producing, slave-holding family of Brazil’s north-east, we trace a circular – though not unbroken – exchange of impressions that travelled between France and Pernambuco. The fruit of these exchanges would come to light when they were appropriated, for ideological purposes, a century later. The development of an international network of relationships and interdependencies that would give rise to the ‘modern world’ after 1780 is apparent, among other studies, in Christopher Alan Bayly’s work The Birth of the Modern World.1 The European revolutions of 1789 and 1848 are cited as landmark events that would have an impact on other societies in distant countries, where they would be linked to locally generated uprisings. Bayly demonstrates how during the ‘great nineteenth century’ all local, national and regional history had already become widely linked to history on a worldwide scale. The case we examine in this chapter clearly illustrates this relationship. Yet it also acts as an example of the influential role played by those who possessed a particular culture, wisdom, technique or ideology and were able to contribute – albeit fragmentarily – by creating bonds, strengthening relationships and disseminating a wide range of new knowledge that would spark innovation, hybridisms and, at times, transformation. The relationships we examine would become part of this process. It was the bond created in the mid-nineteenth century in Pernambuco, in north-east Brazil, between the Brazilian aristocrat Francisco do Rego Barros (1802– 40) and the French engineer Louis-Le´ger Vauthier (1815– 1901). We shall see how the actions of these two men of the midnineteenth century became part and parcel of the globalisation process then underway. We shall then see how a century later – by means of a peculiar process of appropriation – the bond was revived and reused by Gilberto Freyre (1900– 87), a key passeur of twentieth-century Brazil, who as the mentor of a regional, identity-building project, revisited the bond and crafted today’s particular ‘Brazilian remembrance’ of Vauthier.

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One of the primary sources of this study is Vauthier’s notebook, which contains valuable information about the social, cultural and economic life both of Pernambuco in the mid-1800s and of France during the same epoch. I tracked down Vauthier’s handwritten manuscript in the Central Archives of the Historical and Artistic Heritage Institute (Portuguese acronym: IPHAN) in Rio de Janeiro. Work on the Brazilian edition – after translating and adapting notes from the French edition2 – required consulting a considerable body of information and documents housed at the French National Archives, French and Brazilian diplomatic archives, private French archives, like those of the Vauthier family, local French archives, and the collection of the Jorda˜o Emerenciano State Archives of the State of Pernambuco, Brazil. Documents from the collections of Brazilian institutions such as the Historical and Geographic Institute of Brazil (Portuguese acronym: IHGB), the Joaquim Nabuco Foundation (Recife, Brazil) and the National Libraries of Brazil and France were also consulted, as were those of other institutions. I also studied documents collected by Freyre, housed in the collection of the Gilberto Freyre Foundation (Recife), as well as the outcome of research done by Freyre for work published in 1940.3 Objects of investigation were also several editions, published between 1839 and 1846, of the Dia´rio de Pernambuco, an important newspaper founded in Recife in 1825 and still in circulation today. The body of the diary, which contains entries by Vauthier written between 1840 (when he left France to settle in Brazil) and 1846 (when he returned to his native land), centres on the techniques, books and ideas that circulated between the two countries. The process is recorded from a personal viewpoint, enabling us to grasp the important role played by Vauthier as a passeur. However, that is not all. As we shall learn, two Brazilians, Rego Barros in the mid-1800s and, a century later, Freyre, were to act, each to their own degree, as agents of mediation. Diana Cooper-Richet rightly points out that the concept of cultural mediator (passeur culturel) is difficult to define because of its diverse nature.4 She reminds us that mediation can be either voluntary or involuntary and, interestingly, that transmission is never neutral, since all mediators ( passeurs) belong to the social reality of an era. Moreover, as Serge Gruzinski noted ‘all passeurs remain imprisoned by the confines of their education and its objectives’.5 Observations such as these must be borne in mind.

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Yet the passeur belongs to more than a social time frame. He is, by nature, part of a dual spatial reality. We are reminded that the term passeur in French was originally employed to describe those who ferried people and goods across the river or took clandestine travellers across borders, forbidden zones or enemy lines.6 Thus, the idea of a crossing is inherently associated with the term – a crossing that may be clear, evident and exposed to the light of day, or cloaked in darkness, furtive and clandestine, in which the aura of trespassing is always present. The crossing this chapter discusses takes a variety of forms, involves multiple directions and occurs in two time periods. First we shall discuss two very distinct social realities: those of France and Brazil in the mid-1800s. We shall then see how both realities became connected within a worldwide context. Our starting point will be the path taken by two individuals whose fates became intertwined at the close of the first half of the nineteenth century in Paris. Our other spatial context is the Brazilian province of Pernambuco, where their paths would cross again during another time frame – a century later – when France would be the crossroads. The first period was in the 1840s, when Brazilian society was undergoing deep-seated changes that began with the 1808 arrival of the Portuguese royal family, whose privileged relationship with the British crown and desire to escape the Napoleonic onslaught taking place in Portugal had led them to transfer the Lusitanian state apparatus to Portugal’s American colony. The second period would run its course in the mid-1940s as part of the centenary commemorations of the ‘Revoluc
a˜o Praieira’, a social movement that burst onto the scene in 1848 in Pernambuco, in the north-east region of Brazil. Around the middle of the nineteenth century, Pernambuco, the regional capital and principal sugar-growing hub, was the third largest economic and political pole of the country after Rio de Janeiro and Bahia. It was, however, undergoing a crisis. To maintain its status, the province, which was the subject to centralised taxation, needed to modernise its port and roadway infrastructures and adopt innovative production techniques that would enable the sugar and cotton from Pernambuco to compete on the European market with the tropical goods from the British and French colonies and the southern United States. In 1817 the province had already taken up arms to combat the Lusitanian Crown’s view that it was hog-tied by the tax schemes

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imposed by Portugal’s mainland authorities. Yet the economic crisis that had hampered the prosperity of the north-east also lay in the drop in sugar and cotton prices on the international market and the rise in the price of slaves, a result of Britain’s increasing pressure on the slave trade. Independence in 1822, which would witness the establishment of the Empire, would not exert a favourable impact on the gradual but inexorable decline of Pernambuco’s economy. The attempts to revive the economy centred on improving the quality of exported sugar, through the introduction of new strains of sugar cane and new techniques of transforming cane syrup. The second largest export good was cotton. France was Brazil’s principal customer and the city of Rouen the product’s main destination. The French city was served by the port of Le Havre, which was why, at the time, there was a regular shipping route between this French port and the port of Recife, the capital of Pernambuco. In a consular missive of 1840, Monsieur Barre`re, the French consul in Pernambuco, stated that one of the main trade difficulties between France and the province of Pernambuco was the return cargo.7 Only French vessels had the right to transport cotton, which Pernambuco did not produce on a great scale. In an attempt to shield the goods coming from the French colonies – namely sugar from the Antilles – the French levied extremely high duties on similar goods produced in Brazil. Chartered by commercial firms from Normandy, the French vessels that put in at Recife and those that docked at the port in Rio de Janeiro, would bring craftsmen, tradesmen, French retailers and fashionable goods of the day: silk, textiles, articles of clothing, costume jewellery, but also furniture and decorative items in bronze. However, after leaving Recife, the last port before the crossing, their holds contained almost exclusively cotton. The French textile industry had quickly gained a reputation for being more original than that of England. France did not have England’s abundance of cotton, which the British imported from Egypt and India. Nor could they compete with the low prices the English could offer thanks to the cheap island labour. Instead, they started producing textiles of a great variety and sophistication. In the mid-1800s, France was exporting luxury – or quasi luxury – goods, and the move enabled them to finance the importation of raw materials like coal, cotton and

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pig iron for their budding industries. But, in addition to these goods, France also exported books.8 Recife was the first port-of-call for vessels coming from Europe, which meant that besides the Portuguese volumes on board, many other foreign books found their destination in Pernambuco. In town, there were societies and reading rooms with the members providing the reading material. One such gathering place was the Gabinete Litera´rio de Pernambuco. There were also bookshops like the one owned by Joa˜o da Cunha Magalha˜es, located on the same street as Recife’s jail, and the establishment owned by Manoel Figueiroa Faria, on the same street as the school, where books could be ‘exchanged, provided no pages are missing’.9 The folks walking up and down the thoroughfares of Recife, Rio de Janeiro, Sa˜o Luı´s do Maranha˜o and most especially Salvador da Bahia, were almost all black or mixed-race. However, European immigrants gradually became visible, master craftsmen and artisans of all kinds, small shop-owners, domestic help and skilled workmen plying the streets. Despite resistance from the slave traders and the ‘masters of the sugar mills’, the first tentative steps were being taken in the transition from slave labour to work performed by free men. Certainly Britain had a dominant economic presence in the budding urban society, but France was in fashion. The elites read in French and copied clothing styles and habits that came from Paris. Brazil’s main cities were port towns and here a new social stratum was taking shape for whom the inside of a church was not the only venue for socialising. As in Europe, the theatres became privileged meeting places. Leisure time activities now required a modern, sophisticated veneer. The theatre was where they all convened: the aristocracy, the bourgeoisie and the masses who, though illiterate, were not deaf and could appreciate the performances. In Pernambuco, the French colony had been large enough to warrant a consulate since 1827. There were two French physicians practising in Pernambuco’s capital and two French shops on the town’s high streets. English goods were also being sold by British tradesmen. These were mainly farm tools to be used in the production of export goods, which, after undergoing the manufacturing process and several steep mark-ups, would return to their place of origin. Thus, the circulation of goods would come full circle, all within a system that had already become widespread and interdependent.

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At the beginning of our chapter we saw how the circulation of ‘novelties’ could also be set in motion by single individuals. In 1840, a young man of 38, scion of the local oligarchy, was the president of the province of Pernambuco. Francisco do Rego Barros, Baron and later Count of Boa Vista, was heir to one of Pernambuco’s largest sugar fortunes. At 15 he had enlisted in the artillery regiment in Recife, taking part in the 1821 revolt also known as the Goiana Revolution, one of the separatist movements that preceded Brazil’s split from Portugal. Arrested and transported to the Portuguese mainland, he would be freed in 1823, whereupon he would settle in Paris, where he obtained a ‘Baccalaure´at’ (high school diploma) in mathematics. Upon returning to Brazil, he devoted himself to provincial politics as a member of the Conservative Party. In 1837 he was appointed president of Pernambuco, and retained the post (with two brief interruptions) until 13 April 1844, when he would assume other duties in the service of the Empire. The first passeur has now come into our sights. Influenced by his sojourn in France, Barros was concerned with cleaning up, developing and modernising the city of Recife and the province of Pernambuco. Evidently, in addition to his desire for an economic context that would improve the circulation of goods and promote the sale of local products, the baron wished to promote the modernisation of Recife, making the city, now threatened with decline, a capital worthy of its position. And at the time, France was synonymous with ‘civilization’. However, we must view the provincial president’s plan principally in a subjective light. In this epoch, many men of state from countries on the periphery believed that by merely adopting the outer trappings of modernity, one could decisively achieve it. Boa Vista was not looking to transform the socio-economic organisation of Pernambucan society, which was essentially based on the time-honoured exportation of sugar and cotton and the exploitation of slave labour. He did, however, believe that to stave off the inexorable decline that was looming on Pernambuco’s horizon, it was necessary – albeit indirectly – to take advantage of some of the innovations that Europe had witnessed through the advance of science and technology. Evidently, Boa Vista, an unabashed Francophile, decided to hire a French engineer to head his modernisation project, which was driven by an active policy of public works.

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This is where the second passeur arrives on our scene: his name was Louis-Le´ger Vauthier. A graduate of France’s most distinguished schools of engineering and public works, Vauthier had at his disposal all the technical know-how to suitably perform the functions and carry out the mission that the Baron of Boa Vista had reserved for him. Not only had he successfully completed the programme of the E´cole Polytechnique, but immediately afterwards he had completed his specialisation – with honours – at the E´cole des Ponts et Chausse´es.10 However, in addition to introducing new techniques in Imperial Pernambuco, Vauthier was also to become the harbinger of new ideas. We should mention that the details of the young engineer’s sojourn in Brazil have come to us in a personal diary, where he recorded his day-today reflections and impressions from the day he arrived at Le Havre in July 1840, waiting to embark, until his return to Europe in 1846. The notebook was later offered as a gift to Gilberto Freyre by Paulo Prado (1869– 1943), a wealthy Sa˜o Paulo cultural patron and man of letters, who had bought it in a rare bookshop in Paris, probably in the early 1930s. We have already mentioned the several Brazilian editions and the French version of the work. The diary illustrates the degree of professional competence Vauthier possessed and discusses the necessary – but often awkward – relationships he had with the local French community and several sectors of Brazilian society. It is the chronicle of an apprentice to a new tropical environment, with observations about the heat, landscapes and vegetation, local customs, sanitation and health, food, the use of tobacco and his interactions with the society of Recife and its local authorities. We witness how hard it was for the engineer to decode this strange, new society and acquire strategies to suit the new situations he confronted. The diary is more ‘personal’ than it is ‘intimate’. As Philippe Lejeune argues, we are dealing with a text that strives to ‘flesh out the writer as a person’ without dwelling on psychological or moral issues.11 Why then did Vauthier write it? The 25-year-old was certainly attempting to confer a rational order to his emotions and sensations, while filling the void that was created by leaving his country, family and social milieu far behind. In short, the diary helped Vauthier build his identity as a person and remain steadfast in his convictions. The notebook contains a hybrid collection of texts that are a mixture of personal writings, travel journal entries and notes that oscillate

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between the documental and the literary. By September 1841, when Vauthier began only recording the dispatch and receipt of books and correspondence, deliberately failing to write down, as he had before, his impressions of everyday life, the diary had most likely already fulfilled its mission. Now more mature, the young man settled into life in Pernambuco, picking up the notebook and using it as a diary only once more, for a few brief instants, on the ship headed home to France as he faced the anxiety-provoking uncertainty of the future. The technical and scientific books Vauthier mentions in his diary allow us to classify the depth of his knowledge and see how he adapted his skills to the functions he carried out as a director in Pernambuco’s Department of Public Works. Vauthier evidently made a point of staying abreast of the era’s latest technological innovations. He read works by specialists in every field connected to civil engineering and the sciences in general. The references to his readings are constant throughout his diary. The differences of opinion and conflicts he had with Brazilian engineers, schooled in Portugal, show how resistant they were to new technology and new methods of organising work. The number of times ‘upon request’, i.e. published at the request of the party in question, appears in the Pernambuco newspapers amply illustrates the degree to which Vauthier’s attempts to rationalise public spending were at loggerheads with local interests and fuelled controversies that the basest of nationalistic sentiments blew out of proportion.12 Vauthier’s first assignment from Rego Barros was to build a large theatre. Recife’s old theatre was somewhat shabbily built, Portuguese style, and was not fit to host the premier companies of Europe. With these new facilities, the elite of Pernambuco aspired to see, be seen and attend performances brought in from Europe, showing that they were well suited to the customs and social behaviours of their ‘civilised’ European counterparts. Urban expansion in the mid-nineteenth century also called for the construction of new bridges and roadways. Vauthier was charged with building roads and bridges, creating the first layout of the city, presenting the first project for the layout of streets and thoroughfares and an allencompassing urban project that would serve as the city’s master plan. Rego Barros’ grand project also included educating the youth. In colonial times education was the bailiwick of the Church, but during

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the Imperial period, education came to be viewed as a state issue. Therefore, another of Vauthier’s missions was to supervise work on the Carmel Convent so that it could temporarily function as Pernambuco’s high school. To achieve this, he introduced new technologies, which he adapted to local demands. He also introduced new materials imported from Europe, new machinery, and promoted new ideas. At the E´cole Polytechnique he had also learned that industrial and technological modernity only made sense if it was linked to promoting human dignity. Thus, he believed that innovation and scientific progress would enhance social progress, opening the gates to a better future. It was a concept that the doctrines penned by Engels, so staunchly and definitively, would label ‘utopian socialism’,13 which also took in schools of thought inspired by Saint Simon and Charles Fourier, and Owen and E´tienne Cabet.14 Vauthier had joined the E´cole Socie´taire (Societary School), which was established in France in the early 1830s to spread the ideas of Charles Fourier. Its purpose was to disseminate and apply scientific knowledge through experimentation, which it was hoped would lead to a harmonious new type of associative life, organised into phalansteries and based on the ‘science of attraction’. Fourier’s complex doctrine was built around ‘laws of attraction’, which, in turn, were based on Newtonian laws transposed from physics onto the social realm. In this context, ‘passionate attraction’ was said to act as the engine of human society that ruled the world and generated harmony. While Vauthier was in Recife, this school of thought burgeoned. Between 1836 and 1846 its membership grew ten-fold thanks to the militancy of its members and the numerous publications that disseminated its ideas throughout France and abroad. Vauthier’s diary enables us to grasp the extent to which Charles Fourier’s philosophy circulated during this time period, and how its members spread the word throughout France and Brazil. Yet the diary also contains thoughts and facts that touch upon a wide variety of subjects, as Cooper-Richet mentions.15 During the six years he lived in Brazil, Vauthier – as announcements in Pernambuco newspapers mentioning E´cole Socie´taire publications show16 – was intensely active in promoting Fourier’s philosophy. His activities are in line with the methods of promoting ideas established by Fourier himself and reworked by his disciples. Among these followers

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was Victor Considerant (1808–93), also an engineer who graduated from the E´cole Polytechnique and who abandoned his career to become the principal propagandist for the E´cole Socie´taire, creating the newspaper La Phalange (The Phalange ) in 1836. It is worthwhile noting that another member of the E´cole Socie´taire, Benoıˆt Mure (1809–58), a Fourierist and homeopath, had previously established a Phalansterian community, on the border between Parana´ and Santa Catarina, in southern Brazil. That failed to take root. Vauthier’s disparaging comments about Mure and his plans are understandable, since the two men belonged to opposing factions within the societary movement. 4 leagues of land on the Saı´ Peninsula (island of Santa Catarina), 64 thousand contos from the General Assembly. These are splendid results. Mure is a charlatan, but what can you say? He knows how to use language and mellifluous words.17 Vauthier belonged to the larger group of ‘propagators’, who believed that their main mission was to disseminate Fourierist ideals through readings and propaganda. On the other hand, Mure espoused the handson approach whereby Fourier’s precepts were to be put into action and disseminated by means of practical example. Vauthier, therefore, did not support Mure’s initiative. Quite the contrary, he sent information about his counterpart to Franc
ois Cantagrel (1810– 87), a friend and leading figure in the E´cole Socie´taire, in a letter dated 14 November 1845. In one way or another, he hoped Mure’s initiative would fail and continued to insist on the importance of his own ‘propagation’ drive. The engineer was not a revolutionary. He aspired to the gradual transformation of society. In Pernambuco he carried on reading, accompanying the discussions taking place in France. Yet he also continued to deepen his theoretical knowledge by exploring not only works within the Fourierist circle, but all types of books. By reading, he sought not only to quench his thirst for knowledge, but also acquire the tools that would enable him to discuss, debate and finally convince his interlocutors. A person’s decision to join the School should not be obtained through indoctrination or force, he believed, but through argumentation.18

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The books by French authors he proposed could be read in the original or in Portuguese translations and might be literary, technical, legal, didactic or philosophical. In those days, anyone with the flimsiest education could read the language of Molie`re. Knowing this, Vauthier advertised the sale of French books in the Dia´rio de Pernambuco (Pernambuco Daily), which were made available to all interested parties in the bookshop on the corner of the local school: Publications of the E´cole Socie´taire Books published by this philosophical school have just arrived from France. They clearly present the most noble and just ideas on the present state and future of humanity, and reading them can be of the greatest usefulness to men of all political creeds. They are being sold at this typographer’s for the following prices: De´baˆcle de la Politique 1$200rs, Notions Ele´mentaires de la Science Sociale, 1$200rs, Almanach phalanste´rien, 400rs; Les enfants du Phalanste`re, 240rs; Petit cours d’e´conomie politique 240rs, De la Politique Nouvelle 120rs.19 Another advertisement read: Publications by the E´cole Socie´taire. In addition to the works already mentioned in this newspaper, which have sold exceptionally well, the following interesting works have just arrived from France and are being sold at the most moderate of prices: Trois discours; Vie de Charles Fourier, Exposition Abre´ge´e du syste`me de Fourier, Examen en de´fense du meˆme; Le sept avril; Colonisation de Madagascar; Des Caisses d’e´pargne. The books can be found in the Prac
a da Independeˆncia, at the bookshop, nos. 6 and 8, as can catalogues on the collection of works published by the E´cole Socie´taire. A person will be on hand to provide these to people who wish to gain a more perfect understanding of the societary system.20 Vauthier also lent books to those who could not afford to buy them, as witnessed in a notice published a few days before he returned to France:

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L.L. Vauthier, who is scheduled to sail for France on the 12th of this month, asks all those persons who have books belonging to the aforementioned advertiser in their libraries to kindly return them.21 Thus, in addition to promoting the sale of subscriptions and individual books, Vauthier’s efforts to disseminate the Society’s works included the loan of personal copies. He also sent books to Bahia where they were sold in Salvador by the Italian Carlo Poggetti, one of Bahia’s principle typographers22 and the proprietor of a bookshop founded in 1835.23 The works that Vauthier brought to Pernambuco were wide-ranging and have been included in the bibliography to this article. An analysis of the list of subscribers to Fourierist books and magazines, which was carefully recorded in Vauthier’s diary, shows that aside from a few French engineers and tradesmen, most of the subscribers were Brazilian members of the enlightened, conservative cast of ‘notables’ of a society based on slave labour. They were, in essence, members of the Baron of Boa Vista’s inner circle. Today’s reader will have no trouble detecting the irony. Vauthier, who was staunchly opposed to slavery when he first came to Brazil, bought his first slave a few months later and in the announcement he had published before returning to France, among his goods he mentions a piano, a safe, a clock, several pieces of furniture and ‘some slaves’.24 The fact is that Brazil’s nineteenth-century economy was based on slave labour and any value judgements we make using today’s criteria would be patently anachronistic. Moreover, we should not forget that it was the conservative Boa Vista, having resolved to modernise Pernambuco, who brought Vauthier to Brazil, approved and financially supported the dissemination of newspapers and books on French romantic socialism and who finally launched the first Brazilian socialist newspaper, O Progresso (The Progress), in 1846. The magazine, which was launched on 1 August 1846 by Antoˆnio Pedro de Figueiredo (1814–59) with the active participation of Vauthier, was regularly shipped to France, as Vauthier’s diary and several issues of the magazine itself inform us. The publication would close in 1848, at the height of the so-called ‘Praieira Revolution’.

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It may seem ironic for the magazine to go under in 1848, during the time of the uprising which a portion of Brazilian historical writings still associates with the 1848 ‘people’s spring’. Yet studies, such as those written by Izabel Andrade Marson,25 show that the nature of this particular civil war was complex, involving liberals, monarchists, republicans and members of the masses, though these were either at the service of or manipulated by the first group. The Pernambuco magazine targeted a local readership that was already familiar with French societary writings, although it did spread to other provinces and have subscribers in Bahia, Paraı´ba, Ceara´ and Maranha˜o, as the inside covers of the first three issues tell us. Edited in the Portuguese language, the magazine aimed to expose non-Francophone readers to the reflections of French thinkers and commentators, adapt the thoughts of Fourier to the Brazilian context, examine situations and propose solutions that would bring progress closer. However, it is another false paradox that brings us into the second time period mentioned at the beginning of the chapter: the 1940s. The paradox is that it was thanks to a Brazilian intellectual – who is today viewed by many as a conservative – that Louis-Le´ger Vauthier, long forgotten in his native country, would attain notability in Brazil and be cited as the harbinger of socialist thought in that country. The Brazilian intellectual, our third passeur, is Gilberto. As already mentioned, it was largely due to Freyre’s intervention that Vauthier’s diary was translated into Portuguese and published in 194026 by the SPHAN (National Historic and Artistic Heritage Department), a unit of the Ministry of Education and Health, then headed by Gustavo Capanema (1900–75).27 The same year, Freyre’s essay, Um engenheiro franceˆs no Brasil (A French engineer in Brazil) would be put out by Jose´ Olympio publishers.28 In addition to studying the French community in Pernambuco, the essay stressed the crucial role the engineer had played in modernising Pernambuco’s capital a century earlier. In 1943 Freyre would also publish a series of letters on Brazilian architecture that had come out nearly a century earlier in Paris in the Revue ge´ne´rale de l’architecture et des travaux publics (General review of architecture and public works).29 The magazine, founded by Cesar Daly (1811– 94), a commanding figure in the world of arts and letters of the epoch, had been the most successful propaganda tool of Fourierism of its era.30 For the followers of the E´cole Socie´taire, architecture played an

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essential role in the construction of the egalitarian community and the phalanstery was a model of the ideal city. In 1853, in Issue 11 of the Revue, four letters written by Louis-Le´ger Vauthier were published with the title ‘Des maisons d’habitation au Bre´sil’ (‘Brazilian Dwellings’). The four letters, addressed to Daly, followed a plan that had been laid out beforehand. It attempts to demonstrate that, above all, architecture is a result of the relationship between man and a constructed space. It is a relationship that should aim to transform society. This is why Vauthier, in his letters, not only details the construction techniques of Brazilian dwellings, but the activities and customs of their inhabitants. In the letters, Vauthier is obviously once again acting as mediator, but this time in the direction Brazil– France. Unfortunately, the impact this had in France is unknown. The archives of the Revue ge´ne´rale de l’architecture were destroyed in 1871 in one of the many fires that blazed during the Paris Commune. What we are sure of is that in Brazil, the moment they were published, the letters, like the diary, became a significant source of information and a reference that was often cited by architects and experts involved in the conservation and restoration of national heritage assets. Since Vauthier did not limit himself to mere descriptions of buildings, but also to portraying the lives of those who lived inside, the letters came to hold interest for urbanologists, sociologists and historians. We saw earlier that the guiding presence of Freyre was decisive in the dissemination of Vauthier’s work. The diary and letters were published in Brazil in 1940, during the Estado Novo (New State ), the dictatorial regime that held power from 1937 to 1945, and they were introduced in the context of an authoritarian project to modernise Brazilian society and construct a national identity. By 1940, Freyre was already regarded as a distinguished intellectual, but not the renowned author he would later become. The year before, he had published Sobrados e Mucambos (Mansions and Shanties),31 which had followed the publication of Casa-grande & Senzala (Masters and Slaves)32 in 1933. The three-part series would be completed with the 1959 publication of Ordem e Progresso (Order and Progress)33 in 1959. The first book of the famous trilogy had transformed the way Brazilians viewed their country and their past. As of that moment, miscegenation became the keystone of identity construction of the Vargas Era.34

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It should be noted that during that period, which was marked by rabid nationalism, documents penned by foreign travellers about Brazil and the Brazilian people of the nineteenth century, such as the writings of Debret, Rugendas, Kidder, Saint-Hilaire, Ribeyrolles and so on, translated and published in the 1940s, played an important part in shaping the identity-building strategies of the period. It was, as well, the backdrop for the publication the texts by Vauthier. Freyre and Rodrigo Melo Franco de Andrade (1898– 1967),35 founder and director of the SPHAN, were quick to grasp that Vauthier’s perceptions of Brazil, with all of their shortcomings and merits, were, at the same time, foreign and national, since Louis-Le´ger had been one of the few foreigners to head a Brazilian government entity: the Pernambuco Public Works Department. Melo Franco de Andrade accepted Freyre’s proposal but asked Freyre to write the footnotes and preface, indispensable aids in establishing the context for the Frenchman’s sojourn in Pernambuco. However, even though the prime function of the preface and footnotes would be to shed light on Vauthier’s writing – as he had done for ‘Brazilian Dwellings’ – Freyre seized the occasion to engage in a dialogue with Brazil’s great thinkers on the major issues of the epoch. Twenty years later, in 1960, Freyre’s essay, Vauthier’s diary and the letters on the Brazilian dwellings were brought together in a two-volume publication by Jose´ Olympio publishers. In a lengthy introduction of 166 pages, Freyre presents the combined set of writings. The extensive opening article was the result of exhaustive research aimed at carrying on the work he had done for the 1940 editions, and it was of much greater scope than the original editorial project. In sum, Freyre, a man of the right, would dredge Vauthier, the socialist, up from historical oblivion. He would succinctly label him as the ‘engineer of bridges and ideas’, transmitter of doctrines and techniques. The figure of Louis-Le´ger Vauthier evokes more than the exchange of construction techniques, books and ideas. He recalls the breadth of the mechanisms that piqued and promoted passages, ocean crossings, adaptations and symbolic revivals. He also evokes the roles played, at different levels, in different ways and in different eras by two other passeurs. The three were like a set of mirrors that reflected both the local and the global, the general and the specific, forming a complex, stirring perspective that one always desires to revisit.


            


 
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