William Morris' Position between Art and Politics [1 ed.] 9781443873710, 9781443852005

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William Morris’ Position between Art and Politics

William Morris’ Position between Art and Politics By

Grzegorz Zinkiewicz

William Morris' Position between Art and Politics By Grzegorz Zinkiewicz This book first published 2017 Cambridge Scholars Publishing Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2017 by Grzegorz Zinkiewicz All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-5200-7 ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-5200-5

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements .................................................................................. viii Introduction ................................................................................................. 1 Objectives and methodological approaches: specifications ................... 2 The Morrisean universe ......................................................................... 5 The interrelation between art, nature, and politics: an excursus ..... 12 Critical assessment of studies devoted to William Morris ................... 16 Biographical perspectives .................................................................... 18 Morris in context of Utopian studies .............................................. 21 Approaches towards Morris’ art and politics ................................. 22 Part One Chapter One ............................................................................................... 30 Art Specifications of the Victorian Age ..................................................... 30 William Morris and the Victorian age ................................................. 35 William Morris’ response to Victorian art theories and aesthetic systems ........................................................................................... 41 William Morris and Victorian art movements ..................................... 50 Victorian medievalism ................................................................... 52 Pre-Raphaelitism ............................................................................ 70 William Morris’ approach to the Aesthetic Movement ....................... 79 Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 83 Politics William Morris’ Exposure to Victorian Political Philosophies and Ideologies ................................................................................ 83 Political Theory and Ideological Frameworks ..................................... 87 Liberalism and Conservatism ......................................................... 87 Racism and Racialism in context of British supremacy ................. 92 British Socialism .................................................................................. 97 Pre- and Proto-socialist Movements ............................................... 97 Trade Unionism, Chartism, Owenism, Christian Socialism ......... 101 The Fabian Society: Link between British Socialism and Marxism .. 107

Contents

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Early Marxist Movements in Great Britain .................................. 111 Tab. 2-1 Socialist movements in Great Britain (ca. 1870–1900) .... 112 Morris’ Definition(s) of Politics ........................................................ 114 Social and Political Implications in Morris’ approach to Art in the Pre-socialist Phase .............................................................. 116 The Gothic Revival as the Point of Convergence......................... 118 The Firm, Arts and Crafts Movement, Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings ............................................................... 123 Part Two Chapter Three .......................................................................................... 132 From Art to Politics The art/politics issue in the pre-Socialist Morris ............................... 132 Two models of Morris’ transition from art to politics ....................... 138 The evolutionary model ............................................................... 139 “The Shadows of Amiens” (1856) ............................................... 140 Implications of social criticism: The Earthly Paradise (1868– 1870) and The Life and Death of Jason (1867) ..................... 148 Breaking point: translations from the Sagas (1869–1875) and the Icelandic Journals (1871, 1873) ................................. 152 The revolutionary model .............................................................. 166 Chapter Four ............................................................................................ 168 Politics Over Art? Introductory remarks.......................................................................... 168 Critical evaluation of Morris’ socialism ............................................ 170 Morris’ lectures on art from the socialist period: “politicised art” or “aestheticized politics”? ........................................................... 176 Morris’ socialist awareness from linguistic perspective............... 188 Chapter Five ............................................................................................ 198 Beyond Art and Politics News from Nowhere as a transdiscursive narrative ............................ 198 The narrative structure in context of Morris’ views on art and politics ... 202 The narrative voice as purposeful replication............................... 202 Narrative frame(s): main storyline vs. added discourse ............... 203 Conceptual and/or generic classification of News from Nowhere ...... 204 News from Nowhere as a romance ............................................... 207 Arcadian elements in News from Nowhere................................... 209 News from Nowhere: a political Utopia without politics ................... 209

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News from Nowhere and the Earthly Paradise concept ................ 209 News from Nowhere as an advanced socialist Utopia .................. 216 (Anti-) Ideology: the narrative as a circumvention ............................ 219 The narrative’s reflections on language and socialist consciousness .............................................................................. 221 News from Nowhere as a transdiscursive exposition of the Morrisean Universe ....................................................................................... 222 Conclusion ............................................................................................... 225 The process of (creative) production ................................................. 225 Points of convergence (Chapters three, four) ..................................... 228 Conceptions of time (Chapters four, five).......................................... 228 Linguistic aspects (Chapter three, four, five) ..................................... 229 Epilogue................................................................................................... 232 Works Cited ............................................................................................. 235 Index of Names........................................................................................ 247

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank Professor Krystyna Kujawinska Courtney, head of the British and Commonwealth Studies Department at the University of àódĨ, for her supervision and guidance. It is hard to list the multitude of fields and disciplines which Professor KujawiĔska Courtney and I have discussed; their range certainly transcends the confines of the subject of this book. I would also like to express my gratitude to Professor KujawiĔska Courtney with regard to the motivation she has offered, as well as for providing the opportunity to visit the places connected with William Morris, in particular Kelmscott House in London. Another person whose help has been invaluable is Dr. Jörn Münkner, at that time employed at Universität Kassel, Germany. Dr. Münkner and I have repeatedly exchanged thoughts and opinions concerning the contemporary methodology and research avenues on William Morris as well as the Victorian period, which, I believe, is reflected in my general strategies in this monograph. Of special significance was the chance to visit the University of Kassel. Thanks to Dr. Münkner, I have not only managed to gather new materials but also benefitted from the intellectual discussion held there. Very important for the work’s progress was my visit to Kelmscott House in Hammersmith, London. During my stay at the place where Morris spent the last years of his life I encountered both the employees and Morris enthusiasts whose expertise was, to say the least, highly impressive. They helped me with the selection of various materials, both primary and secondary, as well as gave me the chance to acquire those publications I would otherwise have searched in vain for. My deep gratitude goes to them. I am particularly indebted to Dr. Owen Holland who happened to be at Kelmscott House at that time. Our conversation on William Morris and socialism clarified my viewpoints and opinions concerning not only the socialist phase of Morris but also the unique character of British socialism as a whole. Back then, I was unfortunately unaware of Dr. Holland’s article on News from Nowhere that I will subsequently refer to in this publication. Finally, I would like to thank my parents for their constant support in almost every respect imaginable.

INTRODUCTION

The main objective of this book is to demonstrate how William Morris (1834–96) extrapolated from different areas and disciplines, art and politics in particular, so that he could realise his vision of an “expressive,” i.e. happy and fulfilled, life. Since his socialist engagements did not concur with his activity in the sphere of art—Morris’ first art endeavours preceded his political activity by over 20 years—I have also attempted to present the complex network of avenues that led him from one field to the other. Conversely, I place special emphasis on the points of convergence and modes of transposition. The next task is to explore the interrelation between the political and the aesthetic in the art-focused texts by Morris from the time of his socialist agitation. In chapter four, which investigates Morris’ art from a socialist perspective, I try to establish the cross-influences and intersections between them. Respectively, the issue of Morris’ endeavours to expose politics, incorporating his former aesthetic beliefs, becomes essential. The first part comprising chapters one and two is rather descriptive and synthetic in character, presenting William Morris in the broader perspective of the Victorian age, while the second part, and chapter four in particular, is predominantly analytical. As a consequence, in the second part I concentrate on specific texts by Morris, exercising their close reading as the methodological procedure. Chapter three, which deals with Morris’ transition from art to politics, uncovers the possible social and political potential in his art productions and literary texts from the period preceding his involvement in socialism. I draw upon the art perceptions in the general theories of aesthetics, thus showing the feasibility of the art/politics juxtaposition without relapsing into the practice of their dissociation. Ultimately in the fifth chapter I will discuss the most famous text by Morris, namely his utopian narrative News from Nowhere, and diverge from the previous patterns and corresponding methodologies. My primary objective is to present News from Nowhere as a unique political utopia— an outstanding text transcending the very notions of art and politics. I carry out research in that section on the basis of the Utopia/Golden Age generic classification. In the absence of the systemic superstructure, the London of the future at first glance resembles a “land of plenty,” and in

2

Introduction

this respect may appear to be Morris’ transposition of the concept of Earthly Paradise. I subsequently demonstrate that this similarity mainly exists in the surface structure of the text.

Objectives and Methodological Approaches: Specifications My first objective is to show the interrelation between art and politics in Morris’ works as well as the correlation and reciprocity of the artistic/aesthetic and the political in general. Conventionally we can choose whether art and politics are perceived as autonomous and unrelated disciplines which exclude each other, as for instance in the famous essay by Walter Benjamin, “A Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” (1936). Alternately, we are entitled to regard both art and politics as the disciplines of mutual interaction and interdependence. As far as the latter is concerned, I attempt to establish possible points of convergence and intersection. The art/politics relationship appears to be quite complex with regard to William Morris who, in different phases of his life, and even in different publications from the same period, presented and articulated contradictory or ambivalent stances towards the issue. On the whole, he seemed to have wavered between both of the abovementioned approaches. In this monograph I will promote the second option, respectively seeking the unifying agents and the vantage points between the aesthetic and the political, in some aspects also the vanishing points from which Morris deliberated the nature of their reciprocity. I discuss art and politics in the highly diverse contextual frameworks and circumstances of Morris’ art premises and praxis, including literary works and political lectures informed by the aesthetic. The “broad perspective” that encompasses both art and politics requires a universal methodological approach and a multilayered theoretical frame, thanks to which a unilateral perspective focusing on these domains one by one can be extended. I refer to the original theory of general aesthetics by Alexander Gottlieb Baumgarten (1714–62) rather than the contemporary definition of aesthetics as the branch of philosophy dealing with such issues as beauty, art, and taste. The extensive semantic scope of the aesthetic determines the position from which emerges the notion of beauty, standing in conjunction with the ethical and moral, and thus providing the basis for the implicit social criticism engendered by and enacted in and through politics. In this context, the political action of Morris can be perceived as the means to realise his aesthetic postulates instead of an abrupt breach of his former engagements.

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Another procedure which leads in a similar direction derives from the postmodern practice of dismissing various forms of overgeneralisations, artificial divisions, and ubiquitous compartmentalisation—in contrast to tendencies to divorce art from politics and study them individually. The latter approach can be defined as the classical, i.e. dominant throughout the greater part of the twentieth century. Reflecting on the contemporary materials, I shall align with scholars like Peter Smith, who reconnects both art and politics to the notion of “creative labour,” as well as the alternative put forward by Caroline Arscott, who proposes studying the political engagements of Morris from the aesthetic perspective rather than vice versa. The correlated task is to demonstrate the process of Morris’ transition from art to social action and, ultimately, to the political arena. In general, we can speak of two strategies. In the first, the critic recreates the possible avenues leading from art to politics in different phases of Morris’ life, showing the implicit socio-political pronouncements in his texts and art productions from the period preceding his political involvement. Another option is to ignore the transitory period altogether. In this respect, Morris’ conversion to socialism can be deemed a spontaneous, ad hoc decision. Since, at a deeper level, these two approaches do not contradict each other, I attempt to expound both. I examine the notion of the “creative process,” which to Morris appeared to be as equally important as the finished product, and which seemed to be crucial in all phases of his creation (Morris insisted on supervising each stage of production, and also taught himself new skills). This viewpoint is also consistent with the Marxist theory of alienation, in particular the alienation of labour, as well as the exclusion from the extra surplus value. This issue is one of the most intriguing, charging and impregnating all enterprises by Morris, who drew a parallel line between the processes of the socialist education of workers, socialism in general, and the act of making art objects. We can single out individual phases in that course. Namely, Morris would commence with the literary genre of the Romance perceived as a continuous streak of loosely bound adventures, and then proceed with the more general concept of storytelling. Subsequently, he would show the interdependence between storytelling and crafts production (viewed both literally and conceptually), interchange crafts with arts as in his lecture “The Lesser Arts,” and finally transgress the artistic sphere to the social domain and political agitation. The very notion of the process can therefore be regarded as the unifying agent of Morris’ oeuvre as well as the quintessence of his viewpoints on art and politics.

4

Introduction

The parallel procedure can be observed in Morris’ general preoccupation with language, particularly the processes of meaning construction and meaning production. Profoundly aware of the linguistic aspects of connotation/denotation as the constituents of social consciousness, he searched for the original sources of customary terms and redefined them according to his own understanding. The practice which was antecedent to Deconstruction enabled him to spot the artificiality and ideological bias (i.e. the “transcendental signified”) in seemingly neutral words, including art and politics. In turn, the methodological procedure exercised by Morris is crucial for the general reception of all his enterprises, an issue which does not appear to have been thoroughly explored in the secondary materials. The comprehension of these facets will shed light on the actuality and relevance of his thought in the contemporary world. The linguistic development was symptomatic of the larger phenomenon which occurred in the Victorian age. Namely, one could observe a high volatility of meaning over a relatively short period of time—the simultaneous narrowing and expansion of previously well-established semantic values of given terms. This seemed to have been conditioned by the fast development of technology contradicted by the attempts to achieve at least an illusion of stability in the surrounding world. In consequence, linguistics merged with the cultural and social spheres, eventually affecting the dominant political ideologies of the Victorian era: Liberalism and Conservatism. I demonstrate their mutual interdependence as well as points of convergence in the conventional and newly-emerged denotations of such words as: “art,” “gentleman,” “progress,” “hope,” “socialism,” and “barbarism.” Once the basis is established, it is possible to juxtapose their position in the Victorian episteme with Morris’ definitions. The complex chain of reactions in which one can notice frequent contextual transactions between what are generally considered as unrelated spheres, along with the opposed processes of meaning contraction and separation, could explain the difficulty with the application of popular terminology faced by Morris and his contemporaries. The problem appears to lie not so much in the signifier as in the signified. It is important to anchor William Morris in the broader context of his era also on account of his unique treatment of spatiotemporal questions, summarised by me under the label of the “past-oriented future reworked through the present.” Respectively, his pre-socialist apotheosis of the past, especially the early Middle Ages, is shown in relation to the future direction of his thought, prominent after his conversion to Marxism. In this respect, the present constitutes the point of reference for the past and the future, rather than being the genuine object of observation per se. This

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approach results in the instrumental treatment of the Victorian age by Morris: his present is reduced to the function of a filtering device that blocks a great part of the past residue and, subsequently, permits the passage of only those elements which are considered by him to be of future relevance. The most detailed analysis of that process is devoted to News from Nowhere in chapter five. I present Morris’ unique view of temporal problems in two distinct manners. Firstly, I analyse the contexts and preconditions of the Utopia genre and the concept of the Golden Age/Earthly Paradise. Utilising the theoretical materials of Jerzy Szacki et al., I concentrate on the fundamental differences between them. As a result, some doubt is cast on the popular belief that they are only variations of one and the same construct. By so doing, I relate those differences to the general issue of tempus in Morris. In other words, I attempt to determine whether News from Nowhere represents the past-embedded literary concept of the Earthly Paradise or is an advanced Utopian narrative that is embedded in historical circumstances, but in fact written from the eschatological perspective, i.e. from the position of “the end of history.” Last but not least, I take up the issue of the “in-between-ness” that stands in the title of this book. My objective is to define the territory which lies between art and politics, appearing to be central to Morris’ entire production and worldview. Borrowing the label of “Beauty of Life” from one of his socialist lectures, I display the notion of an expressive (i.e. fulfilling and beautified) life as one which subordinates both his artistic enterprises and political agitation. Simultaneously, the term expands beyond the conventional associations of life as merely an organic process in nature and beauty viewed as the paramount value in aesthetics: the “Beauty of Life” denotes the totality of Morris’ beliefs.

The Morrisean Universe One of the most intriguing problems connected with the comprehension of Morris’ thought in its encompassing and rich diversity is the wide range of meanings and significations applied by him to seemingly well-established terms, among them the programmatic art and politics. The most prominent example of the practice of “Art” acquires a plethora of referents and semantic overtones in different phases of Morris’ life, being converted by him to the specifications and the minutia of the literary and critical texts from a particular period. Furthermore, the chronological classification is not entirely reliable either—it is a simplification to claim that the definition of art was fixed and prescribed to a specific time in Morris’ life

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Introduction

with a corresponding phase of his art production. Under these circumstances, we shall inevitably encounter numerous contradictions since, depending on the audience’s expectations or text’s requirements, he frequently employed his previous definitions or referred to the conventional associations of the term. Another issue concerns the discrimination between the genuine perceptions of Morris and those which he borrowed from others. Undoubtedly, Morris was profoundly influenced by the writings of the Victorian sages, with a paramount role played by John Ruskin (1819– 1900). The core values which Morris owed to the latter included the exposition of art as the agent in the elevation of society, and the exploration of the affinities between different forms of artistic expression.1 Nonetheless, even after a precursory study it becomes evident that Morris’ views had distinct marks of originality: insofar as Ruskin’s theory could be labelled “eclectic,” Morris’ was characterised by a higher level of authenticity and coherence. Thus, the particular phases of his creation could be compared to the gradual discovery of the territories he might have been unaware of but which always existed in his universe. In that respect, we do not need to discuss his passage from art to politics in terms of the abrupt change. And we neither have to contemplate the possibility of aberration, since Morris’ arrival on the political scene could be considered consistent with his previous engagements in art, followed by the growing awareness of social matters (see chapter one) Likewise, we can observe an important difference in positioning art in specifically axiomatic configurations. If Ruskin concentrated on art as a starting point and the ultimate referent, Morris would rather emphasise the interrelation of life and nature in the first place, with art being in a subordinate position—the “province of art” as he labelled it in his essay 1

Originally, e.g. in Modern Painters, Ruskin focused on the correspondence between literature and painting as “sister arts,” i.e. closely related to each other. He did so, however, from a different perspective than Horace’s notion of ut pictura poesis, which had been established in English art criticism since at least the Augustan age. Ruskin rejected the view that both arts are related on the premise that they imitate reality, which is central to the mimetic theory of art. He rather held a Romantic belief according to which literature and pictorial arts are allied in their presentation of the inner emotions of the artist (see chapter one). Respectively, this belief could derive from the neo-Platonic philosophy of Plotinus that inspired the Transcendentalist movement represented by Carlyle in Great Britain and Ralph Waldo Emerson in the United States. Undoubtedly, Morris was indebted to Transcendentalism as well, although it is likely that he was only acquainted with the British variation proposed by Thomas Carlyle and, to an extent, Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

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“How I Became a Socialist” (1998, 383).2 As a result, Ruskin’s trajectory of thought was not identical with Morris’, even though at some point their beliefs converged. In both cases, art constituted the basis for the subsequent social criticism, with political agitation being the natural consequence of them, that is the last link in the complex chain of reactions.3 The reconstruction of Ruskin’s intellectual evolution appears relatively easy on account of the fact that it is well documented in his writings. With Morris, though, the classic evolutionary explanation fails—the primary theoretical materials from his youth and the middle phase of his life are too scarce to reconstruct the exact course of his transition from the admiration of nature to art production and, ultimately, political agitation. As mentioned, these particular disciplines seemed to be inscribed in his holistic worldview from the very beginning. If this book were to deal with Ruskin, then the more appropriate title would be “John Ruskin, Art and

2 Neither the issue of the relation of art to life nor the expression “the province of art” is unique to Morris. On the contrary, they seem to be two of the most debated and contested problems of the Victorian age, apparently initiated by the more profound theoretical texts on art and literature produced in France. Perhaps the issue was more clearly expounded by Henry James (1843–1916) who, in “The Art of Fiction” (1888), states that there is no difference between “the province of art” and life. In other words, art is not so much the representation of life as it should possess the qualities of life itself. At this point, though, we encounter the problem of priorities: if art and life are indeed identical, which one is the foundation? It appears that, to James (as to Ruskin), art constitutes the basis; to Morris, on the other hand, art is at first an extension of life, with the two subsequently merged in one concept. Yet, before the process is complete Morris goes through such phases as nature, architecture, culture, etc. (see Conclusions). On this account, James’ inferences are only a starting point for Morris who, respectively, utilises a whole gamut of sources and theories to justify his point. It may also explain Morris’ interest in the linguistic significations of such words as “art” and “beauty,” leading to his own perception of the aesthetic (see chapter one and Conclusions) 3 The specific phases of those reactions could be as follows: art-nature-life-social criticism-politics (Ruskin) vs. life-nature-art-social criticism-politics (Morris). As we can observe, the last two phases are identical, yet the preceding ones are not. This explains the evolutionary theory of Ruskin as well as his eclecticism in contrast to the holistic and interdisciplinary approach of Morris. The next issue appears to lie in axiology: the breach from art to the subsequent social criticism is more discernible in Ruskin than in Morris, who would absorb the elements of reciprocity into his viewpoint on art and politics—the extended meaning of life is in that respect the ultimate referent. Nevertheless, under the broader perspective of his holism, the very idea of axiomatic gradation appears somewhat artificial.

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Introduction

Politics,” with the conjunction “and” instead of the preposition “between,” respectively. At this point, we must once again raise the question of the application of such terms as “art” and, to a lesser degree, “politics” by Morris. While in some specific examples he would use the word “art” in the sense of “fine arts,” as proposed by Matthew Arnold, on other occasions the term was consistent with the aesthetic definition in which “beauty” was the paramount value. Yet, from the mid-1870s onwards, art tended to transcend all hitherto known semantic qualities and instances of denotation, absorbing a multitude of seemingly unrelated disciplines, eventually becoming the universal key to Morris’ life-world (see chapters one and three). Respectively, Morris not only employed the Arnoldian concept of art from The Studies in Poetry (1865) and Culture and Anarchy (1868), where Arnold draws a parallel line between fine arts, poetry and culture, but he extended it to the point that it eventually comprised almost any known form of expression and field of inquiry. In consequence, art acquired the qualities and characteristics we normally associate with a full and fulfilled life, sharing one and the same conceptual framework. The most adequate among the different definitions put forward by Morris is, in my opinion, the one from the alternative opening to his lecture “The Relations of Art to Labour”: I must ask you to understand that by the word art, I mean something wider than is usually meant by it: I do not mean only pretty ornament though that is part of it: I do not mean only pictures and sculptures, though they are the highest manifestations of it; I do not mean only splendid and beautiful architecture, though that includes a very great deal of all that deserves to be called art: but I mean all these things and a great many more, music, the drama, poetry, imaginative fiction, and above all and especially the kind of feeling which enables us to see beauty in the world and stimulates us to reproduce it, to increase it, to understand it and to sympathise with those who specially deal with it. In short, by art I mean the intellectual and therefore specially human pleasure of life, distinguished from the animal pleasure, and yet partaking of its nature in many ways, and which pleasure is produced by the labour of men either manual or mental or both. (Morris 1890 [2004], 41)

In the context provided by Morris, “art” transcends the conventional associations as well as the limitations of the Victorian episteme. Namely, it expands into the aforementioned heterogeneous terrains of meaning: first to all forms of creative activity, then to the modes of personal perceptions and feelings, eventually becoming synonymous with “pleasure in labour.” In this configuration, along with the extension of the notion of

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art, we can observe the parallel process in the case of “pleasure” which, in Morris’ definition, transgresses from the aesthetic sphere to the natural domain (see chapter four). And in the same fashion he develops the notion of “labour,” which is perceived as the first constituent, the primary agent, and the ultimate referent of human existence. Although that specific sense of labour could be traced back to Ruskin, who in his later texts made no distinction between work and art (Wilmer 1998, 415), the whole process of meaning production by Morris occurred independently. As a result, the interdisciplinary definition of art also manifests Morris’ holistic Weltanschauung: it is the essence of his lifelong objectives and, simultaneously, the vantage ground for all his endeavours. The interpenetration of the seemingly unrelated significations of the multilayered term “art” in different texts by Morris may appear ambiguous, especially when the reader is not acquainted with Morris’ oeuvre: i.e. art=ornamentation, art=aesthetic concept of beauty, art=sensibility, art=pleasure in labour, art=conscious pleasure of life, or, as Morris pointed out in “The Relations of Art to Labour,” art and labour=history. “Art,” therefore, instantiates the confluence of such a wide range of disciplines that the aesthetic sense of beauty recedes into the background. Simultaneously, beauty acquires qualities normally associated with ethics; i.e. the beautiful denotes the noble, the moral, the good, etc. For that reason, Morris was often misunderstood by the Victorian audience, since in their opinion these seemingly well-established terms (art, politics, life, nature) rendered the impression of inconsistency and ambiguity. Respectively, the Marxist thinkers of the Victorian era as well as contemporary critics have focused on Morris’ set of priorities, the main issue concerning either the aesthetic (e.g. Christine Sypnovich) or the moral/ethical (May Morris) foundations of his socialism (see chapter four) Such a tendency to use the customary terms in an extensive and more universal dimension is reflected in the special emphasis Morris placed on the concept of nature, which also appeared to have several distinct meanings and functions. Even if the signifier remained unchanged, the signified was all but stable and fixed. 4 Consequently, the critic faces formidable challenges if not irreconcilable dilemmas: at times, Morris would employ the neo-Platonic—more precisely the Romantic/Transcendentalist—concept of nature as a mirror of the inner feelings of the observer, as for instance in his early texts collected in the book of poetry In Defence of Guenevere (1858). Yet, to Morris, “nature” also meant any natural formation or manifestation: trees, rivers, 4

For Morris’ perception of art and nature in the socialist context see chapter three.

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Introduction

mountains, etc. In the latter case, nature came to be synonymous with the environment.5 To Morris, landscape and environment also denoted those things which were produced by humans but which fitted the aesthetic sense of beauty, the most prominent example of which was the early Gothic architecture. From this vantage point, not only is the culture/nature binary put in doubt, but the very definition of nature may overlap with that of culture. Due to that unorthodox approach, Morris often encountered problems in delivering his message through the vehicle of conventional language. On the one hand, he could exclusively utilise those means available in the Victorian episteme; on the other, he realised that the channels of expression at his disposal were inadequate for the proper articulation of his beliefs. For the reasons highlighted above, Morris attached special attention to language and linguistics, as only in this way could he bridge the gap between the intended message and the task of its conveyance. Since he found his contemporary lexicon, characterised by the high volatility of meaning, insufficient (see chapter one), as well obviously having no possibility to access the language of the future, he attempted to communicate his views with the aid of archaisms—the practice which was not always understood, having been perceived as over-stylisation, mannerism, or idiosyncrasy (see chapter three). Obviously, such a predilection for archaic vocabulary and syntax could derive from Morris’ fascination with the past, the early Gothic in particular. Nevertheless, archaisms also had a practical purpose. Having been perceived by Morris as still uncorrupted by the aggressive, profit-oriented course in his contemporary world, they appeared to be rooted in nature. Respectively, locating his vocabulary in the realm seen as permanent and impervious to 5

Some of Morris’ concepts bear a strong resemblance to R. W. Emerson’s seminal essay “Nature” (1836). The similarities include: the notion of the observer and the spectacle, the symbolic as well as metaphorical sense of nature’s existence, the impossibility of its ownership, and the unfeasibility of cognising the natural world in the course of scientific exploration. Also, an inclusion of human-made objects by Morris, as with the architecture of the early Gothic, in the natural domain corresponds in the two. On the other hand, the spiritual aspect of nature, as well as the belief in the perfect harmony in the universe—the tenets which are the basis of Emerson’s theory—are not exposed in Morris, perhaps with the exception of his earliest texts. They can nevertheless be discovered in the broadly conceived general course of his thought. In my research I have at no point come across any information about Morris’ acquaintance with Emerson’s work. The similarity may therefore have resulted from the Romantic tradition underlying their beliefs; analogously to Emerson, Morris could have drawn conclusions indirectly, “second hand” from his readings of Ruskin and Carlyle.

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the vicissitudes of the civilisational progress, Morris could stabilise the sense and the meaning of words he employed.6 Eventually, on account of the fact that those words and expressions were no longer in popular usage, their significations did not multiply, ultimately leading to the corruption of language reflected in an excess of vocabulary, which Walter Benjamin labelled “overnaming.” Morris could impart his message without being involved in the constant challenge of the contested meaning. Respectively, I have attempted to reconstruct Morris’ original sources of influence and the methodology of meaning production so that I can map out his universe without relapsing into selective approaches to his art, crafts, and subsequent political involvement. This outline has also clarified various possible contexts and significations informing the concepts of art and nature, in the end offering the possibility of establishing the connection to Morris’ definition of politics (see chapter two). As a navigation tool, I have opted for the notion of a map rather than a paradigmatic or syntagmatic structure since the latter suggests a hierarchical model of interdependence that Morris would probably not agree with. We need to be aware that such a map is by no means complete; furthermore, due to the open-endedness of Morris’ universe, it would appear to be against his intentions. Although each point can be considered a self-contained entity, Morris simultaneously left room for the possible extension and implementation of his macrocosm. This book endeavours to depict the world of William Morris as a uniform construct in which different elements are interchangeable and reciprocal. Analogously to the actual universe, where the particles are constantly in flux—converging, diverging, and permeating the limitless space between them—the Morrisean universe is by no means static either. The emphasis, therefore, is to be placed on various processes in Morris’ artistic production, the practice which is parallel to the formation of his political beliefs. Conversely, the notion of the creative process applied to various forms of activity—artistic, political, social, or cultural—seems equally as important as the study of finished products. Hence, I not only concentrate on Morris as a representative of his epoch, but also attempt to situate his work in the broadest possible spectrum that transcends the specifications of the Victorian age. In the last chapter that focuses on News from Nowhere, with the exception of the introductory passages, I eschew the direct references to Victorianism, and utilising Marxist concepts and 6

For analogies and comparisons see, for instance, the speculations about the origins of language in Emerson’s Transcendentalist essay “Nature” (1836).

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Introduction

terminology I expose the non-descriptive and universal character of Morrisean London. In other words, my aim is to demonstrate that the microcosm of Nowhere is also the macrocosm of Morris’ holistic convictions.

The interrelation between art, nature, and politics: an excursus To present the affinity between art, nature, and politics in Morris it is necessary to properly understand his use of these terms, otherwise the nexus and mutual reference between them will not be established, resulting in the ambiguity, even obscurity, of the two realms. This exercise will, in turn, lead to the discovery of the deepest layer of the Morrisean worldview—the starting point and the ultimate referent: the fact that it was not so much art, let alone politics, but the notion of an expressive, i.e. complete and fruitful life,7 that was the driving force of all his enterprises and endeavours. “The Beauty of Life” can therefore be considered as the departure plane as well as the centrepiece of Morris’ universe; in other words, the key to the fullest ever appreciation of his holism. Also in this case, though, like with politics and art, we can observe the extension of the popular meaning of life. Similar to the abovementioned “art” and “politics,” or “pleasure” and “labour,” Morris perceived life in a most comprehensive manner, almost in a universal dimension, rather than at an individual level. “Life” meant to him more than just the act of leading a happy existence (see chapter four). In consequence, we can see the close affiliation between the concepts of life and nature. It is in the broadly conceived nature alone, then, in which the roots of his art should be searched for (see chapter one). This conviction may in turn explain the emphasis Morris placed on the early phases of Western culture—the time when art was not yet isolated and ascribed to a separate category, but when it appeared to grow in symbiosis with natural forms. Conversely, of significance to him were the periods of transition when prehistory converged with the first written records, regardless of the actual epoch. Morris would repeatedly return to such “border regions,” for instance in his translations of the Iliad and the Odyssey (the beginnings of 7

The connection between life and art in Morris was noted in the early reviews, but it was subsequently lost in the numerous discussions and statements concerning his aesthetic and/or political beliefs. W. B. Yeats, for example, opined that, “[William Morris] tried to change the life of his time into the life of his dream,” while Arthur Clutton-Brock claimed in his article “The Prose Romances of William Morris” (1914) that Morris not so much attempted to change literature as life (in Latham 2010, 192)

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Greek culture), in the fantasy novel The House of the Wolfings (the earliest phase of Germanic culture), the translations of the legendary Icelandic Sagas, including the Volsunga Saga (the paradigm of Norse culture), or in the rendition of Beowulf (the origins of English/Anglo-Saxon literature). Morris’ interest in the “in-between” epochs and territories stemmed from the fact that in those periods the production of the first historical records concurred with the emerging cultural practices of social formations, perhaps even of culture techniques. Morris realised that the cultural formation was originally reflected in the crafts rather than the arts or, alternately, both were inseparable (see chapter one). For that reason, in his lectures and articles, most notably in “The Lesser Arts” (1877), he attempted to reunite the two modes of culturalisation, i.e. culture production, by questioning their conventional discrimination between the intellectual character of the arts and the practical faculty of the crafts. In the specific case of the Western culture, such a situation first occurred in ancient Greece in the period approximating pre-history and the earliest written records. Homer’s eposes, i.e. the Iliad and the Odyssey, which Morris translated into English,8 were considered by him the literary manifestations of the time when nature, culture, and art were still in a state of equilibrium and constituted one entity. Respectively, Morris’ preoccupation with the pre-Socratic episteme, which would parallel the subsequent more-comprehensive studies of the origins of Western culture by Heidegger, 9 could derive from his disapproval of the growing culture/nature polarisation, which concurred with the emergence of Plato’s and Aristotle’s philosophy, or rather from their (mis)interpretations. Other schisms and crises manifested in divisions resulting from the almost complete culture/nature binary that had a direct influence on the presumably wrong course of civilisation Morris observed in his epoch. On that account, despite superficial conclusions, Morris would turn to the prehistory/history period, not with the intention to find the ends in the past, but to define the critical moment. Only in this way could he identify the means to overcome the contemporary world’s ailments and calamities. Such an improvement could be made in the sole process of the reunification of artificially dissociated faculties: the bonds between art and 8

Morris’ translation of the Iliad exists only in fragments. Whether he actually rendered the whole epos into English is a matter of speculation. 9 In “The Question Concerning Technology” (1956), for instance, Heidegger preoccupies himself with the problem of the essence of technology resting, to a large extent, on Pre-Socratic concepts. Plato and Aristotle are perceived by him as the continuators of the philosophy that preceded them, rather than, as they are conventionally seen, the founders of the modern outlook of the world.

14

Introduction

culture had to be forged again, along with the realisation that both realms are founded in nature. This could only be achieved with the concerted effort of entire communities rather than at an individual level. Peter Faulkner comments: From this it is clear Morris does not value “Literature” so much as the traditional stories of all cultures. These have everything in common with the works of Gothic architecture he admired, created not by individuals, but by communities. (Faulkner 1994, 28)

It is no coincidence that, when asked about his literary canon, Morris enumerated those books which are known not so much for their literary qualities, but which represent the collective lore of a particular social formation. His selection provided for Manchester Examiner in 1886 is made up exclusively by the works which possess cultural rather than artistic value (see chapters one and three). Given the criteria of his selection, he opted for those texts which are possibly closest to the natural world: they either explain natural phenomena through the mythological narratives or they focus on broadly conceived human nature. Such an aversion to the dissociation of life from nature, subsequently leading to severing culture from nature, and ultimately obscuring the roots of art, could also explain Morris’ fascination with the period of the early Gothic. As mentioned, according to Morris the architecture of that period could be considered the extension of natural formations: it was not imposed on the landscape, but was a part of it (see chapter one). The pattern life-nature-culture-arts/crafts remained unchanged in all phases of Morris’ creation. His critical remark concerning Swinburne’s poetry, namely that “it always seemed to me to be founded on literature, not on nature” (in Drabble, 999), can therefore be translated as the latter’s amnesia concerning the true roots of art. Such was Morris’ original stance reflected intuitively in his early writings, and subsequently located by him in the conceptual framework in the socialist lectures. More problematic are the years when Morris, influenced by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828–82), was immersed in the Pre-Raphaelite movement. In that period he was prone to aestheticise his beliefs and, as a result, he came to perceive life itself in aesthetic terms. In this sense, the holistic concept of the “Beauty of Life,” which is also the title of his wellknown lecture delivered in Birmingham in 1882, appears an aesthetic one in the context of his art production from the middle phase. It points to the previous influences and art engagements informed by the specifically aesthetic perception of the notion of beauty. Yet, under the holistic perspective, beauty would simultaneously transcend the specific field of

William Morris’ Position between Art and Politics

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aesthetics. In this case, the “Beauty of Life” becomes the epitome of Morris’ convictions about the strong alliance of life, nature, culture, and art itself. Since Morris seemed to struggle with giving a new name to that amalgam, he simply labelled it “art” which, in consequence, became an umbrella term for a plethora of different domains. When he ultimately placed art in yet another context of a political discourse on social relations, the already extended signification of the term merged with one more sphere—ethics. Respectively, the critics and scholars located Morris’ socialism along different lines of priority. May Morris, for instance, claimed that her father’s political engagement was first and foremost motivated by his ethical and moral beliefs, while Peter Stansky, Christine Sypnovich, et al. would rather seek the primary reasons in Morris’ aesthetic convictions (see chapter four). Yet, were we to accept the holistic approach, the very notion of prioritising appears irrelevant since both ethics and aesthetics were the components of the open-ended and non-hierarchical structure of the Morrisean universe.10 It is not coincidental that in the better world of the future emerging after the socialist ideals had been realised, as depicted by Morris in his utopian narrative News from Nowhere (1890), the narrator avoids the term “art” altogether, speaking instead of beautiful objects which complement the happy existence of London residents. And when Old Hammond is asked about politics, he plainly answers that “we have none” (Morris 1998, 116).

10

The issue of importance of ethics in Morris’ conversion to socialism is quite complex. It seems that he, as Kant, managed to at least partially resolve the “is/ought” problem known as Hume’s law. Namely, as observed by David Hume (1711–76), all moral philosophies tend to propose an ideal system of ethics based on what is and ought not be. Yet Hume claims in The Treatise on Human Nature (1739) that he sees no direct connection between “is” and “ought,” in this manner questioning the very foundation of ethics as a separate branch of philosophy. In other words, it is a common error to derive universal moral postulates from specific observations of the wrongs and ills of the world. Kant’s response was the objective and independent of external conditioning principle of moral imperative. Given the importance of Kant’s philosophy for Transcendentalism, that also had some bearing on Morris due to his study of early Carlyle works, it is possible to figure out the reason why he attempted to proceed straight into the construct, so different from others produced in his own times that even if it had emerged as the response to the criticism of the Victorian age, it is now in such an advanced stage that the connection is missing or obscure. Another thing is the extent to which it was a conscious strategy on the part of Morris, as it appears to be primarily intuitive.

16

Introduction

Critical Assessment of Studies Devoted to William Morris The question of the non-separation of life, culture, and art posits some difficulty in view of the more traditional approaches prominent in the Morris scholarship. The conventional methods, the historical dialectic in particular, result in the dissection of his art production from nature first, and subsequently the isolation of his political beliefs. Thus, the individual components of Morris’ aesthetic and political viewpoint are studied as separate entities which are deemed unrelated or, at best, vaguely connected with each other. Such an approach determined the focus that dominated the studies on Morris for most of the twentieth century. The sporadic attempts to widen the spectrum and, respectively, to locate Morris in various contexts extended to the territories typically reserved for other fields of inquiry did not significantly change the situation. As a result, the tendency to study Morris’ art and his political thought in isolation led to the inevitable polarisation which not only pertains to the critical evaluation of the primary materials, but also affects the general reception of Morris and his work. Consequently, on the one hand we can observe the arrival at the gradual marginalisation of his achievements reflected in the relatively scarce general coverage; on the other, this amounts to the exclusively Morris-focused studies. As for the general publications on British authors, Morris is not mentioned in Great British Writers (1989)—an illustrated companion to the works of the most famous English language authors. Surprisingly, a short note is given on Edward Burne-Jones (1833–98), Morris’ friend who is nonetheless considered a less influential representative of the Victorian age than Morris. The Norton Anthology of English Literature (Sixth Edition) omits Morris altogether. In A Brief History of English Literature Morris appears only once, described as “a poet, designer, writer and socialist [who] attempted to reintroduce a human dimension into a factorybased economy” (Peck and Cole 2002, 190). In A History of English Literature, Emile Legouis reserves more space for Morris, but some of his remarks, e.g. that “he is of the lineage of Spenser, not of Keats,” that he represented “a quintessential spirit of Romanticism,” or that “Tennyson became a god to him” (1933, 1175), suggest that the author analysed Morris rather superficially, merely with reference to his other “more important” contemporaries. To do it justice, Legouis’ study of The Earthly Paradise is more comprehensive, although again he perceives Morris as “the aesthete, imbued to the core with Latin culture” (1177), which appears to be at odds in view of his aversion to classicism and veneration of the Norse. Morris’ texts from the socialist period, i.e. A Dream of John

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Ball and News from Nowhere, are shown in a more favourable light, yet their dreaminess is emphasised and their impracticality implied by the author. Obviously, the works provided here are only a narrow selection of publications on English art and literature, but they exemplify a certain marginalisation or a lack of interest when Morris is juxtaposed with other well-known British writers and artists of his era. Morris’ political convictions are not entirely systematised either. Such a situation may derive from the fact that Morris did not generate a synthetic social/political theory, at least not in the mould of his illustrious contemporaries like Charles Darwin, Karl Marx, or Herbert Spencer. Although it is possible to recreate the process of his passage from the Victorian aestheticism to socialism (see chapter three), with the aid of his copious correspondence, as well as pinpoint the main postulates proposed by Morris in the socialist period, the primary sources are scattered over a long period of time, being interspersed with his art production. The absence of a single explanatory text by Morris inhibits the full comprehension of his beliefs in their entirety. In other words, we are obliged to utilise secondary sources which offer the interpretation/exposition of Morris’ creed, rather than a first-hand account. Furthermore, even in the period of socialist agitation, Morris did not draw a clear demarcation between the political and the social––both terms appearing to him as relative synonyms or as having an affinity so close that they could be located within one conceptual framework, perhaps even a single semantic field (see chapter two). Respectively, Morris’ statement expressed in his lecture “How I Became a Socialist” (1894) that “there was no transitional period [from art to politics]” (1998, 379) divided the studies of Morris into two separate branches: critics would either ignore his remark and study the evolution of his thought, or they would abandon the evolutionary standpoint by taking up his political involvement as a field not directly related to his former artistic endeavours. The third option is also plausible, however. I propose the conciliatory model of his transition in chapter three. The choice of priorities, of art/politics as the foundation of Morris’ worldview, corresponded with the further critical evaluation of his oeuvre. In general, the critics and scholars associated with the middle-class liberal studies carried out research on his art, including the literary, from the aesthetic perspective. If at all, they attempted to explain his socialism in terms of a not entirely comprehensible fancy of a wealthy and successful artist. On the other side of the spectrum, Morris’ political views were the focal point for the critics associated with the Marxist and post-Marxist

18

Introduction

schools. 11 The latter saw his art either as independent of his political beliefs or, at best, as a prelude to the proper political action.

Biographical Perspectives A separate branch of Morris studies consists of biographies and biographical criticism that commenced with the publication of J. W. (John William) Mackail’s William Morris: His Life and Work (1899). The author utilised a variety of materials, both primary and secondary, resulting in probably the most complete and well-known monograph on William Morris to date. On account of the fact that Mackail knew Morris in person, as well as that he had access to his colleagues and friends, most of whom were still alive at the time of the publication, the text may serve as a natural link between the primary and secondary materials. Mackail’s biography is not entirely neutral, which is especially discernible in the parts discussing the socialist phase of Morris, or in the deliberately tactful omission of some facts from his life. 12 Also, the author’s political convictions embedded in conservatism were in many respects antithetical to Morris’. As a result, Mackail devoted a mere two pages to Morris’ most famous Utopia News from Nowhere, expressing an opinion which, to say the least, could not be described as favourable or flattering. To do it justice, though, unlike most of Morris’ contemporaries representing the same social class and similar interests, including his lifelong friend and partner Edward Burne-Jones who perceived Morris’ 11

Surprisingly enough, two British scholars who are considered the most prominent representatives of Marxism in the United Kingdom, i.e. Raymond Williams and Terry Eagleton, have been quite reluctant to discuss Morris. Perhaps they did so on account of the fact that they preoccupied themselves with the more scientific aspects of Marxist criticism carried out under the wider perspective of Marxist contexts and theories. A short review of Morris’ biography by Fiona MacCarthy, William Morris: A Life for Our Time, appears to be the only text by Eagleton, at least known to me, which focuses on Morris. In addition, he devotes some passages to News from Nowhere in his article “Utopia and its Opposites” (2000). In The Ideology of the Aesthetic (1990), Morris is hardly mentioned, even if the subject should be appropriate to discuss his aesthetics-informed social beliefs. Apparently, another reason may be Eagleton’s general interest in the European, especially French and German, socialist criticism rather than the British. Nevertheless, particularly in chapters one and four, I will make a wide use of Professor Eagleton’s explications on aesthetics and culture since they are in many respects compatible with Morris’ original viewpoints. 12 Apart from some scarce in-text allusions, Mackail entirely omits Jane Morris’ love affair with Gabriel Dante Rossetti, which had a big impact on Morris.

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conversion to socialism as idiosyncrasy, aberration, or an inexplicable fancy of a wealthy entrepreneur, Mackail did not ignore that period. On the contrary, he attempted to remain as faithful to the original thought of Morris as only he could. Of lesser importance are the inaccuracies concerning particular locations and events. For instance, Mackail’s descriptions of Red House are so different from the actual place that they raise the suspicion that he never visited it in person, relying instead on second-hand reports. The contemporary trends in the critical studies of Morris, particularly in the biographical and political criticism, are to a large extent determined by the famous political biography of Morris by E. P. Thompson: William Morris: Romantic to Revolutionary (1955). As a matter of fact, we can speak of two independent biographies by the same author written in two different periods. The alterations in the second edition of his work (1976), in which Thompson introduced a significant number of corrections and amendments to the previous one, resulted in a different reception of Morris’ socialism as well as an opposite set of priorities. The key factor seemed to be the privileged position of either aesthetics or politics that, in consequence, determined the vantage point and the contents. Namely, in the first edition Thompson focused on “politicizing aesthetics”; i.e. he attempted to “mark Morris off the literary tradition” (Goode 1995, 195) and to place him within the socio-political framework of the Victorian age. In his second publication, Thompson reversed the original arrangements and “aestheticized politics” (Goode 1995, 195). In the latter text, Morris was presented as a direct continuator of the Romantic anti-capitalism, in the context of which he could be regarded as the precursor of the subsequent aesthetics-based political theories informed by the postulates of the movement. In the first edition of Thompson’s biography, the aesthetic element is to a large degree downplayed, while in the second, by giving priority to aesthetics over politics, he inadvertently questions Morris’ Marxism/scientific socialism. As a result, he attributes Morris’ political beliefs to the presocialist and proto-socialist schools (see chapter two). Thompson’s work could therefore be perceived as the transposition of his own Marxist postulates tested against those of Morris, rather than vice versa. Nevertheless, Romantic to Revolutionary is still considered the most prominent among the political biographies of Morris, and is ranked second to Mackail’s in the entire biographical oeuvre. The important contributions included the location of Morris in the broader spectrum of the early socialist movement in Britain, as well as the indication of the social/socialist potential in Morris’ art production, especially his literary texts. Regarding

20

Introduction

the significance of the work in question, it may appear underrepresented in this publication. I make but sparse references to it and to the rather less salient passages. Leaving aside the fact that the biography has generated a number of critical responses, having been analysed in-depth and extensively discussed, such a strategy is my deliberate choice. Otherwise, contrary to my original aims and intentions, I would inevitably become involved in a polemic with Thompson’s standpoints. Other “major” biographical sources on Morris frequently referred to in this book include: William Morris: His Life, Work and Friends (1967) by Philip Henderson which, on account of the similarities with Mackail’s, falls into the category of classic works in the genre; William Morris: His Life and Work (1975) by Jack Lindsay—representing political biographies, but also enclosing the hitherto unpublished, often controversial materials on Morris’ private life (including a detailed description of Jane Morris’ affair with Rossetti); Ian Bradley’s William Morris and His World (1978), where biographical material is interspersed with the analysis of Morris’ literary texts conducted in the spirit of the New Criticism (the inclusion of an essentially anti-biographical method to a work focusing on a private life seems peculiar, yet simultaneously contributes to the originality of Bradley’s text). I mainly utilise these publications to implement the biographical information which I could not find in Mackail, rather than for the specific opinions and analyses. The most outstanding biography of late is William Morris: A Life of Our Time (1994) by Fiona MacCarthy. It can be considered the third in importance after those by Mackail and Thompson. The author has located Morris in various contemporary frameworks and contexts standing in relation to his holism; in this respect, it is the most advanced of all works of the kind. Additionally, MacCarthy has inserted an impressive amount of primary materials, including a previously unpublished poem from the journey to Iceland. Due to a wide variety of sources as well as the impressive analyses of art productions and texts by Morris, A Life of Our Time presents the most profound psychological portrait of Morris as a human being. Although the holistic approach which dominates MacCarthy’s text is in many ways compatible with the interdisciplinary discourse of this work—or perhaps exactly for that reason—I have decided to eschew the direct references. In consequence, I will utilise it only occasionally, mainly in the biographical context. Oddly enough, I have not come across critical materials which discuss Morris’ biography from the position of Freudian psychoanalysis, although some elements of that approach can be found in Lindsay’s and MacCarthy’s texts. In other words, unless I am not aware of such a publication, the

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psychobiography of Morris seems to be missing. These aspects should have been at least of marginal interest in view of the fact that Morris lost his father at a young age—Morris’ admiration for Ruskin could therefore be explained in terms of his search for a substitute father-figure whose opinions he eventually rejected, yet whose importance he never denied. Also, Morris’ early obsession with death and love, first mentioned by Mackail, is in tune with the Freudian concept of Eros and Thanatos. It appears in Carole Silver’s analysis of Morris’ early poems and romances, but she avoids the direct references to the biography of the author of “The Defence of Guenevere.” The frequent fits of passion and uncontrolled behaviour which Morris attempted to overcome through his involvement in different kinds of labour, on the other hand, could translate into the notions of sublimation and repression which play a prominent role in Freudian criticism.

Morris in the context of utopian studies The second approach to Morris, which can be considered a separate category not directly related to either biographical criticism or the analysis of his oeuvre, derives from the utopian studies. In general, a majority of its representatives who otherwise belong to different schools of literary and cultural theory start from his most popular narrative News from Nowhere. I would venture the opinion that they are at first not interested in Morris per se, but only in his seminal text considered as a milestone utopia among the nineteenth-century works in this genre. Obviously, this does not exclude the critics who specialise in Morris scholarship, such as Peter Faulkner, from analysing the utopia under discussion from various perspectives. In this particular field one can observe the sole focus on News from Nowhere as the starting point and ultimate referent. Respectively, the scholars who locate Morris in the utopian/utopic tradition tend to utilise his other texts, especially the socialist lectures, mainly as the background explanation for the specific problems raised in connection to the microcosm of the title “Nowhere”, i.e. London of the twenty-second century. The most valuable publication of recent years representing this approach appears to be William Morris’s Utopia of Strangers (2006) by Marcus Waithe, where the author draws attention to the problem of the unfeasibility of the full integration between William Guest and the Nowhereians. Despite the fact that the primary focus here is a specific utopia, some conclusions and inferences, inadvertently or not, pertain to the general perception of the Morrisean universe. For instance, Owen Holland’s observation in his article “Utopia and the Prohibition of Melancholy”

22

Introduction

concerning the non-prescriptive character of the text (see chapter five) is parallel to the open-endedness of Morris’ life-world. It leaves room for an individual exploration resulting in new discoveries as well the possibility of its implementation. Furthermore, the fact that Morris did not eliminate the melancholic malcontents from Nowhere, as discussed by Holland, or the Nowhereians’ implications that Guest can feel “disappointed” with their life and customs pointed to by Tom Pinkey in “Versions of Ecotopia in News from Nowhere,” may question the utopic character of the future London. Perhaps, after all, Morris did not drive at the presentation of a perfect/good society, nor attempt to show a land governed by an ideal system.

Approaches Towards Morris’ art and politics The criticism of Morris’ literary and artistic output was already abundant during his lifetime (see chapter one) when Morris was generally considered the leading authority in the fields of craftsmanship and design, as well as one of the most acknowledged poets of the Victorian age. His works were analysed by Charles Swinburne, John Ruskin, and George Herbert Wells, for example. The first comprehensive monograph that aimed at the study of his oeuvre rather than individual compositions was William Morris: His Art, His Writings and His Public Life; A Record, usually referred to as The Art of William Morris (1897), by Aymer Vallance, a supporter of the Arts and Crafts Movement. The word “record,” used in the sense of a register written with the intention to preserve Morris’ knowledge and achievements rather than a record of the events from his life, appears significant and not coincidental. It aptly summarises Vallance’s priorities and objectives, namely a critical analysis of Morris’ art exclusively. Already in the opening passage of the “Introduction” he points out that “it makes no claim to be a biography or a record of any of his private and family affairs” (vii). Respectively, particular chapters discuss various endeavours and enterprises by Morris, not only artistic, but also political and social, arranged in a chronological order. As a result, the text offers an insight into Morris’ art works and literature while providing an extensive commentary on his socialism. Given the critical conventions at the time of the Record’s production (1897), the tone and register are surprisingly neutral and impersonal, in some fragments resembling the methodology of the New Criticism and

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other modern approaches. 13 The work can be regarded as the first compendium of Morris’ art and beliefs as well as the first complete monograph on Morris in general, since it preceded the far better known Mackail biography by two years. Despite the actual difference, though, some excerpts indicate that Vallance and Mackail were working on their texts simultaneously, or even that The Life of William Morris was completed earlier.14 In this monograph I have concentrated on chapter ten of Vallance’s magnum opus that deals with Morris’ socialist lectures, essays, and articles. Respectively, I mainly utilise his analytical research in that field with the inclusion of a selective choice of his opinions in chapter four. The broad spectrum of Morris’ interest and endeavours, ranging from functional art to literature and socialism, along with his extensive definitions of such terms as “art” and “culture,” indicated that the holistic approach in the Morris studies should have played a major role from the very beginning. Indeed, the first reviews which appeared after his death, including the obituary by Reginald Beckett or the notes on Morris by the young William Butler Yeats, emphasised the open-endedness and, at the same time, the unity of his world. Yet, those qualities were also the cause of numerous misunderstandings, often expressed in the form of sarcasm and derision. For instance, Sir Edmund Beckett, apparently with the intention of being ironic, called Morris the “poetic upholsterer” (Mackail 1995 II, 24), driving at the absurdity of the seemingly incongruous occupations. To that remark Morris simply answered that, notwithstanding the hardly concealed mocking tone which he was obviously aware of, the label was in essence correct. Accepting the oxymoronic term coined by Beckett as the apt summary of his occupation(s), Morris would simultaneously reflect on his belief in the equal status of arts and crafts, or the redundancy of the artificial separation of them as shown in the juxtaposition of the “high art” of poetry with the practical character of upholstery. Regardless, the tendency to differentiate between the fields of his activity was prominent even among his friends and associates, while the wide variety of occupations often resulted in confusion. If Morris’ capacity to combine his functional art with highly emotional escapist poetry was difficult for his contemporaries to understand, his engagement in socialism became merely incomprehensible. Such a state 13 Perhaps Vallance was inspired by Matthew Arnold’s collection of essays The Study in Poetry, which considered the methods and approaches that concentrate on the autonomous properties of the text, including the New Criticism. 14 For instance, Vallance refers to the materials collected by Mackail for the purpose of the implementation of his biography.

24

Introduction

was manifested in the subsequent criticism and corresponding strategies. Morris the politician was ignored by most of the Victorian middle class who only accepted his aesthetic postulates and art production. At the same time, socialist critics would merely emphasise the social and political implications in his texts. The efforts of the art/politics reconciliation displayed by Morris himself, who was trying to convey his political ideas to a larger audience by the means of engendering lectures on art with a political message, met with limited success. The tendency to dissociate Morris’ art from his political agitation, which, as mentioned, was already commonplace in the Victorian age, eventually led to the emergence of two different types of Morris scholarship which focused on either his art or politics. In general, the various branches of criticism associated with the broadly conceived middle class which dominated the Western tradition in the first half of the twentieth century focused on his artistic enterprises and aesthetic convictions. For example, the New Criticism and American pragmatism exposed Morris’ art, whereas the schools representing the equally broad category of what is conventionally labelled the “Left,” with Marxism at the core, studied his art endeavours almost exclusively in a political context. If, on occasion, the middle-class critics provided a commentary on Morris socialism, the tone was either patronising or, at times, explicitly hostile.15 15

Today, the hostility and enmity towards Morris’ political agitation on the part of the Victorian middle class seems downplayed. It is generally assumed that Morris met with indifference, or that he was considered a harmless, idiosyncratic “champagne socialist” whose political involvement was a fancy of a wealthy, successful entrepreneur. Accordingly, the subversive elements in Morris’ version of socialism as well as his belief in the inevitability of a revolution were not given due consideration. Yet, according to Vallance, in reality the public reaction after Morris joined the socialist movement was far more uncompromising. He lost most of his friends, facing the incessant barrage of the unfavourable, openly hostile reviews. Perhaps that was the reason that May Morris, an active socialist herself, attempted to discuss her father’s political lectures in possibly more general and most neutral terms. In the “Preface” to Volume XXIII of the Collected Works of William Morris, titled “Signs of Change: Lectures on Socialism,” she only inserts a brief piece of information on Morris’ political agitation. By contrast, the bulk of the above-mentioned “Introduction” comprises the hitherto unpublished letters by Morris in which he describes personal affairs, an excursion to Wales, his love of nature, etc.; in a word, the matters which have nothing to do with politics. By presenting her father as first and foremost a good and sensitive human being rather than a fierce attacker of the capitalist system she might have been attempting to appease the aggressive critics representing the middle class, as well as preserving

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25

Apparently, one of the first publications attempting to establish a connection between Morris’ art and politics without discussing these spheres as separate and non-related entities was a study by Edmund Goldzamt—“William Morris a geneza spoáeczna architektury nowoczesnej” [“William Morris and the Social Origins of Modern Architecture”] (1967)16 (see chapters two and four). Choosing architecture as the field that in a most natural manner combines the aesthetic, the social, and the political—the conviction which also pertained to Morris’ viewpoint— Goldzamt has managed to eschew the art/politics divide that determined the discourse on Morris at that time. Respectively, he redirected the general course of inquiry from selective and isolationist to holistic and interdisciplinary. Apart from the main postulate, Goldzamt’s contribution consisted of other observations. Firstly, he noticed that Morris’ art should be allocated to the tradition of modernism, rather than prescribed to the Victorian episteme. Furthermore, according to him, Morris’ socio-artistic concepts were essentially directed towards the future rather than being reactionary, gaining relevance in the contemporary world. 17 Eventually, Goldzamt provided an extensive summary of the Morris scholarship in the former Eastern Bloc, by that time almost unknown in the United Kingdom and the United States, even though he referred to the opinions expressed by a great majority of critics as schematic, unoriginal, and marked by the predominant Marxist-Leninist approach (see chapter four). From the mid-1970s one can observe the tendency to discuss Morris’ art and politics within the confines of a single conceptual framework. Although the first publications were still written by the politically involved neo-Marxist critics grouped as the New Left, the presumably allinclusive approach soon began to dominate other areas of research. Respectively, a gamut of new perspectives emerged. For instance, as mentioned, some critics such as Caroline Arscott reversed the popular strategy of applying political theories to Morris’ art and, in consequence, prioritised aesthetics in the study of Morris’ socialist texts (see chapter three). the image of Morris as a deep and affectionate admirer of the beauty of life and nature. 16 Goldzamt’s work is available to readers in English only in summaries since it has so far not been translated. To my knowledge, only the French and the German translations of the aforesaid text currently exist. 17 In this regard, Goldzamt shared the viewpoint of Nikolaus Pevsner who, as early as 1936 in Pioneers of Modern Design, exposed the modernist character of Morris’ art and beliefs, particularly those concerning architecture.

26

Introduction

Nowadays, the emphasis is placed on Morris’ relevance to contemporary movements, especially those focusing on the preservation of the environment, e.g. eco-socialism, inspired by his lifelong concern for the maintenance of the natural habitat and summarised in his essay “Art and the Beauty of the Earth” (1884). In a similar vein, his contributions to the revival of handicrafts or the studies of culture from the non-discriminatory perspective of both ethics and aesthetics are invaluable. In brief, Morris only begins to be fully appreciated in the contemporary world with the “postmodern condition” which, by definition, opposes hierarchical structuring. Simultaneously, the intended incompleteness and openendedness of his vision, manifested in the subtitle of News from Nowhere which reads “being some chapters from a Utopian Romance” [emphasis mine], are in line with Lyotard’s preference for the plurality of small narratives over the totalitarian claim of grand narratives 18 (see chapter two). For those reasons, especially in part two, I have focused on the contemporary criticism and, respectively, my approach can be labelled interdisciplinary. In this fashion, the analysis, particularly in chapters four and five,19 will be conducted. The current fields of inquiry are also more useful to discuss the “in-between-ness” that characterises Morris’ oeuvre. Accordingly, the word “between” in the title, instead of “and” or “to,” determines my choice of the interdisciplinary approach and holistic perspective. Despite the fact that showing Morris’ relevance today is not my first objective, I have widely extrapolated from the recent publications on him, including the collection of articles William Morris in the TwentyFirst Century foregrounding these aspects and qualities that pertain to the contemporary world. Eventually, a great contribution not only to the criticism on Morris’ art, literature, and socialism but also to the maintenance of his legacy are the publications of the William Morris Society. The Journal of William Morris Studies, first published in 1961, is an invaluable source of information 18

This viewpoint was proposed by Lyotard in The Postmodern Condition (1979) (see chapter two). 19 My original intention was to ignore the historical part altogether and discuss Morris only in relation to the aesthetic and political problems appearing in his texts. I have subsequently abandoned that strategy, since, however universal and holistic his views were, it is virtually impossible to dissociate Morris from his epoch. For that reason, chapters one and two are devoted to various aspects of the Victorian age, with Morris shown as an integral part of it. Only then, in the subsequent chapters, have I attempted to pay attention to the universalism of his thought and place emphasis on the open-endedness and future direction of the spatiotemporal construction of his world.

William Morris’ Position between Art and Politics

27

which presents the life and work of Morris in multifarious aspects glanced at, studied, and discussed from various vantage points and in diverse conceptual frameworks. The annual lectures as well as occasional symposia, exhibitions, and the permanent display of Morris’ art held at Kelmscott House in Hammersmith, London, keep the memory of William Morris alive.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE ART

Specifications of the Victorian Age The problem connected with the position of William Morris within the broader spectrum of the artistic and political movements in the Victorian age results not only from the diversity of his own endeavours and engagements but also from the paradoxical nature of the times he lived in. The increased pace of development in science and technology that started in the 1820s brought Britain to the fore of all industrial nations in the world; yet, it also resulted in a strict class system generated by the middle class, which would gradually acquire a specific mark of Britishness. As a result, one could observe a constant confrontation of contradictory forces subsequently reflected in artistic trends and political attitudes (see chapter two). Conservatism, 1 in itself a reaction against the apparent libertine excesses of the Continent, particularly France, yielded a reactionary model of values manifested in the reclaimed and confirmed esteem for family life, public education, and the repression of sexuality in the public sphere, most discernible among the middle class. 2 On the other hand, equally 1

Conservatism as a system of values needs to be distinguished from the policies of the Conservative Party, at that time often referred to by its historical name of the Tories. The discrepancy was noticed as early as 1841 by the chief architect of Victorian Conservatism and the leader of the Tory Party, Robert Peel (1788–1850), who opposed economic reforms launched by his party MPs but who always insisted on the maintenance of what he believed were the sine qua non prerequisites of Conservatism. They included: preservation of the Crown, warranting the independence of the House of Lords, and the continuation of the union of Church and State (Bloy 2012). 2 Restrictions concerning sexual life, which were subsequently also introduced in the United States, seem to lie at the foundation of the contemporary perception of the Victorian age. Namely, the period is nowadays considered as the embodiment of hypocrisy and prudery—in a word, the “second age of Puritanism.” Such a onesided view might in turn be the basis for the fact that the modern reader tends to regard the Victorian age as quintessentially old-fashioned, and yet it simultaneously stimulates the search for self-identity. This approach is reflected in the popularity

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tenacious liberal and utilitarian philosophies advocated unrestrained progress in the name of rationality and usefulness.3 In the artistic sphere, mimetic theories of art perceived as a reflection or representation, sometimes even a mirroring, of the outside world, reflected in the popularity of the realistic novel, were countered by the aesthetic postulates advocated by the “Victorian sages” such as Thomas Carlyle, Matthew Arnold, and particularly John Ruskin. Despite their original intentions to create a coherent system, a dissociation of art from other fields could be observed—the tendency which was ultimately conceptualised in the “Art for art’s sake” movement and the postulates of Victorian Aestheticism. A pessimistic view of his contemporary world led Ruskin to the rejection of the present course of civilisation and technological progress, and ultimately to his challenging of the middle-class position as the warrant of those negative trends. Simultaneously, his realisation that the of retro-Victorian novels, in itself a part of the larger cultural construct known as Victoriana (Goáda-Derejczyk 2009, 11) Such an image of Victorian Britain mainly derives from two sources that emerged when the Victorian age was already over. Lytton Strachey in Eminent Victorians (1918) depicted his ancestors as oldfashioned and, at the same time, full of pretensions to moral superiority over other nations. Moreover, he claimed that due to the richness of materials the Victorian age could not be adequately described (although he probably meant the classic method of historical description). The other source includes the writings of Virginia Woolf who dealt with the repressed feelings of female characters in Victorian literature combined with a patronising attitude towards women, e.g. in her essay on “Aurora Leigh” published in The Second Common Reader (1932), or in her novels. As a result, the modern reader is faced with yet another Victorian paradox: the age of industrial progress, omnipresent technology, and colonialism, so vehemently attacked by Morris, is now perceived as traditional, reactionary, and sometimes even possessing a quaint charm and allure. 3 The epitome of the paradoxical character of the Victorian age could be Benjamin Disraeli (1804–81). The only British prime minister of Jewish origin who was an ardent supporter of Anglicanism, the Queen’s favourite, leader of the Conservative Party, showing a predisposition for aristocratic looks and behaviour, but simultaneously defending the working class; a strong proponent of the expansion of the British Empire who nevertheless attempted to improve the situation in colonies and grant them more liberty. As a novelist, politician, and social reformer, Disraeli was an enigma even to some of his party members who saw in him a charlatan, actor, and Byronic hero, but also an exceptional statesman and patriot, often all at the same time (Walsh 2003) A very interesting study of Disraeli as a man of paradox living in paradoxical times can be found in Isaiah Berlin’s essay “Benjamin Disraeli, Karl Marx and the Search for Identity,” published in the collection of his essays Against the Current.

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changes he detested were inevitable led to the emergence of the escapist literature in that period. In consequence, the new genre of the fantasy novel in the closing phases of the Victorian era was directly related to the previous works informed by escapism and withdrawal. Those antiprogressive, reactionary movements could be considered as the aftermath of the previous epoch of Romanticism, but they lacked the power and energy of the preceding period: the Romantics’ trust in unrestrained individuality as well as their belief in the here-and-now feasibility of a better world. What was left were the more disconcerting dispositions of Romanticism: Weltschmerz, spleen, and melancholy. The overall situation being viewed as bleak and with no realistic chance of improvement propelled the critics to seek more amiable alternatives in the past, manifested in the Gothic Revival movement and Victorian medievalism. Once the studies of the Middle Ages developed and became more systematic, a state which contributed to a less idealised and more critical evaluation of “the epoch of the Romance,” new interest in utopian literature emerged. Unlike the former texts representing this genre, the Victorian utopianism, with some exceptions such as Samuel Butler’s Erewhon,4 did not seek the ideal social models on an island or in some remote territories. This new quality was connected with the awareness that, due to geographical discoveries, no such “good places” could possibly exist; hence, the alternative emerged in the spatiotemporal constructs realisable in the future. U-topos was replaced by u-chronos or u-tempus, as in Morris’ News from Nowhere set in London of the twentysecond century (see chapter five). On account of the diversity of contradictory movements, the ongoing polarisation in the social sphere, and the paradoxical nature of the times, a summary of the Victorian age appears more difficult than any other period. Contrary to the previous eras, to whose overall characterisation we can at least attempt to utilise the dialectical method—i.e. the Renaissance was a reaction to the Middle Ages, the Baroque to the Renaissance, the Enlightenment to the Baroque, and Romanticism to the rationale of the Age of Reason, even if in the light of New Historicist research even this division, to say the least, is simplified—the dialectics of the Victorian age were more complex. This was due to the fact that action and reaction, progress and regress, or, to use Hegel’s terminology derived from the

4 Erewhon is, however, not a classic utopia since the text possesses both utopian and dystopian characteristics.

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philosophy of triads proposed by him in Phenomenology of Spirit (1807),5 thesis and antithesis were taking place simultaneously. The Victorian age was thereby the last period in history to which at least one may endeavour to apply dialectics. Yet, it also signalled the forthcoming modernity (possibly also postmodernism) comprising a lack of unifying force, a multi-layered texture with several knots of authority and signification, i.e. a rhizomatic network 6 of contestants, as well as unequally distributed centres of authority or, alternately, the absence thereof. The resulting eclecticism was caused by processes of alienation (Adorno 1973), and a growing significance of commodity fetishism (Bauman 1989). The cultural map of the Victorian age could be compared to the actual outline of the British Empire that reached its peak at that time: 7 its 5

Actually, the Hegelian dialectic method based on the notion of triads is to a large extent only an interpretation of his general course of argumentation in Phenomenology of Spirit (the historical manifestations of the spirit—phenomena— are studied in terms of conflicts and reconciliations). According to Hegel, the spirit develops in stages from basic forms of experience to what he called “absolute knowledge.” Yet, Hegel used the term “triads” only once, attributing it to Kant. Walter Kaufmann explains: “Whoever looks for the stereotype of the allegedly Hegelian dialectic in Hegel’s Phenomenology will not find it. What does one find on looking at the table of contents is a very decided preference for triadic arrangements. But these triads are not presented or deduced by Hegel as so many theses, antitheses, and syntheses. It is not by means of any dialectic of that sort that his thought moves up the ladder to absolute knowledge” (Kaufman 1966, 37). The phrase was subsequently popularised by Marx who, in The Poverty of Philosophy (1847), labelled “triads” in Greek as trichotomies. 6 I used the word “network” as opposed to “structure” concerning rhizomes in the original sense provided by Deleuze and Guattari in “The Concept of the Rhizome.” They characterise the rhizome as comprised of not units but dimensions, or rather directions of motions. It constitutes linear multiplicities with dimensions “having neither subject nor object” (Deleuze and Guatarri 1987, 21). In the subsequent passages they contrast rhizome—the construct which is made only of lines—with a structure. Yet, in view of their definition, the word “network” also appears as not entirely adequate. 7 The phrase “the peak of the British Empire” refers to the claim to the cultural and political supremacy of Victorian Britain over the colonies, if not the rest of the world. Technically, the vastest geographical area and the biggest populace of the Empire occurred in the Interwar Period (1922–45). Nonetheless, at that time its significance became more symbolic than real. Canada and Australia were already de facto independent, and the foundation of the Irish Free State in 1922 practically ended British control of the Emerald Isle, even if its official status was that of a dominion.

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Chapter One

territories were dispersed all over the world, rich and powerful colonies co-existed with destitute areas; a mosaic of peoples and nations characterised “the Empire on which the sun never sets.”8 London remained the nominal capital, yet the disruptive forces in Britain along with separatist movements in the colonies undermined the authority of Parliament. Queen Victoria (1819–1901), the epitome of the Empire for all her subjects, retreated to her country house in the Isle of Wight. The symbolic value of Pax Britannica was gradually becoming inconsistent with the actual state of affairs. The Crystal Palace erected for the Great Exhibition of 1851, intended to show the world the power of British technology and industry, was dissembled and relocated to different parts of the city. The seeming lack of a proper spot for its situation as well as its incongruity with other forms of architecture could be seen as a figurative representation of Victorianism as an age of contradictions. Eventually, the crisis became apparent even in the so-called “realistic” art and literature. The narrative of cultural continuity was under threat from disruptive tendencies within the very fabric of society, based on the middle class. The unspecified dangers of social revolution, which could be noticed as early as Charles Dickens’ Bleak House (1852–3), gained a new impetus in George Gissing’s (1857–1903) pessimism regarding the possibilities of improvement for the impoverished London working class. The collapse of family values was the focal point of Samuel Butler’s (1835–1902) The Way of All Flesh (1903). Social Darwinism, 9 a new doctrine that combined Darwin’s theory of evolution with the principles of laissez faire economy, reduced people to their mere existence: they were considered worthy only insomuch as they contributed to the system. In literature, that state was reflected in growing uncertainty about the identity of the characters. If the early and middle Victorian authors started their novels with names of the protagonists (e.g. George Eliot’s Middlemarch begins with the name Miss Brooke), late Victorian novelists, particularly Thomas Hardy (1840–1928), employed different strategies. They tended to describe a scene first, and then present the characters simply as men or women (Peck and Cole 2002, 208) Thus, they would limit their existence 8

John Wilson, alias Christopher North, is believed to have used this phrase for the first time with reference to the British Empire in Blackwood Magazine (1829). 9 Social Darwinism is a doctrine which applies Darwin’s bio-evolutionary theory to social relations. In Victorian Britain it was often exploited to show that the rules which govern the natural world were compatible with the postulates of laissez faire economy. The dominant position of the middle class was justified by the “survival of the fittest” concept, thus explaining the social structure in terms of an ideologically trimmed argumentation derived from nature-related observations.

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to that of a human being rather than, as previously, an English person belonging to a particular social stratum.10 The effect is to suggest that there is something elemental about people that is more important that their social identity; a basic quality exists before, and quite separately from, the rather limiting social identity imposed on them. (Ibid.)

Likewise, William Morris in his last romances identified his characters in the medieval fashion by depriving them of their family name 11 or straightforwardly by giving them pseudonyms, as well as setting his plots in unspecified and fantastic alternate realities. An identity crisis became evident both in the actual social structure and its reflection in various art forms.

William Morris and the Victorian age “Dreamer of dreams/ Born out of my due time/ How shall I strive to set crooked straight?” (1888, 1) is how William Morris introduced himself in “An Apology” to his long poem The Earthly Paradise (1868–1870). Produced in the middle phase of the Victorian age, at a time when he was immersed in the Aesthetic Movement, although not fully satisfied with its postulates, this short excerpt may be considered a manifesto of disillusionment and withdrawal that characterised the art of his generation. His birth in Walthamstow in 1834 almost coincided with Queen Victoria’s accession to the throne in 1837. Respectively, his demise in 1896 occurred just a few years short of the end of the Victorian age which symbolically terminated with the monarch’s death in 1901, although in fact continued throughout the first decade of the twentieth century. For the above reasons, Morris ought to be considered the most typical of all representatives of that era; and yet, in many ways, he transcended the specific confines of his times or in fact of any particular period. By asking the rhetorical question about “setting the crooked straight,” through 10

This mode of characterisation could be considered as an antecedent to the modernist prose of Franz Kafka (1883–1924): the protagonist of his first novel Amerika (1911) is called Karl Roßmann, but in the subsequent one, The Trial (1914), it is Joseph K., ultimately reduced to K. in The Castle (1922). 11 For instance, the hero of The Well at the World’s End (1896) is called Ralph of Upmeads. The Wood Beyond the World (1894) features the character of Golden Water, and The Water of the Wondrous Isles (1897) is about the adventures of a maiden called Birdalone. Even the name of the visitor to the future London of News from Nowhere (1890), William Guest, follows this convention to an extent.

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his deeds, works, and attitude he was attempting to provide a solution to a seemingly dead-end situation. Morris’ exceptionally wide ranging endeavours, from the protection of ancient buildings, fostering a literary passion, and manufacturing decorative and functional objects to engaging in socialism were to the same degree anchored in the specific circumstances of the Victorian age, as they could be viewed as a directive or alternative to the future course of humanity. In comparison to other notable Victorians whose theories on art and the subsequent social criticism are relatively well documented in the primary sources, it is more difficult to trace the roots and follow the evolution of Morris’ mental, ideological, artistic, and intellectual mindset (see introduction). The main issues concern the lack of primary theoretical materials from the early and the middle phase of his life as well as his age as compared to the other sages. Since he was born at the outset of the Victorian era he began to shape his beliefs over 15 years after its inception. On this account, unlike in the works of Arnold, Ruskin, and Carlyle, the direct link to the previous epoch of Romanticism was missing in Morris. In other words, in contrast to his pre-socialist “masters,” Ruskin in particular, he did not witness the transition from the age of Shelley and Keats to that of Spencer and Darwin; most of the Romantic ideas and notions he acquired second-hand, from works that were already the legacy of the past. As a result, the terms Morris would utilise in his writings, even if sounding identical to those of Ruskin for example, should be located along the synchronic rather than diachronic axis. For instance, the phrase “the beauty of life,” along with some aesthetic connotations, denotes the natural and the universal in the case of Morris, instead of a historically developed concept, as in Ruskin. The fact that the nature of beauty was first comprehensively discussed by Edmund Burke (1729–97), and subsequently elaborated by Wordsworth, Keats, and Shelley from the artist’s perspective, or epistemologically explicated by German philosophers in theory and praxeology, seemed to be of secondary importance to Morris. Although the notion of beauty became central to Morris’ creed after his reading of Ruskin, the inquires and digressions informing the latter’s texts are substantially reduced or non-existent. Analogously, Morris would frequently incorporate such terms as “art,” “life,” “hope,” and “pleasure” into his texts, but he rarely made references to their specific significations in given epochs or the historical progression of their meanings. If he did, he tried to stay as close as possible to the original sense, namely to the time when they were introduced to the lexicon. Morris would underline the correspondence between the

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contemporary usage that was often perverted and corrupted, even contradictory to the original, as in the word “manufacturer” (see chapter four) and the nature-based root of a particular term (see introduction). Such an approach in which the application of a word or expression could be labelled “the conscious choice of catachresis” is consistent with Morris’ holism. In effect, the boundaries between life, culture, art, and nature appear quite vague, and they ultimately merge into one concept. Such a practice in turn obliterates their perception in terms of dichotomies, binary oppositions, or compartmentalisation. The linguistic aspects of Morris’ attempts to rejoin different faculties and spheres of action were however ignored in his lifetime. Peter Smith observes that, despite Morris’ efforts for their reunification, the conventional terminology was indiscriminately applied to him, which, in turn, tarnished his reputation as a political thinker (Smith 2010, 143),12 simultaneously exposing his sole artistic achievements. The next aspect concerns the art/aesthetic ratio of Morris the political thinker. He was far more involved in creative work13 than a great majority of his contemporary philosophers of the aesthetic. Furthermore, his first productions, poems and stories, some of which were collected in his first book of poetry The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems (1858), preceded his critical writings by at least two years.14 The sources of his art 12

Smith emphasises Morris’ reputation as the leading craftsman of his era. Yet, he also infers that it has “perhaps worked against his authority of a social theorist and political strategist” (2010, 143). 13 Arnold’s and Ruskin’s artistic productions were to a large degree attempts of practical application of their theories. Even the most famous poem by Arnold, “The Dover Beach” (1867), can be considered a poetic rendition of his theoretical studies regarding, among other things, loss of faith. He uses the means of pathetic fallacy when he projects human feelings onto the sea. By creating an atmosphere of pathos he complies with ancient rules of writing poetry. Despite the reader’s impression that the poem is personal and intuitive, “The Dover Beach” is, in my opinion, at its core an explication of the subjects brought up by Arnold in his essays and lectures. Similar measures can be applied to Ruskin’s paintings and architectural designs. Their purpose was a complementation/implementation of their otherwise theoretical texts rather than production of sheer artistic objects. 14 Information on the earliest artistic compositions by Morris is somewhat scarce. The primary source is a handwritten memoir by R. W. Dixon, Morris’s companion from Oxford, produced by him with the purpose of implementation in J. W. Mackail’s biography of Morris. According to Dixon, the first poem by Morris was “The Willow and the Red Cliff” (1854), of which Morris famously remarked: “well, if this is poetry, it’s very easy to write” (Mackail 1995, I, 52). On the other hand, some of his productions from that period, ranging from poetry to Gothic

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and the aesthetic postulates could therefore be found in two independent locations. Undoubtedly, Ruskin’s aesthetic and social analyses in The Stones of Venice had an enormous impact on Morris, but so did purely artistic productions, i.e. the poetry of Tennyson, Keats, and Browning. Respectively, Morris would often recite their poems, taking delight in the sheer act of reading (Mackail 1995 I, 45), without a thorough theoretical knowledge about the technique and details of the composition. On this account, there is a difference between his writings on art and those of Ruskin, Arnold, and Carlyle. They used specific examples to illustrate/exemplify their theories; Morris, on the other hand, began from practice and only then amplified his perception of art concepts. This might be the reason why his early literary works, although at times lacking a rigid structure or containing occasional lapses in technique and argumentation, defend themselves by virtue of creative power (Silver 1982, 13). They are meant to be read intuitively, not formally. Morris’ incessantly disparaging remarks about the “ugly age” he lived in were not fully understood by those who otherwise agreed with him (Lindsay 1991, 255). To a great extent they obscured his critical reception, especially from the perspective of American pragmatism, since Morris, at least on face value, possessed all the characteristics of a successful person. His art cherished a wide social appreciation; he was materially well off as well as enjoying popularity, respect, and general acceptance. In consequence, Edith Simcox in Fortnightly Review blamed “the disparaging tone of Mr. Ruskin” which affected “the qualified but unextinguished hopefulness of Mr. Morris” (in Faulkner 2000, 12). Along the same lines, the anonymous reviewer of North American Century Magazine tended to blame John Ruskin for the dismal views of civilisation held by Morris, yet in the end he concluded that the real culprits were the degenerate upper classes intentionally destroying healthy and hardworking individuals (Faulkner 2000, 12). In both instances, a slightly patronising attitude can be observed: a good-hearted and well-wishing Morris falls victim to the advanced pessimistic broodings of the more intellectually experienced Ruskin.

prose, appear to be mature enough to sustain the claim that they were not his first literary attempts. In 1930, an unpublished poem “The Dedication of the Temple” was discovered in the bureau of Emma, Morris’ sister. Written in November of 1853, it is now generally believed to be his earliest complete literary work. By contrast, Morris’ first study in aesthetics, “The Shadows of Amiens,” was published in Oxford and Cambridge Magazine as late as 1856.

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Such opinions are, in my view, overgeneralisations. Undoubtedly, the author of Fors Clavigera15 (1870) exerted a strong influence on Morris, but its objectives were somewhat different. Insofar as Ruskin and Morris preoccupied themselves with the elevation of art, it was the improvement of the living conditions understood both aesthetically and materially that should be considered as the prerequisite of Morris. According to him, only when pleasure and beauty of life were restored would art flourish anew. We can also observe a substantial difference in the method of study and choice of priorities in the two: Ruskin started from art criticism, subsequently extending it into social relations. The original motivation for Morris, on the other hand, was of a more personal character, and closer to the natural domain. It seemed to have derived from his memories of a happy childhood spent in Epping Forest. Consequently, every event that took place afterwards was seen by him as a corruption of his idealised past. Although the two authors emphasised the correspondence between art and life, the direction was opposite: “from art to life” in Ruskin versus “from life to art” in Morris (see introduction). Accordingly, Ruskin would extensively aestheticise life and nature to such an extent that it verged on absurdity, 16 while Morris “naturalised” art until it became inseparable from a beautiful and noble life. In view of these observations, the still prevalent opinion that the pre-socialist Morris echoed the beliefs of Ruskin, 17 or that he only attempted to apply them in practice, requires revaluation.18

15

Fors Clavigera was a collection of Ruskin’s letters addressed to the workingclass population. While discussing a variety of topics, Ruskin’s intention was to raise the moral standards of workers as well as outline his theory of social criticism, first and foremost targeted at the middle class. 16 An example of Ruskin’s confusion about art and life could be his unconsummated marriage to Effie Gray. Apparently, the cause of the white marriage was the shock he underwent when he observed his wife naked for the first time. The fact that an adult woman had pubic hair was outrageous to Ruskin who never saw it in artistic representations of the female body (Cooper 2012). 17 This vantage point is still widely discussed. For instance, John Batchelor in his recent biography of Ruskin shows Morris as entirely Ruskinian in both his art and social endeavours. Moreover, he claims that even Morris from the socialist period remained a devout follower of his mentor. News from Nowhere, according to him, depicts “a Utopian vision of England, expressed in Fors Clavigera and in Ruskin’s plans for the Guild of St. George” (2000, 1). 18 Some attempts of critical assessment of Ruskin and Morris from a novel perspective, as two authors who substantially differed in their views and judgement, appeared at the beginning of the twenty-first century. One of the most

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Contrary to the public image of Morris as a relentless agitator against his own times and values, in his private life, at least superficially, he was a typical Victorian member of the upper middle class. Mackail draws a picture of “Topsy” 19 as a family man who enjoyed food to excess, indulged in drinking wine, played backgammon, took long walks, and embarked on frequent excursions down the River Thames. In that respect, Morris did not differ from a great majority of other Victorians belonging to his sphere. His insistence on improving the quality of artistic objects, especially functional ones, may therefore be viewed as a corrective rather than an alternative to the demeanour of the upper middle class. In addition, the fact that he was willing to also extend the distribution of high quality art objects to the working class population can be translated as an attempt to bridge the gap between the worker and the “gentleman” from the point of view of the latter. Only when he became aware of the failure of his endeavours could a radicalisation of his beliefs be noticed, which ultimately made him seek a new means to carry out his “crusade and the holy warfare against the age,” 20 i.e. political agitation. Respectively, he started to advocate the principles of a classless society rather than one based on the working class—the Marxist priority and, in consequence, a lack of division between workers and gentlemen.21 valuable publications of this kind is Tim Hilton’s John Ruskin. The Later Years (2000). 19 Topsy or Top was a humorous nickname that was bestowed on Morris at Oxford by his lifelong friend Edward Burne-Jones. As to its origins, there are several theories: the most popular claims that it was borrowed from Harriet Beecher Stowe’s novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin in which a little slave-girl is described as having “unruly curly hair” similar to Morris’. In an alternative, less-popular explanation, the roots of Morris’ moniker should be sought in the expression “topsy-turvy,” referring to his notorious absent-mindedness or the fact that he was preoccupied with many things at the same time. 20 This phrase, often attributed to Morris, in fact originated in a letter of BurneJones dated May 1, 1853. 21 The motto of A Dream of John Ball can be used as an example of this approach. “When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?” (Morris 1888, 1). This rhetorical question, which was originally asked by John Ball in one of his sermons, became the central issue for Morris in that text. Yet, in my opinion, it is more ambiguous than it may appear. From the Marxist perspective neither was the gentleman, for no such people existed in the period of primitive Communism and, by analogy, no such group will exist in the future Communist state. Yet, what Morris seemed to have implied was his conviction that both Adam and Eve were “natural gentlemen/ladies,” only the source of their nobility was different from the gentlemen of his age. Namely, it was to be sought in the “natural dignity” which comes with work. Morris subsequently expanded this belief in News from

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As I have attempted to show, the overall picture of Morris as a representative of his times poses a difficulty. In some respects he could be considered a typical product of his era, for instance on account of the fact that even his criticism of the Victorian age was not unique. It prevailed in the writings of other authors, especially Ruskin, who in fact inspired Morris rather than vice versa. Nevertheless, Morris’ insistence on a noble life led in harmony with nature, his lack of consent on divisions and the subsequent displacement of various spheres of human agenda—this notion lying at the basis of holism—and his wider than usual perception of such terms as “beauty,” “culture,” “art,” and, ultimately, “life” made Morris stand out in his own right. Morris’ macrocosm remained unchanged in all phases of his life—he only complemented it with notions and terms acquired from others. The means varied, but the end remained constant: a beautiful, expressive, and fulfilled life. This universal notion transgresses the limits and confines of the Victorian age. It can also explain the “inbetween-ness” of his beliefs and the ease with which he was capable of changing his occupations or forms of artistic expression, yet avoid the discontinuity and contradiction such a practice entails.

William Morris’ Response to Victorian Art Theories and Aesthetic Systems Victorian art and the corresponding aesthetic systems attempting to interpret it or define universal standards of its perception appear to be closer to the social structures in the United Kingdom than in other parts of Europe at that time. Such a situation was to an extent caused by the dominant position of the middle class, a large group of people who had not been formerly educated in art but now had to take responsibility for this domain as well. It concurred with a diminishing power of the authoritarian institutions that for centuries shaped public taste, and vesting that power in common citizens.22 The drastic change in almost all spheres of life that took place during the reign of Queen Victoria was best reflected in the sphere of art—the most sensitive gauge of social relations. The absence of a centralised

Nowhere, in which the residents of a future London resemble gentlemen/knights rather than possessing the qualities associated with the working-class population. 22 The exhibitions organised by The Royal Academy attempting to be faithful to more traditional subjects in visual arts were largely ignored by the public. As a result, history painting almost disappeared in Great Britain due to scarce public demand for this genre (Landlow 2012).

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academic system that would impose uniform norms on art and aesthetics exposed the weaknesses of the middle class in that field: their lack of practical preparation, confusion about art theories, as well as ignorance with regard to the true role of art and its objectives. In the essay “The Literary Influences of Academies” (1864), Matthew Arnold complained about the parochialism of style, taste, and form in England which, according to him, resulted from the dispersion of academic centres. As a corrective or remedy to the existing state of affairs, Arnold provided the example of the French Academy as the place of “a recognized authority in matters of the highest literary opinion, a recognized authority in matters of intellectual tone and taste” (Arnold 1964, 59) The dispersion of authority so bemoaned by Arnold had its long-lasting consequences. However, from a contemporary perspective they were not always so dramatic. Under the new circumstances a fresh interest from ordinary people in the arts was aroused, and the overall situation contributed to the development of the individual assessment of art objects on an unprecedented scale. In a word, the lack of unified standards could be seen as the beginning of a modern sensibility based on personal appraisal, combined with a growing suspicion of any attempts to qualify art from above. Notwithstanding, the resulting confusion and uncertainty became prevalent, changing the art perception from what and how to when and where, i.e. from definitions to contexts and intentions. The Victorian public turned to two conflicting sides that would replace the loss of a single source of patronage (Landlow, “Victorian Art Criticism”). Respectively, a polarisation of approaches to art, as well as different aims of art criticism, could be observed. On the one hand, market criticism dominated in the popular press; on the other, a group of reactionary critics opposed the views of art propagated in periodicals and magazines. In the first instance, the reviewers played on the note of conservatism while simultaneously tending to emphasise the progressive tendencies in the arts as compatible with the fast pace of social and technological development. In general, they focused on the middle class as the most important recipient. A leading agency of this type of criticism was the Art-Journal (1839–1912) which reached peak circulation of approximately 25,000 copies in 1851. Since it was a pioneering periodical in the field, a proto-modern art magazine, it inevitably had many flaws both in its content and judgement.23 Despite its mistakes and inconsistencies, 23

One of the drawbacks concerning the art criticism of the Victorian age was connected with the fact that the reviewers paid relatively little attention to a given work as belonging to the arts. As a result, the form was confused with the content, and the technique with the subject matter (cf. similar mistakes of Russian

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its influence was unquestionable: the journal spread art to a mass audience and, paradoxically, against the intentions of its reviewers, popularised Victorian authors who opposed the opinions presented in it. In general, the group of reactionary critics held rather anti-progressive beliefs. They mostly represented the traditional school of art theory, even if their postulates were often more radical than those pronounced in the Art-Journal. A tone of high seriousness permeated their writings, often composed on the pattern of the gospel— preaching the “religion of art” (Boos 2007, 23). The reactionaries known as the Victorian sages 24 included John Ruskin, Thomas Carlyle, and Matthew Arnold, the latter however differing from the other two in the sense that he employed a more subtle and less patronising style. Among them it was first and foremost Ruskin who exerted an immense influence on William Morris; nevertheless, Arnold and especially early Carlyle25 cannot be overlooked either. Formalism that attempted to apply scientific methods to art). Furthermore, instead of a meticulous analysis, the magazines offered their readers platitudes, empty slogans, and unspecified comments like “the extreme care with which every part is painted” (Illustrated London News, 10, 1847, 297), but without any further explanation of what exactly this care meant. On other occasions they used this kind of vocabulary intentionally to create a humorous effect or ironic context. When a certain Mr. Austin described Morris’ poetry as “the honeyed rhythms of this melodious storier, this dulcet client of Apollo,” Morris in his response to the editor of the Temple Bar in which the review was published noticed “the tender contempt with which Mr. Austin seemed to regard me” (in Henderson 1977, 105). Yet another disadvantage of Victorian art journalism was a mixture of professional jargon with unrelated terms, e.g. “the handling wanted breath,” “colour is not articulated” (161), etc. that the Art-Journal complained about. Nonetheless, in the numerous attacks primarily launched on Ruskin, the periodical under discussion committed similar mistakes (Landlow 2012). 24 James Haydock, in his publication Victorian Sages (2006), provides a far greater selection. In fact, almost all prominent Victorian authors, including Morris, are mentioned. His choice should however be considered relevant only if the original meaning of the word “sage” is extended. In Haydock’s opinion, a sage can be anyone who is well-informed and sees their works as a mission, in the mould of ancient prophets or teachers. I have used a narrower definition of the term. The prerequisite for being a sage is, in my opinion, some kind of religious or quasireligious message, even if the text considers other matters. Such a person should also be respected and widely recognised. On the other hand, Matthew Arnold, who meets these requirements, often parodied the style of writing preferred by the sages, especially their preponderance to make their lectures sound like sermons. 25 Tim Hilton holds that Morris was in fact closer to Carlyle than Ruskin. Morris himself, however, admitted his admiration only for Carlyle’s early texts, especially

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Despite their loss of religious faith, the sages displayed a tendency to utilise Christian terminology in their texts. This is particularly true for Ruskin, whose works are saturated with biblical references, even if they are used in a secular context, resembling the preaching tone of the New Light Ministers of the American Great Awakening (1730–50). Louis Cazamian claims that “the principles of Ruskin can be explained only in light of the Puritan influences which transfuse his whole being” (Legouis and Cazamian 1933, 1156). Undoubtedly, German higher criticism, 26 as well as Darwin’s theory of evolution by natural selection presented in The Origin of Species (1859), contributed to their departure from religion. Yet, unlike most of the Victorian novelists who created their prose in the spirit of realism or naturalism generally devoid of a theological background, they never fully dissociated from Christianity: for them, art became a substitute for religion. Arnold often recalled Cardinal Newman the main influence on his writings; respectively, his style, tone, and taste bear a strong resemblance to those of his mentor (DeLaura 196, 152–3). Morris’ passage from religion to art was not so dramatic, since a shift in priorities occurred when he was still a student at Oxford, and more specifically during his visit to Northern France in 1855 (Boos 2007, 23). Even so, he could not be indifferent to the religious roots of his new vocation either.27 When he converted to Marxism he spoke of the “religion of socialism” in the “Manifesto of the Socialist League” (1885, 2), and previously utilised similar terminology in his art. The notion of “hope”28

the study Past and Present (1843), a work with which he acquainted himself at Oxford. Even in this particular case it is debatable whether it was the book alone that made such a big impact on Morris, or whether it was the overall atmosphere that caused his voracious reading of the book in the company of fellow students. With time, Morris began to despise Carlyle’s growing imperialism, combined with his despondency and pessimism, which in turn led to the latter’s distrust of his long-time friend (Mackail 1995, II, 28, 29). 26 In the United Kingdom, higher criticism gained popularity after George Eliot’s translation of The Life of Jesus (1846) by David Friedrich Strauss (1808–74). 27 Cornell Price had explained Morris’ and his companions’ loss of religious faith in his diary from May 1855 as follows: “Our Monastery will come to nought, I’m afraid; Smith has changed his views to extreme latitudinarianism, Morris has become questionable on doctrinal points, and Ned [Burne-Jones] is too Catholic to be ordained” (in Boos 2007, 23) 28 The most important collection of essays, originally lectures, produced by Morris in his early socialist and pre-socialist periods was titled Hopes and Fears for Art (1882). “Hope” is also the crucial notion in one of his most well-known texts, “Useful Work versus Useless Toil” (1886) (see chapter four).

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which recurs in his political texts is basically a Christian concept, incorporated by Morris into his socialist creed (see chapter four). A great part of the sages’ art criticism, as well as their subsequent social criticism, was carried out through reduction and negation.29 Namely, the authors focused on the negative sides of a given issue, and only then provided some positive response to it. Ruskin, for instance, when he discusses the nature of beauty in the second volume of Modern Painters (1843), begins with “those erring or inconsistent positions” (4.66) concerning, among others, Edmund Burke’s definitions of the term. His own explanation of beauty that follows is nonetheless so extensive in its fusion of Neo-classical (typical beauty) with Romantic (vital beauty) concepts that in the fourth volume of Modern Painters (1856) he was forced to introduce a new category of the “picturesque” in which the beautiful overlaps with the sublime, yet in a somewhat shallow and hollowed-out shape. In the course of his analysis, Ruskin noticed that even this term should be used in two different senses, so he subsequently differentiated between the “noble picturesque” and what could be labelled as the “conventional,” i.e. the lesser mode of the picturesque. The complexity of the Ruskinian aesthetic system is all too apparent, deriving from both his beliefs and the ambiguities of the age he lived in. In consequence, Morris emphasised beauty alone, considering the sublime as related to the beautiful, and rejecting the picturesque altogether. In that respect, Morris differed not only from Ruskin but also from Marx, for whom the chief aesthetic category was the sublime—the distinction which would shed some light on Morris’ own interpretation of Marxism (see chapter four). The bulk of social criticism generated by Arnold and Ruskin is organised on the pattern of their earlier studies in aesthetics. Namely, they would first describe in minute detail “what is, and should never be,” and only then attempt to offer some vague outline for improvement. As a result, the reader has an impression of either the impracticality or instability that underpins their systems. This may be the chief reason that Ruskin’s art theory ultimately collapsed and Arnold’s social writings disappeared into obscurity. Contrary to them, Morris’ more open-ended and naturally sounding statements on art and life, which are generally deprived of the epistemological explications provided by the other two, are more relevant in the contemporary postmodern world characterised by

29 Ruskin used the method of reduction ad absurdum in the opening passages of Unto this Last (1860), for instance (Henderson 1977, 108)

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“incredulity towards meta narratives” (Lyotard 1984, 7) or defined as the suspicion of grand narratives, especially history (see introduction). The reductive tendencies in the texts of Ruskin and Arnold resulted in a division in the sphere of art alongside the dissociation of art from nature and culture. Against Ruskin’s intentions, who always emphasised the unity of art and nature, due to his extensive, interdisciplinary approach art became singled out as a solitary category—an end in itself, ultimately conceptualised in the Victorian Aestheticism, followed by the “Art for art’s sake” movement. Likewise, Arnold, who in order to re-establish the link between art and culture, was forced to redefine the latter in Culture and Anarchy as “sweetness and light” (Garner 2004, 41), thus rendering culture identical to fine arts. In the process of further reduction, culture became synonymous with poetry. Yet, while bringing culture closer to the field of aesthetics, Arnold simultaneously contrasted it with the essentially political term, i.e. “anarchy.” By so doing, he was defining the two as “order” and “disorder,” respectively. Obviously, Arnold saw no contradiction in such a formulation of his views since “poetry” and “order” were inseparable to him; nonetheless, what followed was a confusion resulting from the displacement of meaning. The cultural system had detached itself from the economic and political systems, and thus came to figure as an end in itself. Indeed art had to be an end in itself, because it certainly did not have much else of a purpose any more. (Eagleton 1990, 367)

In view of Arnold’s observations, Morris, for whom “culture” was rather associated with the life of the people, i.e. he used the word in an anthropological rather than aesthetic sense, 30 tended to avoid this term altogether. As an alternative, he employed a more traditional notion of “civilization,” 31 for instance in his lecture “The Hopes of Civilization”

30 Roger Aldous infers that Morris perceived culture as “the whole human life rather than merely its product” (1996, 39). 31 In my opinion, Arnold’s introduction of aesthetics into the cultural sphere, followed by a subsequent distinction between the aesthetic and the anthropological sense of culture, led to the contemporary problems with the definition of the term. Namely, it is so extensive and commonplace that it tends to encompass very remote fields. Even “civilisation” is perceived as a subcategory of culture, for instance by Oswald Spengler. For the above, in his publication The Idea of Culture (2000) as well as his lectures, Terry Eagleton suggests that we should re-establish the narrower and more-precise cultural terminology (2000, 4).

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(1885), subsequently published as an essay in Signs of Change (1889).32 Surprisingly and paradoxically, Ruskin’s and Arnold’s reductionism ran counter to their genuine urge to produce coherent theories, parallel to those of Darwin and Spencer. The epistemological problem they encountered was concerned with the nature of aesthetic experience. Belonging to a broad category of humanities, aesthetics are conventionally contrasted with sciences, even though the original definition provided by Baumgarten, i.e. “the science of sensibility” (in Eagleton 1990, 15), could be viewed as an attempt to place aesthetics in the contexts pertaining to science.33 The lack of a comprehensive art theory by Morris, which at the first glance appears to be disadvantageous to his position, can in the long run be considered an asset. Apart from the early attempts to write in accord with purely aesthetic postulates displayed by him in essays/articles published in 1856 for Oxford and Cambridge Magazine, i.e. “The Shadows of Amiens” and “Death the Avenger, Death the Friend,” most of his texts on art come from the time when he was actively involved in socialist agitation. The long period between his essays of the 1850s and those of the late 1870s obscured the evolution of his views on the role and function of art. Basically, we are obliged to rely on his creative production of that period as well as his letters and biographical information to comprehend the progression of Morris’ aesthetic beliefs. When he ultimately filled that space with his own remarks made in the middle years, they gave the impression of being more consistent than those of 32 Although Morris uses the term “civilisation,” what he actually seems to imply is the anthropological sense of culture. For instance, he describes in detail the ways of life of people in different epochs, their customs, buildings, or material conditions, as in his lecture “The Hopes of Civilization” (Morris 1998, 310–11). Marxist terminology, which is also present in Morris’ socialist texts, merely serves as the illustration of his explications rather than constituting their basis. In this respect, Morris reverses the traditional Marxian mode of argumentation; i.e. instead of starting from a generalisation and supporting it with particulars, he begins with a specification and only then adds general conclusions which derive from the writings of Marx. Respectively, Morris can be located in the British tradition of inductive reasoning, while Marx in the sphere of classical philosophy used deduction. 33 The dichotomy between sciences and humanities was later contested by C. P. Snow in his famous lecture “The Two Cultures” (1959). Snow sees this divide as the most important factor leading to the subsequent world problems, and he advocates a reunion of the two. On this account, we should perhaps re-examine the original sense of aesthetics given by Baumgarten, i.e. “the science of sensibility” in which the connection between sciences and arts is well established and cohesively explained.

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Ruskin who would often alter, correct, or even reject individual components of his art theory. As a result, Morris’ observations stayed in line with the underlying holism of his thought—his art, socialism, and the corresponding enterprises stemmed from one root, i.e. the broadly conceived beauty of life and love of nature (Boos 2007, 12). In contrast to Morris’ Weltanschauung, Ruskin’s theory is generally labelled “eclectic” (Craig 2006, 378). Moreover, although it is easier to trace Ruskin’s writings to their original sources, i.e. the English Enlightenment and Romantic tradition, they also represent the episteme of his own age to a greater degree. From a contemporary perspective, thereby, the author of Modern Painters is mainly analysed in the context of the Victorian age, while more universal and flexible statements expressed by Morris are still relevant and inspiring. Also, the method of studying art is different in Ruskin and Morris. The first relied on exegesis—namely, he provided an in-depth analysis of a given work, which was followed by general conclusions regarding the object of his interpretation. Morris, on the other hand, only occasionally used this approach34; the bulk of his texts were directly on the subject, like, for instance, in the opening sentence from his lecture “Some Hints on the Pattern-Designing” (1877). “By the word pattern-designing, of which I have undertaken to speak to you tonight, I mean the ornamentation of a surface by work that is not imitative or historical, at any rate not principally so” (257). Even if some of his other lectures make wider use of rhetoric, this pattern remains in essence unchanged. Ruskin’s method is different. It seems to derive directly from empirical inductive reasoning applied to art and subsequently extended to social criticism. Yet, the conclusions he draws or inferences he makes are so far-reaching and extensive that the correspondence between the original object of analysis, usually a painting, and the subsequent opinions is hard to grasp.35 34

His early essay “Death of Avenger, Death of Friend” is an example of the Ruskinian method utilised by Morris. 35 For instance, in the most famous chapter of The Stones of Venice (1851–3), “The Nature of Gothic” (1853), Ruskin studies Gothic architecture as the pinnacle of human capacities, and then concludes that it resulted from the fact that in the Middle Ages each worker was also an artist/artisan who enjoyed the labour process. The veracity of his remarks can, however, be questioned on various grounds: the scarcity of materials that would provide insight into the mind of the average medieval worker, the popularity of the medieval concept of the golden age, i.e. the land of Cockaigne where work is unknown, or the notion of the architectural forms which appear to be intuitive and natural, but which could in fact be designed in accord with the strict principles governing the ecclesiastic order. Emile Male comments: “The Middle Ages had a passion for order. They

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The origins of Ruskinian aesthetics should therefore be sought in the polemical nature of his writings, namely in the fact that they are a comprehensive, multi-layered discourses with the former opinions on a topic discussed by him. He reveals his goals and intentions only after dismissing the former views expressed by his predecessors. In consequence, the reader has an impression that they participate in the act of the emergence of an aesthetic system instead of cognising an already established structure. To a great extent, Ruskin’s texts ignore dialectics, at least as perceived in the sense of reaching a compromise between his own opinions and those of others (Pinto 2001, 168). His voice appears authoritarian and his statements final. The only person who is allowed to introduce amendments or even change the original message is John Ruskin himself. Morris, on the other hand, utilises a dialectical method, but except for some particular instances mainly caused by the specific political moment he eschews polemics, at least in his literary works.36 For that reason, his aesthetic viewpoint, which is embedded in life and nature, is open-ended, leaving more opportunities for its expansion and implementation. Notwithstanding this, it also lacks the characteristics of a unified system or proper theory. Morris’ explanation of socialist beginnings provided in “How I Became a Socialist” (1884) is symptomatic since it also informs his perspectives on art: “Now, this view of Socialism which I hold to-day, and hope to die holding, is what I began with” (Morris 1998, 379). Analogously, if we replace the word “socialism” with “art,” the same declaration could concern his perception of aesthetics. organized art as they had organized dogma, secular learning and society” (1973, 1). In view of this observation, most of Ruskin’s beliefs appear irrelevant, deriving from his idealism and wishful thinking rather than based on fact. In reality, there seemed to be very little room for intuition, pleasure in labour, or the nonseparation of arts and crafts in his favourite period. 36 Morris’ political Utopia News from Nowhere has its roots in the polemical argument about the vision of a future socialist state depicted by Edward Bellamy in Looking Backward (1887) (see chapter five). In the 1889 Commonweal review of Bellamy’s work, Morris opposed the apparent benefits of socialism embodied in technological and medical progress, claiming that “he [Bellamy] has his mind fixed firmly on the mere machinery of life” (Morris 1998, 355). Obviously, Morris’ alternative is antithetical to Bellamy’s, but other than that no direct parallel between the two utopias seems to exist. Unlike Ruskin, who would respond with his opinions to specific statements of other critics, Morris draws his own picture of future London that is essentially independent of Bellamy’s vision of Boston. Hence, the tale originates in the polemic, but from that point on bears no resemblance to Looking Backward.

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Yet, as already mentioned, it is life and nature which have precedence over other fields in Morris’ Weltanschauung. The sketch of the picture had been ready long before he began to use different colours to fill it in. Contrariwise, with the passage of time, Ruskin’s attempts to transpose his aesthetic system into social relations became more and more obtrusive. Expanding from art to nature, then to society, in constant polemic with other opinions and relentless opposition to the world he observed, he ultimately realised that no point of convergence existed. In order to find some common ground for his theoretical inquires he took a shortcut, and in the final phases of his life turned to the apotheosis of British art as superior to that of the colonies,37 becoming the champion of the Empire38 (Faulkner 2000, 54). Although for different reasons, similar conclusions were drawn by Carlyle (Hilton 200, 173–4). Arnold, on the other hand, found himself in limbo: he was too self-conscious to simply embrace the values he fought against, but he could not find a remedy to the situation he witnessed either. In light of the unavoidable discontinuity and contradiction experienced by Victorian sages, which were also shared by society as a whole, Morris seemed the only one who managed to avoid that condition. Once he became aware that art was insufficient to restore his ideal of harmony in life and the beauty of nature, he turned to politics as yet another means of deliverance.

William Morris and Victorian Art Movements The general direction towards synthesis, combined with the need for a coherent system of values, paradoxically resulted in a greater than ever diversity of approaches to art observed in the Victorian era. The trends and 37

Ruskin labelled Indian art “conventional” in the sense of “secluded from nature,” even though he admitted its sophistication and accomplishment. At the same time, he associated the superiority of British art with military power. His opinion that “no great art ever yet arose on earth, but among the nation of soldiers” (XVIII, 459–50) indicates that towards the end of the Victorian age he began to perceive the British Empire as the modern equivalent of the Roman military conquests rather than Greek ideals of beauty and art. 38 In my article written in Polish “Brytyjski socjalizm koĔca XIX wieku a kwestia Imperium: John Ruskin i William Morris” [“British Socialism at the End of the Nineteenth Century and the Question of the Empire: John Ruskin and William Morris”], I argue that Ruskin’s apotheosis of the Empire, and Morris’ rejection of its every aspect are in fact rooted in their different approaches to socialism, ultimately deriving from their views on art. As a result, the notions of a shortcut with regards to Ruskin and the mechanical perception of Morris as an uncritical follower of Marx are modified, if not questioned.

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currents of what some people were willing to perceive as the second (more precisely the third) Augustan age ranged from Classicism and NeoClassicism to realism and naturalism and post-Romantic inclinations. They manifested themselves most comprehensively in the Gothic Revival, in itself a part of the larger movement known as Victorian medievalism (see chapter three). The texts on aesthetics produced by Ruskin and Arnold found their immediate practical application in artistic endeavours, amongst which the most important should be considered Pre-Raphaelitism directly inspired by The Stones of Venice and Seven Lamps of Architecture. The “Art for art’s sake” movement, on the other hand, was simultaneously a theory and praxis, ultimately becoming a cultural phenomenon whose embodiment was the most famous of the late-Victorian “dandies,” Oscar Wilde (1854–1900). In the final phases of Victorianism, new artistic trends, i.e. Expressionism, Impressionism, and the avant-garde, were imported from the Continent. Cultural egalitarianism replaced the elitism of previous epochs, resulting in the expansion of culture from aristocratic courts to the middle class, while the working class produced their own constructs similar to those of the bourgeoisie but deprived of pretences to high art and culture displayed by their more educated counterparts. Working-class melodramas set among young factory workers emphasised freshness, a natural approach, and the unrestrained power of love which ignored social etiquette. Other than that, though, they followed the conventions of the middle-class novel. With time, the differences became less conspicuous, and the fusion of high and low literary genres also weakened the class divisions in British society (Newey 2000, 29) For the above, we can speak of the beginnings of mass and popular culture that emerged in the Victorian age. Due to the extension of the cultural sphere, Arnold’s concept of “high art”—a single category standing in opposition to the commonplace and the vulgar, could be seen as an attempt to react against the negative side of cultural egalitarianism: the omnipresent tawdriness and apparent disorder—the aftermath of the disintegration of the formerly hierarchical cultural structures. Despite his efforts, the outcome was contrary to Arnold’s original intentions, and led to the further dissolution of what was meant to be a sound alternative to the ongoing disruptive processes. On the surface, William Morris’ response to the artistic movements of his epoch was highly selective, in the sense that he seemed to ignore realism and naturalism and openly criticised the avant-garde. In his socialist period he additionally became dissatisfied with the postulates of pure aestheticism, to such an extent that he even articulated quite

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unfavourable opinions about Pre-Raphaelitism, which he was formerly associated with. For similar reasons he rejected “Art for art’s sake” as a movement because, by severing the connection between art and other spheres, it conspicuously distanced itself from reality and social problems. Yet, on a deeper level he stayed alert to all the currents and phenomena of the Victorian age. The indifference or negation displayed by Morris towards some of them can be considered forms of reaction on his part, but at the same time they were consistent with the general trajectory of his thought. On this account, while discussing only the movements that had a direct impact on Morris, we should be aware that he was equally conversant with a far wider array of his contemporary trends and attitudes. Otherwise, the reader would be forced to negate the notions of wholeness and non-separation that transpire in all Morris’ works and texts, and, by default, question the universalism of his other endeavours.

Victorian medievalism The roots of the popularity of the Middle Ages in the Victorian age—a phenomenon observed in all spheres, including the cultural and the social—are to be sought in at least two sources. Albeit to some degree independent, they could be viewed as the constituents of a more general tendency to idealise the remote past, which was the expression of a nostalgia for a simplicity of life, reverence for values, and clarity of order, conceptualised in the notion of “Merrie England.” The first approach to the medieval that originated in the Romantic tradition can be located along the historical axis: it began in the late Enlightenment with a criticism of the French Revolution by the conservative champions of “ancient regimes,” particularly Edmund Burke in his “classic text in political theory” (Bruyn 2001, 577), Reflection on the Revolution in France (1790). In the literature and art of the following epoch of Romanticism, the Middle Ages were explored in a plethora of forms and genres, including a rather superficial imposition of the medieval elements in Gothic fiction, the setting of some of Lord Byron’s (1788–1824) tales, as well as more subjective and selective insights to the medieval world by John Keats (1795–1821). In general, Romantics emphasised the appeal of the Middle Ages to the reader’s imagination, but they rarely conducted comprehensive studies on the epoch of the romance. In Romanticism, medievalism seemed to be superimposed on otherwise ahistorical structures comprised of the corresponding themes, which additionally often possessed Oriental elements.

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To a degree, Victorian medievalism could be considered a continuation of the previous era. Yet, on a deeper level, one can observe some substantial differences between the Romantic and the Victorian perception of that epoch. Ian Bradley provides an insight into the nature of medieval studies in the Victorian age. The Victorian cult of medievalism, of which Morris became a passionate adherent, was far more than a mere romantic longing for a far-off golden age. It derived from the first serious scholarly exploration in Britain of the literature and society of the Middle Ages. This was a manifestation of a growing interest in philology and the derivation of the English language, which culminated in the publication of the Oxford English Dictionary in 1851. (1978, 11)

The Victorian age saw the expansion of medievalism into the cultural sphere, resulting from a “shared connection to the past” (Palmgren and Holloway 2005, 3). A direct parallel between the medieval environs and the contemporary Victorian reality led such poets as Robert Browning to “use those tropes which the best spoke to Victorian ways of seeing the world” (Ibid., 3). Likewise, Alfred Lord Tennyson in his Idylls of the King (1856–85) took liberties in his treatment of the Arthurian legend, even reversing Arthur’s original alliance from that of the Celtic warrior fighting the Anglo-Saxon invaders to an English ruler. Almost from scratch, invention of the medieval heroes, e.g. Robin Hood, or re-invention of the known ones, yet transformed and transfigured beyond recognition, i.e. King Arthur, point to the enquiry of the self-identification of the Victorian public rather than the need to re-create the medieval world (Barczewski 1997, 201). At this point, the evolution of approaches to medievalism— from the late-modern and Romantic to the Victorian age—converged with another area, namely the cultural and social dimensions of that movement. The historical (diachronic) approach was abandoned for the basically unhistorical (synchronic), running parallel to the contemporary phenomena that reflected the problem of creating a new identity in both the personal and public spheres. Medievalism was by all means the most important propelling force that defined Morris’ mindset and opinions. Not only was it the first one he consciously embraced, but its influence was the longest and most profound, manifested in all phases of his life and reflected in a number of works and texts. Some concepts and ideals, like “monastic life, chivalry and co-operative craftsmanship” (Zaczek 2002, 8), Morris incorporated into his creed directly from other Victorian writers, particularly those

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associated with the Oxford Movement.39 Others, e.g. his transformation of the Dream Vision convention, appear to be his own. Morris’ interest in the alternative models inspired by the medieval intensified during his studies at Oxford when he joined the Birmingham group40 at Pembroke College— an informal society whose members considered themselves the “Brotherhood” (cf. Pre-Raphaelites), and to an even greater extent after reading The Stones of Venice by John Ruskin. Oxford at that time was the last major city in England to be not connected to the railway network, which “had not yet produced its farreaching effects” (Mackail 1995 I, 29) Surrounded by the meadows and orchards, with cobbled streets and buildings made of stone, it stayed in sharp contrast to the other larger centres of England that had already experienced the negative side of industrialisation. All of the above contributed to the preservation of Oxford’s medieval character that had such an appeal to Morris. The Oxford of the 1850s, together with his childhood memories of Epping Forest and Woodford Hall, were among the most vivid images cherished by Morris: an archetype of noble simplicity and the pinnacle of beauty in all phases of his life.

39

The Oxford Movement began as a reforming of High Church Anglicanism, finally resulting in Anglo-Catholicism. The principal figure was Cardinal John Henry Newman (1801–90), whose religious community of believers in Littlemore inspired young Morris. Remaining under the strong influence of Newman’s convictions, additionally reinforced by Carlyle’s Past and Present (1843), Morris chose Exeter College at Oxford for the place of his studies chiefly on account of the fact that the spirit of medievalism was still extant there. Newman and Carlyle advocated simplicity of life based on medieval monastic ideals, combined with a reformation of society perceived in terms of a Christian mission. When Morris decided against taking Holy Orders after his visit to France in 1856, he replaced the ideal of Christian cooperation and communal values exposed by the author of Tracts for the Times (1833–41)—from which the other name of the Oxford Movement, i.e. the Tractarian Movement, derives—with a secular concept of community of artists put forward by the architect G. E. Street. Ultimately, Morris’ aspirations were fulfilled after joining the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood in 1857. 40 The Birmingham group was one of many societies and organisations that were inspired by the medieval ethics and ideals. The Camden Society focused on medieval texts, the Early English Texts Society analysed Old English and medieval manuscripts, and the Chaucer Society conducted studies in the age of the author of Canterbury Tales. The Young England Movement stressed the social character of Victorian medievalism. Initiated by Disraeli, it aimed at the reduction of social contrasts by returning to the medieval model of cooperation between the nobles and peasants (Bradley 1978).

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His experience there [at Oxford]—the idyllic medieval city, the circle of idealistic undergraduates and the writings of Tractarians, Ruskin and Carlyle—were all to shape his artistic, professional and social life. (Zaczek 2002, 7)

While sharing a great deal with other medieval conventions of his age, Morris’ medievalism was essentially unique. On the one hand it was a cross-section of the historical and cultural aspects instilled in that movement, and on the other it could be a vehicle for his personal perception of the outside world. Respectively, his medievalism could be described as “inborn,” basically remaining impervious to fleeting fashions and trends. Medievalism was the first movement Morris consciously espoused. It also stayed closest to his ideal of a “beautiful life” and the signification of this phrase. Respectively, almost his entire output, including literary texts and functional objects, contains medieval themes and motifs. Even in the works that superficially draw upon other epochs and trends, i.e. his tales derived from or inspired by Antiquity, or his socialist journalism and propaganda works, the medieval poetic is prominent and discernible. Medievalism could be also considered as a link that forged his artistic endeavours with subsequent political action. Marcus Waithe observes: “Far from representing a quaint prelude to the nature of political conviction of his socialist years, Morris’ medievalism formed an integral part of his peculiar brand of socialism” (2006, xii). Morris’ originality in his approach to the Middle Ages was reflected in the fact that he never attempted to slavishly imitate medieval forms. Furthermore, he did not uncritically embrace that epoch or simply produce works and texts in the medieval fashion. 41 His method was highly discriminative in the choice of individual elements from the Middle Ages that included only those aspects which would fit his original worldview.42 On that account, Morris’ approach to medievalism should be labelled selective and critical (Lindsay 1991, 271). Likewise, except for some specific instances, i.e. the restoration of St. Mark’s Cathedral in Venice43 41

Some examples of Morris’ treatment of medieval forms and motifs can be found later in this chapter. 42 A similar selective procedure was exercised by Morris when he utilised concepts from Ruskin for his own purpose (q.v.). 43 Morris rightly feared that the supposed “restoration” of St Mark’s Cathedral would in fact amount to its destruction. He opposed the idea of rebuilding the edifice in accord with the principles that ignored the spirit of the people who erected it: along with their working environs and labour process. In the article from 1879, published in the Daily News, he pointed out the ignorance of his

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or his admiration for the elegant architectural simplicity of Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, Morris remained relatively indifferent to the better-known Gothic art and architecture produced in Italy and Southern France. His area of interest was almost exclusively limited to the English Gothic in the first phase of its development, i.e. the “early [English] Gothic.” Undoubtedly, Morris became more alert to various aspects of medievalism after reading Ruskin, yet it appears that in The Nature of Gothic he discovered the notions and ideas which were consistent with his already shaped beliefs. His enthusiasm for Ruskin’s work therefore issued from inside him, rather than being stimulated by external influences. To employ a botanic metaphor, the seed had been already planted, possibly as early as Morris’ childhood, when dressed in a miniature suit of armour he roamed the recesses of Epping Forest and voraciously read the Waverly novels (1814–34) by Walter Scott (1771–1832). Subsequently, the buds formed in Morris’ adolescence years during his studies at Marlborough College (1847–51). Ruskin, in that respect, was only the one who enabled Morris’ medievalism to blossom. Caroline Silver holds the opinion that at Marlborough he already nurtured “a love for Gothic in art and architecture” (1982, 2). These assumptions suggest that the medievalism of Morris was essentially independent of the Ruskinian version of the movement, having always been integral to his original thought. In consequence, the author of The Stones of Venice only provided a concrete shape to Morris’ formerly less specific beliefs and fascinations. What appealed to Morris most was the organic vision of art and the world whose embodiment was the early Gothic, especially its architecture. According to him, the churches and cathedrals of that period were inseparable from nature, constituting a harmonious whole with the surrounding landscape, instead of being superimposed onto it, a practice he observed in the Victorian age (Lindsay 1991, 271). Like R. W. Emerson in his essay “Nature” (1836), Morris considered well-designed architectural forms as representing “the visible form of life itself” (Mackail 1995 I, 78). For the above, architecture played a prominent role in Morris’ worldview since it was the type of artistic expression that connected the beauty of life and nature with art. For instance, the bridge and the river in News from Nowhere are viewed as the components of nature, regardless of whether the first was part of a naturally formed landscape, while the other is a human-made object.

contemporary engineers who “think that there is nothing distinctive between the thoughts, and expression of the thoughts, of the men of the twelfth century and of the nineteenth century” (Morris 1998, 405).

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In contrast to the Gothic, Morris perceived the buildings of his own age as antithetical to the perfection of natural imagery. Only at this point, following Ruskin’s remarks, did he infer that the superiority of medieval forms derived from pleasure in work experienced by the worker, and juxtaposed that condition with the drudgery felt by his Victorian counterpart. Subsequently, in line with Ruskin and later Marx, he would blame the division of labour, alienation of workers, and ultimately mechanisation for the dismal state of his contemporary architecture. By extension, the same criteria could be applied to the other arts as well. In the case of Morris, the picture he observed—the degradation of architecture in his times—preceded his subsequent theoretical explications. The order of unfolding priorities, i.e. nature, followed by art, and only then the social relations, was significant for two reasons. Firstly, it corresponded with the general development of Morris’ interests and endeavours. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, by showing a direct interrelation between the natural world and art viewed as a complementation rather than reflection of natural forms, and ultimately linking them to the social problems of the day, Morris managed to avoid their separation. In between remained the cultural sphere, originally cementing nature, art, and society, but in Morris’ times reduced to an isolated sector. The disengagement that began in the early modern 44 was in the Victorian age already perceived in terms of divides or binary opposites, i.e. culture/nature, fact/fiction, or even art/nature. The last could, for instance, be noticed in the word “artificial” (first used by William Wordsworth), as opposed to “natural.” Subsequently, art began to be associated not only with the “unnatural” or “spurious” but also with dishonesty and false pretensions. This new sense of the term found its reflection in such expressions as “artful” (cf. “wily”—first appearance in 44 According to Morris’ lecture/essay “The Beauty of Life” (1880), the Renaissance marked the breach with the sense of tradition in the medieval period which resulted in schematic imitations of classical patterns and forms. This “New Birth” (1998, 375), as Morris called it in another lecture, “Gothic Architecture” (1889), resulted in the formation of hierarchical divisions within the arts, namely into the “lesser arts” (functional and decorative) on the one hand, and what would be subsequently known as the “high art” on the other. This issue was explicated by him in a lecture/essay “The Lesser Arts” (1877). Such an artificial compartmentalisation resulted in the disengagement of formerly inseparable spheres, i.e. nature, art, and culture, subsequently reflected in social divisions reinforced by the rigid class system. Hence, Morris blamed the closing phases of the early modern for the wrong course of civilisation taken at that time.

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Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist in the name of the pickpocket the “Artful Dodger” 1838), “arty” (first known use in 1901), “arty-crafty” (first known use in 1902), “artiness” (see: “arty”), “artifice” (in the sense of a “trick,” see: “artful”), or “artless” in the sense of “sincere” (first usage in 1873).45 It is not coincidental that most of the affixes possessing negative denotations attached to the stem word “art,” or negative contexts in which the term functioned, entered the lexicon in or around the Victorian age. In this case, cultural connotations preceded the subsequent denotations, rather than vice versa. They were reflected in the vocabulary, indicating a general crisis in the arts as well as difficulty with the proper delineation of its realm. At the same time, Matthew Arnold narrowed the definition of “culture” to fine art, while the word “art” in its original sense was limited to the field of visual arts, especially painting. It was William Morris who would reintroduce the broader meaning of art after the foundation of the Arts and Crafts Movement (1860) and subsequently provide a theoretical refutation of the arts/crafts divide in his essay “The Lesser Arts” (1877). In this way he attempted to obliterate the aptly named “artificial” boundaries between different spheres and restore the Gothic ideal of nature, art, culture, and society, perceived as the components of one and an inseparable entity. Although Morris, especially in his socialist lectures, usually labelled this amalgam simply “art,” its definition was extended to all aspects of the beautiful, the natural, and the noble (see introduction). Another issue which found its articulation in Morris’ medievalism was his viewing of the process of production and, analogously, life in terms of storytelling, more specifically as arranged on the pattern of the Romance.46 In the Romance genre, the storyline becomes more important than its conventional components: exposition, climax, and denouement, as well as the narrative frame or a historical and social context. Eugene Vinaver, in his study of Mallory (1929), contrasted it with other forms of prose, particularly the novel, stressing its difference in the latter plot arrangements. Namely, in the Romance the events do not lead to a single dramatic effect, i.e. the climax, but are rather loosely arranged episodes, following an imaginary or real quest. From a new aesthetic perspective, 45 I have used the following sources for the original appearance and uses of the “art-” word formations in the opposite to the original or derogatory sense (http://www.merriam-webster.com, http://en.wikipedia.org; Manser and Turton 1987). 46 By “Romance” I mean the older definition of this genre, i.e. “the work of fiction, non-historical” (Cuddon 1999, 758) rather than the modern usage referring to “Romantic love,” thus often interchangeable with the “love story.”

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labelled by him in French the entrelacement (cf. “interlacing”), Vinaver pointed out that unlike realistic fiction the series of adventures are of greater importance than the focus on a single character. Even if the protagonist development is possible, as later claimed by Morton Bloomfield (1975, 27), the change in the character’s behaviour and their capacity for self-reflection are limited to cultural norms and conventions. Respectively, instead of the logical and plausible progression of the plot and characters, the emphasis in the Romance is placed on the notion of “wonder” and the “quest for wonder”/“wondrous quest”. The purpose and function of wonder distinguish the Romance from the aims of realistic fiction based on the principles of mimesis. Such a change of strategy in turn challenges the conventional approaches on the part of the reader. Instead of searching for verisimilitudes, wonder allows us to constantly “quest for meaning” (Bennett 2009, 14), and, as Cornelis Verhoeven observes, it is “always an attempt to change the world” (1972, 196). Quest and wonder, often joined in one phrase, were central to Morris’ beliefs. Although they found their pure articulation only in his Last Romances, or as Phillippa Bennett, perhaps more appropriately, labels them, “books of wonders”47 (2009, 11), they informed his previous texts and enterprises. Morris would incorporate his perception of the quest first into his aesthetic creed, and ultimately the political and social spheres. Originally, it was meant to be the quest for beauty, which was not confined to the “province of art” but always to “the beauty of life.” In Morris’ socialist period the focus was placed on the redeeming sense of beauty, which, he believed, is a natural quality pertaining to all humans. Morris concluded that it could be only brought about by changing the entire political system. Wonder, or more precisely the ability to wonder, as Phillippa Bennett observes, constituted the basis of his praxis and beliefs.

47

Despite Morris’ defence of the Last Romances in his lecture “The Society and the Future” (1888), they were formerly considered “escapist” since they apparently offered a getaway from mundane reality and reflected the author’s disillusionment with his political involvement. Recently, their reception has undergone a change due to the exposition of different elements overlooked in the past. Phillippa Bennett focuses on the notion of “wonder” as the propelling force behind their creation. Respectively, she puts forward a new interpretation of them: the realm of fantasy is not an escape from reality but becomes the place in which wonder can be finally realised. Also, Amanda Hodgson emphasises their vital energy rather than the need of rest (1997, 155), presenting the Last Romances as the continuation of Morris’ earlier fascination with the world of Icelandic Sagas (Ibid., 157).

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Chapter One Morris’s own desire to see man and the world grow day by day more wonderful was integral to his aesthetic and political vision, and to read Morris’s letters, lectures, poems and romances is to recognize the significance of wonder in his own response to the world. (Bennett 2009, 14)

A succession of quests and events that informs the pattern of the Romance, instead of building tension that leads to the climax, resembles the act of storytelling in oral form. Such a mode of transmission, not necessarily driving at a specific ending or conclusion, often produced with the sole purpose of entertainment, is therefore more distinct in this genre than in other prosaic and poetic forms. Morris produced a number of romances or romance-based tales, including his early texts in prose and verse, some of which were published in his first collection of literary works In Defence of Guenevere (1858). Subsequently, he would return to his favourite mode of literary expression that culminated in the last romances, e.g. The Well at World’s End (1896) or The Water of Wondrous Isles (1897), meant to be published in what was to become the crowning enterprise of his lifelong interest in medievalism—The Kelmscott Press (1891–8). Even his most famous utopia, News from Nowhere, whose full title is News from Nowhere or an Epoch of Rest, being some Chapters from a Utopian Romance, points at Morris’ intention to exploit romance conventions in his description of the visit he paid to the London of the future (see chapter five). Yet, if we approach the Romance with liberty, as the general mode of world perception, in the mould of Bakhtin’s analysis of generic conventions in social communication carried out by him in “The Problem of Speech Genres” (1979), all literary works of Morris as well as his pattern designs match the definition. Furthermore, his other enterprises and endeavours, including socialism, share many qualities of the Romance as well. Consequently, Romance characterised Morris’ study of different phenomena in their totality and informed his art expressions, transcending specific conventions prescribed to the literary works. Morris showed preference for those variations of the Romance which closely resembled oral tradition, the way they were “actually told rather than literally transposed” (Whittaker 2011, 8). For that reason, he tended to seek inspiration in those tales which were possibly closest to the original source of their composition, a time when they were still shared by communities often during or after the working day. Such was the case with the medieval labourers but also the inhabitants of early Greek city-states before Homer gave a literary shape to their collections of stories about Troy or Odysseus’ adventures in the Iliad and the Odyssey. In those days,

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when storytelling was still interwoven with the crafts and born out of the basic human need to combine work and pleasure, crafts and arts were still one whole. Morris would subsequently elaborate on this issue in his socialist lectures, i.e. “Useless Work Versus Useless Toil” (1885) and “The Lesser Arts” (1877). Afterwards, the connection between storytelling and crafts was, independently of Morris, contextualised by German philosopher and critic Walter Benjamin who, in his essay “The Storyteller” (1936), located both occupations in the cultural sphere. Esme Whittaker comments: “He [Benjamin] describes how the craftsman’s workshop was the place where stories from the past and from faraway places were exchanged between the resident master craftsman and the travelling journeymen” (2011, 9). Morris tried to recreate the tradition of communal storytelling in the hope of recovering the missing space between nature and culture. Likewise, it was the point of convergence for arts and crafts. On this account, he would often recount stories to Burne-Jones while his friend was engaged in decorative work, or recite his poems in a soft, monotonous voice when the latter was at work on a new pattern design.48 The close interconnection between storytelling and crafts led Esme Whittaker to infer that all Morris’ works, regardless of the materials involved, were arranged on the pattern of the story (2011, 12). Although she only mentions crafts, we can extend this statement to his political activity. Hence, the story, or more precisely the act of storytelling, becomes central to Morris’ art production and the art of living.49 Since the emphasis in storytelling, particularly in the Romance, is placed on the process rather than the finished text—i.e. some tales have no definite ending, and others are just a series of adventures—the process becomes transformed into an end in its own right. Thus, we can observe the reversal of the commonplace logic of pragmatism: to Morris, “making” 48

Morris’ predisposition to read long fragments of his works was well known among his friends and acquaintances. Not all of them appreciated it, however. Gabriel Dante Rossetti drew a famous caricature of Morris reading volume two of seven of the Earthly Paradise to his wife Jane while she is sitting in a bath and drinking the second of seven glasses of a spa water (1869). The explicit sarcasm of that picture could be explained by the blooming affair between Rossetti and Jane, in which Morris was perceived not so much as a rival but as an obstacle to the intense feelings shared by the two. 49 Morris’ interest in pre-history, i.e. oral literature that preceded the invention of the alphabet, was motivated by a perception that was different from that of his contemporaries. For them, it expressed a nostalgia for the simplicity of the past. Morris, on the other hand, longed for the tradition of communal storytelling but ignored the sentimental notes of other Victorians (Whittaker 2011, 12).

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appears more important than “made.” In the same manner as we read a romance just to enjoy the unfolding of the plot, instead of focusing on the climax and the denouement—the required elements of realistic fiction— Morris tries to convince us that pleasure and reward lie in the very act of producing an artwork (cf. Concept Art). Pleasure in labour as the value that stands alone subsequently formed the basis of his socialist creed, a notion which he expounded in detail in “Useful Work Versus Useless Toil.” By showing the importance of the process, he also challenged the expectations of the supply-and-demand market that remained essentially indifferent to the question of “how it was made,” showing interest in the concrete finished artefact in order to capitalise on its sale. From this perspective, Morris’ transition from culture (communal storytelling) to crafts (tales shared by master craftsmen, workers, and journeymen during the production of functional objects), to arts (storytelling as a principal mode of the literary genre of the Romance) and ultimately politics (the notion of the process of production as parallel to storytelling, which runs counter to the demands of the capitalist system),50 appears perfectly natural and unassuming. In fact, we can speak of no transition here, but rather of an extension of Morris’ original beliefs. The notion of the creative process can therefore be crucial for a proper understanding of the core of Morris’ socialism and political work. In the same manner as the medieval worker, who apparently enjoyed the very act of building the cathedral even if he did not expect to see it finished in his lifetime (one of the key points exposed by Ruskin in The Stones of Venice), Morris would be passionate about spreading the gospel of socialism. Like the storyteller who indulged in recounting the adventures of some legendary ruler or hero, instead of building up tension in accord with literary conventions, Morris devoted his time and energy to the cause which, as he feared, would not yield crops in his contemporary world. In more universal terms, if we replace “making” with “becoming” (Lefebvre 2005, 232), the importance of the creative process, in this specific example the process of labour, is consistent with the general message of Marxist convictions. It comes to prominence in the modern interpretations of Marx’s doctrine, in particular those of Henri Lefebvre who, following Jean Paul Sartre, affirms that in the process of making the artists/artisan discovers themselves. Furthermore, Lefebvre extends the notion of passive self-discovery in the act of producing things to the active process of selfcreation, claiming that when we make something we are also made (Ibid.). 50

Morris would subsequently extend the notion of process into workers’ education perceived in terms of a process, as opposed to education in capitalism which he viewed as a state or a system.

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In view of these observations, Morris’ socialism seemed to be not so much an aberration from his artistic belies or a fancy of what was labelled by Alexander Herzen “champagne socialism”51 as the logical continuation, or expansion, of his previous opinions. The creative process, parallel to the act of storytelling, becomes, in my opinion, an integrating element of his views on life, nature, culture, art, and socialism. It lies between the aesthetic sense of the act of creation and the social implications it involves. It is also the key to comprehending the natural passage from art to politics, allowing the reader to traverse the course of the neo-Marxist socio-cultural theories, including the Birmingham School. The problem we encounter while attempting to apply the aforementioned process to Morris’ holism seems to lie in the apparent fragmentation of his artistic visions and endeavours. Even if we are aware of the fact that they show only a part of a larger universe, we realise that we have access to just some restricted terrenes; yet, this access is limited. The question of fragmentation can be noticed as early as the first collection of Morris’ poetry, The Defence of Guenevere, in which he employs a number of medieval sources ranging from the tales of King Arthur to Froissart’s Chronicles, yet does not offer a clear pattern or method of their presentation or classification. They are not historical/chronological and do not represent a specific generic classification, being an array of styles and conventions. Carole Silver characterises them as: Brief, intense, concentrated distillations of experience, these poems often contain the controversial tone, the idiosyncratic idiom, and the dramatic effect that excite modern readers. They are—or can be made to appear— complex, ambiguous, paradoxical and ironic. (1982, 13)

Morris would therefore select a story or historical account but subsequently focus on just one aspect of a given event, developing it to a large extent independently of the original source. Again, the medieval Romance and its narrative techniques are utilised by him. The mostly anonymous authors who mixed facts with fiction selected tales from 51

The derogatory label of “champagne socialism” was invented in nineteenthcentury Britain for a person who led a comfortable upper-middle-class life but who professed socialist convictions and propagated Marxist postulates. It is believed to have originated in the book by Russian philosopher Alexander Herzen From the Other Shore (1855), in which he spoke of discussing socialism by the well-off over pastry and champagne. Today, this term is often synonymous with hypocrisy and is generally considered offensive. While Morris was not always deemed a champagne socialist in his lifetime, such opinions proliferated in the 1980s art criticism that attempted to discredit his political involvement.

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different epochs and drew no clear line between religious texts, ancient eposes, and their own imagination, and had a decisive influence on Morris’ presentation of not only the medieval but also his own world. As a result, we may get the impression that we are dealing with a work in progress, rather than a coherent and unified vision. Morris did not abandon that mode in his political productions. On the contrary, he emphasised the fragmentation or even causality of his core socialist works. A Dream of John Ball includes a significant additional note: “Reprinted from the Commonweal,” suggesting that the text was produced along with his other socialist writings, chiefly articles, and that it generally belonged to the same category of what could be labelled “ephemeral journalism.” For that reason, the added information should be considered “a pleading admission that the artist’s vision remains an incomplete fragment” (Latham 2010, 198), and that it is yet another work in progress whose completion was not the primary objective of the author. Similarly, the expression “being some chapters from a Utopian Romance” in the title of News from Nowhere implies the incompleteness, fragmentation, or even contingency of the whole text. In both A Dream of John Ball and News from Nowhere, emphasis is placed on the process of writing and the unfolding of events, rather than the finished product. As is the case with the Romance genre, Morris encouraged readers of his dream narratives to share the pleasure in the mere act of their writing/reading, instead of offering a prescription or unified system (see chapter five). The last two examples represent another medieval convention that Morris transposed for his own purpose, namely the Dream Vision, a literary device which reached the peak of its popularity in the Middle Ages and which became as important to him as the Romance for a number of reasons. First, it allowed Morris to transgress the world of reality to that of fantasy without breaking the line of continuity between the possible and impossible. Secondly, he could incorporate political beliefs into his art with greater liberty than in his articles and essays that required a polemical discourse with his contemporaries, who additionally expected alternatives and solutions to specific problems of their day. Ultimately, the Dream Vision is the convention which naturally borders “the neighbouring genres of the uncanny and the marvellous” (Russell 1988, 22), thus fitting the more universal “in-between-ness” of his thought and endeavours. In his turning to the fantastic, Morris managed to locate the impossible in the ontological space without “affirming or violating the laws of nature”52 (Ibid.). 52 In his excerpt Russell refers to Tzvetan Todorov’s definition of the Dream Vision in the publication The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre (1973).

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Notwithstanding, the purpose and function of the Dream Vision for Morris appear to be different from his medieval predecessors. This results from the fact that he abandoned allegorical representations for symbolism, 53 as well as his indifference to predominantly religious explications provided by such authors as William Langland in Piers Plowman (ca. 1360–80), or John Bunyan in The Pilgrim’s Progress (1687).54 Even if the setting of A Dream of John Ball can be considered a token gesture to Langland, whose work was often quoted by John Ball in his sermons, the problems raised and the episteme of Morris’ text remain essentially Victorian. In A Dream of John Ball and News from Nowhere, the narrator articulates the mindset of an educated nineteenth-century person who is just a visitor to the future of England. At first glance we could claim that this visitor is William Morris himself. Yet, after a deeper analysis, the choice of the narrator appears to be not so obvious. Especially in Morris’ utopia (News from Nowhere), but also to an extent in the story about the medieval peasant revolt (A Dream of John Ball), the dreamer does not fully integrate with the characters he meets in his visions. He is either limited to his own somatic experience, which would point at a psychoanalytical insight, or, seemingly more plausible, the author intends to achieve a distance from both the events he partakes in and the whole Dream Vision convention. There are two symptomatic interpositions, albeit of a different kind, that would substantially change the popular reception of the aforesaid texts. In A Dream of John Ball the main storyline is preceded by a short narrative about the earlier dream of the narrator. He describes an awkward situation when he was forced to lecture his socialist audience at a meeting dressed in a nightgown. Only

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Morris avoided allegory and spoke against allegorical interpretations of his works. He was aware of the limits of that device, both to the flow of imagination on the part of the author and the interpretive strategies of the reader. In view of the above, the Dream Vision in the shape employed by Morris is different in its aim and function from the medieval original. By replacing allegory with symbolism Morris emphasised personal rather than universal perceptions, simultaneously foregrounding the subjectivity of his vision. The most comprehensive statements pronounced by Morris against allegory in favour of symbolism can be found in his letter from July 20, 1895, addressed to the editor of the Spectator. 54 Despite the date of publication, The Pilgrim’s Progress is essentially rooted in medieval conventions, evident in the choice of the protagonist—an unnamed character simply called “Everyman.” Bunyan may have referred to the fifteenthcentury morality play Everyman concerning the question of human salvation. Also, Bunyan’s reliance on allegory as the primary mode of conveyance is embedded in the Middle Ages.

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then, during the same sleep, does the other dream begin after the false awakening, which is the story proper.55 Similarly, in News from Nowhere the actual narrator is not William Guest—who bears a strong resemblance to William Morris—who tells the story of future London but an anonymous party member who claims to have heard it from William Guest and now relates the events in the first person, as if he was William Guest himself (see chapter five). In the first example, the seemingly unnecessary intrusion of another dream is parallel to what appears to be a pointless duplication in the second. These two patterns of the narrative frame—to a lesser degree also informing the structure of Morris’ previous works, most notably The Shadows of Amiens, as mentioned—suggest a distance from the convention as well as the impossibility of total assimilation with the characters and events. Surprisingly enough, both the false awakening and the replacement of the narrator in News from Nowhere go unnoticed or are overlooked by the critics, at least in the publications hitherto known to me. These intricate patterns substantially shift the emphasis in the Dream Visions under discussion. As a result, we are forced to re-evaluate the original stance of William Morris, question that convention as a traditional means of conveyance, or even redefine the general message. This would also explain the literal and metaphorical wall that separates John Ball from the narrator during their last meeting, as well as the remark of Ellen—the narrator’s guide in the pastoral paradise of Nowhere—that he cannot reside there on account of his “never-ending contrast between the past and the present”56 (Morris 1998, 222). The visitor to the past and the future is always situated in the present that they are willing to leave, but are incapable of doing so. His official status is that of the guest, yet, as pointed out by Marcus Waithe in William Morris’s Utopia of Strangers, the guest does not integrate with his hosts since he has no gift to offer. His dismal stories about the Victorian age are considered a “harvest of riddles” (Morris 1890, 113) by John Ball, or are mostly ignored by the residents of Nowhere. Waithe aptly notes that he 55

This dream within a dream narrative is characteristic of Romanticism, particularly the tales of the grotesque and macabre of Edgar Allan Poe (1809–49), rather than the Middle Ages. The passage from the uncanny to marvellous is in that respect also the transition from the embarrassing present to the idealised past. 56 Similar conclusions were drawn by David Latham in his article “Between Hell and England: Finding Ourselves in the Present Text.” However, Latham analysed Morris’ Dream Visions from a different perspective, namely Aristotle’s explications concerning the definition and function of the metaphor seen as “the category mistake” and “equation of metaphor with error” (Latham 2010, 195–6).

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mentions the word “stranger” rather than “guest” or “visitor” in the title of his publication, and reminds the reader that the word derives from the Greek hostis, translated as “enemy.” Although welcomed and accepted, the visitor will never become fully integrated with John Ball’s party or Nowhereians due to the fact that he has arrived empty handed. The stranger, namely the persona/narrator, can be viewed as the exemplar of the Victorian syndrome of withdrawal and alienation that stood in opposition to the medieval ideal of hospitality displayed in, for instance, the act of dispensing alms to the poor. Such hospitality, which according to Waithe bridges the gap “between here and there” (2006, xi), is however impossible for a person coming from an age of competition and the “survival of the fittest.” Regardless of his intentions, Morris’ narrator would always stay between “us and them,” “here and there,” the present and the past, or ultimately art and politics. In a word, he would be stretched between two worlds, never fully familiarising with or assimilating either of them. Morris’ perception of the Middle Ages found its application in his visual and functional compositions. Generally, they are less complex than his literary works or socialist essays, but nevertheless contain elements characteristic of the “inborn medievalism” which transpires in his art and thought. By showing three examples of functional and decorative objects produced by Morris alone or in conjunction with other artists,57 I would like to briefly discuss various aspects of his approach to the medieval concepts and motifs. I have deliberately opted for the works that belong to different stages of his life in order to present the wide array of methods and styles employed by Morris. Despite the time of production and different style conventions, all three are essentially rooted in his holistic approach. Respectively, we should not discuss them in terms of the evolution of his medievalism but only as variations on the same theme. The first major opportunity to realise his visions and ideas in a single establishment, simultaneously reflecting the collective approach to art creation by a group of his closest “aficionados” of that time, was the building and designing of Red House (1859). Located in Bexleyheath, currently in southeast London, it was designed by William Morris and Philip Webb in 1859 to celebrate Morris’ marriage to Jane Burden. Primarily influenced by Gothic architecture, the building is also a fusion of styles and conventions inscribed in Ruskin’s eclecticism. It can be also considered as the practical realisation of Morris’ fascination with the 57

Morris’ range of medieval representations is in fact far richer. I have not selected his strictly religious art comprising frescos, murals, and stained glass windows ordered by churches which also included medieval motifs.

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Middle Ages, a vision that acquired its specific shape in architecture. In Gabriel Dante Rossetti’s words from a letter to Charles Eliot Norton, the edifice was “more a poem than a house such as anything else could lead you to conceive, but an admirable place to live in too” (in Marsh 2010, 16). In view of Rossetti’s remark, Morris’ ideal of unity of arts derived from holism is realised here. This “lavishly decorated villa” imitating the “vernacular English cottage” (Zaczek 2002, 9) was characterised by a conscious choice of contrasting colours (red/orange, red/green, red/yellow/ green, yellow/green). It was embellished with pictures, embroideries, and intriguing inscriptions from Morris’ earlier works, some of which have been discovered only recently. 58 Red House can also be read as the manifestation of Morris’ unorthodoxy in his approach to his favourite epoch. Namely, instead of recreating the existing Gothic building, or following the principles of medieval architectural designs, he rather took liberty in his approach to the subject matter. As a result, the medieval spirit is preserved but the entire complex can be considered an embodiment of Morris’ originality. Another example of such an approach is the composition “La Belle Iseult” produced by Morris in 1858 at the time of his engagement to Jane Burden. The work is in many ways unique, even on account of the fact that it is his only oil painting that has survived. “I cannot paint you, but I love you,” Morris is said to have inscribed on the canvas, an open confession of his weakness in drawing the human figure. The picture was executed when Morris remained under the influence of Gabriel Dante Rossetti, “firmly in the Pre-Raphaelite mould” (Zaczek 2002, 16) The literary origins of the picture, as the title suggests, are to be sought in the medieval epos of Tristan and Iseult. In that respect it followed the common practice among the Pre-Raphaelites, who often transposed written texts into their visual representations. The aesthetic concept of what Mario Praz calls the “indissoluble union of the beautiful with the sad” (31) is expressed in the solemn countenance of Iseult. The rich symbolism of the background suggests the medieval character of the painting, namely the representation of the self through displaying visual and decorative motifs instead of the direct characterisation of a person or character. Such a mode of constructing identity is, according to Johann 58

“Qui bien aime tard oublie” (“who loves best last forgets”), the motto from Geoffrey Chaucer’s Parlement of Foulys (Parliament of Birds) written in 1382–3, was the leitmotif of this early embroidery. Morris’ handiwork together with the inscription have been found on the south wall below the murals. Wood panelling for many years covered the decoration “only recently revealed and hitherto unsuspected” (Marsh 2010, 59).

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Hunzinga,59 specific to the genre of the Romance in which the heraldry functions as the vocabulary of the characters’ identity, for instance in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Morris would attach special attention to the visual aspects of the Romance in the last years of his life. The most prominent and ambitious project of this kind was the publishing of Froissart’s Chronicles (ca. 1895) by the Kelmscott Press. One of Morris’ most beloved books, an extensive and slightly coloured account of the Hundred Years’ War, the Chronicles contributed to his more methodological studies of the Middle Ages. The influence of that narrative could be observed in all phases of his life, most notably in the second part of The Defence of Guenevere in which the poetic narratives are loosely based on the events described by Jean Froissart (ca. 1337–ca. 1405). The book remained unfinished due to Morris’ deteriorating health, followed by his death in 1896. By all means, Froissart’s text, alongside the Kelmscott publication of Geoffrey Chaucer’s works, can be deemed the most outstanding example of what Morris would call the “beautiful book.”60 The publications were preceded by Morris’ methodological studies of the medieval manuscripts, followed by the research on early printing technology and typographical styles. He was especially fond of Nicolas Jenson’s (1420–80) pioneering typefaces since they, more than any other, marked the transition from manuscripts to prints. The Troy type invented by Morris and based on Jenson’s designs was also used in the publication of the Chronicles. The “amazingly elaborate borders” (Zaczek 2002, 28), framing the finely printed text, can be considered as a transposition of the medieval ideal to Morris’ own age. The fusion of literature and decorative arts was in line with Morris’ convictions about non-separation in the sphere of art. In addition, while 59 The concept of heraldry as a symbolic representation of the self in the medieval romances was discussed by Johann Hunzinga in Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play in Culture. He, however, analysed it in a different context: the author exposed the “playfulness” of self-representation by showing various symbols on the knights’ shields. I extend his idea into the more universal notion of medieval symbolism as a mode of characterisation and self-identification. 60 The chief objective of the Kelmscott Press was the idea of improving the quality of Victorian print by producing well-designed, high-quality books. In “Some Thoughts on the Ornamented Manuscripts of the Middle Ages,” his unfinished essay from the early 1890s, Morris commented: “If I were asked to say what is at once the most important production of Art and the thing most longed for, I should answer, a beautiful House; and if I were further asked to name the production next in importance and the thing next to be longed for, I should answer, a beautiful Book” (in Bennett 2009, 19).

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commenting on the work of the Kelmscott Chaucer, which coincided with the Chronicles, Edward Burne-Jones pointed out two other aspects of utmost importance to his lifelong friend and companion: the interconnection between functional and decorative arts, “the lesser arts” as Morris labelled them in his essay under the same title (1877), and the “high art” of architecture. Burne-Jones described his labour and expectations in a letter to the American scholar Charles Eliot Norton: “I am beside myself with delight over it. If we live to finish it, it will be like a pocket cathedral” (in Bennett 2009, 21, italics mine). The correspondence between a printed text and an architectural work is significant. It suggests Morris’ belief in the unity of all arts, regardless of the form of communication and the channel of expression. Burne-Jones’ observation also parallels Rossetti’s remark about Red House, namely that the building is “more a poem than a house.” Morris’ enthusiasm that accompanied his work, as well as the fact that the book remained unfinished, illustrates the importance of the very act of making—the process of production which is equally valuable, if not more so, than the finished product. This notion derived from the pleasure obtained from labour formed in the act of storytelling. It has found further application and justification in Morris’ predilection for the genre of the Romance, eventually transposed by him to the social and political sphere. The act of telling/making/becoming can be considered as the expression of the autonomy of the artist who, by enjoying the process of creation, at least in this way, averts the rules of the supply and demand market.

Pre-Raphaelitism The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood (1848–53), often abbreviated to P.R.B., was a short-term artistic enterprise which could be labelled a “jointventure” of young painters and poets working predominantly in early 1850s London. Inspired by the criticism of academic art and conventions presented by Ruskin in Modern Painters, the Brotherhood attempted to restore “the direct and uncomplicated depiction of nature” (Encyclopaedia Britannica) from before the time of Raphael. The movement is often perceived as a reaction against the authority of the Royal Academy, especially its emphasis on historical painting, as well as the transpiring artificiality of the subject matter and techniques. From its foundation in 1848 the Brotherhood aroused a great deal of contradictory opinions and controversy, the often unsubstantiated attacks on its members ultimately contributing to their parting (Mabel 1988, 1). The disparaging remarks frequently expressed in the popular press and early art magazines coincided with separatist tendencies in the movement

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itself, namely the expanding gulf between the realistic themes and motifs of such artists as William Holman Hunt (1827–1910) and John Everett Millais (1829–96) on the one hand, and the idealism of the group headed by Gabriel Dante Rossetti which was drifting towards pure aestheticism on the other. The subversive tendencies of Pre-Raphaelites aimed at the authority of the Royal Academy were in line with the publications of the Art-Journal, which otherwise attacked their art. Their combined efforts contributed to the loss of power of that institution, which, in turn, resulted in the dispersion of authority outwards from the centre. The criticism of academic painting was carried out on different grounds: the Art-Journal propagated progress and the right of the public to self-opinion, whereas the Brotherhood was, in general, at least nominally, past-focused. Those seemingly anti-progressive tendencies, combined with the apotheosis of fourteenth-century Italian and Middle Ages art, turned out to comprise the chief factor in the predominantly negative response to Pre-Raphaelitism from the public and the press. For the same reasons, though, they found one very important defender in John Ruskin. Significantly, the author of Modern Painters praised in his pamphlet “Pre-Raphaelitism” (1851) not so much the medievalism and what appeared to be the belated Romanticism of the Brotherhood, but their direct approach to nature, drawing a parallel between the unorthodox stance of its members and his favourite painter, JWM Turner (1775–1851). Ruskin’s affirmation was soon undermined by a review from The Economist in which the authors, Smith, Elder and Co., claimed that, “it [the pamphlet] is only a defence of Pre-Raphaelitism if Mr Turner be a Pre-Raphaelite” (1851, 994). Further damage was done by the influential article of Charles Dickens who, in a mockingly satirical manner, expressed his aesthetic revulsion to Millais’ depiction of the Holy Family in his picture “Christ at the House of His Parents” (1849–50). Dickens would associate the harsh realism of the painting with perversity of the Victorian age.61 After that publication the Brotherhood became almost stigmatised, and their (dis)reputation was established for many years. The review was also typical of the PreRaphaelites’ criticism for another reason, which was connected with ignorance, lack of distinction, or the purposeful overlooking of two contradictory trends in the movement: realism and idealism. Accordingly, a specific work by an individual artist was automatically classified as the benchmark of the whole movement. Such an indiscriminate approach 61

Charles Dickens’ review “Old Lamps for New Ones” appeared in Household Words on June 15, 1855 (12–14).

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could result from the fact that, as Elizabeth Prettejohn explains, “In the Victorian press, the quality ‘Pre-Raphaelite’ could be an attribute of the artist’s identity, rather than a characteristic of their work” (2007, 110). Yet another reason was typical for the British culture predisposition in seeing a group of people as united by a common cause and similarity of character, in the mould of a club or a society, rather than shared technique and skills, as is the case with professional organisations. Ultimately, the absence of a proper manifesto, along with different artistic directions chosen by individual members in the subsequent years and complicated personal relations—most notably the suicide of the principal Pre-Raphaelite muse Elizabeth Siddal, led to the further marginalisation of the movement by critics and the Pre-Raphaelites alike. The medieval character of the Brotherhood, combined with their idealisation of the transitory period between the Gothic and the early modern, especially the High Renaissance period, resulted in a somewhat one-sided reception of their paintings in the Victorian age. Their rejection of almost all schools of academic painting emerged after Raphael led the critics to label their works “primitive,” a trend that dominated throughout the nineteenth century (Prettejohn 2007, 18) That meaning of “primitivism.” however, diverged from the one we nowadays associate with the simplicity of painting techniques in Henri Rousseau (1844–1910) or Nikifor Krynicki (1895–1968). Neither was it the “primitivism” of Paul Gauguin’s (1848–1903) pictures from his Tahitian period. 62 The main difference between Pre-Raphaelites and Gauguin on the one hand, and the “natural primitivism” of Rousseau on the other, concerned the level of self-awareness. In case of the former, it was “conscious primitivism,” namely both the members of the Brotherhood and the author of “The Seed of the Areoi” (1892) turned to that mode of artistic expression on purpose, simultaneously questioning the standards of their epoch and culture. Furthermore, such a label was attached to the Pre-Raphaelites by their critics rather than adopted by them. “Throughout the nineteenth century, the Italian and Northern European art of this early period was designated ‘primitive’ in contrast to the supposedly mature art of Raphael and subsequent generations, after 1500,” observes Elizabeth Prettejohn in The Art of the Pre-Raphaelites (2007, 18). At the same time, the communal character of the Brotherhood, their insistence on collaboration, and a “strong sense of group identity” (Ibid.), as well the revolutionary theses in their postulates, placed the Pre-Raphaelites in the modernist tradition as 62 To avoid confusion, the art of Rousseau and Nikifor is sometimes labelled “naïve,” whereas Gauguin’s primitivism is “non-Western.”

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the first English avant-garde group. A shift in emphasis can therefore be observed from the belatedly Romantic, primitive, and anti-progressive in their own era to the essentially modern/modernist in the contemporary studies, including market criticism.63 In all likelihood, William Morris would not agree on either of these labels. To him, the pre-modern art was by no means primitive, but he also held negative opinions on the notion of avant-garde. 64 From today’s perspective, the influence of Pre-Raphaelitism on Morris is to some extent controversial, further obscured by the fact that he believed that the Brotherhood was “a thing of the past” after his conversion to socialism. That opinion was articulated by him in a rather formal and impromptu address of 1888, delivered for the exhibition of Pre-Raphaelite paintings at the Municipal Art Gallery in Birmingham. What is more significant, though, is the fact that he never was, at least formally, a member of the Brotherhood. When he began to associate with that movement in 1857 it had been officially idle for at least four years.65 Also, outside of the appeal of medievalism extolled by the PreRaphaelites, which corresponded with Morris’ own, the primary motivation for his espousal of their creed was of a personal rather than doctrinal character. Namely, at that time Morris displayed truly unconditional admiration for Rossetti, which almost defied common sense. To BurneJones’ remark that his designs produced in accord with the models and principles of the most Italian of the Victorian artists surpassed Rossetti’s originals, Morris responded: “I have gone beyond that: I want to imitate Gabriel as much as I can” (in Mackail 1995 I, 111). Likewise, his withdrawal from Rossetti’s circle was caused by private matters connected with the infatuation between Morris’ former mentor and his wife Jane, rather than a change in dogmas or a different course of his artistic enterprises.

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It is sufficient to mention the recent reviews of the Pre-Raphaelite art exhibition at Tate Gallery in such quality papers as the Independent (August 26, 2012), the Guardian (April 16, 2012) and the Telegraph (September 10, 2012). In all the articles the focus is on the Pre-Raphaelites’ avant-garde character and modernism instead of the reactionary tendencies which dominated the Victorian press criticism. 64 Morris expressed a disapproval of new modes of expression, including avantgarde, in his essay “Where Are We Now?” (1890), published in Commonweal, November 15, 1890. 65 The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood officially disbanded in 1853, although the cooperation between its members had actually ended at least one year earlier.

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Despite the subsequent critical remarks about Pre-Raphaelitism expressed by Morris, the movement had a long-lasting impact on his work. This could be seen on many levels, starting from the methodological approach to art and ending at more practical endeavours, i.e. the foundation of the Arts and Crafts Movement, or his view on political engagement. As to the latter point, one of the most obvious manifestations of his Pre-Raphaelite ideals was his perception of political action in quasireligious terms, as the “cause” and the mission of “making socialists.” This may have derived from the monastic character of the Brotherhood modelled on religious orders whose equivalent was a community of artists, as well as their view of art as a sacred domain, tantamount to the intensity of religious faith. Evident mutual ties among the members of the Brotherhood, along with the reciprocity of their work, according to Elizabeth Prettejohn resulted in “a strong sense of shared purpose that galvanized their work into something more important than efforts of a few individuals” (2007, 101). Ultimately, their dedication to the life of art and the importance they attached to beauty were the directives for Morris, transplanted by him onto the political field. The more complex notion developed by Morris on the basis of PreRaphaelitism was his methodological approach to creative work, i.e. his view of arts and crafts, which derived from the principle of what Rossetti called ”fundamental brainwork” (in Latham 2010, 195). Morris’ conviction that all work “requires a disciplined foundation of scholarship” (Ibid.) found its reflection in the versatility and diversity of his productions. For instance, in order to design a wallpaper Morris carried out extensive research on ancient dyes. Likewise, before establishing the Kelmscott Press he studied the history of ink, or, in a similar vein, for the purpose of designing and manufacturing carpets and tapestries he acquainted himself with all available techniques including those of Persia, India, and the Orient, some of which had been long forgotten. Only when he felt that he was sufficiently prepared for a new task would Morris commence a specific labour process. Such a combination of theory and practice enabled him to produce high quality artefacts in a large number of fields, especially in functional and decorative arts in which he could not afford to risk his reputation as the leading manufacturer of his era. As a by-product, Morris was capable of showing the practical application of his theory of non-separation in the arts, as well as denying the popular distinction of professionals and amateurs, in which the former were believed to specialise in only one narrow area. Having thus established the foundations of his creative work, Morris was capable of utilising

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corresponding methods as well as applying analogous strategies in his political endeavours.66 Pre-Raphaelitism was for many years considered the most literary of any school of painting that had ever existed in Western art. Such an opinion derived from frequent evocations of literary motifs and themes by the aesthetic wing of the Brotherhood, along with the fact that its leader— Rossetti—was an accomplished poet himself. On these grounds, Stephen Spender concluded that “the inspiration of Pre-Raphaelitism was verbal, literary, poetic, rather than of painting” (in Prettejohn 2007, 135). This well-established opinion is however contested by Elizabeth Prettejohn, who challenges it by asking a simple question: If Pre-Raphaelitism is essentially literary rather than visual, then how is it that we recognize a painting or drawing as “Pre-Raphaelite” as soon as we see it, and ordinarily before we have thoroughly grasped its subject matter? (Ibid.)

In the subsequent explications she argues that the power of PreRaphaelitism lies in its visual effects, not in literary transpositions. The correspondence between literature and painting as sister arts is therefore only superficial, giving an appearance of Horace’s (65 BC–8 BC) statement from his treatise Ars Poetica (18 BC), i.e. ut pictura poesis,67 or rather its reversal: ut poesis pictura, but in fact being of a different nature. PreRaphaelites seemed to realise that both forms of artistic expression require independent methods and techniques. Literature-inspired subject matter could be superimposed on the visual structure, rather than vice versa. Furthermore, by focusing on detail, often giving the impression that it is “more real than reality” or “larger than life,” the parallel should be sought 66 For instance, Morris expressed similar opinions in “The Lesser Arts of Life” (1882) and “Useful Work Versus Useless Toil” (1884). 67 The analogy between poetry and painting, being of essence in the eighteenth century, was already considered anachronistic in the Victorian age. It seemed to have definitely ended with Ruskin’s publication of the third volume of Modern Painters (1856). In that work he claimed that “painting is properly to be opposed to speaking or writing” (5.31), and not, however, to poetry. In the text under discussion he conceives of poetry as a special kind of sensitivity, rather than a specific form. In other words, writing (literature, including poetry as a form) and painting are different methods of expression which stand in opposition to each other, but share the same level of imaginative agency. Superficially, Ruskin’s remark could appear ambiguous, i.e. painting is like poetry and, simultaneously, is contrasted with writing. This may also be one of the reasons for the subsequent confusion about the apparent literariness of the school of Pre-Raphaelitism.

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in the newly emerged genre of fine art photography, which was stylised on the art of painting. 68 If we accept such a view, i.e. painting and photography’s reciprocity, the art of Pre-Raphaelites should be considered as an essentially modern phenomenon instead of a reactionary school whose interest lay in the painting techniques of the late Middle Ages or the first phase of the Italian early modern. Like most other Victorian movements, including medievalism, their general approach was primarily synchronic, possessing only some diachronic elements on the level of the signifier, rather than the signified. Similar criteria could be applied to William Morris’ decorative works, which even if fashioned along the medieval or oriental patterns were steeped in the present, not the historical past. In other words, it is sufficient to take only a cursory look at his canvases or tapestries to unmistakably locate them in the Victorian age. The synchronism of the Pre-Raphaelites enabled Morris to deploy a whole gamut of images and inspirations in a single work, simultaneously remaining faithful to the original subject matter while treating it with liberty and subjugating it to his own vision. By doing so, he could also combine artistic motifs with nature, thus fusing what were to him the second and first order constituents of his worldview (i.e. nature followed by art). Yet, both had to be arranged to fit the character of the design. This hierarchy, namely that the specific design governs both natural elements and artistic motifs, contradicted Morris’ perception of the outside world in terms of mimetic representation or verisimilitude. May Morris recalls the warning given to her by her father in the following words: “no 68 The correspondence between Pre-Raphaelitism and photography was spotted by Stephen Spender in his study “The Pre-Raphaelite Literary Painters” (New Writing and Daylight, vol. 6, 1945, 126). His view of photography as a non-aesthetic and mechanical recording of realty led him to formulate similar opinions about P. R. B. Namely, in their almost unnatural exposition of detail Spender saw nothing more than “literal copying” (Prettejohn 2007, 135). Despite that opinion, as Prettejohn comments, the recent studies on photography seem to deny its perception as mechanistic or reproductive, and thus non-aesthetic. “The technical processes of photography were developed precisely in order to convey a “distinctive mode of vision” (Ibid., 136). In view of this statement, the early photographic records can be considered an implementation or alternative to the already existing ways of aesthetic conveyance, while what is today known as “photojournalism” appeared later. Photography was thereby first and foremost a form of art that developed its own aesthetic, which was subsequently utilised by Pre-Raphaelites. According to Prettejohn: “The parallel between Pre-Raphaelite art and photography holds because they share a distinctive approach to vision, not because they lack one” (136).

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attempt should be made to faithfully copy on paper a branch of roses, for instance; such a drawing is a study and not a design” (1892, 47). Hence, to Morris a work of art possessed its own internal rules applied to specific elements of a composition. In that sense, we can speak of the “autonomy of a work of art,” which is akin to the more universal notion of “relative autonomy” discussed by Marx in Grundrisse (1858), albeit from the social and historical perspective that characterises art in general. At this point, the works of Pre-Raphaelites and Morris’ designs which render the impression of being independent of external conditioning can be analysed in the social context. This can be best shown through the example of two tapestries dating to the transitory period between art-focused endeavours and his growing social awareness that would lead him to the political arena. “Strawberry Thief,” a design from 1885, features a combination of nature and mythology which belonged to “Morris’s favourite themes” (Zaczek 2002, 188). It is his rendition of a story from Ovid’s (43 BC–AD 17/18) Metamorphoses about King Picus who was transformed into a woodpecker after rejecting Circe’s love. When he realises the cruelty of fate imposed on him by the hurt sorceress, he angrily attacks trees with his beak, in this way showing his frustration. The inscription says: “once a king [and now] the tree bark’s thief.” The tapestry is a good example of Morris’ approach to pattern designing, which was formed on the basis of Pre-Raphaelitism. The aim should be to combine clearness of form and firmness of structure with the mystery which comes in abundance and richness of detail. Do not introduce any lines or objects which cannot be explained by the structure of the pattern. (in Lindsay 1991, 129, italics mine)

The statement above clearly indicates that for Morris it was the internal structure of a design which governed all other elements. As mentioned, his objective was not the verisimilitude of nature, even if particular elements were realistic,69 but only the symmetry and the harmony of a composition. This approach, which was also central to the art of the Brotherhood, locates Morris in essentially modern art movements. A work of art is self69 In fact, Morris conducted extensive research in botany for this pattern. Respectively, he could respond to the Victorian interest in combining botany (science) with poetry (aesthetics), although earlier displayed by less-known artists. Despite the fact that it was not Morris’ primary objective, his work can be inscribed in a “general trend in the period [Victorian age] towards a more scientific approach to botany while firmly fixed within the context of the Victorian romance of nature” (Judith Johnston 1998, 31)

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contained, self-referential, and independent of external conditioning. The mythological motif is only a pretext, rather than the basis of the design; namely, even without being acquainted with Ovid’s story, the viewer’s aesthetic reception of the imagery would remain unaffected. At the same time, such an arrangement of floral and faunal elements could not exist in one place in nature. Thus, we assume that the images Morris conjures up—the tree in the wood, the acanthus leaves, and the bird—can only be found in such a configuration in this specific design. Also, Morris’ insistence on the importance of detail (in this tapestry the leaves of honeysuckle and the acanthus leaves) derived from the Pre-Raphaelite emphasis on foregrounding a small fragment of a general composition is the key to the perception of a whole picture. Exposition of detail had yet another function in both Morris’ designs and the Pre-Raphaelite pictures. It enabled them to give art a symbolic significance, manifested in the intensity of particulars, which determined the overall reception of a specific visual arrangement. According to Carole Silver, “selecting and intensifying detail so that it became symbolic, Morris strove to see reality from changed perceptions” (1982, xii). Symbolic rather than realistic representations lay at the heart of Morris’ approach to art and nature, informing his pictorial and literary works. This concept appears to be Platonic in nature, although it is arguable whether Morris adopted it directly from the Greek philosopher, from Carlyle’s Transcendentalist writings, or rather straight from the Pre-Raphaelites. Morris formulated his opinion about the importance of symbol: “You may be sure that any decoration is futile, and has fallen into at least the first stage of degradation, when it does not remind you of something beyond itself, of something of which it is but a visible symbol” (in Lindsay 1991, 128). The viewer may spot a parallel between the symbolic representation shown by a specific selection of details and Morris’ favourite genre of the Romance. This interconnection is especially discernible in the late medieval romance of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. In that story, each character is defined through the exposition of some symbolic item which is part of their attire or looks, e.g. the green suit of armour of the titular knight, or the pentangle on Sir Gawain’s coat of arms. Ultimately, Morris’ interest in mythology can be explained in terms of symbolic representations of nature contextualised and developed in the corresponding narratives. The second tapestry, “The Adoration of the Magi” (1886), was considered by Morris “the most important thing [he has] ever done” (in Zaczek 2002, 208), and is also the one in which Pre-Raphaelite influences are the most direct and discernible. Despite the biblical theme, the entire

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composition is set in England and “there is no attempt to create an eastern atmosphere.” The town of Bethlehem is “relocated to the edge of a very English wood” (Zaczek 2002, 208), and Joseph is shown simply as a woodcutter, having been deprived of the conventional associations with his primary role of Jesus’ father (cf. Millais’ “Christ in the House of His Parents”). Particular elements of the design were executed by different artists: the figures by Burne-Jones, the flowers by John Henry Dearle (1860–1932), and the rest of the decoration by Morris. Such a group project was characteristic of the communal character of the Brotherhood, in which many painters were permitted to contribute, even if the general vision remained that of a single artist. Respectively, the emphasis was placed on the work alone instead of its author, which stood in line with the ideals of the Middle Ages.

William Morris’ Approach to the Aesthetic Movement The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, in particular its Rossettian wing, was a part of the larger movement known as Victorian Aestheticism which emerged in the 1850s on the basis of French symbolism. Even if the peak of its popularity occurred in the closing phases of Queen Victoria’s reign, while the specific shape was acquired after the publication of Walter Pater’s (1839–94) collection of seminal essays The Renaissance: Studies in Art and Poetry (1873), broadly conceived aestheticism informed the thought of Rossetti and Burne-Jones, both of whom were Morris’ close associates. In general, it advocated the intrinsic values of art and its autonomy, as opposed to the moral and didactic aims of art, as well as its dependence on social and economic relations. Subsequently, those postulates became the foundation of the doctrine of “Art for art’s sake,” which Walter Benjamin labelled in his essay “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” (1936, 220) the “theology of art.” With time, Aestheticism lost its English character and turned to the more popular versions of the movement imported from the Continent. It began to be associated with such notions and attitudes as decadence and fin de siecle, along with the conviction that life should imitate art, rather than vice versa.70 Those latter-day subversive tendencies found their epitome in Oscar Wilde (1854–1900), who ultimately attempted to practically apply the principles of the unrestrained freedom of the artist. The author of The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890) was also the chief perpetrator behind 70 This anti-mimetic concept was explicated by Oscar Wilde in his essay “The Decay of Lying” (1889).

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spreading aestheticism in wider social circles, transforming an art movement into a cultural phenomenon first, and ultimately a fashion. In the era of the “apostle of aestheticism” (Pierce 1989, 241), as Wilde used to be known, Morris was already engaged in socialism, so he remained detached from that new dimension of the Aesthetic Movement. Formerly, he was prescribed to the older version of aestheticism which, in principal, differed from the conscious choice of decadence as the style of life extolled by Wilde and his adherents. The emphasis was placed on beauty as the highest standard of world perception. The aesthetic notion of the beautiful subjugated other values and elements, as well as corresponding them to notions of refinement, elegance of expression, and the autonomy of the artist, who was considered the chief proponent and exponent of such an attitude. That phase was characterised by the absence of a concrete framework comprised of philosophical and contextual dogmas that would come to prominence after Pater’s publications, followed by the introduction of “Art for art’s sake.” Furthermore, at first glance it appeared to be relatively free of any external conditioning, even if the roots were to be traced back to the Romantic tradition: the writings of Theophile Gautier (1811–72) or the postulates of art’s autonomy proposed by Edgar Allan Poe in his critical essays “The Philosophy of Composition” (1846) and “The Poetic Principle” (1850). The above-presented short evaluation is only cursory, at best explaining the concrete shape of the Aesthetic Movement in the Victorian age, but ignoring its nature and character. M. H. Abrams seeks its origins in the late eighteenth-century tradition, particularly Immanuel Kant’s philosophy. He claims that in the closing phase of the Age of Reason “some critics were undertaking to explore the concept of a poem as a heterocosm, a world of its own, independent of the world into which we are born, whose end is not to instruct or please but simply to exist” (Abrams 1953, 27). According to Abrams, Aestheticism was the product of the Enlightenment, a natural consequence of universalism, fraternity, and mutual bonds between all members of society, i.e. the social character of art, which became transparent in that epoch. In view of his observations, the origins of the movement should be searched for in the exact opposition of what it represented, namely in the social context of the Enlightenment aesthetic rather than the cult of individuality prominent in Romanticism. Of a similar opinion is Terry Eagleton in The Ideology of the Aesthetic (1990) who, from the Marxist perspective, investigates the nature of Victorian Aestheticism, inferring that it was imposed on the artists by the middle class, rather than being a conscious choice of their own. Like Abrams, he points to the Enlightenment as the birthplace of the

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movement, showing the analogy between art’s detachment from the social sphere and the emergence of the bourgeoisie. Again, the paradox is evident here. The school of thought that rejected any external references showed that art as a self-contained entity, independent of social conditioning and abstaining from moral or didactic messages, was a response to the requirements of the same society it claimed to have ignored. The Victorian version of Aestheticism, with an emphasis on melancholy, fantasy, and escapism as well as an apparent hermetic confinement, therefore appears to be the natural outcome of the dominant role of the middle class and the principles of laissez faire philosophy. In reality, it meant the further marginalisation of art, or even its degradation, rather than elevation, as the aesthetes were prone to believe (see chapter three). As a result, the initial symptoms of the phenomenon which indicated art’s only apparent autonomy could be observed in the Victorian age. First, art was reduced to an “isolated enclave” (Eagleton 1990, 368), then conceptualised in the “Art for art’s sake” theory, and ultimately acquired the characteristics of a commodity, thus becoming divorced from its social character, staying compliant with the market economy. 71 In consequence, it was belittled, in contrast to the original aesthetes’ efforts and intentions. In the process of that marginalisation, the role of art had also changed. It was no longer perceived as an agency in social reconstruction but as an escape from the problems of everyday life for the dominant class. Analogously, its function of moving from visionary to decorative if made with a functional aim began to be considered a form of amusement. Ultimately, it became unresponsive to social problems, leading to its “independent” existence on the margins of civil society. The pattern of art’s growing isolation was created from the outside, rather than from within. It could explain not only the mechanisms of Aestheticism but also the reactionary tendencies among artists, alongside the generally pastfocused direction of Victorian trends and concepts, most notably medievalism and the popularity of Merrie England. Morris could have been aware of the contradictory character of Aestheticism, namely its emphasis on art’s isolation from social issues generated by society itself. Unlike other aesthetes, and despite their

71

Eagleton explains the transition of art from the socio-cultural sphere to the world of free market economy in the following words: “When art becomes a commodity, it is released from its traditional social functions within church, court and state into the autonomous freedom of the market place” (1990, 368).

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praise,72 he realised that it could not be a reaction against the “ugly age,” but was inscribed in that age as its product and consequence. The main reason that he nevertheless resigned himself to the aesthetic principles was the sense of helplessness to reverse the course of civilisation: I can’t enter into politico-social subject with any interest for on the whole I see things are in the muddle, and I have no power or vocation to set them right in every so little degree. My work is the embodiment of dreams in one form or another. (Morris 1988 I, 28)

This articulation of disillusionment and resignation clearly indicates that he was far from cherishing the role of the artist living solely in and for their creation. The “embodiment of dreams” was to become his long escapist poem Earthly Paradise, in which he described himself as being “the idle singer of an empty day” (1890, 1). Morris’ dissatisfaction is apparent here, expressed in the form of an implied complaint. Reginald Beckett rightly observed that “without a sane ideal of beneficent activity, the singer would not have complained of his idleness, nor that his day is empty” (Beckett 1896, 170). Morris’ subsequent activity could be characterised as an attempt to “escape from escapism” as embodied in the Aesthetic Movement. The natural consequence of the need to reconnect art to society was his germinating interest in political action preceded by various social enterprises, which will be the subject of the following chapter.

72

Morris was valued highly by most of the aesthetes who perceived him as “one of them.” His poetry was positively reviewed by Walter Pater in “The Poems of William Morris” (1868). Algernon Charles Swinburne made numerous references to Morris’ Aestheticism in his correspondence. In addition, he reviewed Morris’ poem “Life and Death of Jason” and his romance The Well at the World’s End. It is significant that, to Swinburne, Morris was undistinguished from Burne-Jones whose viewpoint was far closer to pure aestheticism. The evidence for that is the volume of his correspondence from 1898 dedicated to both Morris and BurneJones.

CHAPTER TWO POLITICS

William Morris’ Exposure to Victorian Political Philosophies and Ideologies Due to the extensive coverage of politics in the Victorian era which can be found in both primary and secondary sources, I have decided to discuss only the most popular concepts. The first section will be devoted to the leading philosophies/doctrines of Liberalism and Conservatism, including the fundamental differences as well as the less conspicuous but still discernible similarities between them. These analogies were reflected not so much in the ideological points as in the political praxis carried out in the specific environs of the age. Furthermore, since the theoretical bases were not always identical with the agenda of the Liberal and Conservative Parties, the social signification and the corresponding class alliances appeared to be embedded in sentiment rather than the concrete tenets of the doctrines in question. As a result, the voters’ affiliations were characterised by the high level of volatility, which found reflection in frequent changes of the cabinets. Simultaneously, one could notice a growing importance of ideology becoming a necessary, even if it was alien to the British tradition of being a unifying element of social relations. The direct consequence of the ideological conditioning was the emergence of new forms of nationalism: a British version of the American concept of Manifest Destiny as well as an extreme form of patriotism, i.e. jingoism. Those tendencies and phenomena obviously had an impact on Morris. Nevertheless, their extent is debatable since his responses, both positive and negative, at first appeared chiefly intuitive. In other words, due to the lack of specialised terminology, the influences of Ruskin and Carlyle, and the long period of political inactivity it is difficult to establish the level of his political and social awareness before he joined the socialist movement. For instance, his natural interest in the role and origins of the Anglo-Saxon race, which he seemed to hold in high esteem, was countered by the disparaging remarks about the times he lived in expressed by the Victorian

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sages. Consequently, Morris would seek the alternative models in history, discovering them in the broader and more general code of values pertaining to all Germanic peoples and nations, rather than the specific tribes of Angles and Saxons. The embodiment as well as the purest form of enactment of those qualities could be found in medieval Iceland; respectively, his work on the Norse Sagas contributed to the more systematic observations of his own age (see chapter three). The second part will be divided into two distinct subsections based on Morris’ definition of politics. Namely, the first will be devoted to the political movements focused on the under-represented working class, while the second will focus on the social endeavours which possessed an implicit political message. They were either undertook by Morris alone (the Firm, the Society for Protection of Ancient Buildings) or directly inspired by him (the Arts and Crafts Movement). In addition, I will also include the Gothic Revival—the leading movement of Victorian architecture that possessed a social, artistic, and religious character. Despite the fact that Morris’ attitude to it was at first ambivalent, and subsequently overtly critical, it is impossible to omit it given the importance attached to the “master art of architecture” as well as his frequent commentaries on the Victorian Gothic from both the historical perspective and his contemporary beliefs. In the first section, special emphasis will be placed on the pre-socialist and proto-socialist conceptions in Britain, either labelled “utopian” by Marx or excluded from the socialist canon. I will attempt to demonstrate that Chartism and Owenism derived from the uniquely British tradition shaped by the economic circumstances of the Industrial Revolution (1760– 1840) and its aftermath. “Practical socialism” in Britain, which was a response to the specific problems faced by the working class, stood in contrast to the Continental versions of socialism that followed more theoretical and philosophical doctrines originating in the Enlightenment. In comparison to the previous part, more space will be reserved for Morris’ commentary. Even if his attitude towards Chartism could be described as ambivalent and the enthusiasm about Owenism somewhat tempered by his adherence to the Marxist orthodoxy, both movements exerted influence on his perception of socialism as well as his methods and tactics of political agitation. Additionally, I will briefly discuss trade unionism, even if the enterprise could be labelled “pro-working class” rather than socialist per se. An inclusion of trade unionism appears indispensable for the proper comprehension of the workers’ position in the social structure of nineteenth-century Britain and, likewise, Morris’ attempts to infiltrate it. The last fragments will concern the Fabian Society

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—an organisation which should have been closest to Morris’ social background and his previous beliefs. Despite some superficial analogies, Morris rejected Fabianism due to doctrinal differences and his disagreement about the methods of political action. A study of the interpenetration of Marxism and Morris’ beliefs requires more comprehensive research approaches and strategies, particularly with regard to the correlation between aesthetics and ethics reflected in the specific political programme. This issue will be more comprehensively explained further, yet only in conjunction with the specific beliefs and postulates proposed by Morris. For different reasons, I have opted for a rather cursory treatment of anarchism—the movement which Morris was, against his will, often associated with. The problem appears too complex for a short summary, and thus will only be highlighted in the subsequent parts (see chapter five). Morris’ competence with regards to those movements appears to be determined by the level of his political involvement. For a long time he seemed to be hardly aware of their existence, since during his “aesthetic years” he officially declared that politics was of no interest to him, even though he was loosely affiliated with the Liberal Party. When he eventually decided to provide a commentary on the political scene, he did so from the position of an active socialist. Thus, his opinions on the leading currents and philosophies of his age, i.e. the already mentioned Liberalism and Conservatism, were principally negative. It goes without saying that they, at least to a certain extent, were expressed out of duty and ex cathedra. Furthermore, apart from the general criticism of the Victorian age— this influenced by Ruskin and Carlyle—we have no insight into his previous attitudes towards the specific programmes of the most-important parties. Eventually, Morris’ writings on some of the pre- and protosocialist movements are “second hand.” Due to the fact that Owenism and Chartism had been things of the past, he discussed them from a historical perspective. Respectively, we can speak of the commentary twice removed: first, Morris’ socialism was already defined by his readings of Marx, and second, the subject he dealt with was no longer the current issue. Otherwise, it seems that Morris was deeply influenced by the idea of the cooperative communities of Robert Owen, which he in fact gave credit to in his socialist lectures, even if that praise was subdued by his loyalty to Marx who indiscriminately labelled earlier socialist movements “utopian.” It is more than likely, though, at least judging from Cormell Price’s anecdotic report about the beginnings of Morris’ socialist engagement (see

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chapter three), that while reading Capital Morris also acquainted himself with the postulates of Owenism. As a result, the Morris scholarship in this area, however extensive, seems to lack a comprehensive study as well as a systematic approach. The critics select a wide range of pre-socialist doctrines and movements, seeking the corresponding elements in the texts by Morris—some of which he discussed himself, while others are only associated with or attributed to him. This somewhat confusing state in turn led to many contradictory opinions about the true nature of Morris’ socialism. For instance, in one approach presented by Ian Birchall in his article “Morris, Bax and Babeuf” (1996), Morris is shown as a direct continuator of some of the radical social ideals of the French Revolution, whose importance Morris, to do it justice, acknowledged. By contrast, most of the research materials concentrated on drawing a parallel between Morris’ socialism and various socialist contexts. Yet another factor was the selective approach to socialism displayed by Morris. In the case of such thinkers as Henri de Saint-Simon (1760–1825) and Charles Fourier (1772–1837), he voiced his opinion directly in a series of articles called “Socialism from the Root Up” (see chapter three), but he rarely discussed other contemporary schools, particularly those from Eastern Europe and, apart from Marxism, Germany. The subsequent confusion seems to derive from the lack of a systematic political theory created by Morris. On the one hand, such a state contributes to the universalism and open-endedness of his thought, while on the other it fails in the minutia and specifications. In consequence, there is no comprehensive publication, at least known to me, which summarises Morris’ specific response to the political thought of his times. Even the standard political biography of Morris by E. P. Thompson, Romantic to Revolutionary, despite attempting to locate Morris in the broader context of British socialism—particularly in the revised version from 1976—is still written from the perspective of Morris-the-socialist. Yet, Thompson provides relatively scarce coverage of his epigone as the observer of the political scene of the Victorian era or the commentator of particular doctrines and movements. The in-depth analysis of the interactions and influences between Morris and the political thought gathered in one study seems to be still incomplete, although it is possible to retrace it through a number of articles, especially those published by the William Morris Society. Judging from the general direction of the current research, which exposes the open-endedness of Morris’ beliefs, his holism, as well as his contribution to the contemporary movements like ecosocialism, a compendium of Morris’ commentaries on the political

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situation of his times along with the prominent political doctrines appears even further from being realised than it was in the 1960s and 1970s. Here, I only aim at a partial implementation of the abovementioned deficiency in the overall presentation of Morris’ political oeuvre. My intention is to provide a background/introduction to the specific problems raised in the second part. Respectively, I discuss the most important political movements and doctrines of the Victorian age provided with Morris’ commentary, mainly from the period of his socialist agitation. Since I do not strictly follow the directives of political science, nor attempt to carry out an in-depth analysis of Morris in relation to the specifically political episteme of the Victorian age (this would require another title, political science approaches, and a different methodology), my objective is to present just an outline of the Victorian map of politics and social politics as perceived by Morris. By no means should one attempt to seek in it a detailed study of Victorian politics on a large scale. Ultimately, due to Morris’ understanding of the political as synonymous with the social, in conjunction with the cultural sphere, I have also included some information on the movements and societies Morris either belonged to or cooperated with, even though their character was of a social and cultural mien rather than what is conventionally labelled “political.”

Political Theory and Ideological Frameworks Discussing major political theories and movements of the Victorian age, I attempt to show that the dominant political culture of that period derived from or was mainly influenced by the theories of Conservatism and Liberalism—a fact reflected in the voting sympathies of the Victorians. In addition, locating the dominant movements in the ideological frameworks, I try to demonstrate that such phenomena as the emergence of racial and racist theories were directly interrelated with the postulates of those principally neutral and objective philosophies.

Liberalism and Conservatism The political situation in the Victorian age1 was to an extent influenced by three movements formed in the Enlightenment, but which found broader 1

Politics in the Victorian age was in close conjunction with the fast pace of scientific development in the aftermath of the Industrial Revolution (1760–1840), followed by an unprecedented increase in trade. Most of the Acts of Parliament, Reform Bills, as well as political organisations including the Trade Unions could

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practical application only after the middle class took the helm. Social reforms resulting from the introduction of new legislative acts were essentially rooted in the philosophy of Liberalism (Wohl), protecting the freedom of the individual. The subsequent changes enabled a large group of people, not formerly participating in the political life, to vote or sit in parliament. Paradoxically, the universal suffrage tendencies were countered by the corresponding laissez faire philosophy established by Adam Smith (1723–90) in The Wealth of Nations (1776) reflected and utilised in the free market economy which limited that access to the relatively narrow group of the well off. Voting rights for women became an issue, yet they were curbed by many factors including cultural gender biases. The omnipresent cult of masculinity (Sussman 1992, 370), reinforced by the dominant position of Britain overseas, led to the idealised perception of the woman as the “angel in the house” (Rose 2004). Respectively, those females who did not meet the standards were either purposefully ignored or accepted as a “necessary evil.” They included prostitutes (Adams 1997, 33) and, to a degree, factory workers. Some were sent to an asylum if they displayed a be considered a response to the ubiquitous industrialisation based on new inventions in science. As a result, one could observe a tendency towards centralisation in formerly dispersed fields and vesting authority and control in the government at the cost of local councils and individual philanthropists. Some areas crucial for Britain’s integrity, such as railways, became nationalised, others, i.e. the steel industry, health, and education, were subjugated to state regulations. At the same time, the distribution of wealth among a larger than ever group of citizens resulted in the democratisation of society, and wider access to the institutions formerly reserved for nobility such as the civil service and particularly higher education. In foreign affairs, politicians were focused on the colonial expansion of the British Empire, if possible relying on diplomatic solutions, thus trying to avoid international conflicts. With the one exception of the Crimean War (1854–6), Great Britain managed to avoid military confrontations for over 60 years, i.e. from the Battle of Waterloo (1815) to the First Boer War (1880–1). The government intervention was in some respects positive in maintaining equilibrium in social relations, even if the ongoing processes pointed to more radical disruptive forces within the very fabric of British society. Despite threats of a revolution and fears of violence from the poorer strata, unlike in Continental Europe they never materialised (Dennis and Skilton 1987, 20–1). The price was, however, paid in other spheres, leading to growing reactionary attitudes especially discernible among the middle class. Their manifestation were the anti-progressive theories of Ruskin and Carlyle, a negative approach to the present course of civilisation displayed by Morris, and the general past-directed tendency of middle-class members. That attitude was reflected in the various imitations of historical objects d’art or decorative forms, such as furniture.

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behaviour which could be considered as deviating from the norm (Wallace 2012). Common causes included epilepsy, suicide tendencies, and anxiety, often diagnosed as the symptoms of “female hysteria” (Briggs 2000, 246). The repression of women in the political sphere, despite the gender of the sovereign—who in fact enhanced that state—was one of the constituents of another philosophical movement, which in some respects could be viewed as a reaction to Liberalism, but which advocated even more against social changes and revolutionary tendencies, i.e. Victorian Conservatism. Yet, if Liberalism was essentially embedded in economy and the concept of the universal rights of the people originating in the Enlightenment, the latter appears more complex to investigate. The first usage of the term “conservatism” in a strictly political context appeared in 1819, in the writings of Francois-Rene de Chateaubriand (1768–1848) with reference to the aftermath of the French Revolution (Hamilton 2013). In England, it entered the lexicon at the beginning of the Victorian age (1834), and in the following year replaced the historically established “Tory,” becoming the official name of the party that was in opposition to the Whigs (Heywood 2003, 65). Over 30 years later the party headed by William Gladstone also followed suit, changing their name from the Whigs to Liberals in 1868. In both cases, the linguistic shift signified a growing importance of ideology that began to interpenetrate the political structures in Britain. It would be an oversimplification to perceive the dominant political trends of the Victorian age only in dialectical terms of action and reaction or progress and regress, reflected in the liberal and conservative philosophies, respectively. In fact, both parties enhanced advancement and social development as well as the improvement of the living conditions of the working class. It is no coincidence that Benjamin Disraeli, leader of the Conservative Party, was among those who most vehemently opposed the poverty of the workers, simultaneously blaming the middle class for that state. In Sybil, or the Two Nations (1845), he spoke of: Two nations between whom there is no intercourse and no sympathy; who are so ignorant of each other’s habits, thoughts, and feelings, as if they were dwellers in different zones, or inhabitants of different planets. The rich and the poor. (1998, 66)

Significantly, the two parties that dominated the political scene in nineteenth-century Britain, the Conservatives led by Benjamin Disraeli (1804–81) and the Liberals headed by William Gladstone (1809–98) representing not so much the strict political affiliations of their voters as reflecting the general attitudes and sentiments among the members of the

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middle class. The first invoked tradition and values, the second individual rights and personal freedom—conceptualised in the phrase laissez-faire. Both utilised the dominant philosophy of utilitarianism to achieve specific goals, although that tendency was more apparent in the Liberals. Despite the scepticism concerning religious faith, which was especially vivid among intellectuals, Disraeli and Gladstone alike emphasised the importance of religion in the public sphere. The motto of the Liberal Party could be the one from “Civil Disobedience” (1849) by Henry David Thoreau (1817–62): “that government is best which governs least,” regardless of the fact that he used it in the anarchist rather than liberal context. The policy of a free market economy drastically limited the government’s interference in supply and demand. Yet, the Conservatives did not promote economic planning either—their action was based on pragmatism and concentrated on the specific problems of the day. Morris for a long time considered himself a Liberal, albeit being generally indifferent to politics until the 1870s. His lack of interest in that matter was reflected in the fact that he generally did not participate in elections. The subsequent opinion expressed in the years of socialist agitation about his original party of allegiance may therefore be misleading to say the least: The Liberal Party, a nondescript and flaccid creation of bourgeois supremacy, a party without principles or definitions, but a thoroughly adequate expression of English hypocrisy, cowardice, and shortsightedness, engrossed the whole of the political progressive movement in England, and dragged the working-classes along with it, blind as they were to their own interest and the solidarity of labour. This party has shown little or no sympathy for the progressive movement on the Continent, unless when they deemed it connected with their anti-Catholic prejudice. (Morris 1886, 171)

Such frequent disparaging remarks about the omnipresent “Whiggery” 2 concerned the same party he was formerly associated with. At the time of writing this article, though, he made little distinction between Liberals and Conservatives—both were perceived as two sides of the same coin. The only difference lay in his previous attitudes; namely that he never embraced the philosophy of the latter in any of its dimensions.

2

Morris used the term “Whiggery” in reference to the Liberal Party on numerous occasions during his socialist agitation. For instance, in “How I Became a Socialist” he spoke of “measureless power of the Whiggery” (1998, 381).

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Compared to their European counterparts, in which conservatism was associated with nostalgia after the apparent stability in the era of ancient regime, in Britain it was more a matter of personal and class sentiment. While the absolute monarchies belonging to the League of the Three Emperors (1873) constantly played on the reactionary note in order to persuade their subjects about the security and stability of their situation, British conservatism manifested itself in the social rather than political sphere. Strongly embedded in the values and the moral code of the middle class, it subsequently generated a system of attitudes, customs, and rules of “proper behaviour” that would become a true gentleman.3 What appears unique could be a tendency among the middle-class members to raise their status into the upper classes instead of embracing the bourgeoisie ethics of the prospering Continental states. As a result, contrary to most of the European nations which experienced the decline of the role of monarchy or, as in France, the transition to a republic, the Royal Court and the sovereign’s position were consolidated. In the face of the accelerated pace of life and the disruptive tendencies in the social sphere, Queen Victoria became the epitome of stability and the guarantor of order. On that account, the voters of the Conservative Party gave the impression of being more inclined to see in their Members of Parliament not so much as the legislators but rather the representatives of their own system of values, attitudes, and beliefs. Such a specifically British version of Conservatism influenced the general reception of the Victorian age,

3

The term “gentleman” underwent a rapid change of meaning in the Victoria age. The fifth edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica from 1815 still provided the definition of gentleman as “one who without, bears a coat of arms, or whose ancestors have been freemen.” In that sense it was someone who belonged to the lower ranks of the English gentry, which stayed in line with the original meaning of the word. Yet, with the rise of the middle class it came to be associated with a set of attitudes which extended beyond the boundaries of a particular social group. In “The Idea of a University” (1851), Cardinal Newman defined a gentleman as one “who never inflicts pain.” Newman explicated further: “He has his eyes on all his company; he is tender towards the bashful, gentle towards the distant, and merciful towards the absurd; he can recollect to whom he is speaking; he guards against unseasonable allusions, or topics which may irritate; he is seldom prominent in conversation, and never wearisome” (in Landow n.d.). In this descriptive passage we can observe a fusion of the medieval ideal of the knight with the protestant ethic and universal principles of proper behaviour. In this manner, Newman expressed his expectations regarding an ideal Briton, who was implicitly contrasted with the members of lower classes in his own country, the native inhabitants of the colonies, or even his European counterparts.

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which, despite the rapid technological advancement and emphasis placed on progress, is today viewed as reactionary and at its core conservative. The growing popularity of Victoriana is based on the conviction that the British Empire under Victoria and Pax Britannica were times of stability, safety, and universal prosperity, in stark contrast to the anxiety felt by a great part of Victorians themselves. The policy of status quo propagated by Britain in foreign affairs is now transposed to social relations: a kind of wishful thinking in an age of complexity and relativism. In a word, it can be perceived as a modern version of the notion of Merrie England that had inspired Victorian medievalism and the Gothic Revival. For Morris it would signify a complete reversal of meaning, i.e. the age he so vehemently fought against is, in retrospect, parallel to his idealised image of the medieval world.4

Racism and racialism in the context of British supremacy The fusion of pragmatism and sentiments sufficed to maintain the social structure in Britain only in the early phase of the Victorian age. The moral code, to a large extent based on the protestant ethics of the middle class, was created to cement different layers of that construct but soon began to show its formerly overlooked weaknesses. Even if due to the three Reform Acts of 1832, 1867, and 1884 the voting rights were extended to a larger group of citizens, they did not significantly improve the situation of the working class. Women’s suffrage was still out of the question, thwarted by the cult of masculinity and conservatism.5 Also, the attempts to integrate workers with the middle class appeared only partially successful. Some headway was achieved, but it was mainly manifested in the cultural sphere with the rise of popular culture as well as the working class transformations of the literary genres enjoyed by the middle class, particularly the working-class melodramas (see chapter one). This did not, however, translate into politics or improve social relations.

4

Christian Gutleben observes that a characteristic trait of Victorianism was the attempt of re-appropriation of the earlier models in new circumstances, manifested in e.g. neo-Gothicism, Renaissance aesthetics, or even Pre-Raphaelitism, although the archaism of that movement is debatable (see chapter one). He infers that the contemporary, postmodern approach to the Victorian age is suspended between nostalgia and subversion (2001, 6). 5 In fact it was the British colony of New Zealand that first allowed women to vote in general elections in 1893, proving to be more progressive than its mother country.

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The ongoing polarisation in different fields found a response in some attempts to bridge the gap between the private and the public spheres. Such was the aim of Tennyson’s Im Memoriam (1849), in which he shared very personal feelings with a large audience, from the start intending his intimate confession to be read in public (Johnson 1952). The early socialist movements, such as Chartism and Owenism, on the other hand, contributed to the rise of awareness among the physical labourers, ultimately realised in a new group of what could be labelled the “working class intelligentsia.” 6 Notwithstanding, the crisis of values and identity could be merely delayed yet not overcome. The middle class were forced to use the strategies that ran counter to their very foundations, i.e. introducing ideology into home affairs as well as defining their identity against the Continent and the colonies. Science and pseudo-science played a prominent role in providing ideological support, along with the apparent evidence, to various arguments aiming to justify the political and social state of affairs. Racial theories 7 claiming the superiority of one race over others gained momentum after Darwin’s publication of On the Origin of Species (1858), and even more so The Descent of Man (1871). Differentiating between people with regards to their physical appearance and assumed corresponding character traits or intellectual capacities was mainly observed in the attitudes towards the working class in Britain and the peoples of the colonies. The beliefs about the top position of the Europeans on the anthropological scale, which were formerly explained as being consistent with the Christian faith (Lorimer 1988, 405), now acquired a new powerful ally in science. 8 The unequal distribution of certain characteristics in humans was perceived as belonging to the natural order, and the 6 The term “working class intelligentsia” was used by V. I. Lenin in his article “The Working-Class Masses and the Working-Class Intelligentsia” (1913). Since it does not seem to be well-established in English, and Lenin referred to different circumstances, I have decided to employ it independently, as a kind of a “new-old coinage.” 7 The debate between two contradictory theories of human lineage was launched in the 1860s. The defenders of the orthodoxy about the common descent of human races, which is the presupposition of monogenesis, were contested by a new school of polygenesis claiming that the races have different roots. Significantly, both schools followed the racial classification in their studies of human types, and both acknowledged the superiority of the Caucasian (European) race (Lorimer 1988). 8 As a matter of fact, the whole concept of race was “reinvented in England in the 1850s and 1860s, as it had been reinvented twenty years earlier in the United States, and long before in France” (Beasley 2010, 1).

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hierarchical model of society was not a mere reflection of that order but its integral part. Hence, the religious dogmas remained in force as consistent with the Great Chain of Being, but the independent dictum of science reinforced the hierarchal divisions, becoming a formidable source of authority in the question of racism and racialism. Britain’s supremacy was legitimised not only in terms of culture and civilisation but also in anthropology. Such a perspective verged on the paradoxical or even oxymoronic “scientific bias,” namely that science, which should by definition be objective and impartial, was involved in the process of ideological conditioning, itself ultimately becoming an ideological form. This ambivalent attitude could be the reason behind Morris’ distrust of ideology (see chapter five) and the subsequent critique of the Victorian studies in anthropology from the contemporary point of view, formulated after the publications of Bronislaw Malinowski (1884– 1942). The mid-twentieth century assault on racist doctrines challenged the scientific standing of racialist theories, and suggested that this ideology of racial inequality owed its development and strength to the activities of Victorian scientists. The emphasis upon the role of science in creating a set of false and pernicious doctrines led to a historical quest for the origins of scientific racism and for the “pseudo-scientists” who propagated these theories. (Lorimer 1988, 405)

While a gradation of the races was satisfactory for a justification of racial supremacy of the Caucasian race in the colonies, such a model appeared to be insufficient in Britain alone. Further divisions concerning the Britons needed to be introduced. In addition to the already existent division into those of Germanic origin and the Celts, in which the latter were perceived as racially inferior (Neal 1996, 125),9 new subdivisions of the Germanic race were formed. The belief in the moral and physical superiority of the Anglo-Saxons as the most worthy of all Germanic peoples inhabiting the British Isles was reflected in the re-invention of the legend of Robin Hood and the Merry Men of Sherwood who fought the darker in complexion, 9

The pseudo-scientific explications of the apparent inferiority of the Celtic race, to a great degree based on phrenology, proliferated in 1840s England. The true reason, however, appeared to be political rather than scientific, and manifested itself in the specific focus on the exclusively Irish community in Britain as well as the people of Gaelic origin living in Ireland. Before that period, the cultural, religious, and economic disadvantage of the Irish was emphasised, but racial theories were not widely employed. They appear to have concurred with the Irish Famine of the 1840s (Neal 1996, 119–26).

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treacherous, and insincere Normans (Barczewski 1997, 185) Simultaneously, the light-skinned Danes were presented as the barbarian invaders who constantly threatened the more civilised tribes of Angles and Saxons. This conviction about the Anglo-Saxon supremacy merged with the earlier American idea of Manifest Destiny, which originally posited the expansion of the United States from the East to the West Coast, but which soon acquired racial characteristics. In the American version, the AngloSaxon race was destined to rule the world—a conviction born out of their allegedly intrepid spirit that allowed them to leave the forests of northern Germany and spread to Britain and then to remote territories, including the Americas (Pizer 1978, 231). Significantly, one could observe a relapse to the period of early colonial America—instead of a new nation of Americans constructed by the Founding Fathers, it was once again the old British ancestors who were to occupy the yet-unconquered lands.10 Compared to the explications concerning the rights of Britain to rule other colonial nations, racial theories about the leading role of AngloSaxons in Britain were based on the theory of political rhetoric rather than science. Nevertheless, the socio-political aspects to some extent overshadowed the scientific ones. As a result, nowadays we are more inclined to speak of the Anglo-Saxon dominance in the world, not just the Western Culture or the Caucasian race. That racial model of the British society could be viewed as an alternative to the better-established and more prominent class one. To some extent, it succeeded in the alleviation of social tensions among different class members, along with an illusionary integration of Britons, mostly of the Anglo-Saxon extraction based on their origins. If some benefits had been achieved they were outnumbered by the inevitable drawbacks: ubiquitous nationalism and, in particular, its extreme version—jingoism. The term is derived from the chorus of a patriotic song 10

The beliefs that the origins of the United States were to be sought in the forests of Germany from which the Anglo-Saxon race emerged, rather than the arrival of the Mayflower in 1620, were the foundation of the so-called “germ theory” popularised in America by Herbert Baxter Adams (1850–1901). Adams, who graduated from European universities, completing his PhD at Heidelberg, spread the widely accepted theories across the United States, especially in the most renowned academic centres of New England. Originally meant to explain Manifest Destiny in terms of moving the frontier from the East to the West, with time the theory acquired a more universal character aiming at the justification of the AngloSaxon dominance in the world. Yet, there seemed to be a difference in the American interpretation of the concept, which possessed strong mytho-poetic qualities, and the British more-practical explanation connected with the specific cause of the colonial expansion (Pizer 1978).

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by music-hall singer G. H. Macdermott, popular in pubs during a diplomatic tension between Britain and Russia at the time of the RussoTurkish War (1877–8). 11 Of significance is the fact that the words “Britain” and “England” are used interchangeably in the lyrics, which could owe, at least in part, to the theories of racism and racialism. Despite the efforts to show Britain as one country and the British Empire as an entity, it was once again England—the land of Angles and Saxons—that embodied the positive qualities like courage, fair play, and justice. This is underlined in the symbolic representations of the conflicted sides: the English lion is juxtaposed with the Russian bear. The overall atmosphere of that period incited by the stance of the government generated negative reactions from most of the leading intellectuals of the Victorian era, including Morris. At that time, he had already been active in the political arena for about one year, though not yet wholly devoted to political agitation. None of the political theories popular in the Victorian era appeared to have offered a solution to the complexities of the age, which in different ways frustrated all the important thinkers of that period. Liberalism, with its emphasis on individual rights and a free market economy, had its limitations in the growing gulf between the rich and the poor, even if the latter were formally given wider access to political life. Conservatism appealed to the sentiments of the middle class, yet it was also characterised by vagueness and, at times, contradiction.12 11

The chorus expressed unconcealed pride in the authority of Britain overseas, simultaneously being a warning sent to other countries, particularly Russia, by that time a supreme military power in the world. The word “jingo” was a long-used minced oath euphemism for Jesus. The lyrics of the chorus are as follows: “We don’t want to fight but by jingo if we do …/ We’ve got the ships, we’ve got the men, and got the money too!/ We’ve fought the Bear before, and while we’re Britons true,/ The Russians shall not have Constantinople.” The rest of the song contained numerous derogatory references to the Russian Army and Russia in general, including the cruelties of Russian generals, numerous murders, the misery of butchered Circassians, and the desperate state of affairs in Poland. The song ended on a patriotic note assuring that “Old England is brave,” evoking the patron saint of Albion, St. George. 12 A somewhat odd amalgam of the two dominant philosophies was Liberal Conservatism, which attempted to combine the laissez-faire economy with such principles as respect for traditional morality, importance of religion, and the “natural” inequality of people (Johnston 2007, 154) That seemingly artificially fusion could however be achieved even without introducing the ideological superstructure. Despite the apparent contrast of Liberalism and Conservatism, the two philosophies often overlap. For instance, private property plays a prominent

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Nationalism was to a degree the product of the reactionary values in social life, showing increased tendencies to utilise racial theories which led to problems of identity in both Britain and the colonies. Patriotic feelings reinforced by propaganda and stirred by the government found their outlet in a distorted shape, i.e. jingoism. The necessity to introduce ideology into politics and social relations was against the British creed formed on the basis of deductive reasoning prevalent in science, i.e. empiricism combined with the general mistrust of the Continental philosophy that lay at the foundation of the French Revolution and the turmoil that followed it, most notably the Spring of Nations (1848). Even if Britain managed to avoid straightforward confrontations, a fact praised by Matthew Arnold in “The Dover Beach” (see chapter one), the conflict between different social groups was far from being resolved. On the other hand, it intensified in the late phases of Queen Victoria’s reign. In a word, it became clearer than ever that some changes had to be implemented, and yet there appeared to be no sound alternative for the existing system. Evidently, the “religion of art” propagated by Ruskin failed in the long run, while Arnold’s proposition to replace religion with culture was a far cry from the problems of everyday life.

British Socialism Pre- and proto-socialist movements The overview of the pre- and proto-socialist movements, particularly those which originated in Great Britain, appears indispensable for the comprehension of Morris’ version of socialism. This practice will also allow us to determine the level of his political competence as well as differentiate between the influences of the British socialist movements and Marxism (scientific socialism) regarding the perception of politics by Morris. The political doctrine of socialism, at least at first glance, seemed to fulfil the burgeoning social expectations. Furthermore, it was not a mere role in both. The class system is also existent, even if in Conservatism it is one of doctrinal points, while in Liberalism it is a natural consequence of the laissez-faire economic principles. In the reality of the Victorian age, the differences were additionally reduced on account of practical aims and the corresponding party policies of the Tories and the Whigs. Colonial expansion was the priority of the two leading parties, as was the belief in the preservation of the status quo in social relations—this having to do with the philosophies of pragmatism and utilitarianism that underpinned their specific activities.

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corrective to other theories but promised an entirely new worldview based on equality, lack of private property, and mutual respect. From the very beginning, though, there was a problem with delineating the objectives of the movement as well as its exact explanation. The classic 1911 edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica provides the following definition under the entry “Socialism”: Socialism is that policy of theory which aims at securing by the action of the central democratic authority a better distribution, and in due subordination thereunto a better production, of wealth that it now prevails. (Vol. 25, 308)

In view of this explanation, socialism was perceived as not a new system but rather a mere corrective to the existing one. Such issues as the means of production, working-class revolution, the alienation of labour, etc., which are central to the Marxist writings on socialism, were excluded, although Marx has a separate entry in that edition as well as being quoted in the bibliography. In the subsequent passages of the article the aims of socialism are often presented as identical to those of anarchism: even a short note on William Morris states that “he seemed to have become more anarchist than socialist” (Ibid.). Such a pronouncement was made despite the fact that the opinions about the anarchist character of his socialism were dismissed by Morris himself, while the expression “anarcho-communism” was considered by him a contradiction, ultimately leading to his withdrawal from political activity (see chapter four). The author, James Bonar (1852– 1941), a Scot occupying the post of the senior examiner to the Civil Service in Ottawa, among others, appears to have some doubts about the whole concept of socialism, and even more so about the distinction between, in his opinion, the related concepts of socialism, communism, and anarchism.13 In the part in which he discusses particular fractions of the movement in Britain, he, for instance, refers to the Fabian Society as 13 For instance, in the article section that deals with Christian Socialism, the author claims that “[Ruskin’s and Carlyle’s, or even Disraeli’s] ponderings are not far from a revolt [italics mine] against inequality, whether the revolt takes the shape of anarchism or socialism” (1911, 308). The use of the term “revolt,” instead of “revolution,” may indicate the political bias of the whole entry, or display a shortage in the socialist terminology, which is subsequently reflected in the confusion about the distinct doctrines of socialism, communism, and anarchism. It can be further substantiated by Bonar’s clerical family background, as well as the fact that his main field of interest was the classical economy theories of David Ricardo and Adam Smith.

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“by definition opportunist” (308), claims that Chartism was by no means socialist, and quotes the Reform Acts of the Liberal government as socialist in character. Even the passages which are consistent with the more precise and better-established meaning of the term, particularly those focusing on state socialism, are implemented with an implicitly critical commentary. What is odd is that, at the time of the Encyclopaedia’s publication in 1911, socialism was well known in Britain, even if we decide to exclude the earlier proto-socialist movements, i.e. the Levellers and the Diggers during the Civil War (1642–51), the utopian socialism of Robert Owen (1771–1858), and Chartism. The article in question may appear to be either biased or marked by incompetence, though the most plausible is a third option: the author discusses socialism from the perspective of what is today labelled the “Anglosphere,” which should be distinguished from the Continental versions of the movement. Since the aforementioned European, especially German, theories mingled with the British in the 1880s, at least to some extent, the resulting confusion was due to a mixture of the more scientific theories of Marx, Engels, Paul Lafargue (1842– 1911), and previously François Noël Babeuf (1760–97) during the French Revolution prevalent in mainland Europe, and those in Britain, basically a response to the specific economic circumstances in a given time. The title of Morris and Belfort Bax’s articles “Socialism from the Root Up” (1886– 8) is quite symptomatic in view of a typically British perception of the concept: first, the initiative is taken by the workers, and only then finds expression in legislation, finally acquiring a concrete shape in particular conceptions and theories. In the Continental version, the procedure seems to be the opposite; namely, a theory originates in the minds of philosophers and social thinkers, subsequently reaching a political agenda with the workers whose benefits a specific theory, i.e. socialism, concerns as the last link in that chain.14 14

As a matter of fact, such an order of spreading theories was criticised by Marx, e.g. in The German Ideology in which he contrasted Germany with not only Britain, but also France (1999, 49). In the text under discussion, Marx blames the ideology that derived from Hegel (although it came from not Hegel himself but the Young Hegelians). “If in all ideology men and their circumstances appear upside down as in a camera obscura, this phenomenon arises just as much from their historical life-process as the inversion of objects on the retina does from their physical life-process” (Ibid., 47). To some degree, he contrasts the idealistic philosophies that dominated in Germany with empiricism (originated and developed in England), yet he also claims that even empiricism is abstract (48). In spite of his attempts, his own concepts follow the line of argumentation he

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On this account, as already mentioned, socialism in Britain took its own independent course. Apart from the different ratio of theory and praxis—a great deal of initiative was taken as a response to specific problems at the grassroots level, while the other important factor was the leading role of Britain in technology and industrialisation. The Industrial Revolution began 30 years earlier than in other developed countries of Western Europe, such as Belgium and the Netherlands, and the technological edge was maintained throughout most of the nineteenth century. As a result Britain had no model to emulate, and so the only available method in such circumstances—that of trial and error—had to be applied. Obviously, plenty of mistakes had been committed before a new model finally emerged. Among the most controversial issues was child labour, which had become widespread as early as the mid-eighteenth century. The manufacturing plants of northern England, labelled “dark satanic mills” by William Blake (1757–1827) in his poem “Jerusalem,”15 were “places of sexual license, foul language, cruelty, violent accidents, and alien manners”16 (Thompson 1966, 307). The unregulated working hours, striking young women employed in textile mills especially hard, resulted in a lower life expectancy in the first phase of the Victorian age. The cause should be sought not so much in the worsening of sanitary conditions but in the lack of any protection provided for the young factory workers who died of diseases or in accidents. That tendency was particularly visible in London, where the average lifespan of a factory worker was 22 years, as opposed to 45 years for a gentleman, according to Sir Edwin Chadwick’s (1800–90) breakthrough “Survey into the Sanitary Condition of the Labouring Classes in Great Britain” from 1842. Negative social phenomena, including child prostitution, became a matter of concern for the intellectual elite. The ground seemed to be more fertile than ever for the introduction of socialism, yet it was for a long time thwarted by the power of the cultural agenda of the middle class, as well the newly emerged social life of the working class concentrated mainly in pubs, of which Morris would subsequently complain. Morris noticed that instead of workers’ clubs in disapproved of, albeit being deprived of the abstract divagations of his predecessors: first he creates a new system for the proletariat, and only then expects the working class to practically apply it. 15 “Jerusalem” is in fact the title of the anthem that was based on the text of the “Introduction” to the long poem Milton (1804–11). Originally, the fragment had no title and was simply known by its first line “And did those feet in ancient time.” 16 Morris himself had an ambivalent attitude to child labour, since he employed children in his workshops even at the time of his socialist agitation.

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which they would discuss politics over a cup of tea, as Marx prophesised, “Sunday beer and weekly cards and billiards, are the real attraction” (in Mackail 1995 II, 186).

Trade Unionism, Chartism, Owenism, and Christian Socialism Under the specific circumstances shaped and propelled by political action, trade unions were being organised from the 1850s onwards. Their gradual development led to the formation of the Trade Union Congress in 1868 and the Reform Acts. The process took place despite some criticism from the utilitarian and liberal philosophers including John Stuart Mill (1806– 73) who, in Principles of Political Economy (1848), clearly expressed his doubts about the whole enterprise, seeing a major obstacle in the sheer number of the working class members as well as their ubiquity.17 It would be a great simplification, if not an error, to claim that trade unionism was a socialist initiative, or that the movement was based on socialist principles. The fact that it subsequently became an important constituent of the Labour Party policy, provided that the Labour Party was socialist at all, which is rather questionable, 18 needs to be separated from its original purpose; namely, an organised defence of workers against frequent abuses of their position. Likewise, Chartism (ca. 1838–1848/1858) 19 —a movement that concurred with trade unionism—was at heart a response to the specific issues of the early 1840s, rather than something imbedded in the socialist thought. Its chief objective was the implementation of parliamentary reforms, not a change of the capitalist system. Already divided at the moment of its foundation into the faction that focused on moral issues and those who sought solutions by force, the group which Morris labelled “ultra-radical” 20 implicitly proposed some proto-socialist agenda, but, according to Morris, they were “deficient in knowledge, and consequently

17

Mill commented that “the multitudes who compose the working class are too numerous and too widely scattered to combine at all, much more to combine effectually” (Mill 1848 II, 498). 18 J. M. Murry—one of the most original Marxist thinkers in interwar England— claimed that “the Labour Party never was Socialist” (1935, 102). 19 Although the activity of the Chartists ended in 1848, the movement formally survived until 1858 when the last convention took place. 20 Today, the better-known term for the radical fraction of the movement is “physical force Chartism” (Challinor 1981).

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without definite principles on which to base action”21 (1886, 171). This “deficiency of knowledge” was the consequence of the almost exclusively working-class character of the movement.22 Another major handicap concerned the geographical and doctrinal limitations of Chartism. Consequently, its popularity was exclusive to the big industrial centres of Northern England and the Midlands, particularly Manchester and Birmingham, yet it never reached London. The main and in fact sole hope of Chartists was pinned on a general strike “under the picturesque title of the Holy Month” (Morris 1886, 170). The weaknesses of the whole enterprise became all too apparent after 1842 when the economic situation in Britain improved, putting an end to the immediate fear of starvation. Morris went so far in “The Hopes of Civilization” (1885) as to infer that “it was [exclusively] caused by the simplest and most powerful of all causes—hunger” (1998, 320). After six years, the government’s intervention, carried out in more prosperous times, successfully crushed the movement. Yet another argument against seeing Chartism as a socialist, presocialist, or even proto-socialist endeavour23 was the long period of time interposed between its termination and the emergence of what could be labelled “proper socialism” in the Marxist version. The absence of the direct connection between them may speak against viewing the formation of socialism in Britain as an evolutionary process. It may also explain the resulting confusion and lack of thorough theoretical preparation that laid bare both the working class’ and the intellectual elite’s ignorance in the matter of scientific socialism. All of that occurred despite the fact that 21

Morris expressed a similar opinion about Chartism in “The Hopes of Civilization” (1888), although instead of “deficiency” he opted for the word “incompleteness,” which seems to carry slightly more neutral connotations. 22 Even if one of their leaders, Feargus O’Connor (1794–1855), had been educated at Trinity College in Dublin, he appeared to be familiar with Irish nationalism and agrarian philosophies, yet not conversant enough with pioneering socialist endeavours, including those originating in the French Revolution. Alongside Ernest Jones (1819–1869), a German-born English poet and novelist, and the clergyman Joseph Baker (1806–75), O’Connor was practically the only middleclass member of Chartism. 23 Chartism was the first political movement in Britain that had a discernible class character, i.e. the political struggle was perceived in terms of the working class as opposed to the middle class. This observation was made by Morris in “The Hopes of Civilization,” and E. P Thompson noticed that at the time of its emergence the working class already existed in a concrete shape and form. In the words of Jutta Schwarzkopf, who comments on Thompson’s opinion: “[the working class] was no longer in the making, but already made” (1991, 1).

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Marx and Engels had been long established in London by the early 1870s, and the First International was initiated in 1864 at Saint Martin’s Hall in London. The cause of the apparent indifference to the aims and the programme of the organisations on the part of the Britons was to be sought in the attitude of Marxists themselves—who, to an extent, neglected the separate course of socialism in England, as well as the UK subjects’ adherence to the more familiar social reforms proposed by trade unionists, Chartists, and particularly the Owenites. The last deserve special attention since the movement founded by Robert Owen (1771–1858) was in fact the only early one that possessed socialist characteristics. Belonging to the broad category of what Marx labelled “Utopian Socialism,” 24 Owenism is considered a pioneering enterprise in the cooperative movement (Garrett 1972). Its origins harkened back to the remote past and had almost nothing to do with the principles of scientific socialism developed by Marx in Europe. The thought of the Young Hegelians alongside the general trends of German philosophy, from which Marxism grew, seemed alien to Owen, a Welsh philanthropist who attempted to reform labour in accord with the British tradition, namely “from the root up.” His beliefs derived from the ideals of the Enlightenment, or even earlier times, i.e. the seventeenthcentury English moral economy that advocated fair prices and respect for workers. Under the specific circumstances of the Industrial Revolution, Owen aimed at a reaction against the omnipresent laissez-faire principles, taking special care of “the unemployed poor in newly built rural communities” (Claeys 1987, xviii). Unfortunately, the best known such communities founded by Owen, in New Lanark, Scotland, met with limited success.25 Owen’s affiliation with socialism manifested itself not in his schemes for utopian communities but in the overall worldview reflected in his 24

Generally, to utopian socialism belongs any socialist school whose views are not grounded in the material conditions of society (Draper 1990, 1). The term was mainly applied to those reformists and philosophers who lived in the first half of the nineteenth century, i.e. Charles Fourier, Henri Saint-Simon, and Robert Owen. The term “utopian” was used by Marx and Engels in a predominantly negative context as synonymous with “impractical,” “unrealistic,” or “naïve” (Newman 2005, 7). 25 Nowadays, it is chiefly remembered as the inspiration for other, more prominent places of utopian co-operation, particularly the one in Harmony Indiana founded in 1825, as well as for its innovative solutions lying at the foundations of urban planning in Britain. Yet, the most prominent and longest-lasting influence of Owenism can be seen in the still-operating co-operative shops.

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creed. He denied the truth of all world theologies, particularly the belief that humans have a choice between good and evil (Sargant 1860, xviii). Like Marx, he held that people’s characters are shaped independently of them by their upbringing in a specific environment as well as their family backgrounds. Thus, his critical approach to religion differed from the philosophers of the Enlightenment who often emphasised the schism between rational outlook and what they considered irrational faith: a belief in miracles and the cult of saints. Nor could it be the product of the “libertine excesses of a philosophical conceit” (Sargant 1860, xix). Rejecting revealed truths as socially constructed, Owen’s thought was firmly embedded in the principles of materialism. For the above, he stressed the importance of education, believing that the desired qualities of humans could actually be taught—another point he shared with Marxists, in consequence one of the reasons that Morris praised Owen even at the peak of his socialist involvement. Marx’s inclusion of the New Lanark reformer in the gallery of utopian socialists did not discourage Morris: his own novel approaches to the process of educating socialists, as well as education in general, were in all likelihood indebted to his predecessor. In “The Hopes of Civilization,” Morris mentions “the honoured name of Robert Owen” as “the lifter of the torch of Socialism amidst the dark days of the confusion consequent on the reckless greed of the early period of the great factory industries” (Morris 1998, 319). Significantly, he attributed the failure of the ideals of cooperation to Owen’s incapability to comprehend the position of a privileged class, who would take advantage of their power to pre-empt any attempts to improve the workers’ situation (Ibid., 320). Instead of blaming the deficiency of the programme or a lack of theoretical preparation, as in the case of Chartism, in the article under discussion he blames external intervention rather than internal incompetence as the cause of the ultimate collapse of Owenism. Likewise, he ignores the apparent utopianism of the movement, putting at risk his reputation as an orthodox Marxist. It is more than a coincidence that Morris became acquainted with the writings of Owen and Marx simultaneously, at least in the early phase of his socialist engagement, making no substantial distinction between the two. Christian Socialism, a variation of religious socialism which took inspiration from the life of Jesus, shared some points with the Owenites. Its emphasis on charity as a means of deliverance of workers from their oppression was consistent with Owen’s philanthropy, as was the insistence on workers’ education. Particularly in Britain the movement gained momentum after the publication of John Ruskin’s political essay in the

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monthly journal Cornhill Magazine, titled “Unto This Last” (1860).26 In that text, the “last” were the unqualified physical labourers who were paid their wages only if they worked eleven hours a day. Apart from the biblical reference, the essay does not have a religious character, discussing instead the contemporary situation in the Victorian era. Although the Ruskinian version of Christian Socialism is somewhat neglected today, its influence during his lifetime was far greater than Morris’.27 The text was crucial for the newly emerged Labour Party whose members voted “Unto This Last” above even Marx’s Capital (Landlow, “Introduction”). Yet, despite its name, it is arguable whether the movement could be labelled “socialist” at all. This became more apparent after Ruskin’s foundation of the Utopian Guild of St. George in 1871, with the original word “fund” replaced by “guild” in 1878. 28 Based on the beliefs articulated in Fors Clavigera (Ruskin 30.3, 12), the society followed the model of the early medieval guilds rather than socialist organisations. Ruskin assumed the role of the Master, with other members called the Companions, parallel to similar structures in the Middle Ages. Even if the egalitarianism of the Guild was exposed, it retained some elements of hierarchy. Its character was at core reactionary and retrogressive, being a transposition of Ruskin’s former opinions on art into the social sphere. At some points, Christian Socialism converged with the Morrisean version of Marxist agitation. At least in the early phase, Morris must have been inspired by the methods of conducting the “mission” by his mentor, particularly the belief that lectures should be delivered directly to the workers. Significantly, he would mainly quote the early works by Ruskin, especially those which treated art as the “basis for true Socialism” (Mackail 1995 II, 275). Also, in his homage to Ruskin, “Preface to the Nature of Gothic” (1891), Morris considers “Unto This Last” the most important work amongst Ruskin’s earlier publications (Morris 1998, 369), 26

The title “Unto This Last” refers to a Christian parable about the vineyard labourers who were paid the same amount of money regardless of the actual time they spent at work (Matthew 20: 1–16). When those who worked the longest complained about the apparent injustice, the owner told them to mind their own business. The words “so the last will be first, and the first will be last” (20: 16) were the direct inspiration for Ruskin’s essay. 27 Nowadays, Morris is generally ranked above Ruskin in the surveys concerning their importance for socialism, especially eco-socialism. For instance, in the one carried out among the members of the Green Movement, Morris was ahead of not only Ruskin, but also Charles Darwin (Bennett and Miles 2010, 2). 28 Currently, the Guild is a charitable education trust registered in England.

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not, as the change in subject would suggest, the beginning of his new social polemics. The influences of Ruskin’s ideas about art and society were nevertheless still discernible in Morris’ early socialist lectures collected as Hopes and Fears for Art (1882). Among others, they included the alienation of labour discussed by Marx as a component of the alienation theory, but singled out as the most important conception in the texts of the author of “Unto This Last” (see chapter four). Likewise, the notion of “joy in work” was deemed indispensable for the freedom of an artist, best expressed in their design. Despite some similarities, their ways were inevitably beginning to part, a process that was ultimately completed after Ruskin’s critique of Morris’ essay “Art Under Plutocracy” (1884). Ruskin, who was present at the meeting organised by the Russell Club at Oxford where Morris delivered the original lecture on November 14, 1883, at first articulated a positive opinion about Morris as a “great conceiver, a great workman, at once a poet and an artist” (Vallance 1897, 233). However, he subsequently changed the course, labelling Morris’ set of beliefs as “Plutocracy of Knowledge instead of its Divinity” (Ruskin 33, 390). Notwithstanding, that remark had a symbolic meaning and could not affect Morris. According to Mackail, Morris was always ready to listen to other people’s opinions, and he never took umbrage, even when he felt that he was treated most unfairly. The contention seemed to be of a doctrinal rather than personal nature, namely, at that time, “Marxism was taking him in a different direction from what we may see as the neo-feudalism of the Guild of St. George” (Faulkner 2000, 14) In other words, he managed to notice the impracticality of the Ruskinian schemes as well as the gaps in his theory concerning the class struggle in particular, which was of crucial importance in Marxism. The letter to Robert Thompson clearly indicates that at the time of his socialist agitation Morris drifted too far from the ideals of Christian Socialism to even make vague conciliatory gestures towards his mentor in the matters concerning other fields, especially art. You must understand 1st that though I have a great respect for Ruskin and his works (besides personal friendship) he is not a socialist, that is not a practical one; he does not expect to see any general scheme ever begun: he mingles with certain sound ideas which he seems to have acquired instinctively, a great deal of mere whims, deduced probably from that early training of which he gives an amusing account: anyhow his idea of national workshop is one which could only be realized in a state (that is society) already socialized nor could it ever take effect in the way he thinks it could. (Morris 1988 II, 305)

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Ruskin’s socialism seemed to have derived from the general thought of his age, being a new variation of the criticism he carried out throughout his life: the means varied, but the ends remained unchanged. What first applied to art was subsequently transposed to social relationships. Morris, on the other hand, still bearing in mind his aesthetic beliefs, was first and foremost a staunch supporter of Marxism, ready to sacrifice his art endeavours for strictly political objectives. Christian Socialism was to him only a palliative rather than a cure-all for the ailments of civilisation. According to him, a desirable change could only happen in the course of a social revolution rather than via a parliamentary action undermining the established social order. This conviction placed him in the broadly defined spectrum of the Marxist doctrine.

The Fabian Society: the Link between British Socialism and Marxism The unique situation of Great Britain resulting from different economic and political circumstances, the independent course of pre- and protosocialist thought, as well as the level of social advancement appeared to be a major obstacle, rather than an incentive for the introduction of scientific socialism. Despite Marx’s predictions from the Communist Manifesto (1848) that the well-developed England would be one of the first countries to experience a proletarian revolution, the actual state of affairs did not support his prophesies. Furthermore, neither the working class nor the intellectuals appeared to be sufficiently well informed as to the true aims of socialism. Their lack of theoretical preparation became all too apparent when the first Marxist organisations emerged in London. The link between the former socialist schools, with their roots in history, economy, and religion, and the one imported from the Continent was the Fabian Society. Founded in 1883 as The Fellowship of the New Life, and subsequently led by Sidney (1859–1947) and Beatrice Webb (1858–1943),29 the group promoted socialist ideals both in their writings and in less-formal discursive circles. The sources of the society are quite indicative since they point at a wide range of inspirations: Positivism, the ideas of Henry George,30 John Stuart Mill, Robert Owen, Karl Marx, the 29

Although the Webbs are now recognised as the founders of the Fabian Society, the original members included Edward Carpenter, John Davidson, Havelock Ellis, and Edward R. Pease. 30 Henry George (1839–97) was an American writer and politician who believed that everything created by people is their own belonging, yet all found in nature is the property of all humanity. His theory is equally indebted to criticism of the

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Democratic Federation, and the “Christian Socialist” (Pease 1916, 13). Such an all-encompassing selection may have been either the result of their uncertainty about the whole concept of scientific socialism or alternately an attempt to create an amalgam of all kinds of socialist schools which would be united in the common cause to promote the ideals of a classless and just society. Even after taking a cursory look at their choice, it becomes evident that some of the notions such as Positivism and the philosophy of John Stuart Mill are in many a way contradictory to socialism, while others, i.e. Owenism and Christian Socialism in particular, were classified as “utopian” by orthodox Marxists. The Democratic Federation—the first proper Marxist organisation in Britain, on the other hand, was prone to take parliamentary action rather than seek revolutionary solutions, which was one of the reasons that Morris left it. Also, the description of the contemporary phenomena on the first pages of Pease’s publication about the Fabians appears somewhat haphazardly arranged: scientific discoveries are juxtaposed with the literature by Robert Louis Stevenson who “can no longer be adequately described as accomplished writer” (Ibid., 14), the “introduction of female clerks into the postal service” (14), or agricultural reforms in France (15). The names of prominent authors, i.e. August Comte and Charles Darwin, are placed side by side with the note that even after 28 years since the publication of The Origin of Species, “evolution was regarded as a somewhat dubious theorem which respectable people were wise to ignore” (15). What might have been a weakness, though, in reality proved otherwise. From the very beginning, the Fabian Society attracted a large number of followers from all walks of life, including numerous artists and writers such as George Bernard Shaw (1856–1950) and H. G. Wells (1866–1946). The flexibility of ideas combined with a wide appeal to those who were otherwise indifferent to politics secured success of the organisation that was neither Marxist enough, nor strictly utopian. The subsequent influence on the formation of the Labour Party was yet another sign of the Fabians’ importance. Such a seemingly piecemeal theory also pertained to their programme,31 which was summarized by Sidney Webb in the phrase “the inevitability of economic reality in the Gilded Age, as it could be considered a continuation of the Transcendentalist ideals proposed by R. W. Emerson in his seminal essay “Nature” (1836). 31 The apparent lack of thorough knowledge abort economy, education, and politics contributed to the subsequent departure of George Bernard Shaw, who from the 1920s onwards became critical of the whole Society. H. G. Wells left

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gradualness.” Although coined quite late in 1923 in the address to the Labour Party Conference, the phrase reflected the overall attitude of the Fabians. Methodically, like Fabius Maximus Cunctator (ca. 280 BC–ca. 203 BC), who favoured patience and harassment over an open battle, and whose name they took as an allonym, the Fabians believed that socialism would be introduced through gradual parliamentary reforms rather than the course of social revolution. It was, however, unclear what kind of socialism they meant, as well as how exactly those reforms were to be implemented. Certainly, their version of socialism could not be labelled “scientific,” at least not in the Marxist sense, since in the latter the idea of the proletarian revolution was the sine qua non precondition for the emergence of a new social order. Also, they seemed to have fallen into the same trap that almost all British Marxist organisations, including the Social Democratic Federation, did. By emphasising the notion of justice as imperative for the whole movement, they promoted Marxism in a somewhat distorted shape, to a degree denying the core of the Marxian texts (see chapter five). Yet, such a general misinterpretation, apparently noticed only by Morris among the English socialists, was by no means unique to the Fabians. They shared with John Ruskin the views on the tactics and the strategy of developing workers’ consciousness. The Fabians always stressed the importance of education from below—“from the root up,” as Bax and Morris would label it in the title a series of articles published in the Commonweal. On this account, they organised meetings, lecture tours, or encouraged discussions in workers’ clubs. Yet some members, most notably George Bernard Shaw, simultaneously promoted the ideas which appeared irrelevant to Marx and socialism. Teetotalism, vegetarianism, and physical fitness had all to do with a healthy lifestyle, but apart from Marx’s remark about the workers discussing politics over a cup of tea (not a glass of beer), had very little in common with proper socialism. Hence, Henry Mayers Hyndman (1842–1921), leader of the Social Democratic Federation, instantly excluded a possibility of accepting Fabians into the organisation. In a letter to George Bernard Shaw he voiced his opinion quite clearly: earlier, albeit for different reasons connected with the discrepancy between the original ideals and the subsequent activity of the Webbs. In his 1911 novel The New Machiavelli, Wells depicted the Fabian leaders, Sidney and Beatrice Webb, as skilful though short-sighted manipulators. The ultimate withdrawal of both Shaw and Wells occurred after their visit to the USSR, when Shaw became more inclined to see the solution in the state socialism of Benito Mussolini, while Wells in his last years regarded Communism as the only alternative for Britain.

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Chapter Two I do not want the movement to be a depository of old cranks, humanitarians, vegetarians, anti-vivisectionists, arty-crafties and all the rest of them. We are scientific socialists and have no room for sentimentalists. They confuse the issue. (in Hale 2010, 114)

Morris, at that time a member of the SDF, was himself critical of Hyndman. Despite his objections, he had to comply with the official party line. It seems that the reasons behind his apparent indifference to the Movement were first and foremost doctrinal. Even if he could find more people with similar attitudes or social backgrounds than anywhere else in the socialist circles, the Fabians’ insistence on parliamentary action, their rejection of revolutionary tactics, or possibly even their (mis)interpretation of Marxist priorities concerning justice withstood Morris engagement in the proceedings of the society. 32 In all likelihood, he never even deliberated the possibilities of a fusion or long-term cooperation. By contrast, the Fabians often referred to Morris both positively and negatively. H. G. Wells responded to what he considered the unpractical schemes of News from Nowhere with his own views on the world state in A Modern Utopia (1905). The beautiful yet childlike Eloi living in a peaceful communist community depicted in The Time Machine (1895) are believed to be shaped on the figures from the pre-Raphaelite paintings (Mac Adam 2003, 259). They are also a thinly concealed “parody of Victorian Aesthetes” 33 (Bivona and Henkle 2006, 15), and their community might superficially resemble that of the Morrisean London from News from Nowhere, though it is Nowhere in the state of advanced degeneration.34 George Bernard Shaw’s opinions about Morris were, on the other hand, more complex, carrying positive connotations towards the end of his life. In his collection of critical texts Fabian Essays Forty Years Later: What They Overlooked (1931), Shaw excessively praised Morris 32

Interestingly, Morris’ Socialist League and the Fabians alike partook in the protest on Bloody Sunday of November 13, 1887. They did not arrange it before, nor did they make any pre-emptive bilateral decisions. Their participation appeared to be coincidental or, at least, not synchronised. 33 Despite the fact that Morris subsequently disapproved of Aestheticism (see chapter one), he was commonly prescribed to the movement on account of his previous associations with Rossetti as well as his lifelong collaboration with Burne-Jones. Thus, Wells might have referred to the earlier yet still popular perception of the author of News from Nowhere. 34 Wells was sceptical of the view of Nowhere as “an epoch of rest.” According to him, “a world beyond competitive selection—would inevitably suffer relapse and degeneration rather than allow for the fruition of human kindness and socialism” (Hale 2010, 122).

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and acknowledged his superiority over other early movements in British socialism, including the Fabians. He specifically referred to the idea of a proletarian revolution which was dismissed by the Webbs, but which, in retrospect, should have been given some serious consideration. In the work under discussion he commented: When the greatest Socialist of the day, the poet and craftsman, William Morris, told the workers that there was no hope for them save in revolution, we said that if that were true there was no hope at all for them, and urged them to save themselves through parliament, the municipalities, and the franchise. Without, perhaps, quite convincing Morris, we conceived that things would probably go our way. It is not certain today as it seemed in the eighties that Morris was not right. (in Hale 2010, 124–5)

In fact Morris’ beliefs about the inevitability of the revolution also evolved.35 First, he was convinced of the veracity of Marxian prediction, refusing to seek day-to-day improvements in the parliamentary action. His attitude caused a conflict with Hyndman and his subsequent foundation of the Socialist League, in 1885. Yet, after the atrocities he witnessed during Bloody Sunday he lost hope in an immediate revolution, turning to a more palliative course. Ultimately, the growing influences of anarchists in the league, resulting in their taking over the whole organisation, discouraged Morris from active political agitation.

Early Marxist movements in Great Britain The history of British socialism in the second half of the nineteenth century has been discussed primarily from the position of the broadly conceived left. A fundamental publication in this field is still E. P. Thompson’s The Making of the English Working Class, especially valuable on account of its wide spectrum of standpoints, with a special emphasis on the social rather merely political dimension of the early socialist movements in the United Kingdom. Respectively, Thompson’s work provides a basis for my concise summary of the subject, additionally implemented with specific responses to the aforementioned movements from William Morris. I have included only those which were to a greater or lesser extent Marxist in character, or claimed to have been inspired by Marx. 35

Ian Birchall aptly summarised Morris’ attitude in the following words: “Though many of his latter-day admirers might like to forget it, Morris, in News from Nowhere and elsewhere, was a firm advocate of revolutionary violence” (1996, 43).

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Table 2.1. Socialist movements in the United Kingdom (ca. 1870–1900)36 Social Democratic Federation (to 1884 Democratic Federation) Leader: Henry Mayers Hyndman (1842–1921) Party organ: Justice Political outlook: It is hard to define the programme of the first truly Marxist party in Britain. In general, they sought cooperation with the government and placed emphasis on parliamentary action, thus having been connected to the former preand proto-socialist movements in Britain. Their original programme consisted of 12 points which raised issues such as: adult suffrage, abolition of the House of Lords, free justice, and legislative independence for Ireland. It was obvious, though, that it was only a “provisional scheme” (Vallance 1897, 318) and a very wide range of issues, from the universals to the particular problems of the day, could be an impediment in the practical realisation of the specific points. The programme and the agenda clearly indicated the founders’ confusion about the aims of scientific socialism as well as their lack of theoretical preparation regarding the basis of the socialist movement. Vallance observed that “they bore too much the stamp of having been elaborated” and “they partook too much of an attempt to evolve a new State out of existing things” (Ibid.). As a result, the SDF failed to attract the main representatives of scientific Marxism living in Britain. Engels joined the party for a brief period, but he subsequently ignored it on ideological grounds, as in fact did Eleanor Marx who was considered the guardian of her father Karl’s legacy. The SDF did not become widely popular mainly due to its vague or inconsistent programme (even if the second draft from October 1884 was far more concise and explicitly political) and a lack of wider support from trade unions. Also, the authoritarian rules of Hyndman discouraged potential followers. Political action: They delivered lectures as well as organised public meetings and tours. Additionally, the SDF emphasised the need to issue political publications of various kinds. One of the chief objectives was the party’s expansion, e.g. through the formation of local branches (Vallance 1897, 319). Morris’ viewpoint: Morris originally joined the SDF when it was still officially called the Democratic Federation. He became the honorary treasurer and wrote articles for Justice, but in the end resigned. Personal animosities with Hyndman, ideological differences connected with the future of a socialist state, and the necessity of a social revolution are of essence. 36 Apart from the already mentioned The Making of the English Working Class by E. P. Thompson, I have widely utilised The Art of William Morris by Aymer Vallance for the early opinions on the nineteenth-century socialist movements and William Morris, as well as Ruth Kinna’s article “William Morris, Anti-Statism and Anarchy” for the more recent studies in that field.

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Socialist League Leader: William Morris (1834–1896) Party organ: The Commonweal Political outlook: Originally pro-revolutionary, the Socialist League rejected parliamentary action, perceiving it as a method of compromising their ideals, or “the lesser of two evils” rather than a complete reform. It was meant to be the most orthodox of all Marxist organisations. Morris insisted on the necessity of revolution as well as the dissolution of monarchy and parliament—a staunch policy of “no palliatives but revolution” proving somewhat naïve in the long run. Engels and Eleanor Marx joined it for a brief period, but Engels soon left, rejecting Morris’ “sentimentality” and “naivety.” They seemed to display a strong support and admiration for the Paris Commune, which was reflected in Morris’ collection of poems Chants for Socialists. A schism in the SL was caused by the growing influence of anarchists that Morris was incapable of controlling. A detailed programme of the original SL was presented in News from Nowhere as well as in political articles published in the party newspaper the Commonweal. Morris, in accordance with The Critique of the Gotha Programme (1875) by Marx, at that time unpublished, with which he might have acquainted himself in Engels’s apartment, underlined the dissolution of the state along with the idea of “pure communism.” Unlike Marx, and subsequently Marxists, he saw a future of communism in the association of free communities (communes, cf. communism) rather than the state-controlled means of production. The SL was international in character, from the very beginning rejecting any version of state socialism. Political action: Morris insisted on the necessity of education of workers; hence, he delivered a number of lectures to the working class, constantly touring the country. The party participated in the Trafalgar Square protests on Bloody Sunday (November 13, 1887). Despite Morris’ efforts, it never became very popular with physical labourers, while its collapse was perpetrated by anarchists who, on account of some similarities concerning the future shape of England, with time outnumbered the original members. Morris’ viewpoint: Morris was originally very enthusiastic about the SL, which was manifested in his lectures and articles. He considered his political engagement a fulltime job, for a period ceasing to write literary fiction. The (anti)ideological work of that time was his utopian romance News from Nowhere. Due to the dominance of anarchists, who would subsequently accuse Morris of forfeiting their ideals or even a betrayal, he withdrew his support around 1890/1891. He subsequently founded the Hammersmith Socialist Society whose aims and objectives could be summarised in the “simple revolutionary clarity” of non-compromising socialism. Anarchism and other socialist movements Leaders: The spiritual leader of Anarchism and radical Communism was Peter Kropotkin (1842–1921), a London-based Russian émigré. Anarchists were divided into three independent groups, with the most prominent Freedom Group formally led by Charlotte Wilson, but mainly associated with Kropotkin. Party organ: Since 1891 de facto Commonweal

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Political outlook: Early socialist organisations were marked by diffusion which led to bitter disputes about the future shape of the United Kingdom (Kinna 1999, 215). The most prominent faction were the anarchists, who called for the immediate dissolution of the government and subsequently the state. Antistatism was in fact the only principle they seemed to have in common (Ibid., 216). Other than that, there was no unified and clearly defined ideological programme: particular groups varied—from the insistence on radical action to mere palliatives. Social Democrats considered Anarchism a variant of utopian socialism, claiming that they (anarchists) could not properly comprehend the Marxist materialist conception of human history, which is determined by economic forces of production (216). Morris’ viewpoint: Morris held some doctrinal points with anarchists, particularly their emphasis on the dissolution of the state and the abolition of the government. Morris, like Marx, believed that this would occur in the last phase of communism, contrary to the anarchists who considered those points a priority. He respected and was on friendly terms with Kropotkin alone. Nevertheless, as analysed in detail by Ruth Kinna (1999, 220), there were some fundamental differences between them including, among other things, the role of the creative element in the medieval commune as well as the function of the state and politics in the future, the latter being of secondary importance to Morris. In fact, Morris believed that the very notions of the state and politics alike would be useless in a decentralised federation which, he imagined, England would turn into after the socialist revolution (see chapter five). This conviction locates Morris within the main frames of libertarian socialism rather than Anarchism. In general, he opposed anarchists and the fact that they took control of the Socialist League led to his resignation.

Morris’ Definition(s) of Politics At the time when Morris decided to enter the socialist scene, he was widely recognised as an accomplished author and the leading designer of his era, but he appeared to be a novice in political theory. The only previous experience he had in public affairs was connected with his endeavours to convey art to the audience through various societies and organisations that he either established or was active in. Their character was however social rather than strictly political. Thus, he inevitably had to face the problem of the distinction between the matters of parliamentary representation and the art of governance on the one hand, and direct communication with the society on the other. Due to his beliefs in socialism from below, as well the distrust of the parliamentary action, to Morris the political and the social remained one entity, also during his involvement in socialist agitation. From the Marxist perspective, politics was to him an extension of his social beliefs, but simultaneously the two

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could be perceived as synonymous. Morris formulated his approach as follows: All political changes seem to me useful now as making it possible to get the social one: I don’t mean to say that I myself make any wide distinction between political and social; I’m only using the words in the common way. (in Mackail 1995 II, 36)

At face value, the statement pronounced by Morris may appear to be ambiguous or inconsistent on account of the fact that it seems to deny the Aristotelian Principle of Non-Contradiction; namely, the second classical law of thought which says that a subject cannot possess and not possess a certain property at the same time and in the same respect (Wedin 2004, 225). Notwithstanding, Morris first claims that politics is only the means to achieve social goals, but he subsequently states that he does not distinguish between the two. The clue to the proper understanding of his definition could be the last phrase of the quoted fragment, i.e. that he “uses the words in the common way.” Morris may have attempted to convey the complexity of his political stance in a conventional manner since a lengthy explication would be too perplexing for him, let alone properly received by the audience. Yet, on the other hand, he might have also referred to the overall situation in the Victorian age, i.e. to the process which resulted in politics having acquired social characteristics, and in consequence the boundary between them was no longer possible to draw. Respectively, as mentioned, political sympathies reflected not so much the firm affiliations of the voters as their social sentiments (see chapter one). This semantic shift denoted the unfeasibility of discrimination between the spheres that had been formerly separated, but ultimately formed an amalgam consisting of the elements that at least conventionally should be related, though still being distinguishable. Not only did the meanings of the political and the social overlap but art and culture tended to be perceived in the social context. The passage from art to social action and ultimately to politics could be the aftermath of the phenomena Morris observed in his times. Paradoxically, this newly emerged combination stood in opposition to the ongoing processes of dissociations and polarisations that Morris attempted to prevent (see chapter one). Those contradictory and exclusive mechanisms of the simultaneous division and conjunction led to the confusion regarding the definitions of formerly well-established terms and, by analogy, also to their semantic displacement: politics, culture, society, and even art would acquire replicate meanings. Significantly, the classic edition of Encyclopaedia Britannica from 1911 does not have an entry for

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“Politics,” although there are many concerning specific political systems and doctrines. Hence, Morris’ choice of socialism could be explained to the same degree by the evolution of his social outlook as it was consistent with the general direction of the Victorian era characterised by the diffusion of meaning, its dislocation, and the subsequent deflection. It also shed some light on the apparent ease with which he moved from his previous artistic and social endeavours to political action. In view of this observation, Morris’ espousal of Marxism should no longer be perceived as a fancy of the artist who refused to be confined behind “the barbed wire fence of beautiful objects” (Mackail 1995 II, 30), but as a complementation of his previous beliefs that were to the same degree personal as they ran parallel to the mechanisms of his own age. In art and in politics alike, the holistic notion of the “beauty of life” remained his primary objective, but life now became the foundation of a far wider range of activities. Furthermore, both “life” and “beauty” underwent the processes of extension and transformation, transcending the conventional associations with a happy existence in accord with the rules of nature (see chapter four).

The Social and Political Implications of Morris’ approach to Art in the Pre-socialist Phase The extension of the meaning of “art” and other art-related terms (see chapter one) enabled Morris to avoid the question of the isolation of that domain from social issues, the problem his contemporary critics Ruskin and Arnold attempted to cope with, although the results they achieved were far from satisfactory. Likewise, his idea of the non-division of art into “high” and the “lesser arts” brought him closer to the problems of the practical application of the process of production, including the workers who were engaged in that process. Even if for a long time he eschewed strictly political matters, the social character of labour, as well as the social and cultural significance connected with the distribution of objects produced by him, placed Morris in the whirlpool of the phenomena that he, willingly or not, partook in. On this account, he seemed to notice more clearly than his contemporaries the connection between the state of society and the commodities that society purchased and generated, ultimately concluding that social change must precede art improvement (Goldman 2005, 19). This statement in itself transcended narrowly understood social and artistic boundaries, and we can venture to recognise it as an implicitly political pronouncement of Morris’ beliefs formulated before his socialist engagement. It may also be an implementation of Morris’ subsequent

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definition of politics, namely his conviction that the political and the social are inseparable. Thus, the observation made by Regina Gagnier that “Morris wanted not so much art but to create the conditions that would create artists” (2010, viii) appears to be fully justified. Since, following Ruskin, Morris made no distinction between artists and artisans, as he did not discriminate between the “high art” of painting and the “lesser arts,” i.e. functional ones—in his ideal workshop every worker was simultaneously also an artist. In other words, “Morris’s ideal workshop was a school of art” (Sypnowich 1999, 12). Only when he noticed that a precondition for the infusion of artistic elements into physical work was missing, due to the alienation and division of labour, Morris would seek the more desirable models—first in the Middle Ages, and subsequently in socialism.37 In the Manchester Examiner (March 14 1883) he expressed his angst with regard to what he believed to be the unequal share of pleasure felt by the chief designer, i.e. Morris himself, and the physical labourers who were involved in the process of production. I have been ashamed when I have thought of the contrast between my happy working hours and the unpraised, unrewarded drudgery which most men are condemned to. Nothing shall convince me that such labour as this is good or necessary for civilization. 38 (Morris 1984, 140)

37

This statement appears more ambiguous if we follow his early socialist essays and articles. Morris shows uncertainty regarding the order of priorities: whether the change in art and its perception should be the first requirement of a social change or rather vice versa: social transformation should precede the one in art (see chapter four). 38 Worthy of comparison is a similar statement made by Ruskin: “the souls of workers were withering within them, unthanked, to find their whole being sucked into a recognized abyss, to be counted off into a heap of mechanism, numbered in its wheels, and weighed with its hammer strokes” (Ruskin X, 180). The difference is apparent not only in the excessive use of rhetoric by Ruskin, but also in the position of the authors: a somewhat aloof thinker who observes the contemporary situation from a distance, versus an artist who is personally involved in the process of production. In addition, Morris and Ruskin seemed to place the emphasis on different causes of the dismal state of physical labourers. The latter blamed machinery and technological progress for the alienation experienced by the worker. For Morris, it was the way these devices were used rather than the machines as such (see chapter four). The misunderstanding that derived from the confusion between Morris’ views perceived as identical to Ruskin’s, and the original remarks of the author of Fors Clavigiera, subsequently resulted in labelling Morris’ stance in terms of anti-progressivism, anarcho-primitivism, anticivilizationism, etc. In consequence, Morris was often placed in the former

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For the above, I would be more inclined to see the social or more precisely socio-artistic endeavours by the pre-socialist Morris as integrally related to his political involvement. Namely, politics constituted his general thought to a greater extent than it may appear, thus being one of the components of his essentially holistic worldview. Such an approach allows us to see Morris’ socialism as something more than a mere extension of his previous enterprises, and even more so an aberration from his artistic course. The evidence can be found in his writings from the period when he conducted the Firm and was active in the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings, that is in the SPAB, in the “Manifesto,” as well as his lectures from the period of political agitation. The correlation between art and society as well as political issues is particularly discernible in the early socialist lectures of Morris published under the title Hopes and Fears for Art (1882), in which he frequently draws parallels between his views on art in a social context and the political aims (see chapter four). Being an original thinker, yet also acutely observing and commenting on the situation in the Victorian age, Morris was indebted to social trends and phenomena, even if he did not agree with them most of the time. On this account, the movements discussed in the following part, despite their social or artistic character, should be located within the spectrum of Morris’ subsequent political engagement.

The Gothic Revival as the point of convergence Victorian tendencies to seek more amiable alternatives in the past, being in part a reaction against the ongoing processes of decentralisation, followed by the loss of traditional sources of authority and patronage, found their manifestation in the popularity of the Gothic Revival movement. The exact dates of its origin and termination create a difficulty on account of two distinct traditions, namely the early eighteenth-century architectural Romantic tradition of Luddism, instead of being seen as the one who envisioned the problems of the contemporary world. This issue was discussed by Dennis Bartels in his lecture “Was William Morris a ‘Natural Luddite’?’” (1959). Previously, Charles Robert Ashbee (1863–1942), upon his decision to abandon the medievalist tradition of Victorian designs, labelled Morris’ and Ruskin’s approach “intellectual Ludditism” (in Pevsner 2005, 18), thus making no distinction between their views. In the monograph Against the Machine: The Hidden Luddite Tradition in Literature, Art, and Individual Lives (2004) by Nicols Fox, Morris is placed together with Ruskin, Thoreau, and Emerson, although the author points at a different aspect of the Luddite philosophy: their concern about the preservation of the natural world, which is more consistent with Morris’ Weltanschauung.

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style which was a continuation of the original Gothic influences that intensified under the reign of Queen Anne (1665–1714), and the preRomantic phenomenon of Gothicism popularised by Horace Walpole (1717–87).39 Nonetheless, the movement in the shape and form as covered here reached the peak of its popularity in the middle phase of the Victorian age. The chief proponent of Gothic Revival in England, Augustus Welby Pugin (1812–52), himself a Catholic convert, always stressed the religious foundations of architecture, where a concrete edifice should be the embodiment and manifestation of a moral and ethical code of values. On this account, he was displeased with the neo-classical fashion of building construction governed by the imperative of symmetry associated by him with Protestantism and secularisation of life. Instead, Pugin praised “the Middle Ages as a model not just for architecture, but for society, for a coherent, Christian civic order” (Hill 2009, 1). The Gothic Revival could be considered as one of the components of Victorian medievalism, or if we decide upon discussing it in separation, as a parallel movement that was related to it. In comparison to the main line of medievalism, though, it possessed discernible social qualities, being at core progressive rather than regressive, nostalgic, and retrospective. What both had in common was the belief that the state of society was reflected in the art forms produced by it, but additionally, paraphrasing the message from Ruskin’s The Stones of Venice, the Gothic Revival proposed that the society could be improved by recreating the process of production from a more favourable epoch, i.e. the Middle Ages. This assumption, as mentioned, placed it in the broadly conceived social structure of the Victorian age. Further, by constituting the model of workers’ cooperation as an alternative to the laissez faire principles of competition as well as the rules of supply-and-demand in economy, both Ruskin and Pugin made an implicitly political statement regarding their own era.

39

To distinguish between the older version of the renewed interest in the Gothic, whose character was reflected mainly in architecture, and, independently, the Romantic trend derived from literature and culture, in the contemporary terminology the former is sometimes labelled “Gothic Survival.” Morris noticed that difference in his essay “The Revival of Architecture” (1888), but due to the lack of a proper phrase he was forced to discuss both as one entity. He nevertheless traced the popularity of the former directly to the original sources, i.e. the Gothic architecture of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, while the latter was considered by him a cultural phenomenon prescribed to the Romantic tradition. In order to distinguish between the two sources, he divided the Gothic Revival into two phases.

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In early 1856 Morris apprenticed architecture in George Edmund Street’s office, at that time one of the most prominent Gothic Revivalists who exerted a lasting influence on the would-be proponent of the medieval style of building design and, by extension, life in general in News from Nowhere. Although the course of events prevented him from being active in that profession, Morris always stressed the paramount importance of the “true art of architecture” (Morris 1998, 331). Hence, architectural motifs can be found in most of his texts, including literary works and socialist lectures. He seemed to realise that this form of human expression “embraces the consideration of the whole external surroundings of the life of man” (Carre 2005, 2), being the most sensitive gauge of the state of art, the social relationships, and political environs in a given epoch. Architecture, which combines purely artistic aspirations that require a high level of imaginative agency with functional needs and practical skills, was therefore the process and product which fit Morris’ holistic worldview in the most natural and comprehensive manner. Despite that, or perhaps exactly because of it, he was growing more and more sceptical about the very foundations of the movement. If Red House, erected in 1859, could be at least to some extent inspired by the postulates of the Gothic Revival, Morris’ essay, originally published as an article in Fortnightly Review (May 1888), “The Revival of Architecture” shows the limitations or even wrong assumptions of the whole phenomenon. There seemed to be more than one reason for such a drastic change of approach. Firstly, as pointed out by Jacques Carre, the meaning of architecture underwent a considerable metamorphosis in his life; respectively, “his definition [of that term] was less and less narrowly aesthetic” (2005, 2). As a result, when he elaborated on the movement from the perspective of an engaged socialist, he noticed in the aforesaid essay that the Gothic Revival failed to introduce any substantial improvement in the living conditions of the people or the relationships between them. It became the fashion amongst the hopeful artists of the time I am thinking of to say that in order to have beautiful surroundings there was no need to alter any of the conditions and manners of our epoch. (Morris 1902, 203)

The second point raised by Morris was in many respects connected with the first, but it additionally harkened back to the original line of argumentation provided by Ruskin in The Stones of Venice. Morris expressed his doubt about the possibility of the recreation of a Gothic building only by studying, even meticulously, the methods and the designs from the thirteenth century. The fact that, due to the economic circumstances

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and the division of labour, the Victorian worker could not cherish the joy of creation as his medieval counterpart did, would only result in mechanical reproductions, deprived of the genuine spirit that permeated the originals (Ibid., 203). In other words, a Victorian physical labourer working in the specific environs of their age was no longer an artist/artisan, which was the precondition for the organic art of the early Gothic. The quality of Gothic Revival architecture depended on the skills and talents of the designer, while the worker was merely expected to carry out their task. With no room for creativity or imagination—the crucial element of the medieval art and, as a matter of fact, its basis—such recreation of the medieval circumstances was inconceivable since art had to be inevitably excluded from the process of production. The third point brought up by Morris to some extent undermines the previous two. Namely, he admits that some of the Neo-Gothic buildings he observed were marked by the highest standard of both design and execution (204). Yet, they were only available to the richest part of the society, while the rest had to be satisfied with low-quality imitations, not even made of stone, as in his beloved thirteenth century, but of red brick that became the most widespread material in the late phases of Gothic architecture. On this account, in a great majority of cases the Victorians dealt with what could be labelled as imitation thrice removed. The first order imitation could be the late Gothic buildings that were no longer built intuitively but in accordance with the mathematical rules applied to their predecessors. They were followed by the “semi-Gothic survivals of the late sixteenth and seventeenth century” (207), ultimately resembling the originals only in the surface structure. As mentioned, imitation did not automatically denote degradation, but in general the Gothic Revival was responsible for the tawdry buildings which outnumbered those worthy of preservation. This argument is essentially social, and, to a degree, even anti-aesthetic. It indicates that Morris was more concerned with the wellbeing of the entire population than the beauty of architecture, although he would also admit that most of the time the ugliness of a building stands in conjunction with social misery. His observation that some of the edifices are in fact finely executed (i.e. they are beautiful), yet they do not significantly change the overall situation of the workers, is essentially of a social character. In that respect, Morris diverges from Ruskin’s previous postulates regarding the mechanical perception of architecture as a reflection of the general state of society. Hence, we can speak of Morris’ departure from the aesthetic evaluation of the social formations to the opposite practice in which the

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social subjugates or, to a degree, even remains independent of the art forms generated by people. What appeared to infuriate Morris most was not so much the Gothic Revival per se, but the result of the “imperfect knowledge” (204) of its founders, which is the subject of the fourth argument. The concealed accusation referred to the prevalent nineteenth-century fashion of the restoration of ancient buildings, labelled by Morris in his letter to Sir Gilbert Scott (March 5, 1877) an “act of barbarism” (Morris 1998, 401). The trend to “restore,” or in Morris’ words “destroy,” ancient buildings in accordance with the Victorian taste was responsible for the loss of the original medieval spirit and qualities in most of the relics of the past, and thus the cultural legacy of not only Britain but the entire world. Morris’ attempts to reverse that situation met with limited success. From the contemporary perspective, his two enterprises, i.e. The Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings and, to an extent, the Arts and Crafts Movement, should be considered as breakthrough and novel. Amongst other benefits, they changed our approach to the legacy of the past and the common heritage, in other words: culture. The first three arguments by Morris can be placed in the broadly understood social frameworks. Furthermore, the third possesses a strong political context. By contrast, the last is in essence aesthetic and cultural, although it relates aesthetics and culture to the social mien. Thus, Morris returns to his original fascinations, but this return is by no means a relapse since art and beauty are now located within the cultural realm. At one level, then, Morris is consistent with Marx, who also presented art as one of the components of culture. Yet, Morris does not perceive culture as part of the ideological superstructure since, in many respects, it is to him a contradiction of ideology. It becomes an autonomous entity that has positive associations; culture is therefore everything that is worthy of preservation. On account of the fact that the argument in question was the one which Morris emphasised most, we could venture to establish the original order of priorities for him, even if at the same time we should be aware the each element was equally important and innate to his holism. At the beginning his motivation was primarily aesthetic, followed by his social awareness and political consciousness, subsequently expanding to the cultural sphere and leading him to the examination of the social and political constructs in the Victorian age from that position. Ultimately, Morris exposes art once again, yet now in the context of cultural heritage. For those reasons, the means of argumentation and the order of unfolding priorities can be applied to the entire process of Morris’ metamorphosis from Victorian aesthete to an engaged socialist. The change is only

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apparent, though, since he never gave up or denied his interest in art—he simply suspended his activity in that field in order to return to art and study it from a broader cultural perspective. In Stansky’s opinion, “it was aesthetic revulsion to nineteenth century society that shaped Morris’ egalitarianism: his politics began as an act of rebellion against an ugly age” (2001, 96). His socio-cultural endeavours can thereby be viewed as a direct reaction not so much to the Gothic Revival phenomenon, but rather to its by-product: the fashion of mechanical restoration.

The Firm, the Arts and Crafts Movement, and the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings The practical realisation of Morris’ postulates included two organisations which he participated in: The Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings, and the Arts and Crafts Movement. Both can be viewed as an attempt to improve society through raising awareness in art-related issues. To some extent, the same criteria could be applied to his foundation of the firm Morris, Marshall, Faulkner & Co. Despite being primarily a commercial enterprise, by placing emphasis on the renewal of decorative arts in the spirit of medievalism, including medieval processes of production, the Firm was a milestone achievement in changing the Victorian approach to the aesthetic perception of functional objects. Significantly, Morris did not abandon these enterprises during his socialist years, even if the former intensity and passion inevitably succumbed to the higher priority of political agitation. What is more, in the last years of his life not only did he continue with his previous endeavours but he also initiated new ones, including his involvement in the protest against the abuses of public advertising, to which issue his last address was devoted. As a result, the wide range of his socially conscious efforts was crucial for the development of modern sensibility, apparently having a more lasting influence than his political propaganda. While discussing only some of Morris’ engagements, particularly those confined to the pre-socialist phase,40 one ought to be aware of the other undertaken by him. All of them, besides the already mentioned purpose of the elevation of society, simultaneously possessed a political potential that Morris subsequently attempted to fulfil in socialism. Yet, it cannot be said 40

I have included the Arts and Crafts Movement in Morris’ pre-socialist phase, despite the fact that its foundation took place when Morris was in the whirlpool of political agitation. Nevertheless, the movement was directly inspired by his previous rather than the contemporary acts and endeavours.

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that his initiatives were also the constituents of his holistic worldview, having been integrally linked with it. For this reason, they can be considered non-separable segments of Morris’ general thought, equally important as his other endeavours and literary texts. Chronologically, the first of such artistic enterprises in which art could be placed in a social context, was the firm Morris, Marshall, Faulkner, & Co., Fine Art Workmen in Painting, Carving, Furniture, and the Metals.41 42 The other important contributors included Rossetti, who claimed to have conceived the idea of a decorative firm (Gere), and Burne-Jones. Due to the unequal share of responsibilities and work among the partners, with Morris ultimately taking over as sole owner, the original joint venture as well as the subsequent variations are commonly labelled the Firm (1861– 1940). According to Mackail, the primary motivation for Morris’ interest in craftsmanship and functional art was a practical one; namely, in 1860 he decided to design furniture for Red House (1995 I, 140). On the surface, there was nothing political about that decision, and the possible social implications were scarce, if existent at all. Yet, Morris’ dissatisfaction with the state of furniture designing in the Victorian age, along with, as he observed, its low quality, could be seen as the foundation for his later, more socially conscious enterprises. Even if the early objects did not always live up to the public’s expectations, the Firm was pivotal for the rebirth of decorative arts in the Victorian age. Despite having being steeped in medievalism and vastly influenced by the Gothic Revival, Nikolaus Pevsner (1902–83) considered it as essentially progressive, an observation which, along with Walter Gropius’ (1883–1969) theories of architecture, lay at the roots of modernism and, by extension, the 41

Morris, Marshall, Faulkner & Co. survived in its original shape to 1875. It was succeeded by Morris & Co. until its closure in 1940. 42 The full name of the Firm is usually omitted. What deserves attention, though, is the juxtaposition of seemingly contradictory/oxymoronic terms. The “fine art” and “workman” correlation denied the popular distinction between intellectual and physical labourers. Painting and carving connoted “high art” while furniture was associated with crafts, at best the “lesser art” of interior design. Metal, on the other hand, was located in mass scale industrial production, and was generally excluded from the artistic sphere. Their side-by-side placement indicates that Morris disapproved of the artificial divisions in the arts long before the publication of the Hopes for Art (1882) essays, in which he negated the process of art compartmentalisation from the perspective of an engaged socialist. What is more, as early as 1861 he noticed the inception of that process, which he would elaborate on after 20 years when he observed it in its fully-grown shape. This argument against contradicting the terms which should be naturally lumped together can be considered one more proof of his innate holism.

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contemporary approaches to building design (Weston 2005, 6). It was primarily due to Morris’ perception of the house as an organic unity, in which each element was equally important—a premise he would share with the most prominent modernist architects, especially Frank Lloyd Wright (1867–1959). An intermediate, transitory position of the Firm, on the one hand pointing towards the reactionary tendencies embodied in Victorian medievalism and, on the other, to the modernist principles of building design, could be the result of its social and even political character.43 A strong emphasis on ornamentation as an integral part of architecture was indebted to Ruskin’s art theories (Pevsner 2005, 13), as well as Pugin’s postulates concerning the Gothic Revival. Morris, though, in line with his holistic and interdisciplinary approach, extended the notion of ornamentation to his beliefs about society as a whole, ultimately uniting it with his original goal of a beautiful or, as Bill Ivey labelled it, “expressive life” (in Brooks 2009, 32) In Morris’ words from “Useful Work Versus Useless Toil” (1884): We must begin to build up the ornamental part of life—its pleasures, bodily and mental, scientific and artistic, social and individual—on the basis of work undertaken willingly and cheerfully, with the consciousness of benefiting our neighbours by it. (1998, 299)

The principles governing the functional object were therefore identical with those which should be the directives for the common happiness of society. If they were successfully applied, Morris seemed to suggest, the happiness of an individual could also be achieved. Furthermore, by drawing a parallel between decorative art associated with crafts rather than arts, Morris also prepared the ground for his future political conversion. In Peter Smith’s opinion, “[Morris] struggled to find a way of making his instinctive feeling for crafts [rather than arts] the true basis of his political projections” (2010, 145). On that account, the Firm, which was originally a commercial enterprise, could be also located within the broader scope of social, cultural, and, if we follow Morris’ definition of politics in particular, political endeavours. A natural extension of the Firm was the Arts and Crafts Movement, with Morris acting as the primary source of inspiration and spiritual leader, rather than an active member. The reason for Morris’ relative disengagement was the fact that when the movement emerged in its specific shape he was 43 According to Lawrence Goldman, “the firm was an oblique political statement in the broadest sense of ‘political’” (2005, 23).

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in the hub of political involvement, having been immersed in the proceedings of the Socialist League. 44 Nevertheless, his beliefs in the elevation of society through artistic endeavours, including the pre-socialist and early socialist texts, proved decisive for the subsequent formation of the Arts and Crafts tradition which prevailed in Britain and the United States until the 1930s. Even if, as mentioned, Morris was rather reluctant to join it, the movement could be perceived as the ideal point of convergence for his previous and contemporary engagements. In many respects, it was more medieval in its orthodoxy than Morris’ and Ruskin’s original statements. The members advocated workers’ cooperation on the pattern of medieval guilds, a drastic reduction of machine work, the nondivision of labour, and the improvement of the unsatisfactory state of decorative arts. Compared to the Firm, the movement was also more specifically social, additionally possessing strong political inclinations which were to a great extent inscribed in the utopianism of the late nineteenth century . C. R. Ashbee (1863–1942), the chief proponent of the Arts and Crafts tenets, began from the pragmatic position. He believed that the quality of goods and the design should be improved, behind which “lured an aesthetic of daily life which owed much to Morris” (Rowbotham 2008). Simultaneously, Ashbee insisted on the social dimension of the movement, claiming in A Few Chapters in Workshop Re-Construction and Citizenship45 (1894) that “those who argued [that] social questions and ethics had no place in art [were] wrong” (in Rowbotham). Even more radical was the statement of the art critic Roger Fry, who searched for the origins of style not in art but directly in the specific social constructs. In his opinion, “the origin of style lies not in theories, not in the forms of art, but in the social relations of men to men. In short, the origin of style is a social not an artistic question” (in Rowbotham). Moreover, according to Fry it was not enough to change 44

Although Morris was not significantly involved in the Arts and Crafts Movement, his thought permeated its every aspect and dimension: from the insistence on handcraftsmanship to the distrust of civilisation and the necessity to educate common people about art and beauty. According to Nikolaus Pevsner, the chief proponent of the Morrisian worldview in the late phase of the Victorian age was Walter Crane (1845–1915), a devout follower of Morris, as well as one of very few artists who thanks to Morris also became engaged in socialism. Pevsner, perhaps somewhat sarcastically, observed that while promoting Morris’ beliefs, he [Crane] “did not go one step beyond the doctrine of his master” (2005, 17). 45 Morris’ influence is perceivable even in the title of Ashbee’s text. The words “a few chapters” in all likelihood refer to the similar expression in the full title of News from Nowhere, namely “being some chapters [italics mine] from a Utopian Romance.”

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a social structure, but it was also necessary for the change to occur at the individual level.46 These statements signify not only a social but possibly also political character of the movement. Had Morris not been engaged in socialism, he would have likely joined the organisation that was the extension and consequence of his lifelong preoccupation with social improvements, ranging from art endeavours to political agitation. Paradoxically, though, his postulates and proposals came to fruition too late for him to actively promote the Arts and Crafts ideals. At the same time, it was too early for Morris to observe the full spectrum of influences in the artistic, social, and political landscape of the first half of the twentieth century. If the Firm could be located in a social context, having additionally possessed an implicit political potential, and the Arts and Crafts Movement being far more socially conscious and overtly political, the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings (SPAB), also informally known as “Anti-Scrape,”47 could be viewed in socio-cultural terms.48 In 46 Fry’s insistence on a change at both the social and the individual levels was somewhat different from Morris’. The case in point was the quality of a socialist system. Namely, Morris emphasised the importance of a complete abolishment of capitalism, simultaneously believing that a new system of fairness and equality would automatically also result in the happiness of an individual. 47 According to Mackail, the word was coined by Morris (1995 I, 346). It literally refers to the practice of “scraping” the old paint and material from ancient buildings to be replaced by new ones considered more fashionable and pleasing to the eye in the opinion of the architects involved in the restoration. Needless to say, Morris was appalled by what he perceived as an act of barbarous destruction. 48 Similar to the emergence of the Firm, which was necessitated by a proper decoration of the Red House interior, the foundation of the society was a response to a specific “act of barbarism” or “forgery” (Mackail 1995 I, 343). Its origins can be found in Morris’ attack on the proposed restoration of Tewkesbury Minster by Sir Gilbert Scott, the leading architect who specialised in the restoration of old buildings, published in The Athenaeum on March 5 1877. In that letter he called for an organisation that would prevent what he believed to be a senseless destruction of historic monuments. Nonetheless, as noted by Philippe Mari in his monograph Architecture in the Service of Ideology: William Morris, the Anglican Church and the Destruction, Restoration and Protection of Medieval Architecture in Victorian England (2010), the situation that perpetrated the foundation of the Society was far more complex. He locates the roots of the movement in the confrontation of two contradictory visions of the Middle Ages in the Victorian age, namely the one promoted by the Anglican Church, the other being that of Morris (1). The former, according to Mari, witnessed a gradual decrease in membership, which was connected with a religious crisis. The restoration of ancient buildings in accord with the Victorian style and taste could therefore be an attempt to regain the lost

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the “Address at the Twelfth Annual Meeting of SPAB” in 1889, Morris famously remarked that “[these old buildings] are not in any sense our property, to do as we like with. We are only trustees for those who come after us” (1910 I, 146). Even if this quotation, which comes from the time of Morris’ political engagement, may appear somewhat inadequate in the part concerning his pre-socialist phase, the general message remains universal, transcending the frame of a specific period. In fact, he made a similar plea in the SPAB Manifesto (originally titled “Restoration”) of 1877, when he was not yet involved in socialist agitation, stating that it is our public duty to preserve ancient relics in their original form for the benefit of posterity. This pronouncement could be viewed as one of many examples of Morris’ respect shown to the past combined with his clear outlook on the future course of humanity. The abovementioned articulations reflected his deep awareness of the cultural sphere, which stayed in conjunction with the social one. Perceiving culture in a very broad dimension, in the sense of cultural heritage and legacy, Morris diverged from the narrow aesthetic definition of the term proposed by Arnold (see chapter one). On the other hand, it also appeared to be more universal than the anthropological concepts of or/and indifferent followers (3); hence, the historic authenticity and veracity had to be sacrificed for the “higher cause” of the preservation of the Church of England. In view of this observation, the seemingly pointless “acts of barbarism” were a conscious strategy on the part of the clergy who now diverged from the strict principles of Protestantism, espousing Cardinal Newman’s ideals of the Oxford Movement as an integral part of Anglo-Catholicism. The restorations could not be successfully prevented since a great majority of sacral buildings were the property of the Church (3). On the one hand, the Anglican Church signalled the general interest in the Gothic, but on the other it simultaneously cohered the potential followers into the edifices that would be more amiable to the nineteenth century rather than nineteenth century standards of sensibility. Morris noticed that trend, and implicitly, using undertones, referred to it in the SPAB manifesto. In this respect, his orchestration of the society would acquire a new, political dimension. Probably, if we accept such a view, the political act of the society’s foundation was the reason that E. P. Thompson, in his Morris biography Romantic to Revolutionary (1977), inferred that the true intentions of Morris were already socialist; i.e. SPAB was to become a “vehicle for Morris’s socialist views and beliefs” (Mari 2010, 6). On this account, the foundation of SPAB could be motivated by more than a mere care for the legacy of the past, and it should be considered a consciously subversive action directed against the dwindling authority of the Anglican Church. Yet, a simple counterargument could be the date of the foundation; in 1877, Morris was only partially interested in politics and seemed to lack deep theoretical knowledge about most of the political movements and doctrines, including socialism.

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culture that emerged in the twentieth century, coming close to viewing that domain as being synonymous with the concept of “life” (Leben)—central to Wilhelm Dilthey’s (1833–1911) late philosophy in which life denoted the totality of human experience 49 (Nicholls 2006, 73). Such an allencompassing, interdisciplinary approach to culture may be discussed only in view of the organic unity of disciplines, as well as their egalitarianism, that permeate Morris’ worldview and characterise his holism. As a result, the transition from the “beauty of life” to its representation in art looks natural and unassuming if we decide to perceive beauty as an aesthetic concept. What follows is the location of art in the cultural sphere which, by extension, is integral to the social one. Considering that the social and the political were inseparable to Morris, as provided in his definition of politics, the hermeneutic circle was closed by the return to the original source, namely the natural notion of a fulfilled and beautified life. The best vehicle to convey Morris’ approach was architecture, due to its aesthetic, functional, cultural, and social character. Hence, Morris’ active engagement in the proceedings of SPAB should be perceived as more than a mere complaint of a Victorian aesthete or an isolated social critic, who by blaming the senseless restoration, simultaneously expressed his hatred of modern civilisation. The destruction of ancient buildings in high hopes to beautify them was parallel to the destruction of the natural dignity of life and its subsequent replacement with ersatz, since both architecture and life could only be superficially decorated with artificial ornaments. This conviction, at first intuitive then more systematically developed, was the propelling force of Morris’ social and political engagements. It was not so much civilisation per se but its basis and consequences that made him launch his “crusade and holy warfare against the age.”

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According to Hans Georg Gadamer, Dilthy’s philosophy lies at the foundation of the modern approach to humanities, as opposed to the fact-based and verifiable results that characterise natural sciences. In the “Foreword” to Wahrheit und Methode, Gadamer perceives a humanistic approach as related to extra-scientific experiences “akin to those found in art” (Nicholls 2006, 70). In view of this observation, Morris’ distrust of science, along with the extension of art into other spheres, including culture, and ultimately tracing its origin to an “expressive life,” can be methodologically and scientifically justified.

PART TWO

CHAPTER THREE FROM ART TO POLITICS

The Art/Politics Issue in the Pre-socialist Morris The issue regarding the interdependency between art and politics, which is central to this chapter, posits a challenge to assess the exact delineation of the boundaries between the two realms and, likewise, their definitions. First, by considering Morris’ holistic worldview and his ensuing distrust of any artificial divides, along with the oblique political implications of his pre-socialist engagements (see chapter two), the very notion of separating politics from art and vice versa may appear somewhat inadequate. In that respect, we should rather speak of the exploration of the thus-far undiscovered terra incognita (politics), and the subsequent consolidation of his beliefs. Secondly, Morris explained the process of his transition from art to politics, or in fact the absence thereof, in his essay/lecture “How I Became a Socialist” (1894). In that text he claimed that: Now this view of socialism which I hold to-day, and hope to die holding, is what I began with; I had no transitional period, unless you may call such a brief period of political radicalism during which I saw my ideal clear enough, but had no hope of any realization of it. (1998, 379)

We should be aware, though, that the above-quoted statement was published when Morris had already become involved in political agitation; as a result, it was meant to be read by his fellow socialists. It is hard to resist the impression that for that reason it could be a piece of propaganda rhetoric, or at least an intentional simplification. Additionally, the expression “no transitory period” could also be considered Morris’ attempt to persuade his audience that he addressed them first and foremost as a socialist, stating the apparent absence of the direct correlation between his previous art works and the current political engagements. Conversely, emphasising socialism as the sole focus of his lecture, Morris needed to compromise his former opinions and endeavours, and so adjusted the exact words to comply with the requirements expected of a person who is actively involved in the ongoing political debate.

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On the other hand, Morris’ relation should not be hastily dismissed: the breach from art could in fact occur on the condition that we conceive of politics in more conventional terms, which he probably had in mind while speaking to his audience. In that sense, the term “political” was determined and defined by the specific doctrine of socialism. Yet this is not the case with the more extensively personalised definition of politics provided by Morris, namely the one in which the political and the social reciprocate or are even relative synonyms (see chapter two). The apparent difference between the former and the latter sense of politics should therefore be sought in linguistics, i.e. the denotations and connotations of the word (see chapter two), rather than in rhetorical strategies employed under specific circumstances. For those reasons, the last part of this chapter can be viewed as an attempt of an at least partial justification of the instant transition vs. no transitory period argument. Due to the diverse sources and definitions Morris utilised in various texts and different moments in time, the apparent inconsistency, even ambiguity, concerning his application of the terms “politics” and “art” appears unavoidable. While at one time he made a clear distinction between them, on other occasions they seemed to belong to the same conceptual framework—thus also sharing one semantic field. For instance, when he decided to write a predominantly political text with additional artistic elements, i.e. Chants for Socialists (1885), he labelled it “propaganda” not art per se. Along this line, the translation of the Odyssey (1887) which Morris was simultaneously working on was considered by him “art,” and contrasted with other political or politically inspired texts. At the same time, many of his political articles and essays, especially those from the early socialist period, i.e. “Hopes and Fears for Art” (1882), “Art under Plutocracy” (1884), and “The Aims of Art” (1887), frequently draw on the parallels between the political, the social, and the artistic.1 Such juxtaposition seems to derive from Morris’ former beliefs and endeavours that lay at the core of his beliefs. In other words, both politics and social action were already inscribed in the aesthetic space which had acquired a specific shape as early as his first studies/articles issued in the Oxford and Cambridge Magazine in 1856. Due to the general premise that the primary source of Morris’ aesthetic system should be sought in nature (see introduction and chapter one), while beauty had a broader significance for him than just the paramount object of study in aesthetics (see chapter four), there was enough space reserved for art, politics and possibly other 1

They are discussed as the components of a larger entity of the notion/concept, which I label the “Beauty of Life.” The phrase comes from one of the early socialist lectures by Morris (see introduction and chapter four).

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domains. The crux may therefore lie not so much in Morris alone, in the available channels through which he tried to convey his message alone: he would see no contradiction in both art and politics, but due to his clarity of opinions was forced to utilise more conventional terminology. If so, his attempts were partly successful. Nonetheless, it requires a deep understanding of the most universal sense of his oeuvre rather than a mere analysis of the individual texts and art works from the pre-socialist and socialist periods studied in separation. On this account, in my approach I will not necessarily study the pre-socialist texts by Morris as a reflection of the evolution of his worldview, but seek the social/political implications in them. The apparent ambiguity or inconsistency regarding the utilisation of art and political terminology may also be the lack of a unified theoretical work on politics by Morris. Respectively, the interlacing of politics with social action and art could be located within two, perhaps even more, traditions that he extrapolated from, but never fully explained. These included: the conventional perception of politics as the art of public governance through representation (in this sense that politics stands alone) as well as his own sense of the political and the social as one entity (both are interrelated). By extension, since the social situation is reflected in art, and art is the most sensitive gauge of social relations—the convictions Morris owed to Ruskin—all three spheres (the artistic, social, and political) are joined together. Furthermore, in the socialist phase Morris could have been influenced by the scientific Marxism views of politics as induced by ideology (political apparatus), and hence related to art perceived as a constituent of the ideological superstructure. Accepting the last two definitions we once again, though via different avenues, arrive at the all-inclusiveness and reciprocity of his universal terminology. In other words, we must estimate that politics “had always been there,” just awaiting its discovery and a specific vehicle for its conveyance. The related issue regarding the assessment of the art/politics ratio in the pre-socialist Morris is the scarcity of primary sources from that period. There are very few first-hand explanatory texts, i.e. Morris’ Journal from his journey to Iceland and some diary entries cast light on his opinions, but there is no classic work of the autobiography or memoir kind. Also, a comprehensive critical opus offering an insight into his views from the period between 1856 and the late 1870s is virtually non-existent. Even if such texts proliferate in the socialist phase, they are produced from the viewpoint of an engaged socialist, appearing to be the interpretations rather than explanations of Morris’ former commitments. On that account, .

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by no means can they be considered a definite solution to the complexity of the intricate art/politics relationship in his earlier, pre-socialist period. As a result, we are obliged to interpolate his art works with the concurrent socio-political contexts. Morris’ extensive correspondence could be a partial compensation for the abovementioned deficiency of primary sources, especially since, as shown by Norman Kelvin, his letters can be read both as “biography and autobiography” (1996, 1); yet, they would be a more useful appendix to the autobiographical work/primary critical oeuvre than being evidence on their own. Moreover, all letters by Morris to his future wife Jane from the time of their engagement are missing.2 They likely contained some valuable information on the social and political beliefs of the young Morris as well as being of help in determining the extent of his political knowledge in relation to his liberal sympathies. The critical query on the art/politics correlation in Morris’ pre-socialist phase can be divided into categories corresponding to the points brought up earlier. Contrary to the previous approaches that were politicising Morris’ art, one of the main trends of current criticism postulates that Morris’ political texts and endeavours should be investigated from the perspective of aesthetics rather than vice versa: respectively, art subordinates the political. In this respect, the works by Morris produced in the pre-socialist phase are not only relevant to his subsequent engagements but also determine the specific shape of his political activity, by filling in the already defined aesthetic space. We may ponder, though, whether this kind of argumentation is not just a mechanical reversal of priorities—not so much a novel approach, but merely a response to the general retreat of the traditionally conceived socialist ideas in the world. This observation appears even more plausible in view of the fact that almost all previous commentators on Morris’ art from the political viewpoint between the 1930s and 1970s, headed by E. P. Thompson, represented some Marxist school and/or were personally involved in socialist agitation (see chapter four). The apparent drawback of studying Morris’ political agenda from the position of aesthetics however becomes less evident if we decide upon the more extensive sense of the aesthetic. More complex, yet also more exact and credible, is the holistic approach in which both art and politics are considered inseparable and 2

The exact number of letters is unknown, but it is likely that they exceeded 60. The most plausible explanation for their absence was that Jane burnt them later, in view of a serious crisis of their marriage. Another reason could be the intervention of May Morris who, while collecting her father’s correspondence, excluded all letters which, in hindsight, would be potentially unfavourable or controversial. The second option is less probable, and at the best inconclusive (Kelvin 1996).

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equally important. In this case, the critics perceive Morris’ political agitation as either consistent with his art views or, alternately, as a coherent extension of them. Such research dates back to the 1970s when scholars belonging to the neo-Marxist movement, known as the New Left, dictated the main discourse on Morris. Caroline Arscott and Peter Smith, who do not belong to that school but who nevertheless share some general postulates with the New Left, have attempted to close the gap between art and politics in Morris’ original writings as well as in their subsequent interpretations from the contemporary perspective. As a result, the critics and biographers now search for possible subtexts in his otherwise artistic and literary works— a practice I will exercise in this chapter, too. There are two dominant approaches to Morris which tend to split him into either artist or political strategist. I wish to underline recent attempts to recombine political and aesthetic discourse in Morris studies. (Arscott, 145)

In consequence, Morris’ holism is emphasised, along with the attempts to locate the artistic and political spheres, conventionally perceived as exclusive, in the broader spectrum of the human context. Such a course in Morris scholarship, offering integration instead of separation, in fact appears to be far from novel. It gained momentum in the first years after Morris’ death (see introduction and chapter four), only subsequently having been abandoned for the research carried out from the angle of either art or politics. On the grounds of philosophy and ideology, this holistic and all-inclusive perspective owes a great deal to the original definition of aesthetics provided by Baumgarten (see introduction and chapter one), which was more extensive than the one which is conventionally accepted. As already mentioned, in Baumgarten’s theory the aesthetic was not so much concerned with the nature of beauty—the premise which is taken for granted today—but its range was broader and more universal, defined as the “science of sensibility” (Eagleton 1990, 15). Respectively, the more flexible and general sense of aesthetics is of importance in the appreciation of Morris’ Weltanschauung, both from his own perspective and in the critical evaluation.3 In view of this observation, in which aesthetics is directly related to the social and, in a roundabout 3

The Baumgartenian definition is also echoed in the beliefs of Lord Shaftsbury (1801–85), in whose opinion, as expressed by Eagleton: “to love and admire beauty is advantageous to social affection, and highly assistant to virtue, which in itself is no other than the love of order and beauty in society” (1990, 35). Here, the parallel between the aesthetic and the social—implicitly related to the political—is stated more clearly than in the original works by Baumgarten.

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way, also to the political, we are no longer obligated to disseminate art from politics in Morris. On the contrary, all his enterprises and endeavours, regardless of the original source, share one locus. Consequently, the social character of the art-imbued initiatives by Morris, i.e. the Firm, SPAB, and the Arts and Crafts tradition, as discussed in chapter two, is consistent with his aesthetic postulates, while the subsequent political involvement can be regarded as their extension and the new mode of their realisation. By contrast, the approach which takes into account Morris’ own explanation of arriving at politics provided in “How I Became a Socialist” (1894) seems somewhat neglected. This is probably due to Morris’ position in the specific circumstances of his socialist agitation when he articulated the words about “no transitory period.” For instance, Peter Smith, following Matthew Beaumont in Utopia Ltd: Ideologies of Social Dreaming in England, 1870–1900, states that Morris’ own testimony has but a secondary significance. In other words, it should be considered “nothing more than the proof to the existence of the Utopian elements in his political texts” (2010, 144). Despite that, as I will highlight at the end of this chapter, Morris’ insistence on the spontaneous, almost ad hoc espousal of socialism is perhaps too hastily ignored. The alternative model of “instant transition,” which was based on the spur-of-the-moment decision, appears equally plausible as the more popular, exposing the unity of his thought. Furthermore, these two models do not contradict each other; the only distinction lies in the sense and function of the term “politics” understood generally and specifically. Along this line, we must once again raise the issue of the art/politics separation. As mentioned, on some occasions Morris, too, drew a clear line between them, intuitively realising that their fusion could be potentially hazardous for art and politics alike. Since he seemed to consider the political and the social as an entity (see chapter two), such an amalgam of politics and art would also affect social relations, resulting in a state of misery and possibly even violence, the opposite to his original intentions. In consequence, his utopian vision of a conglomerate of happy communities based on cooperation would be turned into a centralised state ruled by the totalitarian system, in this way acquiring dystopian characteristics. 4 This presupposition, which will be more thoroughly 4 The danger connected with “politicising” art and “aestheticising” politics is the pivotal point of Walter Benjamin’s famous essay “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” (1935). In the closing passages, he provides the example of two systems in their totalitarian variations: Fascism and Communism. According to Benjamin, the former utilises art for political aims, i.e. it aestheticises

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discussed in chapter five, formed a plausible vantage point for the tendency to dissociate art from politics in Morris studies. As a result, critics and scholars were divided into those who viewed Morris as a political agitator and those who focused primarily on his art endeavours. In addition, yet another group located Morris in the tradition of utopianism, while the classic criticism possessed a biographical character (see introduction). The junction, the point of convergence, or alternately the starting plane for the Morris scholarship appeared to be necessary for coherence. These would be crafts for Peter Smith, “an aesthetic revulsion towards an ugly age” (2001, 96) for Peter Stansky, or the “beauty of life,”5 a notion exposed in this book, which in fact harks back to the earliest reviews of Morris’ art and politics that appeared at the end of the nineteenth century.

Two Models of Morris’ Transition from Art to Politics The overview of critical approaches to the art/politics relationship is indispensable to my own analysis of Morris’ passage from the early aesthetic opinions to socialist agitation. Bearing in mind the differences and similarities between them, and simultaneously exposing the notion of politics, whereas it is vice versa in the latter: Communism politicises art. In the conclusion, Benjamin warns that both of those practices must inevitably lead to a military confrontation since, in the long run, it is impossible to divert people’s attention from their first objective, which is gathering and increasing personal wealth. In a normal state, art and politics are considered two separate domains, but with their fusion or amalgamation comes a temporary change in the choice of social priorities—the personal is replaced by the collective, the individual is sacrificed for the public. Yet, if the authorities are willing to prolong that condition, they need to find the target—in other words, a “common enemy” posing a potential threat. Although Benjamin wrote that essay before the outbreak of World War 2, his predictions proved correct: the confrontation of the Third Reich with the Soviet Union could be labelled a “war of ideologies,” while the importance that both Nazi Germany and the USSR attached to propaganda was the precondition for continuing the battle. Obviously, Morris did not witness the emergence of Fascism and Communism in the Nazi and Soviet forms; yet, in his insistence on the separation of art from politics understood conventionally, he intuitively realised the hazards of their hybridisation. 5 “The beauty of life” meant to Morris more than just a state of bliss or the fact of leading a happy existence (see chapters two and four). In his later texts, Morris would more often speak of the “pleasure of life,” linking pleasure to the sense of fulfilment achieved after completing satisfactory work. Respectively, “beauty” is replaced by “pleasure,” while “life” is often used interchangeably with labour.

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the beauty of life as the foundation of all his enterprises as well as the starting point, I have decided upon discussing the aforementioned problem in a selection of his texts from various phases of his pre-socialist period (1856–78). I will begin with Morris’ two studies in aesthetics published in 1856 in the Oxford and Cambridge Magazine, placing emphasis on “The Shadows of Amiens.” They will be followed by his implicit criticism of the British society in The Life and Death of Jason (1867) and some fragments of The Earthly Paradise (1868–70). The aesthetics-focused part will be concluded with the rebirth of hope in the Icelandic period and its subsequent consequence: the SPAB movement and the first overtly political statements made by Morris with regard to the Bulgarian crisis. As mentioned, my intention is not so much to present the evolution of his thought, but only to show the political implications in his aesthetic texts and literary works, as well as to connect them to the more discernible socio-political pronouncements which directly preceded his socialist period. The second part is different in the sense that I will diverge from the analysis of the specific texts aiming to establish the level of social and political awareness in the pre-socialist works by Morris. In line with Morris’ own explanation, I will attempt to justify the original argument of “instant transition” articulated by him in “How I Became a Socialist,” in which he claimed that he espoused socialism in its totality at once. Obviously, following the general message of that essay, I realise that it could be but a propaganda text for the potential socialist converts as well as the party members. Nevertheless, the fresh and undoubtedly earnest pronouncements and declarations could suggest more—they sound coherent and plausible enough to give them more credit. Furthermore, the two approaches which can be labelled “evolutionary” and “revolutionary” do not contradict each other: the first is more consistent with Morris’ definition of the political as synonymous with the social, and the second is embedded in the specific sense of politics as the means of the realisation of the political doctrine of socialism. At the end of this chapter, based on an anecdote provided by one of Morris’ acquaintances, I will attempt to present an alternative model of his passage directly from art to politics.

The Evolutionary Model The evolution of Morris’ thought ultimately resulting in his joining the socialist movement can be traced back to his first attempts in literature and art criticism which, although produced from the point of view of aesthetics, possessed some implicit social qualities. At the same time, one

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cannot speak of evolution in the classic sense, since even the more overt references to the socio-political situation in the Victorian age that occur in Morris’ renditions of the Sagas as well as informing the Icelandic Journal are subdued by the predominant focus on art. On this account, despite the specific title, in this part I will concentrate on exposing the abovementioned social implications in Morris’ works from the pre-socialist period rather than follow the exact course of his transition from art to politics. I will carry out my analysis on a selection of his texts produced in the period between 1856 and 1878, in chronological order. Although all of these texts represent the aesthetic approach by Morris, they vary with regard to the level of social awareness as well as in the significance he attached to the social sphere. Respectively, the compositions do not belong to one specific period, but they represent different phases of Morris’ aesthetic productions. Furthermore, the critical materials are intermingled with the literary productions so that the social significations could be studied in a relatively diverse choice of sources and genres.

“The Shadows of Amiens” (1856) Morris in his earliest texts defined the aesthetic space which would be subsequently filled in with other components, including social enterprises and political action. In addition, the wide range of genres, literary techniques, and conventions utilised by him in the descriptions of the French cathedrals, particularly in Amiens, signifies the corresponding practice of interrelating art with other spheres and fields in his ensuing works and endeavours. On this account, these early texts can be considered an indication of Morris’ holistic and non-discriminatory worldview. Of special interest should be the complex position(s) of the narrator who, while depicting the scenes from different angles and perspectives, as well as assuming various guises, is simultaneously William Morris—the visitor to the cathedral. The report part is interspersed with an emotional story told from the predominant point of view of his alter ego who shares some qualities with the Lacanian Other. Yet, the seemingly inevitable disruption of the narrative is saved by the singularity of the narrative voice, a mode which, as in the medieval Romance, allows Morris to exercise control over both the textual structure and the intensity of fluctuating emotions that overrun the author/narrator/speaker/persona. This intricate pattern would reappear in Morris’ subsequent texts, including his utopian novel News from Nowhere. Altogether, in spite of the lack of explicit political and social contexts, the stories/articles from the Oxford and Cambridge Magazine, in the specific techniques as well as general patterns, anticipate

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Morris’ successive fashions and discourses. For the reasons above, they should be considered integral to his creed instead of being merely discussed in terms of an early articulation of his aesthetic beliefs. Between July 19 and August 12 1855, Morris, accompanied by his Oxford friends Edward Burne-Jones and William Fulford (1831–82), travelled abroad for the first time.6 What was originally intended to be a short trip to the churches and cathedrals of Northern France and Belgium turned out to be a lasting fascination, the most vivid and, arguably, happiest experience of his life. Over 20 years later, in a letter to Georgiana Burne-Jones dated May 16, 1878, Morris reminisced: Many times I think of the first time I ever went abroad, and to Rouen, and what a wonder of glory that was to me when first came upon the front of the cathedral rising above the flower market. (1988 I, 486)

Towards the end of the stay, Morris and his companions decided to change their original vocation and vowed to “dedicate their life to art rather than religion” (Purkis 2000, 14). Prior to the tour, they remained under the strong influence of Cardinal Newman’s Anglo-Catholicism, and seriously deliberated taking religious orders—the most popular path for the Oxford graduates. The sudden shift of sympathies from religion to art resembled the beginnings of Morris’ socialist commitment, when he would often speak of the “religion of socialism.” In a similar vein, the ecstasy combined with unconditional admiration experienced during the observation of the Rouen Cathedral could be paralleled to his first reading of Marx’s Capital in the British Library: the level of engagement and the power of intensity were in the two instances equal. That visit, together with another undertaken the following year, was subsequently transposed in two articles Morris produced for the February 1856 edition of The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine7: “The Churches of 6

To be precise, the visit was Morris’ second journey abroad, since in 1854 he travelled with his sister Henrietta to Belgium and Northern France. Notwithstanding, Morris ignored that excursion, and referred to the one he undertook a year later as his first. Given the symbolic significance of the 1855 journey, along with its longlasting consequences, we can consider that chronologically second visit as Morris’ first. 7 The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine was published from January to December 1856. Although today it is associated with William Morris only, the periodical was primarily intended to be the voice of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. It differed from other art magazines of the Victorian age (see chapter one) in the insistence on a tone of high seriousness, which was consistent with the postulates of Ruskin and Arnold. Respectively, according to Cormell Price (1835–1902), Morris et al.

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Northern France: Shadows of Amiens,” popularly referred to as “The Shadows of Amiens,” and “Death the Avenger, Death the Friend.” 8 Although steeped in Victorian medievalism, they also transgressed the limits of the movement, being a unique miscellany of the aesthetic views of the author, his literary compositions and, particularly the first article, the Ruskinian belief in the superiority of architecture over other art forms. Generally inspired by Ruskin, the two texts differed from the writings of the sage in the sense that they also comprised strictly literary narrative modes.9 Apart from the spirit of enthusiasm permeating the descriptions of the cathedral, which would subsequently be renewed in the early phase of unanimously agreed that there would be “no quips, no sneers, no lampooning in our Magazine” (in Burne-Jones 1904, 116). Contrary to Morris’ articles and short stories which eschewed socio-political issues, the magazine did not avoid the contemporary world problems, in particular the Crimean War. For instance, Richard Watson Dixon (1833–1900) produced two articles about the AngloRussian conflict, and William Fulford (1831–82) wrote a poem about the Siege of Sevastopol. This quality distinguished The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine form the other, better known Pre-Raphaelite magazine, The Germ, which was solely devoted to art and aestheticism (Fleming n.d.). 8 According to John Purkis, the two texts by Morris were meant to be the beginning of a series of articles, but the enterprise was never completed. Having thus only been the studies for the unfinished picture, they stood the ground in their finely executed detail and, particularly “The Shadows of Amiens,” in the rich and complex narrative structure. Paradoxically, because of their incompleteness, they offer a better insight into the original mind of the young Morris than they would as a part of a series. It is more than likely that had the original project been delivered, Morris would have inevitably repeated the statements made at that time by his unquestionable master, John Ruskin. Furthermore, the two articles share some elements with enigmatic pieces of unfinished stories that Morris had produced over the years. These fragments of a larger whole that would never materialise attract growing attention on the part of Morris critics and scholars. Fiona MacCarthy (1994) has recollected two such examples: in 1871, during the visit to Iceland, Morris wrote a short literary text on the top of Kaldidalur valley (301); on another occasion, he would tell a series of horror tales “about a man condemned to bad dreams” to a young Rudyard Kipling and Burne-Jones’ children (399). 9 This statement needs to be verified, if we take into account specific excerpts from Ruskin’s works. For instance, Seven Lamps of Architecture is primarily a discourse on architecture, not literature. At one point, however, Ruskin infers that there are “two strong conquerors of the forgetfulness of men, Poetry and Architecture; and the latter in some sort includes the former, and is mightier than reality” (1963, 101). In view of that opinion, Morris’ literary texts, including the narrative parts of the article in question, should not be considered independent of Ruskin, but rather consistent with his general thought.

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Morris’ socialist engagement, there seems to be no connection between his emotional journey to France and politics in any shape or representation. Significantly, in both articles Morris ignored the social situation in Britain’s overseas neighbour as well as the living conditions of the French people. Leaving aside the level of his political awareness, those issues should have been of at least marginal interest since the two countries were allied in the Crimean War (1853–6) during which Morris and Burne-Jones deliberated joining the British Army on a voluntary basis (Boos 2007, 21). Likewise, the allusions to the appalling fashion of “restoration” of ancient buildings in accord with the Victorian taste—the practice which he would later so vehemently oppose by founding the Anti-scrape movement—are missing in the specific descriptions of the Amiens or Rouen cathedrals. Morris omitted that issue, despite having already been aware of the ongoing process, as he toured the cities of Normandy and Picardy equipped with John Murray’s (1808–92) Handbook for Travellers in France (1848), a publication which exposed the “mutilations and other forms of destruction in some of the churches they visited” (Boos 2007, 17). Due to the absence of the explicit social or historical context in the articles, Florence Boos suggests that they represent relatively modern critical approaches. Respectively, the non-narrative part of “The Shadows of Amiens” stands in compliance with the postulates of the New Criticism applied to the arts, while the other essay/study, “Death the Avenger, Death the Friend,” 10 could represent both the New Criticism and the viewerresponse criticism (Ibid., 27). The latter opinion, in turn, owes to Walter Gordon’s observation that “neither a historical treatment of the setting of the woodcuts, nor any estimate of Rethel’s merit as an engraver” (in Ibid., 27). These qualities may indicate that Morris was primarily interested in the aesthetic, and his subsequent redirection towards social criticism was necessitated by the circumstances he lived in, rather than “inborn.” In that respect, his remarks about politics produced almost 40 years later appear to be more consistent with his original viewpoint. Namely, in “How I Became a Socialist” (1894) Morris offered an insight about the true motives for his political conversion: For politics, as politics, i.e. not regarded as necessary or cumbersome and disgustful means to an end, would never have attracted me, nor when I had become conscious of the wrongs of society as it is now, and the oppression 10

“Death the Avenger, Death the Friend” is a study of two woodcuts by Alfred Rethel (1816–59), who was known as an admirer of Albrecht Duerer, and particularly fond of the Danse Macabre genre.

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Significantly, in the above passage Morris makes no allusion to art and aesthetics, which preceded his social and then political engagements; he merely states that, otherwise, he would never have become involved in politics. Only reading between the lines can we infer that had the social situation been better, he would have remained solely focused on art. In “The Shadows of Amiens,” by contrast, Morris seems to refrain from any socio-political comments, and due to that absence the conclusion that his first interest was art appears justified. The text under discussion might, therefore, offer an indirect explanation of Morris’ axiological framework with the aesthetic notion of beauty as the paramount value. Conversely, his social action and political agitation would have to be considered independent of his former aesthetic beliefs, i.e. they were subsequently imposed on the finished construction, rather than constituting its integral element. In consequence, the entire holistic approach in Morris studies becomes questionable. Yet, such an argumentation can be at least be partially refuted if we investigate the deep structure of the text, which in itself appears quite complex and problematic. Firstly, we encounter the issue of the generic classification of “The Shadows of Amiens.” Written with the intension of being an article, it nevertheless eludes some of the common principles of writing thereof, i.e. it neither aims at objectivity nor offers lucidity and clarity of opinion. What may appear to be some form of intentional fallacy seems to be the conscious choice on the part of the author. Due to these characteristics, the reader is more inclined to perceive the text as representing the tradition of belles letters that flourished in the Victorian age and, consequently, classify it as a personal essay. According to Cuddon’s definition, the tem belles letters is today “applied almost exclusively to literary studies and the aesthetics of literature” (1999, 79). Yet, Morris’ text does not comply with other features of the form, namely the sort of literature that “may be described as ‘light’, but not fiction or poetry” (Ibid., 79). “The Shadows of Amiens” possesses a number of poetic passages and the relation is written from manifold perspectives, although, as in the medieval Romance, it is described from the position of a single narrative voice. In the text under discussion, Morris approaches the cathedral in Amiens, an architectural form, as if it were a story, actually more than one story, to be told. In order to achieve a distance from the spectacle he observes, he assumes the persona-like type of narrator who is both himself and, simultaneously, a neutral anonymous visitor. This intricate pattern, i.e. bringing the account of events directly from the personal position and

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simultaneously interchanging it with the Other, who is at the same time the alter ego of the narrator, would be the benchmark of Morris.11 His persona interweaves a slideshow of pictures presented from the camera perspective (in fact, the narrator claims to have recreated some fragments of the cathedral from the pictures he took),12 and particular parts of the church are depicted neutrally and objectively, being interspersed with highly personal and subjective passages (Boos 2007, 39). The latter mode of presentation is customary for the lyric speaker rather than the omniscient narrator. Thus, the description of the cathedral appears to be a natural fusion of fiction with lyric and dramatic poetry, respectively conveyed by a single voice that assumes different guises and utilises various conventions corresponding with his personal feelings towards the specific image. In brief, depending on the level of emotional involvement, this voice is either the narrator, the speaker, or the persona. Additionally, the reader will find many story-within-a-story narratives since the edifice is saturated with various pictorial representations of Biblical allegories and parables. The speaker/narrator is, at the same time, William Morris—the visitor to Amiens who reads these tales in the original context, simultaneously transforming them into a personal experience. At one point he acts like a guide to the reader, even if, following Ruskin’s example, the guide is counterfactual (Boos 2007, 38), often switching to the first person plural when he uses the pronoun “we.” Yet, in the following passage he would return to the original “I,” admitting that he vaguely remembers anything about his visit, questioning the veracity of the whole account. As a result, the sense of expected assurance immediately subsides to doubt and uncertainty. The reader can no longer trust the narrator as not only are the minute details unavailable to him, but also the entire visit gives the impression of having been conceived in the mind of the author. For these reasons, the cathedral description is both intertextual and self-referential—simultaneously objective and subjective —where matters of fact are constantly confused with personal impressions, emotions, or even mind-deceptive appearances. The disruption and diffusion of the narrative are saved by the singularity of the narrative

11

The strategy is most noticeable in News from Nowhere, in which the whole story of William Guest’s visit to a future London is told by an unspecified party member (see chapters one and five). 12 Even the photographic evidence appears dubious on account of the insufficient exposure producing the title “shadows.” As a result, not only are both the narrator and the reader incapable of recreating the details of the visit to the cathedral, but of even being sure whether such a visit really occurred.

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voice, constantly questioning the in-text reality of his report/story/poem, but who nevertheless exercises some control over it. The narrative modes and techniques characteristic of fiction dominate the article/essay strategies to such an extent that, for instance, on readbookonline.net “The Shadows of Amiens” is classified as a short story. As already mentioned, such a mixture of styles, the conscious negligence of genre conventions, and the frequent interpositions of various perspectives of the narrative voice would be common qualities of Morris’ texts, including his two socialist romances: A Dream of John Ball and News from Nowhere. The origins of this practice should be sought in the early Romance characteristics (see chapter one) where the fictional and factual information is often intermingled, the historical context is ignored or subdued, and the storyline does not necessarily follow the Aristotelian three unities. The text arrangement may also derive from Morris’ predilection for the stories told orally rather than literally transposed. Thus, it renders the impression of being somewhat haphazardly pieced together, in the sense that the narrative voice fluctuates between the objectivity of his account and the uncontrolled emotionality evoked by the atmosphere that pervades the premises and the interior of the cathedral. In the second place, Morris, although only implicitly, sheds some light on the choice of his favourite epoch. The narrator informs the reader that those fragments of the church polychrome which were subsequently added in the late Gothic and the Renaissance appear to him far inferior to the early Gothic originals. In the overall description, we might seek the Ruskinian convictions about the superiority of the medieval worker/artisan over their contemporary Victorian counterparts; yet, again, this is implied in Morris’ praise of the edifice rather than directly stated. Overall, no traces of social awareness in the actual text can be found. If they exist, they are only alluded to, deriving from the general impression the reader has after completing their reading. Compared to Morris’ socialist lectures, in which he at least attempted to clarify his opinions and define the position, “The Shadows of Amiens” is also far less didactic and prescriptive. While he makes a wide use of undertones, allusions, and hypothetical inferences, the unity of the text is maintained mainly by the presence of the self-conscious narrator. Even he, as mentioned, sometimes appears fallible and unreliable, in part aiming at a plausible relation of his visit, a moment later succumbing to the mood that he cannot reasonably control. Ultimately, the most interesting aspect of the text seems to be the concept of time, i.e. the lack of a clear demarcation between the past and the present. In an intense emotional experience, the visitor is capable of

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recollecting the two periods at once, which results in what could be labelled “the actual reality of the impossible”—the sensation verging on the tangible factuality of the past and the present converging at a specific place, namely the cathedral, in one moment of time. Questioning L. P. Hartley’s claim that “the past is a foreign country” (1953, xvi), thus being essentially unavailable to the present course, Morris’ speaker/narrator constantly oscillates between the two states. Towards the end of the narrative part, he remains under the impression that the stonemason who erected the cathedral literally lives within its walls. Not only that, he crosses the limits of time, imagining that he was present when the polychrome was painted and the sculptures carved. A similar approach dominates Morris’ early literary works; e.g. his short Gothic/horror narrative “The Story of the Unknown Church,” also published in 1856 in The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine. When he incorporates the sheer fantastical elements into the seemingly factual report, Morris is more radical than Ruskin who, in The Stones of Venice, expressed a similar opinion; namely that the past artists live in their works observed in the present, even though he meant it to be taken figuratively, not literally. What is more, Morris implies that the cathedral stands for more than a beautiful yet inanimate object. It is “a living presence capable of ‘life’” (Boos 2007, 45). The issue of the spatiotemporal relations reappeared in Morris’ works until he approached it more conventionally in his socialist lectures, in which the present and the past are unified first, and then the present is discussed from the perspective of the future (see chapter four). As a result, the building was considered by Morris a story in its own right, which additionally included other tales painted and carved on its walls, eventually being a potential lifeform that could be animated by the intense emotions of the observer. The narrative-within-a-narrative structure of Morris’ text corresponds to the structure of the building: the frame narrative is parallel to the outer construction of the cathedral, and the diverse states experienced by the narrator have their counterparts in various Biblical tales “written pictorially” on its walls. At the end of his life Morris would repeat this practice, although in the reverse order, and by printing his “pocket cathedrals,” i.e. the Kelmscott Press publications, he once again expressed his conviction about the unity of all arts. The personification of an inanimate object, which possesses its own heart and soul, on the other hand points at Morris’ deep commitment to the “master art” of architecture. “We should take care of the old buildings,” he seems to imply, “in the same manner as we do of our loved ones.” Henceforth, these postulates would become Morris’ directive for other endeavours and enterprises, having been aptly expressed in the “Address at the Twelfth

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Annual Meeting” of the SPAB, in which he compared Gothic architecture to a Romance, claiming that “[romance] is the power of making the past part of the present” (1910, 146). The aspects of the aesthetic theory as well as the complexity of the narrative techniques constituted a solid foundation for Morris’ social and political engagement. Despite the lack of a clear social context, the aesthetic space had been well defined and its boundaries firmly drawn. On this account, I would be more inclined to consider Morris’ subsequent activity as directed at the improvement of the Victorian society by raising the standards of art production, i.e. the Firm, the SPAB, and the Arts and Crafts Movement, as more than but an extension of his previous beliefs expressed in “The Shadows of Amiens.” They should rather be considered a completion of the map whose outline had been already drawn. Some of the blank spots were purposely left out, while others awaited their discovery and exploration. In view of these observations, Morris should have undertaken some socially conscious action far earlier than he actually did, probably in the 1860s. This argument can be additionally reinforced by the realisation of his extensive reading of the texts by Ruskin and Carlyle, which would, with time, acquire more explicit social overtones. Regardless, he delayed his arrival by well over a decade, immersing instead in seemingly detached productions in the spirit of Pre-Raphaelitism. In consequence, Morris was unanimously prescribed to the Aesthetic Movement.

The implications of social criticism: The Earthly Paradise (1868–70) and The Life and Death of Jason (1867) The long period of procrastination is generally attributed to the influence exerted on Morris by Rossetti who, on principle, avoided social or political subjects. In a letter to Mr. Manson (January 1883), Morris would subsequently criticise the attitude of his former mentor in the matters of art seen as the expression of radical individualism, perhaps motivated by egoism. 13 Obviously, such a system of beliefs professed by Rossetti in 13

It would be highly unfair to claim that Rossetti was an egoist, perhaps with one exception of his art. There are many examples of his generosity, especially towards poor or unfortunate people, including those he did not know nor expected any reciprocation from. In that respect, he was far more altruistic than Morris, who often spoke of the horrors of misery but, according to Rossetti himself, had never been noticed “giving penny to a beggar” (Mackail 1995 II, 94). On the other hand, Morris was ready to donate large sums of money if he believed that it was for a good cause; for instance, he sold a precious collection of illuminated manuscripts

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which art only played a prominent role excluded political interests and social involvement. The truth is that he [Rossetti] cared for nothing but individual and personal matters; chiefly of course in relation to art and literature. I suppose in short it needs a person of hopeful mind to take disinterested notice of politics, and Rossetti was certainly not hopeful. (in Mackail 1995 II, 93)

The additional obstacle to obtain access to Morris’ mind at that period is the lack of any theoretical works written by him between “The Shadows of Amiens” and the first socialist lectures. As already stated, apart from the letters, we are therefore obliged to study the primary sources, his literary texts, and to a lesser extent his art productions, to fully comprehend his frame of mind. Morris’ long poem The Earthly Paradise (1868–70), which represents, in E. P. Thompson’s words, “the poetry of despair” (1977, 110), shows the helplessness and passivity he experienced in the 1860s. The collection of 24 stories belonging to different cultures and literary traditions, including medieval, classical, Eastern, and Norse legends (Lindsay 1991, 39), set in an unspecified land of eternal happiness, could be considered the only achievable haven from the problems of everyday life. At that time, Morris’ marriage to Jane was gradually falling apart,14 and his beloved daughter, Jenny, suffered from epilepsy. Yet, The Earthly Paradise may also be read as a projection of Morris’ disillusionment with his times, a resignation from any attempts to improve the situation in the social and cultural sphere of the Victorian age.15 to finance the socialist movement. The word “philanthropy” could therefore have a somewhat different sense for Rossetti and Morris: the first put a human in focus, whereas the second was more interested in the common good of humanity. According to Mackail, “he [Morris] was much more interested in things than in people” (1995 II, 93), and for that reason he seemed to place emphasis on the conditions favourable to the production of beautiful things rather than the fate of particular persons to which he often remained indifferent. Mackail remarks that Morris was irritated when he faced the “suffering of individuals” (1995 II, 94). 14 Morris’ dedication of The Earthly Paradise to Jane Morris is almost sarcastic. The irony becomes evident in the presentation of female characters in the book; namely, most of them are cold, withdrawn, aloof, and deprived of feelings. 15 Despite the implicit criticism of the Victorian society, the escapist theme and poetic diction secured the popularity of The Earthly Paradise with the public. The epic, according to Lindsay, “became a favourite poem with the Victorians” (1991, 40). In addition, it reinforced Morris’ reception as a “harmless Romantic and medievalist, detached from contemporary concern” (Ibid., 40). Although Morris would subsequently be more ambivalent about its melancholic content, in the

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Since at that time he may have already deepened his knowledge of the Middle Ages (though more-exact accounts of his medieval studies from a historical perspective emerged only in the socialist phase), which resulted in a more critical evaluation of his favourite epoch, Morris’ work is essentially deprived of a historical context, even if he suggests that the travellers’ meeting occurs in the medieval period. Their stories, woven around the concept of the earthly paradise, are of mythical/mythological origin: their timelessness thereby suggests the pre-historic period of the golden age, introduced by Hesiodus (ca. 750 BC–650 BC) in Works and Days. Despite the fact that the tales were intended to be read as romances, the spirit of adventure typical for this genre is absent, too. Respectively, the Romantic quest is somewhat shrouded in ambiguity, as Morris suggests that the tales they recount are the last in their life. Instead of the rebirth or a new beginning characteristic of the medieval notion of the quest, then, the reader only expects the definite end, both in the literal and figurative sense. In The Life and Death of Jason (1867), the eponymous Jason is shown as passive and, most of the time, unheroic. It is significant that, unlike Goethe’s Faust, he hopes to find his golden age/earthly paradise to create it anew. Jason’s passivity, Morris implies, is the reason that the Argonauts’ voyage was a failure—they only had a glimpse of the Garden of Hesperides, but never arrived there. The story, which is of a mythological origin, in Morris’ rendition follows the pattern of the medieval Romance. Yet, compared to the previous book of poetry In Defence of Guenevere (see chapter one), all romance elements, even if more finely finished, appear less lively and flattened. The characters are not so complex, the quest for the Golden Fleece is impeded by Jason’s lack of passion, and the imagery is deprived of the emotional intensity and vividness characteristic of Morris’ previous work, even if he uses colour more consciously and exercises greater control over his palette.16

ensuing works he introduced himself as “William Morris: the author of The Earthly Paradise” (Parry 1996, 43). The book’s enormous success was also the chief reason that, after Tennyson’s death in 1892, Morris was offered the honorary position of Poet Laureate, which he however declined for political reasons connected with his socialist engagements. 16 Morris’ descriptions in this long poem, even though criticised for its purely literary qualities, are nevertheless compelling on account of their visual effects. At that time, Morris collaborated with Burne-Jones on an illustrated edition of The Earthly Paradise, but in the end they abandoned the project. All in all, the book can be considered the first attempt at the realisation of Morris’ idea of the “book beautiful,” in which the content is equally as important as illuminated letters and

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The earthly paradise as the land deprived of sorrow, but also of life, is best depicted in the episode of Hylas’ seduction by the nymph. In her song, she promises the sailor a paradise of love where, nonetheless, “no birds sing,” “flower n’er fed the bee,” and the “shore no ship has ever seen” (Morris 1966, 69–70). This “strangle hollow land,” as Carole Silver labels it (1982, 54), composed of dream imagery which bears resemblance to Tennyson’s “Lotos Eaters,” exemplifies Morris’ approach to the concepts of the golden age and earthly paradise that underpin these works. On this account, the Morrisean Earthly Paradise is the land of inactivity, engulfed in silence: however beautiful, it is also lifeless. In fact, the only character who could be described as active in the story of Jason is the mythological femme fatale, the sorceress Medea. Unlike Guenevere, who stirred the erotic passion in Lancelot, she stimulates Jason’s only for a brief time. When he ultimately rejects Medea for Glauce, the act which was mainly motivated by political interest, he compromises his feelings for conformity. By showing Jason in a somewhat unfavourable light, as passive and withdrawn, Morris would make an implicit comment on his own inactivity at that time. In other words, he could have been dissatisfied with his own passivity, and for that reason he perhaps intuitively sought a way out, but neither personal circumstances nor his epoch allowed him to take steps or seek improvement. Hence, in the same manner as Jason who simply accepts the events that happen to him rather than being caused by his actions, Morris consented to the forced resignation, which, he believed, he had no power to change. If the story of Jason may be read as a parallel to Morris’ personal life, “The Scenes from the Fall of Troy,” a collection of dramatic monologues that Morris did not finish or include in the first edition of The Earthly Paradise, should be interpreted as his commentary on the art and, in a broader perspective, also the social situation in Victorian Britain. It particularly concerns the Aesthetic Movement which Morris was growing weary of, but with whose postulates he was associated with. The choice of the matter of Troy was not coincidental. It was steeped in the medieval conviction that Britons were the descendants of Trojans. For instance, the anonymous author of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight17 (late fourteenth century) traced their origin to the Trojan warrior known as Felix Brutus, illustrations (see chapter one). He would return to that notion in the Kelmscott Press publications, in which The Earthly Paradise was eventually issued in 1895 (q.v.). 17 The author of Sir Gawain traces the origins of some names in Europe to the descendants of Trojan warriors.

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who lent his name to the British Isles.18 The monologues revolve around such themes as pointlessness of battle, which is even more poignant than the scenes of violence and the passivity of the Trojans who, besieged by the Greeks, are reluctant to fight or surrender. “The Trojans become spellbound victims, gradually deprived of energy and will” (Silver 1982, 48). In the text under discussion, a parallel to the Victorian aesthetes, surrounded by the omnipresent tawdriness and aggressive tendencies in the English society, can be drawn. At first eager to fight for the ideal of beauty and redemption of art, they now respond with listlessness and indifference. They would rather ignore the unappreciative audience, but since it is impossible they continue their struggle with no particular objective in mind. Like the Trojans, they are aware of the impending fatality. Unable to reverse the course of events, the aesthetes resign themselves to a prolonged battle that steadily saps their vital energy and stamina. In that period of his life, Morris seemed to have only two options: either accept his situation and abandon all hopes of improvement, or desperately search for something that would be worth fighting for. To his dismay, he could not find the “cause.”

Breaking point: translations from the Sagas (1869–75) and Icelandic Journals (1871, 1873) The harbingers of hope appeared unexpectedly when Morris met an Icelandic émigré, Eirík Magnússon (1833–1913). Their cooperation could be perceived as a blessing on a personal level, but even more so in their mutual literary output, i.e. the Sagas translations. 19 Morris had always 18

The best-known relation (in fact a hypothesis) about Brutus of Troy as the founder of Britain is given by Geoffrey of Monmouth (ca. 1100–ca. 1155) in Historia Regum Britanniae (ca. 1136). In that text, whose historical veracity is however questioned, Brutus is the grandson of Aeneas. 19 My choice of Morris’ translations from the Sagas as well as the stories based on the matter of medieval Iceland is highly selective. In fact, The Saga Library (1890–1905), which was a compilation of Morris and Magnusson’s Icelandic texts and translations, consists of six volumes, with the final one being published by Magnusson alone. This massive and extensive work, the product of their collaboration on the Icelandic lore, included: two love stories, i.e. those of Gunlang and Frithof (1869, 1871), the Laxdæla Saga (1869) which was never published, and four chapters from Egils Saga and Grettis Saga (1869). Subsequently, they would implement the collection with new texts: Kormáks Saga (1870), Volsunga Saga with thirteen translations from Elder Edda (1870, q.v.), followed by five Sagas translated in the early 1870s, but published 20 years later in The Saga

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been keen on the lore of Scandinavia,20 with a special emphasis placed on medieval Iceland, an interest reflected in his early stories and romances, e.g. “Gertha’s Lovers” (1856) or “Svend and his Brethren” (1856), published in The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine. Characteristically, they could be described as “Scandinavianized” (Litzenberg 1935, 93) tales of human passion set in unspecified medieval places and in no discernible time. The last paragraphs of “Sven and his Brethren” additionally instil the story with Biblical references. By introducing two first-person narrators, an English chronicler by the name of William who recounts the main storyline from a time perspective and the other called John, who in the manner resembling the New Testament Revelations (22.8) closes the narrative, Morris would also provide a remotely historical context. Morris returned to the matter of Iceland in the late 1860s. “Lovers of Gudrun” (1869), one of the stories published in The Earthly Paradise, can Library, i.e. Hávarðar Saga, Bandamanna, Hoensa-Thoris, Eyrbyggja, and Heitharviga. In addition, they rendered parts of Heimskringla into English (vols. 3–5 of The Saga Library), and Magnusson provided extensive notes and an index to Snorri Sturluson’s (1179–1241) works. Due to the fact that they took liberties in their rendition of the subject matter, though, Morris and Magnuson’s texts are not included in most of the lists and indexes of the English translations of the Sagas. Another reason for the aforementioned exclusion could be the choice of vocabulary resulting in some inadequacies in the translation of Old Icelandic kennings, which Morris tried to ennoble and dignify since he believed that only a somewhat coloured and ornamented language would become the lofty stories of the North (Aho 1982, 108). Simultaneously, he attempted to convey his own “distilled experience” in the Saga characters and events. For those reasons, the critical reception was mixed, and often unfavourable. For instance, Kenneth Rexroth labelled Morris’ translations a “terrible waste of time,” referring to them as being “locked up in ridiculous language” (in Ibid., 110). More accurate seems to be the opinion of Paul Thompson, who showed the correspondence between Morris’ renditions and his theory of pattern design, in which Morris would attach importance to a finely finished detail, even at the expense of the unity of the subject matter and its entirety. Respectively, he would sacrifice a complete story for a fragment (Ibid., 110) since it was the completeness of the design (not the subject) that mattered to him. 20 There are at least 50 literary texts by Morris—poems and prose narratives— which in one way or another are connected with Scandinavia, excluding the “Teutonic romances.” They can be divided into two general categories. In the early works, Morris would superimpose a Scandinavian setting on otherwise universal plots that focus on human emotions. In this respect, the same message could be imparted regardless of the actual background and details. The second group comprises his mature productions which are characterised by “Old Icelandic plots in a true Norse atmosphere” (Litzenberg 1935, 93).

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be considered the earliest among the mature Scandinavian works. It is the rendition of the Laxdæla Saga (thirteenth century), though Morris’ version substantially differed from the original. Not only was the historical context downplayed or ignored, but many changes and implementations were added. In general, the plot concentrates on the eponymous Gudrun (c.f. Guðrún) and her ill-fated love affairs. By eschewing references to history and social relations in medieval Iceland—the hallmarks of Morris’ subsequent translations from Icelandic and the Iceland-inspired texts—as well as placing emphasis on Romantic imagery and psychological motivation, the poem was consistent with the general atmosphere of The Earthly Paradise. In that respect, “Lovers of Gudrun” belonged to the prior phase of Morris’ literature which focused on the intensity of human emotions, often interwoven with a dreamlike imagery. Conversely, the work shared some characteristics with his first attempts at poetry and, to an extent, with the general mood and atmosphere in “The Shadows of Amiens.” In those chronologically earliest works, most of which were published in his first book of poetry The Defence of Guenevere, the primary function of historical accounts was to provide a backdrop to often-unresolved conflicts between love and loyalty. 21 Nevertheless, as compared to the previous publications, the saga-inspired story appeared to be more firmly imbedded in the reality of the original, having been the product of Morris’ comprehensive studies in the matter of Iceland. Unlike the Guenevere poems, then, in which the primary sources were but a pretext to tell a universal story, “Lovers of Gudrun” remained faithful to the aura that permeates the Laxdæla Saga, even if the actual poem was deprived of a socio-historical context. For that reason, the poem anticipated the similar strategy employed by Morris in News from Nowhere (see chapter five), 21 For instance, “The Haystack in the Floods” is set during the Hundred Years’ War and vaguely follows Froissart’s Chronicles. Other than that, though, the poem concentrates on the doomed love of Jehane and Robert who are persecuted by Godmar. The historical circumstances and the social context are, respectively, of secondary importance. They merely serve to foreground the tragedy of the two lovers during their ultimate parting. In some texts, though, it is possible to establish the exact time; for instance, “Sir Peter Harpdon’s End” takes place on November 10, 1377. In the narrative, Morris closely follows the descriptions provided by Froissart and the characters bear names that resemble real people mentioned in the Chronicles. Furthermore, the date seems not coincidental since the year 1377 marked the decisive break in the Hundred Years’ War when the English were forced to cede initiative to the French. Nonetheless, the historical epoch only constitutes a background to the central theme of the poem, which is Lambert’s jealousy of Sir Peter’s success in winning the love of Lady Alice.

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although, as far as the surface structure of the two works is concerned, they may appear incongruous: Morris’ utopia was written from a different perspective, belonged to a different literary tradition, and was produced under entirely different circumstances.22 The social or possibly implicitly political statements surface in Morris’ most mature Saga translation/rendition, namely Sigurd the Volsung. The sources he drew upon were the Volsunga Saga (ca. 1000), as well as, to a lesser extent, the Poetic Edda (pre-thirteenth century), from which two works the better-known Nibelungenlied (thirteenth century) emerged. The story could be considered the crowning achievement of Morris’ interest in Norse literature dating back to his youth, when he acquainted himself with Benjamin Thorpe’s Northern Mythology (Gentry 2002, 273). Sigurd the Volsung is not a verbatim repetition of “the grandest tale that ever was told” (in Harvey 1996, 71), as Morris would label it, but it nevertheless is far closer to the original than the previous literary rendition of the Icelandic lore, namely “Lovers of Gudrun.” In the preface to the work that directly preceded the story of Sigurd, i.e. Völsunga Saga. The Story of the Volsungs and Niblungs, with Certain Songs from the Elder Edda (1870), Morris stated that “this is the Great Story of the North, which should be to all our race what the Tale of Troy was to Greeks” (1870, xlv). The quoted excerpt carries some socially conscious connotations. Morris’ usage of the term “race” instead of “nation” or “country” is significant in this context; furthermore, it appears to not be coincidental. It could indicate Morris’ awareness of the ongoing racial debate (see chapters one and two) and be interpreted as a manifestation of his critical attitude towards Victorian racialism based on the notion of the apparent superiority of the Anglo-Saxon race. In comparison to other theories of his time, we may observe a shift in emphasis in Morris; namely, he would expose the all-inclusive and universal Germanic origins of the British culture, rather than a narrower, implicitly nationalistic acceptance of the Anglo-Saxon roots. As far as the uniquely English character from before the Industrial Revolution was concerned, he believed that its foundations were to be sought in Beowulf, based on a Scandinavian tale, rather than in the tales of King Arthur or Robin Hood. Respectively, the values Morris hoped to restore should be derived from the essentially universal Icelandic 22

Obviously, my opinion can easily be contested on the grounds of Morris’ socialism, the political situation, as well as the exact date of the story of Nowhere. Yet, in view of my approach to News from Nowhere as a political utopia deprived of politics, being also an attempt to show historical circumstances in an epoch when history is a thing of the past, i.e. the time when the beauty of life concept finally materialises, I believe that this observation is justified.

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Sagas, not just from the period of the struggle against the Norman oppression. Public responses towards the Icelandic cultural and social heritage were however more ambivalent. The adventure-seeking spirit of Norsemen and its manifestations appealed to Britons, yet mainly as a justification of the colonial expansion that led to the emergence of the British Empire. In that sense, the intrepid and adventurous Vikings could be either considered one of the role models for Anglo-Saxons or, to some extent, for their Germanic relatives who shared the common cultural heritage. Yet, the bellicose aspect of their life and the mental constitution of Norsemen was one of a few things which Morris was uncertain of, especially in the subsequent phases of his Icelandic studies. On the one hand, he approved of the belief in a rebirth of society even if it happened as the result of an apocalyptic turn. On the other, he associated it with the attempts to provide a theoretical basis for the expansion of the British Empire. In other words, the warlike predispositions of the Vikings were incorporated into the ideological basis so that it could justify a legal form of exploitation for the purpose of gathering wealth—a conviction he held even before his conversion to socialism. Respectively, Morris extolled other characteristics of Icelandic voyagers, in particular those which were imbedded in the system of “natural” social equality and based on mutual bonds and kinship, as reflected in the Norse culture. For the above reasons, the story of Volsungs was to Morris more than merely another tale about passion, love, and betrayal. By drawing a comparison between the Icelandic text and the Iliad, he attempted to inform the British public about their common cultural heritage which transgressed the spur-of-the-moment demands of shallow patriotism (jingoism), pride in the exclusively Anglo-Saxon character of the British culture, or imperialistic vainglory. The alternative he offered was the classless society of medieval Iceland. Respectively, in Sigurd the Volsung, he would attempt to remain as close as possible to the spirit of the 23 original. Having been concerned about the linguistic accuracy of the tale 23

Morris’ deep concern about linguistic accuracy and his faithfulness to the spirit of the original were manifested in his opinion about Richard Wagner’s free transposition of Nibelungenlied into an opera. According to Morris, such a practice was almost a travesty, depriving the great epic of its essentials. In other words, the operatic rendition was nothing short of a perverted, grotesque image of the story of Siegfried (which in itself was already a remote echo of the great Icelandic predecessor). Morris commented on Wagner’s The Ring of the Nibelung: “I look upon it as nothing short of desecration to bring such a tremendous and world-wide subject under the gaslights of an opera: the most rococo and degraded of all forms

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which was intended to be, in the words of the Atlantic Monthly reviewer, “the great English epic of his generation” (Faulkner 1995, 249), Morris infused his text with archaisms as well as employing a complex syntax along with a plethora of Old English tropes (alliteration, kennings, heiti, etc.). In effect, the story proved difficult to read, and despite the critical praise it was relatively unpopular with the public. Such a reception was symptomatic of the conflict Morris had to subsequently face while publishing his other literary works and, by analogy, in his political agitation. Namely, in line with other Victorian poets such as Browning and Tennyson, “[Morris’ method was] not to reproduce the antique, not as the ancients felt it, but as we feel it—to transfuse it with modern thought and emotion” (The North Atlantic Review, in Faulkner 1995, 247). Yet, simultaneously, in the words of Mackail: Morris was too conscientious an artist, and too deeply in sympathy with the spirit of the Saga, whether Greek or Northern, to make things easier for his readers by modernisations of language or sentiment, or by slurring whatever in the original is weak, or verbose, or in any way repellent to modern feeling. (1995 II, 183)

On this account, paradoxically and against Morris’ genuine intentions, his accuracy and orthodoxy became an impediment to a wide popular support. A natural consequence of Morris’ studies in the Icelandic were two voyages to the Land of Fire and Ice he undertook in 1871 and 1873, respectively. The account of the journeys was Morris’ diary, which he decided to keep for the first time in his life (Mackail 1995 I, 242). Subsequently, the disarrayed entries were collected, revised, and arranged by Morris after the return to Britain, with, as Mackail informs us, “some idea of publishing [them]” (Ibid.). Towards the end of his life, he however rejected any prospects of publication, and the complete text was issued posthumously as The Icelandic Journals, in volume eight of The Collected Works of William Morris (1911). Compared to his literary productions about Iceland, most notably the Saga renditions, the Journals offered a better insight into the life-world of Morris from that period as well as providing more-precise descriptions of “the most romantic of all deserts” (Morris 1887, 1) and its inhabitants. Intended to be private and intimate, with the purpose to be read only by a narrow circle of friends and acquaintances, and ultimately given to

of art—the idea of a sandy-haired German tenor tweedledeeing over the unspeakable woes of Sigurd, which even the simplest words are not typical enough to express!” (in Mackail 1995 I, 319).

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Georgiana Burne-Jones, those notes substantially differed from his translations also in the choice of language. Instead of sophisticated words and archaic dictum, Morris utilised relatively informal vocabulary as well as a simple and lucid style. Morris would repeat this strategy in his socialist period in drawing a clear distinction between literary and propaganda texts by introducing linguistic amendments to the intended discourse: literary, archival, and political/social. Furthermore, in his political lectures, he would differentiate between the working- and middleclass audiences, adjusting the style, rhetoric, and vocabulary with the intention to impart his message in the most adequate manner. A good example of such a methodological approach to language could be his lecture “The Relations of Art to Labour” (see chapter four). It is debatable, though, if we are disposed of sufficient evidence, to establish a connection between his voyages to Iceland and political agitation. Especially the first part of the Journals, i.e. Morris’ diary from the original visit of 1871, gives little support for such a claim. It is saturated with descriptions of nature, mostly viewed as grim and melancholy. At the same time, contrary to the second part, Morris pays relatively little attention to the inhabitants and their institutions, which would only later become the focal point of his discourse on Iceland. Significantly, the landscape depictions are to a large extent inspired by the fact that the same land formations were seen by the Saga characters and authors, an observation that would in turn suggest that Morris’ voyage to Iceland was in fact a journey to the past, a revisionist attempt to cope with his idealised vision of that country. Hence, the descriptions of the actual experience and views are frequently juxtaposed with Morris’ perception of the same images, but from a distant perspective as steeped in history and myth. At some points, he seems to be entangled in a net of the past and the present, being equally doubtful about the actuality of the moment and the simultaneous transcendence of it. A sample depiction of such a loop in time state could be his entry from August 6, 1871. Just think, though, what a mournful place this is—Iceland I mean—setting aside the pleasure of one’s animal life there: fresh air, the riding and rough life, and feeling of adventure—how every place and name marks the death of its short-lived eagerness and glory; and withal so little is the life changed in some ways: Olaf Peacock went about summer and winter with his live-stock and saw to his haymaking and fishing as just this little peaknosed parson does; his victuals under his hall “marked with famous stories” [from the Sagas]: I don’t doubt the house stands on the old ground. (1911, 108)

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Not only are the past and present placed side by side, but additionally the present appears vastly belittled as compared to the past, being almost a caricature of the once glorious days. Following this, Morris comments: “But Lord! What littleness and helplessness has taken the place of the old passion and violence that had place here once—and all is unforgotten; so that one has no power to pass it by unnoticed” (Ibid.). Such descriptions reappear in the Journals, which could imply that Morris was relatively uninterested in the present-day Iceland, constantly foregrounding the literarily transposed past. As a result, even the landscape features become somewhat “dwarfed” or diminished since, instead of being a backdrop to the heroic deeds of, say, Sigurd and his father Sigmund, or acting in unison with them, these landscape formations now, both literally and figuratively, only expose the barren ground. The tone and register do not significantly change in the diary from 1873, although compared to the previous journal Morris devotes more space to the inhabitants of Iceland and their customs. Nonetheless, due to the private character of the entries, he eschews contrasting their mindset, life, and experience with his contemporary Victorians. Also, the descriptions of nature appear more realistic and straightforward, being deprived of the direct link between the author’s inner emotions and their reflection in the environment. Such words as “ugly,” “dreadful,” and “awful” proliferate in the actual depictions of the Icelandic wilderness, which may point to Morris’ disenchantment with the land. Even if he, at times, admits that the some features “have a kind of beauty” (1911, 203) in them,24 this particular statement being about the glaciated Jokuls, a sense of fatigue or even implicit disappointment permeates the Journal. If one intends to read the diaries with the purpose of finding in them a prescription for the alternative course of civilisation or a remedy for the ailments of the Victorian age, they may be somewhat misguided. Such a strategy probably results from the subsequent impact the experience of Iceland had on his choice of priorities and social endeavours. Even more speculative appears to be E. P. Thompson’s opinion that Morris the politician was conceived during his voyages to Iceland. In Romantic to Revolutionary Thompson wrote: 24 By using this expression in the description of a rugged rocky mountain, Morris actually means the “kind of beauty” which Ruskin would label “sublime”— respectively contrasting the two terms, i.e. the “beautiful” with the “sublime.” Given the totalising and transcendent meaning of beauty professed by Morris, though, he ignores Ruskin’s differentiation and merely implies a special kind of beauty that is different from the established and conventional connotations of the term.

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Likewise, Frederick Kirchhoff saw the journeys as resulting in Morris acquiring a greater perspective and deeper understanding of the world. As he argued, this new dimension was possible on account of Iceland’s grandeur and isolation (Wiens 1991, 16), simultaneously coinciding with the occurrence of the “diminished self” Morris faced during his observation of the isolated land on the outskirts of Western civilisation. According to David Spurr, it was the geographical situation of Iceland that defined it culturally as a “border region,” hence a "place that opened itself to the realities of otherness” (196). Only in such locations, “it is possible to live both within and beyond the West." (Spurr 1969, 196). Subsequently, he inferred that the experience of Iceland allowed Morris to gain a new insight into his own life and world, leading to a more conscious criticism of the current course of civilisation. The expression “border region” can also be considered in a broader dimension as parallel to the “in-between-ness” of his life, oeuvre, and experience, which this monograph investigates. In this respect, Iceland was a physical and spiritual embodiment of Morris, a “centrepiece of his middle life” as Pamela Bracken Wiens has defined it (1991, 14). By extension, we can venture to consider it the “centre” of his worldview. Paradoxically, but not coincidentally, that centre was situated on the outermost limits of the Western World. Hence, Morris’ long journey to that discovery was also the inner exploration of his true self. Having been placed in London, at that time the cultural centre of the world and the geographical capital of the British Empire, he realised that in order to arrive at his focal point he needed to depart from the customary centre rather than search inside it. By choosing the opposite direction, which superficially appeared to be nonsensical, he was capable of observing his times from the wider perspective of the periphery: to be simultaneously involved and disengaged. This could be one of the reasons behind his scathing criticism of another Victorian travel narrative about Iceland, i.e. Ultima Thule (1872)

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by Richard Burton (1821–90).25 In that work, Burton, already a renowned explorer and seasoned globetrotter, approached the land of geysers from the position of British colonialism, offering the reader an extensive catalogue from the geographical features to the Icelandic institutions and customs. Respectively, influenced by the philosophy of utilitarianism, he speculated about a possible exploitation of the natural resources and the potential profit they could bring to British society. To Burton, Iceland was but one more terrain to be customised by British commerce, and in that respect his narrative did not differ from his other “travelogues” about Syria or Africa (Wiens 1991, 13). Morris had to be enraged by such a treatment of the place that was so special to him, and even more so by Burton’s overtly patronising rhetoric. His subsequent criticism of the policy of the British Empire, and ultimately the empire as a political but especially socio-cultural construct, can be traced back to his reception of Burton’s work. I would be cautious to claim that there existed a direct connection between Morris’ observations made during the voyages to Iceland and his political statements pronounced almost a decade later. Not only is the space of time too extensive, but we also have very scarce information from the time of the voyages about his interest in the forms of Icelandic democracy and political institutions; at least, no such evidence can be found in the textual structure of the Journals. This observation can be somewhat modified if, as suggested by Fiona MacCarthy and pointed out by Pamela Bracken Wiens (1991, 14), we decide upon reading Morris’ diaries as sub-texts “revealing the responses he kept from his fellow travellers, emotions that in a sense subverted male camaraderie, a whole network of private apprehensions and joys” (MacCarthy 1994, 281). Again, though, the reader can fall victim to a special kind of structural irony: they would interpret the Journals from the perspective of Morris’ subsequent political endeavours. I would be more inclined to read Morris’ diaries from the voyages to Iceland—the country of geysers and barren mountains, in temporal terms—as a journey to the borderland where a remote history and prehistory converged. The function of the present in that respect was mainly to reassure him that the past could still exist in unchanged form. Hence, Morris’ focus on the permanence of nature which bore witness to the heroic deeds of the Saga characters was interspersed with rather belittling descriptions of the same formations viewed from the perspective 25

In the letter from November 4, 1872, addressed to Magnuson, Morris remarked: “I am curious to see what that humbug Burton has to say about Iceland” (in Wiens 1991, 12). He utilised a similar tone in his previous opinions about Burton’s work.

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of the present-day traveller. In the long run, it appears that the spatiotemporal construct of Morrisean Iceland was also his valediction to the life of a dream. The discovery of his centre in the outermost provinces of the civilised world coincided with the realisation that the past could not be repeated. Henceforth, Morris would change course to the matters of the present and the future. That was probably the raison d’etre of the whole enterprise from the very start, even if the anticipations could have been only intuitive. On this account, his announcement made after the second voyage to Iceland that he would never visit that isle again could hardly be unexpected. The voyages to Iceland marked the end of the aesthetic and escapist era of Morris, starting with his collaboration with the aesthetic wing of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, the fullest manifestation of which was his long poem The Earthly Paradise. As mentioned, it is somewhat risky to discuss the journey in terms of a new beginning or the birth of Morris as the social critic, since there is not enough evidence in the actual texts to support that claim. The full social consequence of Morris’ two visits became discernible not so much in the Journals, but in his subsequent endeavours. As Bradley observes, “The experience of Iceland finally ended Morris’ medieval escapism, and inspired him to go out and do things in the modern world” (1978, 54) Taking the Icelandic models of “natural egalitarianism” and “democracy from the root up,” Morris would combine them with the principles found in the Sagas, simultaneously attempting to transplant them onto his own native ground and contemporary times. With the passage of time, Morris would conceptualise Iceland from a geographical area to a temporal construct, to a reflection to his own self, ultimately merging the actual experience of the land with its history and literature. That process was reflected in his more conscious use of the word “barbarism,” which resulted in a seemingly contradictory meaning of the term in his writings. On the one hand, he would either employ it in the established derogatory sense, as e.g. “acts of barbarism” in the SPAB papers (see chapter two), while on the other he attached a positive meaning to it, which derived from his readings of the Sagas that presented the “barbarian” world. In the words of Lindsay: He was not consistent in his use of the term barbarous or barbarian, at times using it to express the callous and insensitive destructiveness of the bourgeois world, at times using it to express a destructive force from below that would smash things but would also make a renewal possible. (1991, 254)

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Subsequently, Morris’ realisation of the contradictory meanings defining the notions of barbarism led to his criticism of political institutions thriving on the one-dimensional signification of the term. In general, barbarism had negative connotations and was often juxtaposed with civilisation; respectively, the “barbarous” was the antonym of the “civilised.” By analogy, since “barbarous” was considered the synonym of “uncivilized,” the ideological background for colonial expansion was based on the idea of “civilising the uncivilised,” thus implicitly barbarous, nations. Yet, according to Morris, the very word “civilisation,” particularly conceived in the specifically Victorian context, was questionable. Even if neutral at the signifier level, it possessed many negative implications, including the very idea of progress connected with that term which acquired a derogatory meaning at the signified level. Morris realised that the real aim of colonialism was political and economic rather than cultural: the objective was to gain profit and sustain international trade, while spreading British culture and the English language—the officially proclaimed basis for the concept of Pax Britannica—was only a by-product or a cover-up of the above. Even if he used “barbarism” in a negative context, it was not in the sense of the “uncivilised,” at least not as popularly conceived. From the historical perspective, Morris associated barbarians with the birth of a modern world as well as revitalisation of Roman culture that was gradually moving towards decay. The fusion of the Roman and Greek element with barbarous Germanic invaders gradually led to the emergence of his favourite style of the early Gothic. He explained the process of change from the classic art of Rome to the Gothic in his essay “The History of Pattern Design” (1879), and expounded further in “The Gothic Revival” (1883). According to Morris, the first stage in the development of Gothic architecture occurred when the Roman art mixed with the influences from the East, i.e. Mesopotamia and Persia, culminating in its most advanced form in the art of Byzantium under Justinian. Subsequently, it was spread across Europe by the barbarian tribes of Goths and finally reached the shores of England and Northern France. The English/North French variation of the Gothic, which Morris considered superior to other forms of this style—German and Italian—was the embodiment of the best traits of the Byzantine with a new, fresh element from the Germanic nations. As a result, the Roman classical forms were substantially reduced, while the Eastern predilection for the excessive use of ornament subdued. The art of the Gothic was organic and natural in the sense that it complemented nature rather than simply imitated natural forms. Morris upheld this view

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as integral, in fact necessary, for the continuation and development of art as a whole. Art perceived as deriving from nature as well as seen in terms of its complementation rather than mere transformation was the expression of the free spirit, hope, and progressiveness inborn among the Germanic peoples: in brief, it was the natural extension of the life they led. In this respect, the word “barbarism” had to be re-evaluated as it now connoted positive associations. Respectively, the rise of the barbarous nations was indispensable for the emergence of Western Culture. Barbarism, as presented above, could however only be viable when juxtaposed with the art and culture of Rome and then filtered through the Christian system of beliefs. The barbarism of Iceland, on the other hand, did not seem to contain the classical and Christian element, or even if it did it was superimposed on the otherwise pagan cultural superstructure, without having a profound effect on the Sagas. Respectively, Morris to a large extent ignored those elements in the Icelandic lore which resulted in the impression of “pure barbarism,” but which state was nevertheless the outcome of a conscious strategy based on the intentional cleansing of the Sagas from the external references and influences. He was fascinated with pre-Christian Iceland for reasons which might have been rooted in barbarism, but which offered a new and fresh alternative to the decadence of the Victorian age. One of those alternatives was the simplicity of life resulting from the clarity of social relations founded on strong community bonds and governed by the heroic code of behaviour constantly tested on the battlefield and in (usually brief) spells of peace. Mutual respect between all members of community, their egalitarianism in all spheres of life, reverence for courage, and disdain for material belongings appealed to Morris, who saw in them a pattern to be followed in his own society. The social aspects could also, albeit indirectly, be seen in a mythopoetic side of Iceland which captivated Morris’ imagination and was consistent with his pessimistic view of the course of civilisation. “We saw how his emotional sense of something badly wrong with the world had taken a semi-mythic form in the Norse pattern of world-end and renewal” (Lindsay 1991, 254). The model in which time and history were perceived in terms of circular and repetitive phases, rather than linearly, corresponded with Morris’. Morris, who at that time began excessive studies of Germanic folklore, could be familiar with the newly emerged field of comparative religion initiated by Max Müller (1823–1900). In Müller’s theory, world myths and religions were perceived in terms of the juxtaposition of light and darkness based on the day and night pattern. His popular explanation of

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the Song of Nibelungs, which is the German variation of the old Icelandic saga rendered by Morris as Sigurd the Volsung (1876), is connected by him with the solar myth: fair-haired and blue-eyed Sigurd is supposed to personify the sun, whereas the dark-haired Nibelungs are associated with the night. Siegfried’s (originally Sigurd’s) defeat of the Nibelungs marks the passage from night to day. This natural cycle which regulates people’s routine was implicitly contrasted by Morris with the artificiality of life in the Victorian age, revolving around work and wealth, regardless of the actual time and season. One of the words, most frequently used by Morris from his journey to Iceland onwards was “hope,” and despite the retrospective and regressive tendencies apparent in his medievalism, that hope, he believed, ought to be realised in the future. The problem he had to face, though, was the essentially backward (past) direction in the Sagas, thus excluding any possibilities of a future improvement. In contrast to Morris’ enthusiasm after translating Sigurd the Volsung as “heralding the dawning of a new era of peace and happiness” (Bradley 1978, 57), the Icelandic model presented in the Norse lore offered no hope as such. Analogously, the Sagas, which are already steeped in history and tell the stories of the earlier pre-Christian Iceland, often contrasting the heroic past with the mundane present, are a collection of tales from the former epochs. They ignored their present-day Iceland to a large degree, regardless of being considered a directive for the ages to come. For the above, Morris was becoming aware that he needed a new alternative system which would, to an extent, contain some of the Icelandic ideals but simultaneously be the product of the contemporary thought and circumstances. At that moment of time, he realised that the aesthetic theories could not fulfil their original function, but rather reinforced the existing state. The SPAB could be considered an attempt at improvement, but its aims and postulates were too narrow, and too focused on only one aspect of a specific socio-cultural phenomenon of “restoration” to be the adequate answer to what Morris perceived as a culde-sac situation. A means to an end could only be found in politics. The first political endeavour per se was Morris’ engagement with the Eastern Question Association, which was directed against the British policy regarding the atrocities committed by the Turks in Bulgaria. The following period was already socialist in character, and it culminated with Morris joining the Social Democratic Federation.

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The revolutionary model It appears more than coincidental that Morris’ conscious involvement in Marxism concurred with his urgent need to write a new romance. At that time, in early 1883, he was preoccupied with reading Persian heroic poetry and carried out meticulous studies of Persian pattern designs, being “on the brink of departure to the field of romance” (Mackail 1995 II, 92). Yet, he suddenly abandoned his plans and turned to the “socialist cause” instead. The brief period in his transition from literature to politics, if there had been any transition at all, is still somewhat shrouded in mystery. The first relation of his studying the works of Marx was provided in anecdotic form by one of Morris’ acquaintances, probably Crom (Cormell Price), during an informal club meeting. He apparently spotted his friend in the library of the British Museum, noticing that Morris was immersed in reading Capital in the French translation—Marx’s magnum opus which, at that time, had not been translated into English. According to Crom’s account, Morris was almost unresponsive and virtually devouring the text, “bubbling over with Karl Marx, whom he had just begun to read in French and praising Robert Owen immensely” (in Lindsay 1991, 256). Despite the fact that this anecdote is only scarcely substantiated, there should be no doubt of its veracity, especially in view of the subsequent relations written in the similar vein. For instance, during a breakfast at the Burne-Joneses’, Morris tired his friend with the incessant praise of Marx and almost theatrical soliloquies on socialism. (Mackail 1995 II, 97) Around that time, in the early phase of his socialism, Morris admitted that he was ignorant of most of the economic sections of Capital, and apart from the historical passages he went through an agonising experience to comprehend the Marxian thought. Nonetheless, his dedication was unconditional, and if he had any doubts at all he must have suppressed them at once. Such an indiscriminate appreciation of Marxism in its totality dumbfounded his most intimate friends, including Burne-Jones, who tried to downplay the causes as well as the effects of Morris’ socialist conversion. Although Morris’ passage to socialism could be viewed as an act of despair, based on the conviction that Marxism offered a readymade solution to the ailments of civilisation Morris so vehemently detested, I am more inclined to see his conversion as parallel to his youth experience of discovering Ruskin’s The Stones of Venice or the enthusiasm which accompanied him during the first reading of Mallory’s Morte D’Arthur. From this perspective, it was a moment of epiphany which could only be accompanied by the transcendent to common sense experience of an uncritical admiration which drove him to socialism. Morris considered Capital the only contemporary work which belonged to the cultural canon

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formed by the “great books” he provided for the Pall Mall Gazette of 1886, and which was mentioned in chapter one—a modern Bible or, alternatively, the greatest “romance” of his times. On this account, he deliberately rejected any claims of a critical appraisal of Marx’s magnum opus, regardless of whether it was retrospective or introspective. The emotions were so intense that they could in fact be seen as parallel to a religious experience, which encouraged some critics such as Reginald A. Beckett to speak of Morris’ socialism as “essentially religious” (169). Morris was disappointed with a step-by-step process leading to only superficial and illusionary improvements, and thus needed a broadly conceived revolution, a spiritual and transcendental experience to find a cure for the vices of civilisation instead of a mere palliative. He imposed upon himself a belief that the panacea was found in Capital, yet in order to accept socialism without deep theoretical preparation and in its totality he had to fully immerse himself in Marx’s work. This was only feasible through a quasi-religious act of divine revelation, which resembled the moment of epiphany or illumination.

CHAPTER FOUR POLITICS OVER ART?

Introductory Remarks Without the question mark, the title of this chapter could appear inadequate as it would imply that, in the period of his political activism, Morris abandoned art for the sake of the realisation and implementation of his socialist ideals. Insomuch as it is true that he neglected most of his former artistic enterprises with the exception of decorative art produced for the Firm, he never lost sight of his ultimate end, also the simultaneous starting point; i.e. the realisation of his ideal of the beauty of life. That notion, which was embedded in the realm of general aesthetics, could be perceived in the sense of beauty as the paramount value, informing all discourses and modes of human expression. If combined in one phrase with the natural concept of life, it will be the most concise articulation of Morris’ creed. By analogy, we can consider his political agitation not as alien to his “organic art” (see chapter one) but as yet one more element of the holistic vision in which life and nature constitute a unifying force of various human discourses and spheres, including the political and the aesthetic. Accordingly, in some approaches they do not exclude each other but, as in the late writings of Edmund Husserl (1859–1938), the political praxis complements aesthetic theory. Such a totalising, all-inclusive treatment of aestheticised politics offers the explanation of Morris’ frequent utilisation of art terminology in his texts conventionally deemed to be “political.” For these reasons, the major part of this chapter will be devoted to the commentary on Morris’ socialist standpoint; yet, this is in conjunction with his aesthetic and moral convictions inscribed in the aesthetics/ethics debate concerning the view of aesthetics as being correlated with ethics. This aspect of Morris’ socialism can be discussed on various levels. Regardless of whichever vantage point we opt for—it could be the Transcendentalist/Romantic approach, which ascertains that the beautiful entails the moral, the good, and the righteous, Heidegger’s “aestheticized

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ontology,” or the postmodern perception of aesthetics as integral to culture—the outcome, in essence, will remain unchanged. This characteristic of Morris’ worldview allowed him to engender works from the period of socialist engagement (lectures, essays, poems, and political romances) which represent and draw upon various discourses and representations. On this account, I will pay attention not so much to his strictly political texts, but to those which discuss art placed in the more or less explicit social and political context. Subsequently, I will attempt to measure the scope of the progression and change of focus of Morris’ artfocused political lectures, provided that the aforementioned processes really occurred. By raising the question of whether we should speak of “politicized art” or “aestheticized politics” with regard to Morris, we will be simultaneously capable of tracing the evolution of his thought in various stages of his socialist period: from art and politics in the abstract, to the specific art forms which to the greatest extent corresponded to and expressed the state of society at the particular stage of development. First and foremost, I will concentrate on Morris’ lectures from the early and middle periods of his socialist agitation, mainly on account of the fact that the boundary between art and politics is less discernible in them than in those produced in the following phases. As a result, it appears that those early socialist texts better reflect the confusion or indecision about the order of unfolding priorities displayed by Morris during his transition from art contemplation to political action. The primary issue was concerned with the question of whether socialism as a system should precede a change in art, or vice versa: the art metamorphosis resulting in the improvement of its quality should be the prerequisite for the socialist transformation of society. In other words, the problem raised by Morris in, for instance, “The Lesser Arts” was about the paramount/auxiliary (anterior/posterior) role of art in the construction of a new socialist world. The aforementioned indecision corresponded to Morris’ own transition from art to politics; namely, the latter (socialism prior to art) order is characteristic of his socialist period, while the former (the change in art preceding socialism) points to his previous beliefs influenced by Ruskin. Ultimately, I will pay special attention to Morris’ use of language and his utilisation of rhetoric in those lectures since, in my opinion, his linguistic expertise is more valuable for the evaluation of his version of Marxism than the actual statements which, in general, do not go beyond those pronounced by the philosopher from Trier. Due to the fact that Morris considered himself an orthodox Marxist, the first task is to show the possible differences and similarities between them. Hence, I will attempt to determine the scale and the level of Marx’s influence on Morris as well

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as find the possible points of convergence in order to eliminate the areas of contention and disagreement in their viewpoints and beliefs.

Critical Evaluation of Morris’ Socialism1 The comprehension of the Morrisean version of Marxism depends upon the assessment of the extent to which it was a continuation of his former beliefs within the confines of a new system and the historical circumstances that this system entailed. In general, early opinions on Morris’ socialism, including those of Engels,2 were unfavourable. They were formulated and expressed from different perspectives: liberal, socialist, or utilitarian. Morris was mostly seen as a sentimental, unpractical, idiosyncratic or, at best, utopian socialist who found, or rather believed to have found, in Marxism the instant remedy to the ailments of his epoch and a directive for the new course of civilisation. Obviously, the differences between Morris’ liberty, if not wishful thinking, and Marxist orthodoxy cannot be ignored. At the same time, it would be a great simplification to claim that Morris was not a Marxist. If we manage to see his socialism from a different angle, i.e. instead of blindly following orthodox Marxist instructions and prescriptions, we can unearth the potential that both versions of socialism offer and will be capable of spotting the striking similarities between them. The first attempts to reconcile Marx with Morris as well as show the consistency of their doctrine appeared in England in the early 1930s with the works of J. M. Murry, a unique and highly original British socialist who, however, remained stranded in his outlook on account of a shortage of followers in his times. To him, Morris and Marx were “the precise counterparts of each other” who represented “a typically German and a typically English discovery of a universal truth” (1935, 341). He criticised the reception of Morris as a Utopian socialist, which, according to him, was the label attached to the author of News from Nowhere solely on the 1 This section is a more-detailed survey of the critical evaluation of Morris’ socialism, outlined in the introduction. 2 In his letter to Paul Lafrague (September 13, 1886) Friedrich Engels called Morris “a settled sentimental socialist,” while in the letter to Eduard Bernstein (1885) he described Morris, Bax, and Aveling as “men as unpractical as you could possibly find.” He also stressed the fact that Morris being poet was a possible disadvantage to his potential use in the socialist cause. The unfavourable opinions of Engels are however overexposed. He formulated only two critical remarks about Morris’ socialism, while over 30 were positive. Nonetheless, only these two are widely quoted, thus presenting a somewhat distorted picture of their relationship.

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basis that Morris wrote a utopia; Murry called this argument “childish” (Ibid., 275). Instead, the term he used with regard to Morris’ Marxist beliefs was “Human Communism” (14). Murry also drew a parallel between his predecessor’s conversion to socialism and a religious experience. The problem connected with Murry’s analysis of Morris’ work appears to lie in his personal, at times even idiosyncratic, interpretation of both Morris and Marx. He, for instance, would often formulate opinions searched for in the primary sources in vain, since his approach to Morris was imbedded in his own interpretation of the socialist doctrine. In other words, instead of remaining as faithful as possible to the original thought of both Marx and Morris, Murry tended to assimilate his personal system of beliefs into the original materials of his predecessors. Such an indiscriminate and unorthodox approach was described by Page Arnot as Murry’s attempt to “fit a mythical Marx into a mythical Morris” (1934, 179), and subsequently, perhaps too quickly, rejected. The alternative put forward by Arnot was essentially political. In a series of books and articles devoted to Morris, i.e. William Morris: A Vindication (1934), “Bernard Shaw and William Morris: A Lecture” (1956), and particularly William Morris: The Man and the Myth (1964), Arnot traced the origins of Morris’ political engagement with his critique of the social conditions in Victorian England. According to him, the negative opinions and beliefs about a dyed-in-the-wool class system gradually accumulated over 20 years, ultimately finding their expression in Morris’ joining the socialist movement.3 It is significant that Arnot, while acknowledging Morris’ mastery in the arts and crafts, simultaneously separated his socialism from his artistic production. This approach concurred with the one expressed by E. P. Thompson in the first version of Romantic to Revolutionary (1955). In both Arnot and Thompson, it appears that their Marxist convictions became confused with the original materials of Morris, which results in mechanical treatments of his political activity. If we decide to follow this line, we would ultimately see a distorted image of Morris’ socialism in which the organic and holistic dimension is significantly downplayed, neglected or even ignored (i.e. Arnot seemed to have committed the same mistake he accused Murry of). Paradoxically, such an idiosyncratic apprehension of Murry’s general opinion would overlap with the liberal and conservative criticism of the

3 Cf. the Marxist conviction about the qualitative change that follows quantitative ones.

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Victorian age showing Morris’ conversion to Marxism as the incomprehensible caprice of a wealthy artist and entrepreneur. These two approaches to Morris, i.e. viewing his socialism as a whim or aberration from the position of the middle-class criticism on the one hand, and dissociating his political texts from the former informed by aesthetics by Marxist schools on the other, determined the reception of Morris the politician in the United Kingdom. Respectively, one could observe their variations or even verbatim repetitions in other countries, on both the Western and Eastern sides of the Iron Curtain. In the former Eastern Bloc, Morris was rarely discussed individually but usually only as a constituent of the larger spectrum in which otherwise non-related areas such as architecture and crafts stood side by side (Goldzamt 1967, 23). As a consequence, his socialism was seen as a correction to some socioartistic concepts of architectural design, craftsmanship, or workers’ education in art. At the same time, his strictly political beliefs were either ignored or depreciated as utopian schemes, incongruous with the main line of Eastern Marxism. It seems that the decisive point for Morris’ appreciation in Eastern Europe comprised the unfavourable opinions by Engels combined with the (especially Soviet) critics’ reliance on secondary sources, i.e. the conservative criticism generated by the Victorian middle class (Ibid., 22). As a result, one could observe an unexpected paradox in Morris scholarship from that period: the Communist authorities seemed to endorse the negative perception of Morris’ socialism expressed by their ideological enemies, i.e. the bourgeoisie.4

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Goldzamt criticises the schematic approach to Morris in the Western part of Europe, but even more so in the Eastern. He notices that, despite the application of the seemingly objective Marxist methodology in the studies of Morris’ socialist texts by B. Arvatov and B. Shragin in the Soviet Union, for example, the concluding remarks were oddly similar to those of the middle class in the Victorian age. He points out some likely reasons for such an appreciation of Morris in the East, i.e. Engels’ inclusion of Morris with the Utopian socialists, studying Morris only in conjunction with other “more important” socialist thinkers of his time, where Morris was often treated marginally, as well as a heavy reliance on the middle-class historiography. The last point indicated that the critics did not search for Morris’ original opinions in the primary sources either on account of their unwillingness or a lack thereof. Goldzamt labels such a one-sided, precursory approach “sectarian,” resulting in a corrupt image of Morris as a retrospective propagator of the return to handcraftsmanship along with a total elimination of machine production (1967, 21), even if this conviction ran counter to Morris’ original views (see chapters four and five).

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As mentioned in the previous chapter, new reconciliatory approaches burgeoned in the 1970s. The New Left critics attempted to combine Morris’ aesthetics with morality and ethics, ultimately extending their research into other spheres, most notably the cultural. The aforementioned approach continues to dominate today, although it is now implemented by ecological, communal, and various culture threads. Not only is the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings still active in Britain as well as having branches/offshoots in America and Russia, but Morris is also one of the patrons of the Green Movement (Bennett and Miles 2010, 2) and a common subject in academia. In David Latham’s words, Morris has become “the focus of interdisciplinary scholarship that still stresses the academic lines of inquiry but now acknowledges the need to reach beyond the narrow fields of academic disciplines” (2010, 4). The only possible threat posed by this renewed interest in Morris is the implicit reversal of priorities as compared to the previous generations—Morris would be studied from many angles comprising a great number of aspects and disciplines, except strictly political statements made by him during the socialist period. On this account, I have attempted to stay as close as possible to the original texts by Morris, and to extend the discourse into other fields that were formerly not fully recognised or developed, e.g. linguistics. My analysis can be labelled “Marxist,” if by Marxism we understand a general direction of thought or a uniform system of values as perceived by Morris. I would like to underline, simultaneously being aware of the possible redundancy of my statement, that I do not intend to study Morris from any particular perspective, be it ecological, aesthetic, or even political. These notions will obviously reappear in the form of explications and complements, yet not as the main tenets and constituents. The paramount problem connected with the appropriation of Morris’ socialism is to find the common denominator applicable to both Marx and Morris; in other words, the starting point and foundation from which further analysis would be plausible. It seems obvious that it could not be art, at least not in the conventional sense of the term, since Marx devoted relatively little space to this field, probably intending his doctrine to remain strictly “scientific” and thus impervious to aesthetic generalisations or metaphysical schemes. Although Marx never formulated that opinion directly, he treated aesthetics and likewise metaphysics only marginally, even if he was aware of the implicitly aesthetic character of the entire

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socialist doctrine.5 Contrary to Marx, art remained the important issue for Morris during his socialist period. In order to find the point of convergence and vanishing point respectively for Marx’s and Morris’ approaches to socialism, the focus of criticism needed to be relocated from art to some other field. The most plausible answer is the notion of labour, according to Marx the primary criterion which defines human agency and refines humans as conscious beings. While maintaining the central position of work, Morris also added the element of “pleasure,” in this manner encapsulating his beliefs in the phrase “pleasure in labour,” which derived from Ruskin, but even more so the focus of his experience. Placing the emphasis on the element of pleasure, and simultaneously negating tedious and menial labour as possessing any worth, Morris also challenged the protestant ethic according to which any labour is equally fruitful and important, but need not be.6 Questioning the presupposition that work’s value can be measured 5

For instance, in the scarce remarks on art in The German Ideology, in the section “The Artistic Talent” (1999, 108–9), Marx sees art as the product of the specific circumstances in a given epoch. Respectively, artists are the producers of objects and values that stay in correlation with or directly respond to the culture and the means/modes of production at the corresponding stage of development. The label of “genius” attached to e.g. Michelangelo or Titian is, according to Marx, nothing more than an attempt to define them as “great” or “unique” without paying attention to the differences between the early modern Italian city states. In other words, talent “depends wholly on demand” (Ibid., 108), and there is nothing mysterious or inexplicable in its emergence; i.e. a talented artist is equivalent to a highly skilled labourer. 6 Morris discusses this issue in “Useful Work Versus Useless Toil,” most explicitly in the opening and closing passages of the essay. At the beginning, he only alludes to the protestant ethic based on the conviction that every labour is equally attractive and useful; he calls such an approach “the hypocritical praise of labour” (1998, 287). Morris expresses his opinion directly towards the end: “Now we have seen that the semi-theological dogma [emphasis mine] that all labour, under any circumstances, is a blessing to the labourer, is hypocritical and false” (Ibid., 305). In the middle part, he states that such a perception is an ideological form, being nothing more than propaganda on the part of the middle class, an attempt to persuade the physical labourer that what could be seen as mere drudgery deprived of any elements of creativity is in fact as useful and good as any other work performed by those higher on the social scale. The protestant dogma about the equality of all labour should therefore be seen as motivated by the interest of the middle class, i.e. the form of ideological conditioning sanctified in the “will of God.” The last pronouncement is however insinuated by Morris rather than directly stated; it only becomes obvious when we decide upon reading between the lines, placing it in the broader context of socialist politics.

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only in terms of its productivity and usefulness, which, according to Max Weber is the basis of the capitalist system deriving from the Calvinist doctrine, Morris pointed to the older, pre-modern approach to labour. In that approach, central to Ruskin’s Stones of Venice, due to the high level of imaginative agency combined with the sense of pleasure and satisfaction obtained from the very fact of partaking in the process of creative production, the worker was also an artisan and an artist. Yet, contrary to the poplar reception of Morris as the propagator of the medieval values, he draws upon the medieval ideal only to illustrate the new state of work under socialism, not to show the return to the premodern system of workers’ cooperation as the ultimate end per se. At this point, Ruskin’s ideals, Morris’ social convictions, and, by proxy, the main tenets of Marxism are cemented. The notion of pleasure was therefore indispensable for setting apart what Morris labelled in his lecture “useful work” from “useless toil.” In another lecture, “Art and Socialism” (1884), Morris compared pleasure to “added life,” ultimately drawing no distinction between the two. By extension, to Morris the notion of “pleasure in labour” verged on being synonymous with the “beauty of life”: these two concepts having been most fully and directly expressed in the sphere of art.7 7

The connection between the concepts of pleasure and life is more discernible in the phrase “pleasure of life” used by Morris in the article “Westminster Abbey and its Monuments” (1889), in which pleasure replaces the aesthetic notion of beauty (Vallance 1897, 235). Significantly, Morris states that the aforementioned phrase is synonymous with the “standard of art.” in this manner again drawing attention to art as the expression of pleasure in life/labour. By analogy, according to Morris the level of pleasure/satisfaction in life/work stays in conjunction, or more precisely is measured by the quality of art. Yet, as he remarked earlier in a notice to “The Exhibition of the Royal Academy” (1884), the aims of an artist should be: “expression of imagination,” “decorative beauty,” “realization of nature,” and “skill and execution.” In view of this observation, “pleasure” needs to be considered a by-product that emerges in the process of art production rather than its basis. In a similar vein, “pleasure of life” is the product of various other faculties that make a life fulfilled instead of being the prerequisite or the primary motivation. In such a set of priorities, the most important is the question of whether pleasure should be the aim in itself or should rather be the state that accompanies the sense that the aim has been accomplished. Perhaps the most plausible answer is the third option, namely that pleasure is the integral part of the very process of art production; hence, the issue of its object and function appears to be irrelevant. Pleasure is in this respect the unifying element of a well-executed work and welllived life, being inscribed in the act/process of living or producing, rather than singled out as either a motivation or a result.

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Accordingly, Peter Smith, following the phrase used by Caroline Arscott in Interlacings, speaks of “the Pleasure in Labour as the Fount of Art” (2010, 140), while Caroline Arscott herself, in a similar vein, by exposing the aesthetic element in the process of labour claims that Morris managed to “articulate aesthetic positions that are inherent in Marxist theory” (135). Even more radical is the opinion by Lawrence Goldman in his lecture From Art to Politics: John Ruskin and William Morris (2000). He considers labour specifically, rather than art/aesthetics or social criticism, as the most important factor in Morris’ conversion to the socialist cause. In this sense, labour becomes not only the joint vanishing point for Marxism and Morris’ socialism, but also the propelling force and primary motivation for the very fact that Morris decided to become a socialist. Respectively, “it was the quality of work rather than the more conventional concern for an equality of classes that first moved Morris towards socialism” (Goldman 2005, 19).

Morris’s Lectures on Art from the Socialist Period: “Politicised Art” or “Aestheticized Politics”? My objective is to discuss the socio-political elements in a series of lectures focussing on art, which Morris delivered between 1878 and 1895 for various audiences from all social classes. Respectively, he had to take into account the different levels of competence of his potential listeners. Some of these lectures were subsequently collected in the separate volume titled Hopes and Fears for Art (1882) containing five essays, which was followed by seven texts placing more emphasis on art informed by the political, issued as Signs of Change (1888). The almost complete oeuvre from that period eventually appeared in May Morris’ edition of The Collected Works of William Morris (1910–15), while hitherto unpublished essays and articles were included in The Unpublished Lectures of William Morris edited by Eugene LeMire. The social and political facets of the aforementioned texts were apparent from the very beginning, even on account of the fact that they concurred with Morris’ socialist engagements. As observed by the first critic who provided the comprehensive study of Morris’ viewpoint, Aymer Vallance: Morris became more and more prominent as a lecturer and writer on all sorts of subjects connected with the arts; and that not merely in respect of their technical process, in which he was an adept, but in the social and economic bearings of the question. (1897, 232)

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They concurred with the overtly political works produced by Morris at that time, which were mainly published in two socialist papers: Justice (1884– 1933) and the Commonweal (1885–94). Juxtaposed with the strictly “politicised” texts, those focusing on art were characterised by a higher degree of subtlety, often being marked by the excessive use of figurative language and undertones in Morris’ conveyance of the political message. Only two of them, “Art and Socialism” (1884) and “The Socialist Ideal of Art” (1891), state the direct correlation between the two domains in their title, while some others, i.e. “Art Under Plutocracy” (1883) and “The Relations of Art to Labour” (1884), can be considered as inspired or motivated by politics. A separate category comprise the texts which are at core Marxist in their structure and intention, on which account they are conventionally classified as “political”: in “True and False Society” (1887), “The Socialist Ideal” (1891), and, particularly, “Communism” (1893), the focus is on the political and the social at the expense of the aesthetic, which nevertheless still informs the general thought. A great majority either point at the cultural references to art or seem to eschew any art-extrinsic elements. The political is only implicit in the intended message rather than explicitly stated in the actual content. Moreover, they suggest a continuity and contiguity with Morris’ previous endeavours, instead of the abrupt breakaway expected of a political agitator. Despite the extensive space of time between the first essay “The Decorative Arts, their Relation to Modern Life and Progress” (1878) and the last ones (amongst which “Gothic Architecture,” 1893, plays a prominent role), one can observe only slight changes in Morris’ approach to the subject. Perhaps most visible is the shift of focus from art in general, often discussed in reference to “lesser arts,” 8 to architecture. The last essays are mainly devoted to various components of the “master art,” including building materials, the process of construction, and the level of the imaginative faculty in the worker. Characteristically, in the early texts such as “The Beauty of Life” (1880) and “The Lesser Arts of Life” (1882), Morris exposes the role and function of art in achieving his aesthetic ideal of a pleasurable and fulfilled life, while in the later ones he is concerned with the lowering quality of art production in connection with the society that purchases and generates the art objects.9 Also, Morris even more clearly emphasises his belief that art 8

Morris ironically labelled them this way; by convention, these “lesser arts” were synonymous with crafts and functional art (see chapter one). 9 Even this opinion is not always fully justified since the essays on architecture are interspersed with the more universal in their message. By exposing their differences along the chronological line I am willing to show the general direction

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is the most sensitive gauge of social relations and civilisational progress, these convictions being most discernible in the architectural styles. Insomuch as this exposition of architecture in a well-defined social context could have to do with his involvement with the Society of Ancient Buildings, it also implies the process of maturing of Morris’ political beliefs as well as his acute social awareness. In fact, the attempts to divide Morris’ lectures/essays into “political” and “art-focused” appear somewhat artificial. Neither chronological classification (i.e. the early ones belonging to art viewed in a social context, while those from the last period being strictly political) is satisfactory. May Morris differentiates between them mainly with regard to the intended audience; namely, the socialist ones aim at “mixed audiences, and hope on every occasion that amongst those who listen to them might be some to whom Socialism is only a name, and who have sometimes a dim idea, and sometimes none at all, what that name means” (1966, 18, 1). If we accept her viewpoint, we take into account not so much Morris’ original voice as his flexibility; i.e. his adjustment to the level of competence of his listeners. In other words, these essays can be considered “socialist” merely on account of the extensive use of explanatory passages which would elucidate the very notion of socialism to the otherwise ignorant audience. Following this line of argument, the art-focused ones intended for the middle class—presumably well-educated and conversant with art issues—contain some criticism of a contemporary system, but do not need to explicate the basic terms of art and politics since the audience was expected to already know them. Supporting this approach, the reader will inevitably face a great deal of inconsistencies, often contradictions, rendering an ultimate impression of the (un)intended banality or superficiality of the original message. Perhaps, then, we should endorse the perception of Nicholas Pearson, who states that all Morris’ lectures from the socialist period should be read in an exclusively political context (1981, 7), regardless of the actual art/politics ratio. Similarly, this is what Peter Smith labels “the politicized theory of art” (2010, 130) which

of the evolution of Morris’ viewpoint; yet, arguably, if such an evolution was at all existent, it was only slight. My approach can therefore be questioned on the grounds of the contingency regarding the specific problem of a given time discussed by Morris. Nevertheless, the shift from the aesthetic universalisms to the concern about the social and political issues in the Victorian age was discernable, this tendency, among others, having been connected with Morris’ growing awareness of socialism as well as his deeper insight into the works of Marx.

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underpinned those texts, simultaneously being their leitmotif and primary motivation. With the passage of time, Morris was gradually becoming aware that neither the proletarian revolution nor socialism as a system would be realised in Britain, at least not in his lifetime. This observation was reflected in the art lectures, and more specifically the change of the spatiotemporal dimension in the late texts as compared to the early ones. The general direction was the reactionary “from the present to the past” in the lectures produced in the first phase of his socialism, in which Morris was attempting to persuade his audience that the ideal state of art and society was accomplished in the early phase of the Gothic,10 as opposed to the progressive course “from the present to the future” that dominates the last ones. Respectively, in the latter Morris either discusses the specific problems of the day, such as his opposition to the restoration of London’s most famous Gothic church in the article “Westminster Abbey” (1893), or he ignores the present altogether and aims at the future outright. Analogously, a spatial shift occurs from “there,” i.e. medieval England, to “here” (Victorian London), and “here after” (future London). The characteristic trait of the lectures from the mid-1880s onwards is a more conscious and methodological discussion of art in relation to the historical progression. Morris’ studies of particular epochs in conjunction with art forms and representations give evidence of the substantial modification of his focus. Before praising the art of the Gothic, for instance, Morris would discuss the historical circumstances, gather primary materials, and attempt to obtain insight into the mindset of an average person living in the Middle Ages. Respectively, his discourse became more intertextual as well as being informed by his view of the past from the broader perspective of historical progression. Morris in this respect followed the Marxist dialectic and historical materialism, yet not as ardently as a disciple. He rather extrapolated from various primary sources, in particular those generated by ordinary people. An example of Morris’ method is the following fragment from “Hopes of Civilization” (1885): 10

Insomuch as the Gothic was his favourite style, Morris was well aware that it belonged to the past. For those reasons, Vallance’s opinion that, according to Morris, “the only possible style of architecture for the future is Gothic” (1897, 264) should be modified: Morris had always stressed the futility of imitation, while also giving no credentials for the possibility to recreate the past in the present conditions. According to Morris, a different level of cultural development in the Victorian age as well as the socioeconomic circumstances were incongruous with the corresponding ones in the early medieval period.

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This record, paying much attention to minutia and written from the socialist perspective, anticipates the approaches and methods implemented and promulgated by New Historicism: the lack of a distinction between the literary and the archival discourse; the emphasis placed on the writings by ordinary people rather than chroniclers or theologians; and the possibly fullest recreation of the specific circumstances and socio-cultural contexts to be accessed through the thick description method. In this way, Morris provided a valuable contribution to the abstract and philosophical view of history in Marxist dialectics. Furthermore, by condensing the political message in the extensive cultural and social discourses he managed to avoid the prescriptive and instructive tone of orthodox Marxism. While concentrating on art, he was therefore capable of defining his political stance and providing a social commentary in a relatively plain and lucid style. By doing so, he simultaneously avoided the need to employ the strategies of an often empty rhetoric on the one hand and, on the other, of the (anti-) philosophical11 abstractions that abound in Marxian or Marxist texts. Morris’ approach can therefore be placed at the junction of the traditional presentation of history as a narrative and the contemporary one in which history is studied through various methods. Even if we decide upon the traditional interpretation, we will recognise that Morris’ narrative is not the “grand narrative” expected of the Victorian historian, but rather an account of events from the view of an ordinary person. Such a shift from the totalising discourse of “History” to the non-hierarchical and nondiscriminative “histories” is, in turn, characteristic of contemporary postmodern research. Simultaneously, Morris spoke against the traditional concepts of history as a succession of battles and dynasties. In “The Art of the People” (1879), he explains:

11

In his lecture “Is Marxism a Theodicy” delivered at the Conference on Historical Materialism at York University, Ontario (May 14, 2010), Terry Eagleton defined Marx’s approach as essentially anti-philosophical.

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Take for example a century of the Byzantine Empire, weary yourself with reading the names of the pedants, tyrants, and tax-gatherers to whom the terrible chain which long-dead Rome once forged, still gave the power of cheating people into thinking that they were necessary lords of the world. Turn then to the lands they governed, and read and forget a long string of the causeless murders of Northern and Saracen pirates and robbers. That is pretty much the sum of what so-called history has left us of the tale of those days—the stupid languor and the evil deeds of kings and scoundrels. (1973 22, 31)

If we accept the “grand narrative” perspective, according to Morris we will again obtain a corrupt image of life in the past; namely, people’s existence will appear as a perpetual plight which, in addition, could be terminated by a mere whim of a sovereign. Respectively, the present conditions may give the impression of being a blessing as compared to the previous epochs. Morris warns against such a superficial and onedimensional perception by shifting the focus from the turning point events that arguably changed the course of history (the Romantic approach) to the notion of labour which is/was the true basis of human existence, thus also the genuine propelling force of history. Morris observes that, for the ancestors and contemporaries alike, it was first and foremost labour that defined their life, having been reflected in all human forms, endeavours, and creations. “How could it be, then,” Morris implies, “that those poor and oppressed people as they appear to have been judged from the contemporary historical texts, produced the superb architecture of the early Gothic?” Analogously, the opposite question can be asked with regards to the Victorians: if work and the standards of living have improved so immensely, why has the quality of art so drastically plummeted? The case in point is the falsified view of historical progression which focuses on the lives of the kings, the wars, and the battles. From this perspective, common people were merely the tools that fulfilled the cruel or ludicrous wishes of their sovereigns. In this way, Morris also challenges the traditional linear view of history, and to a degree even the dialectic one. By placing the emphasis on work as the process that defines humanity and then studying the products of labour, he relocates history to the widely conceived cultural sphere. The line of chronological continuity is replaced by contiguity—the juxtaposition of material and symbolic artefacts reflecting the social conditions and mindset of a particular generation. At the same time, Morris continues, his contemporaries should be considered incomparably better off than their predecessors since they are capable of leading a relatively sorrow-free existence accompanied by a sense of security in the world where at least their basic needs are satisfied. Yet, such a state is not reflected in the

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objects they generate and the goods they purchase. Again, instead of studying various social formations and their lifestyles, as in the anthropological approach to culture, Morris resolves to focus directly on the central issue of labour. He deems the apparent improvement but in realty deterioration in working conditions (from the workshop to the factory), as well as the debasement of the very act of labouring, as the true cause (rather than reflection) of the actual state of society. The creative element which is denied to the modern labourer results in the menial work they are forced to perform; neither do they obtain pleasure from carrying out the repetitive tasks, nor satisfaction from seeing the final product. Moreover, their contribution to the emergence of this product is minimal as they have manufactured only its minute part; ultimately, they cannot afford to own it due to its price. The last observations are already Marxist, embedded in the notion of “alienated labour” but, as shown, the paths leading to the identical conclusions by Morris and Marx are different. Morris’ starting point is art and cultural history, whereas social criticism is the area in which the two avenues ultimately converge. The central point that determines the specific loci, shapes, and directions is, however, labour. Marxism, on the other hand, begins with philosophy and social criticism: the historical dialectics is the means to explain the current state of affairs, while art is only one of the cultural forms, a stopover on the road to the future socialist order. This early, little-known lecture, delivered when Morris was hardly acquainted with the principles of socialism, can be regarded as an exposé of the main issues that he would subsequently discuss. On this account, it is a prelude to his political action, yet also the quintessence of his entire socialist period. In the historical part, Morris draws upon the Ruskinian concepts of a life reflected in the “art of the people,” which is also the title of another lecture. Subsequently, he places that notion within the general course of the Marxist dialect, simultaneously informing his discourse with an analysis of living conditions in particular epochs. Secondly, he introduces the notion of “alienated labour” perceived as the cause and result of the misery experienced by the contemporary labourer. By exposing this aspect, Morris establishes the link between his readings of Ruskin, for whom the alienation of labour was the manifestation of the ailments of modern civilisation, and Marxism, in which it was one of the preconditions of the capitalist system. He would further develop this concept in a series of essays and articles, most comprehensively in “Useful Work Versus Useless Toil” (1884) (Gorman 2000). Ultimately, Morris inadvertently raises the issue of priorities”: whether the rebirth of society should start from the change in the arts or rather vice versa, the social

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metamorphosis must precede the one in art. The last point which concerns the polarity of “aestheticized politics” vs. “politicized art” is one of the focal points in this chapter. Morris’ confusion about the abovementioned issue can be noticed in his lecture “The Lesser Arts” (1877) which, despite belonging to the transitory period, places art in a defined socio-political context. As observed by Lawrence Goldman (2005, 22), there are two contradictory opinions about the art/politics relationship expressed by Morris in different parts of his text. In one of the opening passages, Morris comments: But now only let the arts which we are talking of beautify our labour, and be widely spread, intelligent, well understood both by the maker and the user, let them grow in one word popular, and there will be pretty much an end of dull work and its wearing slavery; and no man will any longer have an excuse for talking about the curse of labour, no man will have any longer an excuse for evading the blessing of labour. I believe there is nothing that will aid the world’s progress so much as the attainment of this; wrapped up, as I am sure it is, with changes political and social, that in one way or another we all desire. (1998, 235–6)

The message imparted in this excerpt appears clear: the transformation in the social relations must be preceded by the change in art (or rather our appreciation of it). Yet, while Morris is studying the social structures over the historical progression reflected in the art objects generated by particular generations, he gradually shifts the emphasis from the aesthetic to the social and, ultimately, the political. Towards the end of his lecture, he articulates a different viewpoint: Unless something or other is done to give all men some pleasure for the eyes and rest for the mind in the aspect of their own and their neighbours’ houses, until the contrast is less disgraceful between the fields where beasts live and the streets where men live, I suppose that the practice of the arts must be mainly kept in the hands of a few highly cultivated men, who can go often to beautiful places, whose education enables them, in the contemplation of the past glories of the world, to shut out from their view the everyday squalors that most men move in. (1998, 252–3)

What Morris seems to imply is the conviction that a mere cultivation of art or even its improvement is not the answer to the real ailments of the contemporary society. As long as we believe that the world can be changed by raising the standards of beauty we are in fact of the same mind as the Victorian Aesthetes: art is nothing more than a sanctuary for an educated elite that deliberately separate themselves from the “vulgar world.” Accepting this observation, Morris’ criticism is carried out in the

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same manner as before, albeit less explicitly, in The Scenes from the Fall of Troy and The Life and Death of Jason (see chapter three). Morris intuitively realises that such a situation was perpetrated by exactly the same people, i.e. mainly the middle class that the detached artists believed to have fought or ignored (see chapter one). The change in art is therefore insufficient; furthermore, it is redundant. In view of this, he suggests that first the whole political system needs to be upturned, and only then will art flourish anew. For that reason, as he would subsequently pronounce, such a thorough transformation is possible only in the course of a social, more precisely socialist, revolution. At this point, his previous beliefs in reforming society by means of art improvement, which Morris owed to Ruskin, yield to the specific political doctrine of Marxism. In consequence, the unintentional inconsistency in argumentation in the course of a single lecture is also the reflection of the long period of his metamorphosis. This divergence results in the dislocation of art from the focal point; in other words, from the “centre” to that of the “periphery.” As a result, Morris was capable of providing a satisfactory though also simplified answer to the indictment from the members of the Social Democratic Federation, i.e. that he “cared only for art” (Vallance 1897, 322) and perceived politics as but a means to realise his aesthetic ideal. He responded to these accusations with a letter of remonstrance published in the Echo (October 7, 1884): “Much as I love art and ornament, I value it chiefly as a token of the happiness of the people, and I would rather it were all swept away from the world than the mass of the people should suffer oppression” (in Vallance 1897, 323). The statement formulated by Morris, which he would subsequently elucidate in his other texts (see chapters two and three), already transgresses the limits of the art/politics issue. His argument is based on the premise that not only is art alone insufficient, but also the role and function of politics are merely instrumental to accomplish his genuine objective—regaining (for himself and the people alike) the sense of a fulfilled/beautified/pleasurable life. As Morris says more directly in his lecture “The Beauty of Life” (1882), the desirable state of existence should be achieved through simplicity. In other words, “living a simple life” (1973 22, 75), he ascertains, is sufficient for producing popular art. In the following passages, the aforementioned “popular art” is synonymous with the master

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art of architecture.12 At this point, we encounter an unexpected paradox: despite the previously exposed denotations of “simplicity,” Morris in fact encourages people to decorate their houses with “tapestry rather than wallpaper” or “cover [the walls] with mosaic or have them frescoed by the great painter” (Ibid., 77). From this advice it becomes clear that “simple” does not equal “cheap” (both literarily and figuratively) nor “plain/homely” (in the American English sense of the words). At the same time, he preempts the accusation that he is promoting luxury by saying that “all this is not luxury, if it be done for beauty’s sake, not for show” (Ibid.) Superficially, these pronouncements are at core aesthetic and deprived of a political context. Yet, such an interpretation appears to be misleading in view of Morris’ beliefs about socialism. As pointed by Ian Birchall in reference to the common visions of Morris and Babeuf’s socialism, “his notion of equality was not that all people should be equal in misery–poor, but equal in enjoyment and plenty” (1996, 43). The most tangible evidence for the comprehension of Morris’ mindset can be found in News from Nowhere, where all residents are surrounded by beautiful objects, and by no means do they live in poverty. Furthermore, the descriptions of the shopping malls of Piccadilly bear some resemblance to the glitz and glamour areas commonly associated with the rich lifestyle and the chic of the commercial capitals of the world. In this sense, the future Piccadilly qualifies as “luxurious.” We see a paradox here: although Morris advocated the extinction of luxury, he simultaneously encouraged its special kind— 12 By “popular art” Morris usually meant the availability of beautiful objects to everyone; i.e. art is “popular” since it is shared by a large population. He did not endorse the idea of popularity as synonymous with “catchy,” “crowd-pleasing,” or “trendy,” which are common associations with this phrase today and, as a matter of fact, already were in the Victorian age. More ambiguous is the sense and meaning of “popular culture” in which popular culture is distinguished from mass culture by the means it is produced and consumed. As noticed by the critics associated with the Birmingham School, popular culture does not necessarily require extensive advertising or surveys on what would appeal to popular taste. It is basically created “from below,” as opposed to mass culture that is imposed “from above.” Even if both terms tended to overlap at the beginning of the twenty-first century, now, with the emergence of social media and internet channels like Youtube, we can observe a new distinction between the two: films or videos which receive no support from powerful companies manage to gain a large support and popularity among the viewers, while those heavily advertised often turn out to be failures. It seems that Morris would be satisfied with this new form of expression of popular culture, but the primary issue is concerned with its quality; namely, whether these films and videos, even if popular with the audience, meet the standards of perfection that he advocated.

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the availability of beautiful (however expensive) objects to everyone. This assumption was, according to him, one of the elements, or even the prerequisite, of a satisfactory existence, having been inscribed in the notion of the “beauty of life.” Morris introduced the issues which are central to this part of “The Beauty of Life” in his earlier lecture “The Art of the People” (1879). Such notions as “beauty,” “life,” and “simplicity” are located in close proximity to each other, yet by establishing a connection between them and the people as both the producers and the recipients of art (instead of the more abstract “society”), Morris’ argumentation and his definitions of the aforesaid terms appear more coherent and less confusing as compared to the subsequent lecture. He speaks of “an art which is to be made by the people and for the people, as happiness to the maker and the user” (1973 22, 47). Subsequently, he names honesty and simplicity of life as the “virtues” to be cultivated in art, although he rather means values which are permanent in it. Morris contrasts them with “the opposing vice,” i.e. “luxury”; yet, when he adds to it the expression “to wit” he simultaneously moderates the sense of that term, which was associated by him with the class of the rich manufactures, into less than the absolute opposite. By doing so, he is capable of converting the meaning of essentially a negative word into something that evokes positive associations in “The Beauty of Life,” in which luxury also refers to the possibility of everyone acquiring beautiful art objects. While discussing life manifested in architecture in aesthetic terms, Morris extends its significance to nature first, and then places it in a social and ultimately a political context. In accord with the concept of “organic art” (see chapter one) in which a building is part of a landscape instead of being imposed on it, he questions the genuine intentions of the manufacturers who claim to protect art (or rather the beauty of art) by merely reducing the amount of smoke (The Smoke Act): “How can you care about the image of a landscape when you show by your deeds that you don’t care about the landscape itself?” (1973 22, 71). Morris implies here that a feeble effort to decrease the amount of fumes in the environment is but a token gesture towards the people and art alike. Bearing in mind that the lecture was delivered in Birmingham, the city that epitomised the Industrial Revolution, such an initiative by the rich factory owners in the name of the beautification or preservation of art must have been perceived as, at best, a misappropriation of terminology. “How can one care about art,” Morris asks rhetorically, “in a place that is principally deprived of it?”

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By analogy, it must be nonsensical to claim that one fosters the beauty of landscape and nature while being surrounded by the Blakean “satanic mills.” In this respect, Morris transcends the specific directive of the ecological movement (which was inspired by him), calling instead for an entire change of the approach to the environment in order to restore the beauty of landscape. He subsequently extends the scope of transformation into the social relations, i.e. “the rich shut themselves up with beautiful form and colour when they make it impossible for other people to have any share in these things” (Ibid., 71) and, implicitly, by blaming the existing system for the deterioration in the arts, Morris makes a political statement. Simultaneously, he analyses his contemporary issues in the historical framework. Once again, he acknowledges the superiority of the Gothic Architecture while depreciating the Victorian age as that of imitation, or alternately a period deprived of style, and warns against the senseless restoration of ancient buildings. In view of Morris’ opinions, “The Beauty of Life” is therefore not a simple act of leading a happy existence. It is the point of convergence and the vanishing point for a plethora of notions and preconditions. Furthermore, it can be considered an amalgam of the aesthetic, the social, and the political, yet seen from the Morrisean rather than the conventional perspective (see chapters one and two). When this state is accomplished, as occurs in News from Nowhere, the central notion of “the beauty of life” will ultimately become a purely natural concept, thus undoing the nature/culture binary opposite. Analogously, politics, social studies, or even art and history will ultimately be made redundant or obsolete (see chapter five). Morris was gradually coming to the conclusion that the “new dawn” he had anticipated since the translations of the Sagas would not occur in his lifetime; hence, he turned his attention to the future. Respectively, due to the growing doubt in the plausibility of the realisation of his ideal in the present, we can observe a more frequent utilisation of the word “hope” in the subsequent political and aesthetic writings by Morris. Hope is the leitmotif and paramount value in his lecture/essay “Useful Work Versus Useless Toil” (1884), binding the “drudgery” experienced by the Victorian labourer with the “pleasure in work” associated with creative labour given to, as Morris repeated after Ruskin, the medieval artisan/artist. On this account, Morris divides work into two distinct categories: good (blessing) and bad (curse). This division is based on the aesthetic notion of pleasure, but first and foremost, as mentioned, on the binary opposite regarding the absence/presence of hope. “What is the difference between them, then? This one has hope in it, the

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other has not. It is manly to do the one kind of work, and so manly also to refuse the other” (1998, 188). Yet, hope is the concept which does not belong to the sphere of either politics or art; it is basically a Christian idea, which is also of great importance in psychology. It is strongly related to lack and absence, when “our circumstances are dire” (Fredrickson 2009, 5) and, at the same time, invokes “fearing the worst but yearning for better” (Lazarus, in Ibid.). Morris’ emphasis on “hope in labour” and his frequent use of this concept pose some problems as to the original or well-established meaning of this term. In “Useful Work Versus Useless Toil” (1884), he diverges from the common understanding of “hope” in both the psychological and religious senses, as there is apparently no element of lacking and no longing for its compensation in the future. What is the nature of hope which, when it is present in work, makes it worth doing? It is threefold, I think—hope of rest, hope of product, hope of pleasure in the work itself; and hope of these also in some abundance and of good quality; rest enough and good enough to be worth having. (1998, 288)

It seems that the more adequate word here should be “reward” instead of “hope,” namely the “reward of rest, product and pleasure in the work itself.” In hindsight, though, the kind of hope he deals with is not a misappropriation of terminology; nor should it be considered a slogan to attract potential followers from the Social Democratic Federation. In view of the following passages of his essay, in which he mainly discusses the negative aspects of labour in his contemporary society—from the indolence and idleness of aristocracy to the slave-like “useless toil” and “mere drudgery” of the working class—by exposing the wrongdoings of the entire system, hope is restored to its proper sense. It also acquires a new political and social meaning, which is not emphasised in religion and psychology, finally becoming the key to comprehending the overall situation reflected in the systemic structure of the capitalist society. By introducing the notion of hope and filtering it through his artistic beliefs, elements which are virtually absent in the writings of Marx, Morris expands the boundaries of labour, making it the basis and constituent of all other forms of social practice.

Morris’ socialist awareness from a linguistic perspective Such a conscious and unorthodox utilisation of the word “hope” by Morris is significant for his acute awareness of the linguistic connotations of

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particular terms and phrases we otherwise take no heed of. Employing the methodology which shares some characteristics with deconstruction, he is capable of showing the cultural bias and the deliberate misappropriation of popular terminology on the part of the dominant class; in other words, to use more current expressions, to deconstruct the transcendental signified and to display the mechanisms standing behind the emergence of essentialisms. He does so by seeking the original or, alternately, the more universal sources of those words which seem to function in the welldefined socio-political contexts, but whose meaning is corrupt and, at times, in opposition to their genesis. Significantly, Morris mostly does not follow the diachronic approach that was dominant in his age; on the contrary, as opposed to Ruskin (see chapter one), he remains relatively indifferent to the progression of meaning and word signification over historical epochs. His hallmark approach is essentially synchronic in the Saussurean sense, i.e. he analyses the language of his own age. Yet, by observing that it is purposefully “perverted” to serve the middle class or what he labels simply “the rich,” he familiarises his audience with the strategies behind the linguistic corruption, and, simultaneously, provides his own understanding of a given term. On this account, he dissociates the word from its established socio-political context and relocates it to other spheres: the aesthetic, the cultural, and, above all, the natural. In this way, Morris challenges the capitalist (or, as he often labels it, “the commercial”) system not so much from the philosophical or economic perspective, since in this respect he does not go beyond Marx, but it is the language alone that becomes the focal point of his analysis as it reflects, reinforces, and in fact cements the social structure. Morris’ approach in these aspects anticipates the methodology of the contemporary Western Marxist and the neo-Marxist schools in which a word is seen as an ideological sign13 (as initiated in the writings of V. N. Voloshinov and Mikhail Bakhtin 14 ). Morris, by contesting the “fixed” ideological significations of the word/phrase, and by its subsequent relocation to the more autonomous fields of the aesthetic and the natural, manages to rediscover the original sense of a sign which is free of ideological conditioning. Furthermore, he is simultaneously capable of laying bare the rhetorical mechanisms of the middle class (or in the 13 A word as an ideological sign should however be distinguished from the Marxist concept of the ideological superstructure on account of the autonomous properties of the language as a system of signs. 14 It is still debatable whether the writings by Voloshinov were originally his or were produced by Bakhtin under Voloshinov’s name (Brandist n.d.).

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Marxist terminology the bourgeoisie) responsible for the deliberately “falsified” framework in which a given word functions—a practice which is, in consequence, reflected in the distorted or corrupt meaning. For instance, in his lecture “Useful Work Versus Useless Toil,” which appears to be the most comprehensive demonstration of Morris’ acute awareness of the abovementioned corruption of meaning, he analyses such words as “wealth” and the “manufacturer.” In the latter, he shows a complete reversal of meaning this word has undergone merely by referring to the original root (cf. Latin manus, meaning “hand”) (1998, 296). Obviously, he realises that it is not coincidental that such a change occurred exactly in the word that (in the original sense) Morris could apply to his own occupation. The sphere of linguistics is the one which in the most discernible manner reflects the existing social but also political and artistic relations. The complex process of reciprocity between these spheres, namely transplanting a given word from art to social relations and then to politics, takes place within the confines of broadly conceived culture. The minute transformations are gradually introduced until, like in the case of the “manufacturer,” the meaning becomes totally reversed. Moreover, since human beings are capable of functioning only within the confines of a language at a given moment in time, the words they use are to the same degree the products of the ongoing social process, as they impose the limitations on their knowledge of the world. In this respect, Morris’ analysis transcends Marxist methodology or the Victorian episteme. His discovery of the linguistic transactions between various spheres is one of the key processes in the postmodern studies which frequently utilise the notion of catachresis. Respectively, his criticism comes close to the contemporary understanding of “aporia” in the sense of the knot that binds the individual to the complex network of the transcendental signified(s). Some of these linguistic phenomena were also noticed by Marx, for instance when he analysed the ideological connotations of the language of property, in which property is falsely believed to be identical to individuality (Marx and Engels 1999, 100), or, more generally, language and thought whereby philosophers are forced to employ abstract notions that detach them from the actuality of the real world—the same world that they, paradoxically, attempt to deal with (Ibid., 118). In the first specifically socio-political instance provided by Marx, such a displacement of meaning from reality could be caused by the ideological framework created by the middle class and may go back to the Enlightenment, i.e. to the time when individual human rights were put side by side with the right to property, as in Thomas Paine’s Common Sense (1776). In the second, more-general

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quality of the language appropriation and thought, the long process of discussing the concrete in the abstract resulted in the discrepancy between epistemology and the actuality of the real. As a result, the philosophers encounter the problem of “descending from language to life” (Marx and Engels 1999, 118) on account of the fact that meaning is diluted and ultimately lost in the course of its conceptualisation. They no longer recognise that “a system they preach” (Ibid., 119) originates in the practical needs of everyday life. These observations are contemporaneous to Morris; furthermore, they stand in conjunction with the field of inquiry, i.e. linguistics, which he was preoccupied with since at least the days of his studies at Oxford.15 Staying aware of the ongoing processes of meaning corruption responding to the ideological conditioning in the social structure, Morris consciously saturated his literary works with archaisms, to the extent that they gave the impression of being “unreadable” even to his contemporary Victorians (see The Saga translations, chapter three). For the same reason, in News from Nowhere words finally freed from their aporic confines function in new contexts provided by the more-favourable circumstances brought about by the emergence of socialism. The constant confusion about the meaning and the signification of particular words in Morris’ Utopia, especially in William Guest’s conversations with Dick informed by defamiliarisation,16 ultimately lead to Guest’s realisation that he would never be a part of Nowhere. The linguistic discrepancies reflected in the semantic shifts are therefore not only the key to comprehending the lifeworld of the Nowhereians, but also the signs of Guest’s own limitations; his awareness that he belongs entirely to nineteenth-century Britain. They appear even more important than the visible changes in the landscape and the people: Guest recognises the familiar names and buildings in London, but he is incapable of comprehending their current purpose and function. The various processes of semantic change, then, are influenced by social relations, as well as having an impact on the ways and methods of world perception by humans. In the Victorian age, more clearly than ever before, they also concurred with the stratification and compartmentalisation in different areas of human activity (see chapter one), thus the meaning of previously well-defined terms, including politics and art, emerged in a 15

Morris declined the position of the Chair of Poetry at Oxford as poetry was to him an “incommunicable art” (Letter to Mr. Thursfield, February 16, 1877). He subsequently remarked that linguistics was the [only] subject that he felt he could possibly teach (Mackail 1995 I, 335). 16 Guest is enmeshed in the Victorian language of property while Dick uses the same phrases “naturally,” being unaware of their former ideological connotations.

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new, distorted/corrupted shape. This could explain Morris’ unease or inconsistency in his usage of the aforesaid terms which he attempted to overcome by providing his own definitions or studying their roots. As a result, we can notice the tendency to expand the sense of particular terms in his writings and, ultimately, their overlapping as in the thematic “political” and “the social” (see chapter two) or the “natural” and the “aesthetic” (see chapter one). The nature of these processes, whose essence Morris managed to grasp, but could not always substantially communicate to his audiences, explains his frequent in-text digressions; for instance, he understands such words as “progress” or “civilisation” differently, yet, unless the readers are acquainted with his previous writings, they will not know exactly how. In “Useful Work Versus Useless Toil” (1884), Morris provides his own definition of the word “wealth” as well as partially showing the particular phases of the process leading to its formation.17 We can notice how he first locates the meaning in the socio-political frames of his age in which wealth is associated with material possessions. Connecting them with “the army of clerks, shop assistants, etc. who are engaged in the service of the private war for wealth” (1998, 291) and the class of “parasites” who are not involved in any kind of productive labour, he simultaneously castigates these formations from the Marxist perspective based on the class model. Subsequently, he dissociates wealth from the popular meaning (“these things I will never call wealth”) and offers his own alternative. Morris claims that: Wealth is what Nature gives us and what a reasonable man can make out of the gifts of Nature for his reasonable use. The sunlight, the fresh air, the unspoiled face of the earth, food, raiment and housing necessary and decent. (1998, 291)

Accordingly, he places wealth in the natural domain, where it becomes synonymous with a broadly understood “life.” Now, the word is relocated to its “proper position” and seemingly loses its political connotations. Nevertheless, the message imparted by Morris becomes implicitly political from the general tone of the lecture; namely, he indirectly states that such 17 Morris’ analysis is however predominantly synchronic. Instead of following the Ruskinian method of tracing the progression of meaning over the historical epochs (i.e. the diachronic approach), Morris discusses the contemporary connotations of the word “wealth” along with his own understanding of it. Respectively, his methodology should be placed among the modern approaches to linguistics initiated by de Saussure, which to a large extent have ousted the nineteenthcentury historical (diachronic) studies.

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a notion of wealth as presented by him will only be relevant with the introduction of the socialist system. Significantly, purely natural phenomena which are beneficial and pleasant in themselves, such as sunshine and fresh air, are juxtaposed with the products of human activity and labour, i.e. food, raiment, and housing. This selection of things that “nature gives us” appears to be not coincidental. Firstly, all of these are constituents of a “fulfilled/beautiful life.” In the second place, no distinction should be drawn between them as they are inscribed in Morris’ holistic vision of the world, a natural fusion of the useful with the beautiful. In this way, as a by-product, Morris in one short statement dismisses the artificial distinction between Aestheticism and Utilitarianism, the two conflicting sides in the Victorian axiological debate about values and priorities. Eventually, he inducts the audience into his concept of nature which harks back to his fascination with the Gothic; i.e. “the organic art of the past.” He continues: [Wealth is] the storing up of knowledge of all kinds, and the power of disseminating it; means of free communication between man and man; works of art, the beauty which man creates when he is most a man, most aspiring and thoughtful–all things which serve the pleasure of people, free, manly and uncorrupted.18 (1998, 292)

Such a wide range of values and priorities that include freedom, personal communication, art objects, and honesty is only justifiable when they are converged at one single point that would encapsulate their meanings and significations. Here, it is the notion of beauty, yet beauty that transgresses and transcends its aesthetic sense, i.e. “the beauty of life.” From this it is clear that, in general, Morris does not abandon his former viewpoint, but merely extends it to the matters of politics. As mentioned, beauty in the Morrisean sense encompasses a plethora of realms and notions, becoming a sort of universal key to Morris’ life-world. It retains its aesthetic signification, yet it is also a natural quality. When Morris resumes the criticism of his contemporary “ugly age” in the following passages, he implicitly contrasts it with the beauty that could be achieved under new circumstances which would “naturally” appear under socialism. As a result, beauty gains one more, political meaning. On account of the fact 18

By including the adjective “manly” in his system of values, Morris may have inadvertently used this word in accordance with the Victorian standards (see chapters one and two). Yet this could have been done consciously, since he was highly influenced by the socialism of the co-author of most of the articles published in Commonweal, Belfort Bax. The latter, despite his beliefs in equality and a classless society, was known as a staunch misogynist.

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that he constantly extrapolates from life, nature, freedom, peace, etc., we cannot speak of the classic hermeneutic circle; nor does Morris’ line of argument follow the strategies of the conventional rhetoric. His lecture can only be described in holistic terms in which every aspect is equally important (the notion of mapping rather than structuring the world), being only subjugated to the universal notion of “the beautiful.” As demonstrated, Morris’ belief appears to be more convincingly presented as well as more solidly substantiated in those passages which concern language, rather than the predictable analysis of the social relations in the mould of (not entirely) orthodox Marxism. In consequence, art informs his political discourse twofold: first, Morris selects the aesthetic notion of the beautiful as paramount and universal; second, he is capable of displaying a great language expertise manifested in deconstructing (and reconstructing) the meaning of particular words. A good example of Morris’ linguistic awareness as well as his command of English and in-depth knowledge of rhetorical skills is the lecture “The Relations of Art to Labour” (1884). This was originally believed to have existed in only one version, but in fact there are two distinct variations (with at least three additional subvariants): one meant for the working-class audience in Glasgow (issued as “Art and Labour” in Eugene LeMire’s The Unpublished Lectures of William Morris), and the other for the Leeds Philosophical and Literary Society, which consisted of middle-class members; the latter Morris also intended to publish as an essay. The Leeds lecture was discovered at the Yale University Library and is commonly labelled the Yale Manuscript. The two lectures by Morris will be referred to as 1884 I (Glasgow) and 1884 II (Leeds), respectively. Now that we have established the genealogy of The Relations of Art to Labour, what of its character? The most striking differences between it [the Leeds Lecture] and the Glasgow Lecture published as Art and Labour in LeMire are ones of style, reflecting the differences in the social class of the audiences that Morris was expecting. (Bacon 2004, 13)

Apart from the obvious difference in the names of the venues, i.e. Glasgow is replaced with Leeds in the Yale version, we encounter a great number of other alternations that affect the overall tone and, to an extent, even the message imparted. 19 Firstly, the position of the lecturer is 19

As noticed by Alan Bacon, the message of both lectures appears to be identical, but in their close reading certain aspects are altered or downplayed. For instance, in the Glasgow lecture Morris, in a descriptive and evasive manner, only implies that the desirable change is possible in the course of a revolution. Yet, it is not

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different; in the Leeds lecture Morris faced the middle-class audience he was familiar with, while in the Glasgow one he met with “the working class audiences who seemed to him so different from himself” (LeMire, 17). Respectively, he introduced amendments with regards to the expected level of competence in both texts concerning first and foremost the use of rhetoric and vocabulary. In general, in the Leeds version Morris utilised a great deal of rhetorical devices, whereas the Glasgow one was relatively devoid of any attempts to sound sophisticated and eloquent. As a result, the characteristic feature of the first was the long and elaborate sentences, to such an extent that Morris was forced to recapitulate the main points (Bacon 2004, 14) or else his audience would have had problems following his line of argument, which is a case in point of many of his other lectures.20 By contrast, the one delivered in Glasgow consisted of relatively short and plain statements that would be easy to understand for the inexperienced working-class audience. Also, Morris was far more cautious when he used certain words and phrases that could potentially offend or discourage his middle-class listeners. For instance, when he referred to the contemporary labour as the modern equivalent of slavery, he provided an explicatory passage about the perception of this concept in antiquity (Morris 1884 II, 22). The Glasgow lecture, on the other hand, leaves out this fragment altogether. The Leeds version included biblical allusions, which resembled the socialist writings of Ruskin, as well as different kinds of irony, chiefly structural. As observed by Alan Bacon (2004, 14), when Morris discussed his age he spoke of “popular art as a tale that is told” (1884 II, 34), quoting from Psalm 90.9. Furthermore, when he asked about the life conditions of revolution as such, but the need for a self-conscious understanding of the workers’ position in the contemporary system, which, Morris believed, is the primary objective of the process of working-class education. In the Leeds one, on the other hand, the emphasis on the process is replaced by the description of the current state of social relations. The middle-class audience is warned about a possible revolt among the working class that would result in an upturn of a systemic superstructure. The revolution, Morris prophesises, is unavoidable and immediate, unless people who are well-off change their entire attitude to the working-class population. 20 Cf. “Useful Work Versus Useless Toil,” in which a plethora of perspectives, i.e. historical, natural, linguistic, aesthetic, and political, along with a great number of issues, some of which are only raised in passage combined with the length of sentences, leave the general impression of the lecture being somewhat haphazardly arranged. In order to discover that it is in fact well-prepared, and the order of unfolding ideas not coincidental, “Useful Work Versus Useless Toil” requires more than one reading.

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the labourer in an age of commerce, namely if “The workman had entered into his kingdom, then?” (1884 II, 33), he not only referred to the gospels of Mathew and Luke but also employed irony, apparent in the rhetorical question. As a result, the answer that followed seems to be already included in the question. It is unnecessary, even redundant, provided only for the sake of the structure of the lecture: “Strange to say, not at all. On the contrary, he had been shoved down a step or two, and was, in fact, worse off than his predecessor, the serf, had been. He had laboured and other men had entered into his labour” (1884 II, 33). Such a rhetorical strategy was virtually absent in the Glasgow version. Morris, rather flatly and plainly, showed the succession of epochs and the corresponding modes of production, concluding that the contemporary worker in capitalism is in many respects more degraded than his medieval counterpart. The arguments in the Leeds lecture indicate Morris’ knowledge of rhetorical techniques: they were well-balanced, built upon the thesis/antithesis pattern in which a particular statement is subsequently refuted/undermined by the following one. For instance, when he brought up the subject of the apparent freedom of workers, he immediately responded that they are free indeed: “free to starve” (1884 II, 23). He continued with ironic references to the conciliatory philosophies that offer nothing but palliatives instead of a remedy. Furthermore, since in accord with his concepts of time he constantly drew parallels between history and the present, the following line is ambiguous as to whether the ironic label of “our Glorious City” (Morris 1884 I, 323) is attached to ancient Rome or, perhaps, to contemporary London. As mentioned, these subtleties were missing in the Glasgow lecture, in which Morris’ opinions and beliefs were stated rather straightforwardly, being stripped of almost any traces of rhetoric and irony. The differences are even more discernible in the vocabulary of the two lectures. In general, Morris opted for simple and unsophisticated words for the working-class audience that attended his Glasgow lecture, as opposed to elaborate and more formal phrases which would be understood by the Leeds listeners. The examples include such expressions as “compulsory work” (1884 I, 101) to be replaced by “corvée” (1884 II, 27) and “agreement” (1884 I, 98), that in the Leeds version is changed to “suffrages” (1884 II, 22). In addition, Morris takes into account the likely level of education and competence of the two intended audiences; thus, the word “Attica” (1884 II, 22), which the working class might have been unfamiliar with, in the Glasgow lecture is transposed to “Greece” (1884 I, 109).

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The two lectures, apart from being similar in their general message— they share almost identical deep structures in their content—can be simultaneously read as two independent subtexts on account of the language and rhetoric employed in them. They offer new possibilities and new strategies to the reader: we are not obligated to study them from the perspective of the original audience. On the contrary, it is up to us to establish our viewpoint. We can either identify with the working class and deliberately ignore the eloquence and rich rhetoric of the Leeds lecture or analyse the Glasgow text from the position of an educated person searching for Morris’ strategies to convey his beliefs to the audience that was, in many respects, alien to his life and educational level. “The Relations of Art to Labour” provides sufficient proof to refute the popular claim that Morris was a middle-class gentleman who espoused socialism because such was his fancy. His efforts to reach out to different audiences representing various social classes are most transparent in the selection of language and rhetorical devices. His preoccupation with language is visible in the definitions of popular terms he provided, as in “Useful Work Versus Useless Toil” or the linguistic adjustments he made with regards to the expected audience as in the two versions of “The Relations of Art to Labour.” The second text especially is representative for the subject of this chapter—not only does it discuss art in a political context, but it is also a work of political art itself. Morris’ linguistic expertise that manifests itself in the rich verbal coloratura of his socialist lectures and the linguistic adjustments he introduced, aiming at an intended audience, is evidence that these texts transgress the territory reserved for political propaganda—they are pieces of literary art in their own right.

CHAPTER FIVE BEYOND ART AND POLITICS

News from Nowhere as a Transdiscursive Narrative The “Utopian Romance,” as Morris labelled News from Nowhere in the subtitle, is by far his most famous and popular work, arguably being the most influential utopia of the nineteenth century.1 Respectively, the story of Nowhere (cf. Greek u-topos, “nowhere”) inspired a plethora of leftwing movements ranging from anarchists to eco-socialists. Likewise, the compelling vision of a future Britain generated an infinite number of approaches and responses in which its textual and conceptual arrangements are studied from a wide variety of angles and perspectives: political, social, literary, and cultural. On account of the complexity of the work in question, critics and scholars generally opt for two strategies: they either analyse particular components of the structure, often in reference to other texts representing the genre of utopia, or they attempt to show the routes and trajectories leading from the individual elements and episodes to the broader spectrum 1

For instance, Toby Green from The Guardian places News from Nowhere at number six among the most influential utopias and dystopias of all time (April 29, 2004). Although Morris’ work is behind one nineteenth-century text, Erewhon by Samuel Butler, a book which Morris admired for many reasons, the generic classification of Butler’s vision appears problematic. It seems that the primary objective of Erewhon is a satire on Victorian society and values. Respectively, Butler draws upon a different thread of utopianism which dominates in such works as Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift and, to an extent, in some aspects of Thomas More’s Utopia. Yet, it is not the kind of literature which is generally considered a classic utopia, i.e. a presentation of a perfect/good society as in Plato’s Republic or Francis Bacon’s New Atlantis. Despite certain satirical contexts in News from Nowhere, mainly recognisable in the persona of William Guest, Morris’ Nowhere can be juxtaposed with the abovementioned Republic and New Atlantis rather than the Swiftian land of Houyhnhms. In essence, Nowhere is a unique and unparalleled construct which could be created only by a person whose Marxist convictions were simultaneously orthodox and original at a specific moment in time.

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of Morris’ universe. The second approach derives from the reciprocity and mutual interactions between the elements of his worldview in its entirety. Thus, the critic focuses on the uniquely Morrisean specifications. This approach differs from the former in the sense that, instead of drawing upon the independent sources and traditions, in particular utopianism, the primary objective is to establish the connection to other texts by Morris. Conversely, in the first approach, the vantage point can be labelled “intertextual” and “interdisciplinary,” i.e. referring to other independent works and concepts that inform Morris’ text, while in the second the critic concentrates on the study of Nowhere from the point of view of William Morris. On this account, it is his oeuvre alone rather than the broad category of utopian/utopic tradition which is brought into focus. In accord with Roman Jakobson’s famous study of aphasia, “Two Aspects of Language and Two Types of Aphasic Disturbances” (1956), in the first we will draw the line of contiguity and so juxtapose the story with similar works and notions sharing the structure and mode of argumentation with Morris. By contrast, the referent of the second is the author; hence, the story is analysed in connection to his other texts along the line of continuity, i.e. we will look for similarities in Morris’ previous and subsequent texts. By extension, the intertextual vs. self-referential distinction can be applied to the generic classification of News from Nowhere. The main question concerns the type of literature it represents: whether the narrative belongs to the golden age/earthly paradise concept, or, despite some superficial analogies, it is essentially a utopia. Even from the sole perspective of Morris’ art and texts, the issue of earthly paradise vs. utopia generic classification determines the overall perspective: the critics will either attempt to show parallels between News from Nowhere and the presocialist literature by Morris, especially The Earthly Paradise (see chapter three); or, if they decide upon the “utopian interpretation,” Morris’ socialist lectures on art and politics come to prominence (see chapter four). In other words, News from Nowhere read as an earthly paradise will be located in the earlier, aesthetic phase of Morris’ creative output, whereas our reading of the tale in line with the utopian literature will establish the connection between the world of Nowhere and the period of Morris’ political agitation. Morris produced two versions of News from Nowhere, which in some aspects differ from each other, even though those differences do not affect his main postulates or change the textual structure. The first variation was published in instalments for the Commonweal and completed in 1890. It was characterised by some obvious lapses and inconsistencies which are

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inevitable in serialised publications. The following one was issued in book format in 1891. In comparison to the previous, Morris included a number of amendments and corrections, along with some rather insignificant plot alternations, most important of which was the shift in time concerning the commencement of the socialist revolution: from 1910 in the Commonweal original series to 1952 in the book rendition. As a result, Guest’s original awakening occurred in the twenty-first century, while in the book publication it is in the twenty-second. Such an adjournment/delay may have indicated Morris’ growing scepticism about the feasibility of the introduction of socialism in the near future. My main objective is to demonstrate that News from Nowhere is a special kind of a political utopia that transcends the very notions of politics. On this account, I have decided to conduct an inquiry into some methods and approaches with regards to different layers of Morris’ text first, and then probe the results against the aprioric premises. The conclusions I have drawn are by no means binding or final on account of the limitations regarding the query, including a selective choice of materials and secondary sources. One of the most intriguing aspects which to my knowledge has not been fully developed, and perhaps overlooked, is the role and function of the narrator in the story (see chapter one). Namely, in the dominant criticism it is assumed or taken for granted that the tale of Nowhere is told from the perspective of William Guest—a prematurely aging and rather impatient Victorian who can be considered a thinly concealed alter ego of William Morris.2 The fact that the actual narrator is a party member who heard it from William Guest is mostly ignored, which will be one of the points discussed by me on the following pages. After a tempestuous party meeting the protagonist, William Guest, falls asleep on a winter’s night to wake up in the early June in what turns out be Nowhere, i.e. London of the twenty-second century. Despite finding himself in the familiar surroundings of his house in Hammersmith, he at first does not recognise the place. The metamorphosis is almost complete; not only has the weather immensely improved (1998, 45), but the waters 2

During his analysis of the autobiographical layer of the book, David Leopold mentions Guest’s first name (William), the age of the protagonist, and his “flash of temper” at the meeting of the Socialist League. The most significant autobiographical references, though, can be found in the narrative structure. Morris constructs the plot along two journeys, which can be also perceived as the bound motifs of the tale: the short drive from Hammersmith to Bloomsbury and the upriver voyage on the Thames from his London abode Kelmscott House to Kelmscott Manor—a countryside retreat that in many respects Morris considered his personal Arcadia, and in which he was finally laid to rest (Leopold, xxvi).

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of the Thames are also pristine. Furthermore, a new exquisitely designed bridge, as if “out of illuminated manuscripts” (48), has replaced the old one. In the meantime, he acquaints Dick—a young, handsome, and well-built boatman who introduces the visitor to the land of plenty which emerged after the transitory period of socialism—a post-communist paradise whose contours were outlined by Marx in his Critique of the Gotha Programme (1875), although the complete picture had never been drawn by him. Subsequently, Guest meets other residents, including Old Hammond who explains to him the lifestyle of Nowhere as well as, in line with the principles of the historical dialectic, the processes that led to the state of bliss observed by the newcomer. Towards the end of his visit, William Guests befriends Ellen, by far the most complex character in the story. Ellen, to an extent, embodies the spirit of the past imbued with the qualities associated with capitalism and modernity, even if under new circumstances of unrestrained energy, individuality, and even anxiety. For that reason, as noted by Tony Pinkney, she reintroduces the fourth element of the pre-Socratic universe which seems to be missing in Nowhere, that is fire (106). With the admission of Ellen, Morris simultaneously questions the veracity and the feasibility of his ecotopia: however beautiful the Earth is, however clear the air and the water, nature needs fire for completion— even if it would literally mean the unfriendly blaze from chimneys and factories or the metaphorical destructive flame of human passions. It is she who understands the true nature of William Guest better than others, recognising that on account of different circumstances, his upbringing and episteme, his proper place and time is the Victorian age. In a poignant farewell address, Ellen bids him to “go back and be the happier for having seen us, for having added a little hope to your struggle” (1998, 228). The story ends with the scene presenting William Guest “lying in his bed at dingy Hammersmith thinking about it all” (1998, 228). As mentioned, the most popular approach to the tale of Nowhere is the one which takes the perspective of William Guest. In consequence, the appraisal and analysis of a future London are conducted from historical and ideological vantage points, either deriving from the historical analysis of the Victorian age or from the modern movements representing the widely conceived Left. Yet, such a strategy is by no means the only one possible. The reader is fully entitled to the alternative approach where the text is studied from a different angle, i.e. the residents of Nowhere themselves. Furthermore, the second option seems to be more congruent with Morris’ original intentions. Respectively, bearing in mind the previous one, I will attempt to employ the less popular of the two

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strategies, and to concentrate on the point of view of the Nowhereians instead. In the course of my research, I have subsequently managed to single out at least three elements which appear to be underrepresented in the main line of the Morris scholarship. In my opinion, the intended implementations will contribute to the reduction of the prevailing ambiguity about both the structure of Morris’ text as well as the overall message conveyed by him. For the purpose of clarity and cohesion, I am presenting them here, being simultaneously aware that they should not be considered the universal keys to the interpretation of such a complex work as News from Nowhere. Furthermore, these possible implementations are relevant only in some specific methodological approaches regarding: the place and the role of the narrator, the structure, and the common ideological presupposition that the story is informed by the notions of equality and justice.

The Narrative Structure in the Context of Morris’ Views on Art and Politics One possible reason for the complexity and ambiguity in the narrative may be the contrast between the story’s closed structure, fashioned along some well-known patterns and motifs, and the open-endedness of Morris’ trajectory of thought. Respectively, the reader recognises familiar strategies characteristic of the utopia and the Romance, but oftentimes is at loss as to the true purpose of the world of Nowhere and its specifications. This contrast, in turn, manifests itself in Morris’ treatment of art and politics. While the structural components are still of aesthetic, social, and political character, the conceptual framework is already in the natural domain: art is replaced by beautiful things deprived of their other-thannatural contexts—historical or aesthetic. As a result, any reference to politics or even social issues perceived in terms of classic philosophy or political science becomes redundant. Furthermore, in the construct of Nowhere it is irrelevant.

The narrative voice as purposeful replication The first issue, as mentioned earlier, concerns the narrator; namely, most of the publications ignore the fact that although the tale of Nowhere is told in the first person and from the perspective of William Guest, the actual narrator is not William Guest but an anonymous party member who has heard the account of the story from him. This unspecified “comrade”

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relates the events in the voice of William Guest, as if they were one, but obviously may err in some aspects or omit others (see chapter one). Such an introduction of the seemingly unnecessary persona into the narrative appears to be not coincidental; not only does Morris repeat the pattern that he utilised in his early articles and essays, most notably “The Shadows of Amiens” (see chapter three), but he also distances himself from the events he partakes in and the concept of future London alike. The abovementioned strategy may justify the non/anti-prescriptive character of Morris’ work as well as explain the apparent dissociation from the utopic tradition—these features having been widely observed and discussed.3

Narrative frame(s): main storyline vs. added discourse The second point regards the structure of the novel, 4 in particular the extent to which the long explanatory passages on various aspects and representations of life, art, and politics in Nowhere (chapters ix–xix), additionally employing historical and dialectical perspectives, are part of the storyline. The lengthy conversation between Old Hammond, a somewhat quaint antiquarian who is keen on history and the only resident of Nowhere acquainted with the world that preceded the socialist revolution, and William Guest, appears to have emerged out of a sense of duty and obligation. In other words, that discourse can be considered a necessary dialectical superimposition expected from an active socialist, William Morris, who originally intended News from Nowhere for the members of the Socialist League. The dialogue, structurally resembling those by Plato, particularly in the question-answer pattern, does not significantly affect the storyline, nor does it have a major bearing on the subsequent progression of the plot. At best, it may only explain the motives behind the characters’ choices and priorities. According to May 3 For instance, the opinion about the rather non-prescriptive character of News from Nowhere is expressed by Owen Holland in “Utopia and the Prohibition of Melancholy: Mulleygrubs and Malcontents in William Morris’s News from Nowhere” (2012). In that article, Holland underlines that the original intention of Morris was not to present a blueprint for an ideal society (37). A similar view is held by Marcus Waithe in his monograph William Morris’s Utopia of Strangers (2006). 4 David Leopold consistently labels News from Nowhere a “novel” in his “Introduction” to the Oxford World Classics edition of Morris’ work, even if, in many aspects, the narrative diverges from the accepted definition of the term. The problem of the generic classification of the story is central to this chapter; yet, as seen, it not only concerns the genre but also the form.

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Morris’ opinion expressed in Later Years, “[some readers might prefer] to skip all the explanations of Old Hammond and read the tale as a romance, full of joy of life, full of fun, with slight digs at the author’s self, and gibes at some of falsities of modern life” (in Leopold, 29). Despite the differences in both the style and the purpose, which are transparent in those “added” passages juxtaposed with the main storyline, the predominant approach is to gather them together and incorporate them into a single textual frame. Such a non-discriminatory practice seems to be better fit for reading News from Nowhere in line with other utopias. On the other hand, it also leads to ambiguity and inevitable generalisations, which results in the mixed or opposite opinions about the purpose and function of the entire text. Even if May Morris’ suggestion to read her father’s magnum opus as solely a romance is deliberately simplified, her observation seems to be in essence correct; furthermore, it has far-reaching consequences. The decision about the exclusion/inclusion of the explanatory points from/to the narrative changes the perspective and point of view: from history and the present to the future and from William Guest’s to that of Nowhereians, respectively. As a result, two contradictory reading strategies emerge: we can either agree with Clive Wilmer, who holds that “its whole purpose is to criticize the present” (1998, 36) or, alternately, we are entitled to ignore the present and history altogether as irrelevant to the life-world of the inhabitants of future London. In the first case, the characters and events are presented from the perspective of William Guest, and in the second from the viewpoint of the Nowhereians. The first strategy locates News from Nowhere in the utopian oeuvre, whereas the second transcends the boundaries of the contemporary social criticism that is prominent in classic utopias, including the one in question by Thomas More, exposing instead the ahistorical and nonlinear qualities of a specific construct existing outside of locus and tempus, thus giving the impression of an earthly paradise. This alternative approach, as mentioned, appears to be at least underrepresented in the dominant threads of critical interpretation.

Conceptual and/or Generic Classification of News from Nowhere The direct motivation for News from Nowhere was the publication of Edward Bellamy’s socialist utopia Looking Backward: 2000–1887 (1888). The story of Julian West, a young American who after a long cataleptic sleep wakes up in the year 2000, was in many respects characteristic of the general vein of nineteenth-century utopias which underwent a significant

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change as compared to their classic predecessors. Due to geographical discoveries which left humankind with only a vague hope of new and unexplored territories, the whole concept of utopia was refashioned along the temporal as opposed to spatial line. The shift from place (u-topos) to time (u-chronos/u-tempus), or from terra incognita to tempora incognita, resulted in setting most of the utopian schemes and plots in the future, thus convening them to the home shores of the United Kingdom and the United States. The results of these changes were reflected not only in the general trend to abandon locus (island) for tempus (future), but also in the choice of priorities and specifications. From the nineteenth-century perspective, utopia was no longer a remote country as in Thomas More’s eponymous text—the paradigm of classic works in the genre, a philosophical concept of Plato’s and Campanella’s or some imaginary territory on the outskirts of civilisation popular in the travelogues and maritime narratives of earlier times. Respectively, the here-and-now realisation of the utopia was one of the first concerns for intellectuals, which, in turn, affected ordinary people who also partook in that process. As to Morris, the Iceland of the past that preoccupied him in the 1870s yielded to London of the future. From the very beginning, Morris opposed the technocratic vision of a socialist state presented in Bellamy’s parable. Apart from the omnipresent advanced technology that dominates Boston of the twenty-first century— the visible manifestation of civilisational progress—Morris objected to other elements in Bellamy’s scenario of his “brave new world.” In particular, he contested the concept of labour perceived as a “necessary evil,” or “pain in work” as Morris labelled it in the review of Looking Backward (1998, 357), which is minimised by the promise of an early retirement and the relatively small amount of time spent at work.5 If Morris’ dissatisfaction with the ubiquitous mechanisation that originated in technology, but subsequently affected other spheres, i.e. the “machinery of life” (1998, 354) presented by Bellamy that met with relatively modest criticism, he more firmly opposed the version of 5

Almost all socialist thinkers, including Marx, considered the reduction of the amount of time spent at work one of the top priorities. By doing so, they seemed to acknowledge that labour is a “necessary evil” or a “burden” of humanity. Considering the importance of “pleasure in labour” in his socialist lectures (see chapter four), Morris had to face a dilemma of whether to follow Marxism in every aspect or rather remain faithful to his original concept. In consequence, he settled for a compromise: in News from Nowhere—the residents enjoy work but devote relatively little time to completing their assignments, amounting to a few hours a day.

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socialism in Looking Backward along the ideological and conceptual lines. In the aforementioned Commonweal review published in 1889, Morris cast doubt on the “half-change” which the future society underwent (1998, 354), namely that the author seemed to be “perfectly satisfied with modern civilization, if only the injustice, misery, and waste of class society could be got rid of” (1998, 354). In other words, according to Morris, Bellamy did not negate the course of civilisation or the achievements of the bourgeois world per se, but only offered a correction (rather than an alternative or a change) to certain flaws and aberrations he observed. In this respect, Looking Backward seemed to represent the former presocialist and proto-socialist schools in line with the British tradition (see chapter two), whose main objective was not so much to change the entire system but only improve capitalism. Respectively, Chartism focused on better working conditions within the established systemic structure, while Owenism simply attempted to provide equal opportunities for profit sharing instead of questioning the very notion of “profit” as inscribed in the two-tier system. For those reasons, the movements in question and Bellamy alike did not consciously postulate that capitalism was principally wrong: socialism emerged solely on account of the injustice and elitisms that characterise class conflicts (see chapter two). Hence the “half change” in Looking Backward, according to Morris. What caused his most vehement protest was Bellamy’s scheme of “State Communism” (1998, 357), although the expression “State Socialism” seems to be more adequate—the doctrine holding that all means of production should be owned and controlled by the state. This theory contradicts Marx’s prediction that, in the final phase of communism, “the state would wither away,” as phrased by Friedrich Engels in Anti-Dühring (1878). It also stands in opposition to Morris’ libertarian socialist (in the European rather than American sense) vision of the future world consisting of a network of loosely connected yet de facto independent communities. Due to the enormous popularity of Bellamy’s utopia,6 Morris felt obligated to react, at first with anger: “I wouldn’t care to live in such a cockney 7 paradise,” he wrote in a letter of May 13, 1889 to John Bruce Glasier (1988 iii, 59). Furthermore, he recognised that it was the vision of the 6

Looking Backward ranked second on the American bestseller list of the nineteenth century (below Uncle Tom’s Cabin). Even as late as in 1935, three renowned American scholars (John Dewey, Charles Beard, and Edward Weeks) listed Bellamy’s work as the second most influential book of the past 50 years (behind Marx’s Capital). 7 Morris used the word “cockney” as the synonym of “vulgar,” “sham,” and “materialistic” (Leopold, xii).

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socialist state rather than the “sugar coating to the pill” (1998, 354), i.e. the genre of the Romance, which garnered Bellamy the accolades and secured wide acclaim. Morris soon responded with his “some chapters from a Utopian Romance,” the text that was in many respects antithetical to Looking Backward.

News from Nowhere as a romance The Romance elements in Bellamy’s text are transparent only in the surface structure, especially in his choice of the Dream Vision convention (see chapter one). That is not the case with News from Nowhere, which contains a far greater number of Romance qualities. The journey up the River Thames from Kelmscott House to Kelmscott Manor can be considered a transformation of the Romantic quest motif, while the final vision “half bestowed and half denied” (Wilmer 1998, xxxvi) recalls the legend of the Holy Grail from Malory’s Morte d’Arthur; in particular the act of Lancelot’s seeing the light of the Grail, yet not its substance. Analogously, when the glimmer of hope appears on the horizon, William Guest realises that it is time to part ways. In this respect, Morris repeats the pattern from his earlier romances, particularly the transient image of the unattainable Garden of Hesperides from The Life and Death of Jason (see chapter three) or, to an extent, the final scene of A Dream of John Ball (see chapter one). As observed by Clive Wilmer, the first journey from Hammersmith to Bloomsbury is informed by the “Marxist inquiry into the historical process.” The character of the second journey is different: it “involves all his [Morris’] instinctual life, leading him into the past, the heart of England and the sources of human inquiry” (1998, xxxvii). In accord with the medieval Dream Vision conventions, in which the journey through an archetypal landscape serves as a vehicle for the human life conveyance, the two travels of William Guest can be considered both literally and metaphorically: either as being the presentation of a future England or as the exploration of the protagonist’s inner self. Like in the Romance oeuvre, particularly the early orally told tales (see chapter one), the process is often more important than its completion—this notion standing in conjunction with the value attached by Morris to the very act/process of production. Respectively, the essence of News from Nowhere seems to lie

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in the journey alone rather than its results; i.e. in the fact that William Guest is travelling, not that he has travelled.8 In contrast to the moralising character of the medieval Dream Visions or the prescriptive and instructive qualities of utopias, Morris never aimed at completeness and didacticism in his text, which is transparent in the subtitle “being some chapters from a Utopian Romance.” Hence, in view of what appears to be his first intention, we are not obliged to read News from Nowhere as a symbolic representation of the socialist world. On the contrary, we are entitled to the straightforward approach in which things stand for nothing but themselves. Having decided upon the latter strategy, we diverge from the utopian tradition, at the same time entering/remaining in the realm of the Romance. Respectively, politics is removed from focus, being replaced by art. Yet, this is just the first step since even art does not seem to be of crucial importance in the story—Morris in fact avoids this term, speaking instead of beautiful objects which are simply “pleasing to the eye,” thus offering the vision of a happy existence in harmony with nature that reciprocates the favour. 8

Cf. the importance of the notion of process in Morris vs. the dialectal materialism of Marx. In the latter, the idea of processes in matter being in constant motion (i.e. objective reality) leads to the transformation of quantity into quality. Respectively, small, imperceptible changes accumulate, ultimately leading to the emergence of a new quality which simultaneously supersedes the former states. Basing on two laws applied to matter—the passage of quantitative changes to qualitative changes (the transition phase in physics), and the conflict of opposites discussed by Engels (originally contradictions in Marx)—Marx applied it to all spheres of life and thought. Superficially, Morris’ emphasis on process as equally important if not superior to a finished product bears a resemblance to Marx’s. The theoretical and practical tenets are, however, different: to Morris, the original model was based on the production of a work of art. This process was crucial in, for instance, the representation of the world in the Icelandic Sagas, and only then Morris expanded it to other domains, including politics. Also, Morris stressed the importance of process as such, yet without linking it to the idea of progress, the latter not always being desirable. Such a conception stood in opposition to Hegel and Marx for whom process was synonymous with progress, i.e. the precondition that process/progress would result in a more advanced version of the state. Nevertheless, Marx and, to a greater extent, Engels were capable of noticing certain contradictions in their Weltanschauung: namely that capitalism was not the improved version of feudalism, but only a more-efficient way of exploring and utilising the existent social relations, which at core remained unchanged. Progress was therefore an illusion; moreover, it often resulted in a worsening of the overall situation of workers as compared to their medieval counterparts. At this point, Marxism converged with the beliefs of Ruskin and Morris, despite their different original stances and preconditions.

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Arcadian elements in News from Nowhere Such a state of bliss is characteristic of a vision of pastoralism typical of the mythological land of Arcadia. On this account, some commentators “possessed of a typological bent have categorized News from Nowhere as an ‘arcadia’, a portrait of an undemanding pastoral life” (Leopold, xxiii). Furthermore, if it is set in an unspecified moment of time—despite the concrete date of Guest’s arrival the world of Nowhere appears eternal in its permanence and unchangeability—it additionally points to the related concept of the golden age/earthly paradise. Respectively, the reader may reach the unexpected conclusion that Morris committed a fallacy: while intending to write a utopia he produced another version of his “escapist poem,” as The Earthly Paradise was labelled. In a similar vein, one may question the term “Utopian Romance,” since at first glance such a hybrid of two concepts that in many respects exclude each other is a contradiction: its existence, if at all possible, must be by definition ephemeral.

News from Nowhere: a Political Utopia without Politics News from Nowhere and the Earthly Paradise concept Despite some superficial similarities, the Golden Age/Earthly Paradise concept differs from utopia in so many respects that it is possible to speak of the contrast/dichotomy between them. This difference manifests itself in the origins as well as the function and purpose. In general, the concept of the Earthly Paradise is far older than that of the utopia, bordering prehistory and the very beginnings of human records: the Garden of Eden in the Bible, Works and Days by Hesiodus, in which he introduces the notion of the Golden Age, or the Elysian Fields in Greek mythology. For convenience and clarity I have created a short guideline to the utopia/Golden Age dichotomy. Respectively, basing on Jerzy Szacki’s publication Spotkania z Utopią [Encounters with Utopia] as well as the Faber and Faber Book of Utopias, I have provided four qualities which, in my opinion, are most representative for that distinction. Simultaneously, I am aware that some authors consider both as interrelated, inscribed in the broad category of utopianism, and they do not discriminate between utopia and the Golden Age, simply labelling both “utopia.” Such a situation may also derive from the frequent incorporations of paradisiacal elements into the utopian schemes by the authors, usually to beautify their constructs or attract the reader. Nevertheless, in the approach I have chosen, utopia and

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Golden Age/Earthly Paradise are often antithetical, and do not share the same conceptual frame. The main points concern: Absence of systemic superstructure in the Golden Age/Earthly Paradise vs. the prescriptive character of utopias Earthly Paradises are generally deprived of a system, and hence are also free of any form of ideological conditioning. A utopia, on the other hand, is a closed and well-defined systemic construct. In fact, the works of Thomas More and Campanella can be considered the blueprints for the system construction and operation, and the superstructures are more advanced and intricate than those which exist in the actual state formations. Superficially, News from Nowhere represents the Earthly Paradise concept as there is no systemic superstructure, no legal system, and no repressive apparatus. Past direction of the Golden Age vs. the present focus in utopia The prime motivation for the Earthly Paradises is the sense of nostalgia present in the phrase “good old days,” or conceptualised in the specifically British/Victorian notion of “Merrie England” (see chapter one). By contrast, in utopia the author focuses on the corrections and alternatives to the present course of civilisation. On that account, the present is the first referent of utopias, regardless of the actual temporal location: some are set in the contemporary times, while others are in the future. Although the past setting is also possible (e.g. Atlantis) due to the spatiotemporal shift in the nineteenth century,9 it has of late been neglected. Despite Morris setting News from Nowhere in the future, most of the elements belong to or are associated with the past: the landscape, clear air, no visible signs of factories, the clothes and architecture, etc. Nevertheless, Morris intimates that machines in fact perform the kind of work which is deemed mundane, dreary, and repetitive, although the reader does not find out what kind of work it is as well as what specific machines are meant. To the second point regarding the “ornamental part of life,” the narrator simply remarks that clothes, buildings, and everyday items resemble those produced in the past, but are improved. On account of the virtual absence of technological inventions, a lack of specifications concerning the possible directions of 9

This spatiotemporal shift occurred as the result of geographical explorations. In the nineteenth century, the map of the world was almost complete and it became evident that no better kind, just, and unspoiled society existed on Earth. In consequence, utopias were generally moved along the temporal axis to the future.

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civilisational progress, and no visible signs of what is conventionally associated with modernity, the pastoral and paradisiacal character of Nowhere appears to dominate over the utopian mien. Timelessness and permanence of the Golden Age vs. temporal specifications in utopias Earthly Paradises are usually set in an unspecified epoch, and even if the author suggests some concrete temporal framework, it does not affect the structure and protagonists of the text. The sense of permanence prevails: the characters seem to either live eternally or are unaware of/ignore death’s existence. Utopia, on the other hand, is set in specific circumstances and environs. The residents may not know the contemporaneous epoch outside the borders of their land, but they are conscious of the temporality of their being. Since law is strictly defined and observed (no corresponding legal system exists in the Earthly Paradise), in some examples the death penalty is in force and executions are carried out. This practice, in turn, has an impact on the behaviour and rules of conduct of the inhabitants of utopias. In News from Nowhere, the longevity of the characters is a norm, and the role of death is not deterministic; despite the specific tempus and locus—London of the twenty-second century—both time and space give an impression of being undefined since the corresponding places in the world are by no means the point of reference for the Nowhereians. International trade does not exist, and nor do any developed forms of contact with the outside world. Moreover, due to the victory of socialism in every part of the Globe, the other formations do not serve as a probe to the actual construct of Nowhere, which is almost always the case in the Utopian literature. Again, News from Nowhere may resemble the Earthly Paradise. Undefined/vaguely defined locus of Earthly Paradise vs. spatial limitations of utopia This point shares a great deal in common with the previous one. The place in which an Earthly Paradise is set tends to be undefined, possessing no clear limits or borders. It is often an overtly fictive construct, which, in addition, evokes mythological/religious analogues. Utopia, on the other hand, is limited to a specific geographical area. Even if the author claims that no such land actually exists (cf. u-topos), it is still possible to draw a detailed map of a given utopia. The original utopias were mainly located on an island, which could better explain their isolation as well as the

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process of system formation independent of external influences. From the nineteenth century on, it was usually set in the future (u-chronos) yet also occupying an actually existing territory; in the case of News from Nowhere it is London of the twenty-second century. According to E. P. Thompson, “the language of the book [News from Nowhere] is dominated by expressions of longing and desire” (Wilmer 1998, xxxvii). Conversely, the reader may assume that the principal source of inspiration for Morris was identical to this in The Earthly Paradise: nostalgia for an unspecified land of eternal happiness which would serve as an antidote to mundane reality, rather than specific directives for the future in a utopia. In this interpretation, the fact that Morris locates his socialist Eden in the future, as opposed to a great majority of earthly paradises set in the past, appears to be of secondary importance. Such constructs, by definition timeless and eternal, belong to the sphere of art and literature rather than historical specifications. The concept of Earthly Paradise, is far more literary than a utopia, the genre bordering the political, the philosophical, and the historical. That difference is manifested in the concrete and practical language of utopia: in most examples, the authors avoid poetic passages seen as a distraction from the specific schemes and proposals.10 Morris’ major accusation of Looking Backward concerned “reading the present into the future” (Leopold, xiii), the strategy which constrained and limited the spectrum of Bellamy’s world to the mundane issues of his day, simultaneously reducing the artistic vision to the very minimum. In view of this pronouncement, Morris seemed to question the utopian character of his own text. After all, is not utopia exactly about “reading the present into the future” with some literary colouring that adds to its attractiveness but does not change the original message? Analogously, the paradisiacal elements can be considered as imposed on the structure of utopia, but they do not affect it. On the whole, they are created for the reader more than for the author. Morris’ priorities at first glance appear to be exactly the opposite: William Guest’s constant comparisons of Nowhere with Victorian England are obstacles to his integration with the Nowhereians; those qualities in fact set them apart. From Dick’s perspective, Guest’s stories about his age are not even amusing: they are pointless. Even Old Hammond listens to them out of curiosity, at best to pursue his hobby—as history is now reduced to the status of leisure activity—a practice which he himself considers odd. 10 Furthermore, in the radical scenario of Plato’s Republic, artists and poets are excluded from his ideal state.

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Guest’s descriptions of the Victorian schemes and solutions are not even contestable or debatable; they simply appear absurd to Nowhereians. For that reason, as observed by Marcus Waithe, William Guest realises that he has nothing to offer his hosts (see chapter one) and that, willingly or not, his proper time and place is nineteenth-century England. As mentioned, the long conversation between him and Old Hammond, fashioned along the question-answer pattern, gives the impression of being superimposed on the structure. Respectively, it can be seen as an interruption rather than a continuation of the plot. Morris’ construction is, at least superficially, antithetical to a utopia: instead of introducing the paradisiacal elements to the otherwise socio-political text, he seems to do the reverse. It is apparent from the very beginning that Morris’ Nowhereians have no particular social constructs perceived in a conventional sense and that they live under no specific political system. In other words, no analogues to the Victorian age can be found in Nowhere. Apart from the historical passages—homages to socialism and Hegelian dialectics—which, as mentioned, are imposed on the structure rather than constituting its part, the abovementioned absence of a systemic structure highlights the whole text. Along with the absence of an encompassing system goes the lack of forms and agencies of power and authority—a government and the political representation do not exist in the established sense. Ironically, the Houses of Parliament serve as a storage place for manure. Another institution, namely the monarchy, has been long defunct. Furthermore, the organs accountable for moral issues, cementing the society through faith and the common system of beliefs, are also non-existent. There is no religion or church authority in Nowhere/London, although some medieval churches remain on account of their superb architecture, and others, such as St. Paul’s Cathedral, are preserved as a part of the cultural heritage. Even authority based on respect for one’s elders is not observed, which results in viewing Old Hammond as a quaint antiquarian who is on friendly terms with the younger generation, acting as the source of knowledge about former days. Yet, he does not expect reverence for his knowledge and qualities, let alone his age. The absence of power and authority is also reflected in the education system. Non-compulsory education in Nowhere changes the objectives and teaching strategies. As a result, the schoolmaster is a friend to the pupils rather than a strict martinet who prepares children and youth for their future social roles. This approach affects the rudimentary principles of the repressive apparatus: Morris seems to imply that law and law enforcement will be

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redundant in a world where education is not about restrictions and punishment, but about encouraging people to pursue to their interests. Respectively, William Guest is taken aback by the fact that there are no institutions connected with the execution of power as well as no legislative and judicial organs, i.e. the legal system is non-existent and so is the penitentiary. All residents of Nowhere are nonetheless familiar with the fact that such systems existed before, which is one of the very few vestiges of the historical past they are aware of; i.e. Morris finds it necessary to introduce the notion of consciousness to Nowhere in this way, somewhat compromising his vision of future London as an Earthly Paradise. All in all, however, the absence of personal and external forms of authority results in the lack of institutions and organs responsible for their implementation, a quality which suggests the Golden Age/Earthly Paradise concept as opposed to Utopia, where systemic structures are often far more explicit and thoroughly developed. Another feature of the Golden Age is the lack of a historical context. Although William Guest arrives in Nowhere/London on a specific date, he soon realises that the inhabitants have only a vague sense of history. For example, when Guest’s guide Dick learns about his curiosity and interest in that field, he immediately sends him to Old Hammond, as the latter is the only person who is conversant with the past. Other than with Hammond, history is present only in the forms of architecture and the clothes Nowhereians wear, which are a peculiar mixture of the medieval and the Byzantine. In addition, the names of streets and squares, though deprived of their original context, bridge the gap to a past otherwise forgotten or neglected. The function of history here is purely aesthetic, even decorative, rather than deterministic. Otherwise, an acute sense of history in the present as proposed by Frederic Jameson,11 or an awareness in terms of a cultural shift and agencies of power as in Stephen Greenblatt’s version of New Historicism, is non-existent. History is also absent in its more conventional dialectical sense where it is seen a succession of social formations. Despite a specific date, the reader finds themselves in an epoch of rest (the subtitle of News from Nowhere) and an out-of-time earthly paradise (the title of Morris’ long narrative poem). Although the buildings and clothes resemble those from specific historical epochs, they appear to belong to the unhistorical concept of the Earthly Paradise. The method Morris utilised probably owes to his more 11

Jameson’s The Political Unconscious (1981) opens with the famous slogan “always historicize,” although he immediately undermines its significance in the following passage in which he explains that history is only the material rather than the object of the dialectics.

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thorough studies of the Middle Ages. In the socialist period he deepened his knowledge of his favourite epoch, becoming more critical of the dark aspects of that period, such as the bellicose predisposition of Gothic tribes and the obvious social inequality. The first issue informs his escapist romance The House of the Wolfings, while the second is exposed in his socialist essays and articles, for instance “The Rough Side of the Middle Ages” (1893). In order to recreate Morris’ process of transformation resulting in the creation of the aesthetic space that gives the impression of the medieval, yet deprived of any specific references to that time, we can employ some elements of the theft-and-gift principle originally presented by Giles Deleuze in “Difference and Repetition” (1971), and subsequently incorporated by Agnieszka Goáda-Derejczyk in her analysis of the retroVictorian novel phenomenon. In brief, Goáda-Derejczyk’s explanation postulates that in the process of repetition, i.e. in case of literature stealing from one text and, simultaneously, bestowing the elements of the former text onto a new one, this new text is paradoxically oriented to the future rather than the past (2009, 41). The process of repetition is also the process of transformation; respectively, we need to filter the past through our present. By doing so, we are, to a degree, altering both states, which results in the direction towards the future. In the course of transformation, we may respectively ignore these elements which we consider unnecessary or redundant. In my understanding, the new quality that emerges is not so much original per se, as it is a distorted mirror reflection of the old one. Hence, Morris “steals” from the medieval, yet without the need to recreate the historical circumstances of a particular architectural form. Subsequently, he filters that form through his socialist beliefs, stripping it of any references to the medieval social system, i.e. feudalism. In this phase, the building/garment retains the Gothic/Byzantine character in its general shape, but by losing the connection to the specific socio-economic circumstances of the medieval world it acquires a purely aesthetic quality. Ultimately, when this new-old item is located in the alternative world of the future it resembles the original, but the process of transformation was so long that it appears to be inspired by the prototype rather than being identical to it. Conversely, we can consider such an object a distorted reflection of the medieval, but, at the same time, on account of the circumstances as being a transformation of the prototype, so advanced that it appears to be new. The methods utilised during the production of that item and the accompanying process are similar to those in the Middle Ages, but, in addition, Morris vaguely states that the manufacturer also applied some state-of-the-art machine technology in their production. In the last phase, the object is

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even deprived of its aesthetic function, if by the aesthetic we mean a specific philosophical term. It is simply beautiful, but the beauty is as natural as that of a tree or a river. As a result, Morris returns to his concept of “organic art,” which is an element of the landscape (see chapter one), yet under new circumstances which are socialist, not medieval. The final product of this process of transformation enables him to reconcile his beliefs in the superiority of the Gothic with socialist beliefs. Subsequently he would go even further, since in his last romances not only is the temporal connection with the past lost, but also the spatial: the plots are set in unrecognisable/non-existent places. This feature aligns the last romances with the fantasy genre; yet, as I have attempted to show, the methods and the processes leading Morris to the lands of fantasy are different from J. R. R. Tolkien, for example, who directly drew upon the early medieval sources, incorporating them into the concept of Middle Earth, or C. S. Lewis’s Narnia, whose origins are to be sought in the tradition of English fairy tales with some elements of Greek mythology and Christian parables. Respectively, unlike Morris, both Tolkien and Lewis appear to have skipped the middle phase of filtering these concepts through a specific system of contemporary political beliefs. The method of filtering the past through the present and setting the story in the future seems to be the most interesting aspect of News from Nowhere, while the extension of that process into spatial dimensions characterises his last romances. In turn, the method explains the way all kinds of “Nowheres” and “Neverlands” that have proliferated since the publication of his works are created. Yet, as mentioned, in the case of Morris it is possible to follow every phase of that process. Respectively, William Morris can be called the true inventor of the entire fantasy genre.

News from Nowhere as an advanced socialist utopia The very term “political utopia” with which William Morris’ work can be labelled is in itself somewhat of a pleonasm; the redundancy is manifested in the fact that every presentation of an ideal system in a utopia possesses a political character. Respectively, most of the classic works in the genre, including the one in question by Thomas More, were written as more or less overtly critical pamphlets on political circumstances in the time of their production.12 12

This criticism seems to be more important than an alternative; frequently, the works/texts stress the impossibility of the realisation of such alternatives, or, at best, a vague and remote outline of them.

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Morris’ “Nowhere” directly refers to the literal translation of the word “Utopia” (cf. Greek u-topos, “nowhere”), even if the narrative is set in a definite place and time, namely London of the twenty-second century. Notwithstanding, as shown in the previous parts, the Morrisean Nowhere diverges from the utopian schemes. The prescriptive tone is absent, history is irrelevant—at least from the perspective of Nowhereians—and, above all, there seems to be no systemic superstructure. Moreover, Morris by no means claims that the future of England will be like the one depicted by him. His vision is neither a prognosis nor even a scenario: it is a mere speculation. If we follow May Morris’ suggestion and ignore the conversation between William Guest and Old Hammond which, as I explained earlier, can be considered a separate text in the mould of Plato’s Dialogues rather than a part of the storyline, the utopian elements appear so marginal that we may well ignore them and read the tale as a Romance set in the pastoral Earthly Paradise. In other words, we will deal with the land of natural beauty without art and politics. Yet, however appealing and coherent, this interpretation is based on superficial observations. On a deeper level, both realms do not disappear but are only transformed. Art perceived from the organic perspective of nature rather than aesthetics and a special kind of political context, which could be labelled the “post-“ or “trans-political,” viewed and favoured by the socialist eye, lay at the foundation of Morris’ work. Respectively, the title “Nowhere” can be considered a very advanced post-systemic construct informed by very general Marxist, perhaps post-Marxist, 13 postulates. Insomuch as the text in many aspects differs from the vision of the future proposed and negotiated by Marx, it is essentially socialist in spirit and the message conveyed. Morris considered himself an orthodox Marxist, hence some concepts and notions–such as the working class revolution, the alienation of the worker from the goods they produce, or the dialectics of historical evolution Marx advocates—can be found in those passages in the text which deal with the earlier historical phases of Nowhere. Yet, from the very beginning it is evident that Morris presents the version of a socialist state that diverges from the original Marxian convictions. If, for instance, Marx sees the modern, advanced city and the factory as the hub of a future society, Morris depicts a rural-urban community labouring in workshops. Such a compound may serve as a correction or an alternative, yet it is also 13

By “post-Marxist” I mean a set of general goals and principles which derive from Marxism understood as a universal tendency rather than a dogma or a system, but which have not yet been realised or experienced. I do not refer to the specific post-Marxist and neo-Marxist methods and schools.

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the realisation of Morris’ beliefs, most comprehensively expressed in his socialist lectures (see chapter four). Morris puts forward his beliefs about the role of labour as the source of pleasure and fulfilment. Contrary to Marx and Bellamy, who considered work, even in its improved version, a necessary evil imposed on humanity, Morris in his lecture “Useful Work Versus Useless Toil” (see chapter four) elaborates on pleasure in work and later incorporates his standpoint into Nowhere. Furthermore, he suggests that the class system, especially viewed as the basis of identity, has become obsolete. This is particularly discernible in his treatment of the working class, whose elevation in status as well as the leading role after the revolution became the ultimate goal of Marxism. Yet, no comparable working class can be found in Nowhere/London. Basically, the notion of class as the principal referent defining one’s position in the economic spectrum disappears altogether. Marx was against utopia and utopianism on principle. The very term “utopian socialism,” as opposed to scientific socialism, carried negative implications and was often used as a derogatory name for the former socialist schools (see chapter two). The closest Marx ever came to a utopia was his manifesto Critique of the Gotha Programme (1875), in which he vaguely outlines the shape of a future world after the dissolution of the state. This work, however, was unpublished at the time Morris wrote News from Nowhere, although he could have been given access to it during one of his visits to Engels’s apartment in London. Whichever version holds true, Morris’ vision is far more concrete and diverse than that of Marx. On account of his previous works marked by escapism, especially The Earthly Paradise, News from Nowhere generated a negative or indifferent response from his contemporary socialists, who saw in it proof of his impracticality and daydreaming. Similarly, even if on different grounds, negative reviews came from the middle class who either considered the book a new version of the Earthly Paradise revisited 14 or, at best, an 14

To this category belongs Mackail’s opinion about News from Nowhere. According to him, the story represents pastoral literature, which is by definition artificial (in the antonymic to the natural sense). Mackail claims that the aforementioned artificiality is due to the general character of the pastoral regardless of whether the golden age is set in the past or the future. This opinion is in itself odd since by that time no famous Earthly Paradise had apparently been set in the future. This impression is magnified by the fact that Morris attempted to incorporate a political message into the already stylised world of Nowhere. As a result, he summarises the most popular text by Morris in just a few sentences. At the same time, he considers it incredulous that News from Nowhere had been translated into other languages, i.e. French, German, and Italian, intimating that it

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expression of Morris’ idiosyncrasy resulting from his conversion to Marxism, which they could never comprehend. Despite Marx’s rejection of a utopia and the subsequent negative reception of News from Nowhere by most of the socialist thinkers, utopianism is interrelated with socialism to a greater degree than it appears. Such is the opinion of Ernst Bloch expressed in Spirit of Utopia (1918), the work in which he elaborates on the romantic/utopian element Marxism entails. Respectively, Morris writes in compliance with the general vein of Marxist utopianism, and his work is fully justified on the above grounds. Nonetheless, it is different from other utopian texts based on the socialist convictions of the Victorian Age. He virtually ignores progressive trends leading to further mechanisation and the development of technology, which will produce happiness in uniformity. As a matter of fact, Morris suggests an alternative direction of the whole course of socialism that was ignored in his lifetime. The power of socialism should not be in uniformity but in diversity, and not in substituting an old ideology with a new one but in rejecting of ideology altogether. In view of these observations, the narrative bears only a superficial resemblance to the Earthly Paradise. Essentially, it represents a radical version of the political utopia depicting a world whose transformation is so advanced that the very notion of the “political” has vanished.

(Anti-)Ideology: the Narrative as a Circumvention According to Marx, the capitalist society is founded on the basesuperstructure model, where economy is the base, while culture, art, and literature constitute the ideological superstructure. As the system itself is based on the exploitation and oppression of the working class, the ruling middle class needs an ideology to vindicate their position and, at the same time, convince the working class that this is the only option they have. In Foucault’s terms, it is the ideology of power that underpins the whole system, which is reflected in the repressive apparatus, the state apparatus, and the political representation (1998, 63). The aforesaid forms which amount to which the notion of the superstructure should either reflect or reinforce the dominant ideology. Marx noticed that phenomenon and hence used the term “ideology” in the negative sense of “false consciousness.” In a similar vein, in the title of his book The German Ideology, the context and the specific explanations should definitely not be considered as one of Morris’ finest literary productions (Mackail 1995 II, 243).

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show the very fact of its existence in an unfavourable light. What Marx failed to predict, though, was that in the future socialist state a new set of ideological dogmas and new forms ideological conditioning would simply replace the old ones. What Althusser once considered inevitable and unavoidable, i.e. “impossible to escape from ideology,”15 came to be true. In News from Nowhere, ideology is redundant and finally disappears. Morris manages to do without it as he obliterates the whole basesuperstructure model. By eliminating the monetary and wage systems in working environs, he deprives the base of their primary function, which is generating profit. Consequently, the superstructure ceases to exist as well. There are no courts, prisons, or police; in other words, the disciplinary and repressive apparatus are absent in the Morrisean microcosm of Nowhere, much like the non-existent state apparatus and political representation system. Thus, all legal and political institutions have become obsolete. The same criteria apply to the ideological components of the superstructure: art is replaced by “beautiful things” seen as the subject rather than the object of aesthetic contemplation. Likewise, Nowhereians are polite and resemble gentlemen/knights, not thanks to the culture which has shaped them but simply because they are so by nature. For example, they read books for pleasure and whenever they feel like it. Ideology is useless in Nowhere/London as there is nothing it could reinforce or be employed in. This, in turn, renders the impression of the Golden Age/Earthly Paradise discussed earlier, but in fact results from Morris’ intense reception and deep understanding of Marxian thought. The ultimate evidence for reading News from Nowhere as an advanced socialist utopia is the absence of the notion of justice within the narrative. This term has been used or even overused on numerous occasions in connection with Marxism to such an extent that even in the early phase of socialism it became a worn-out slogan and cliché.16 Marx, however, was more ambivalent about the meaning and signification of the term. He claimed that the capitalist system based on exchange value is by no means unjust, and he never said that the future Communist one would be just, as it was analysed in detail by Norman Geras in his article “The Controversy About Marx and Justice” (1985). More by intuition than rational thinking, Morris was therefore capable of catching the crux of Marxian polemics: to 15

Such a conception of ideology was discussed by Althusser in “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses” (1971). According to him, the only way to evade ideology is through the “scientific understanding” of ideological systems, i.e. the comprehension of such notions as class system and power (Grey 2005). 16 For instance, the first Marxist newspaper of the Social Democratic Federation to which Morris contributed was called Justice (see chapter two).

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speak of justice there needs to be injustice. As the socialist system is based on equality (again, to speak of “equality,” “inequality” must exist in the first place) and the means of production are owned by the workers alone, we cannot speak of either injustice or justice, respectively. Justice is in principal an ideological construct: we are entitled to seek it only if we feel that in one way or another we have been ill-treated, which is, as Morris obviously believed, common in the system based on workers’ exploitation. On that account, in line with his distrust of ideology, Morris replaces justice with a more natural, characteristically British, sense of “fairness.” In this way, he omits the prevalent polemic of his day concerning Marxism as a system that is imbedded in and motivated by justice. Similar to the procedure of reducing the political and the aesthetic, which are eventually replaced by the “natural order,” and likewise exposing the “natural perception of the beautiful” by prioritising fairness over justice, Morris relocates the subject to the natural domain, too.

The narrative’s reflections on language and socialist consciousness The issues discussed above are symptomatic of Morris’ linguistic awareness concerning meaning construction, which subsequently leads to viewing language itself as an ideological form (see chapter four). He realises that the conventional linguistic signification must first be questioned, and only then created anew. In the course of that procedure, the transcendental signified, together with the bias implicit in that notion, should be dislocated from its ideological associations and relocated to the possibly most neutral and “natural” field. The resulting change will simultaneously affect the world perception under new circumstances as well as reflect that world. Only when the process is accomplished will the former connotations and denotations of a given term be superseded by a new one, i.e. “natural” and unbiased. In Nowhere, popular vocabulary is removed from its original context and, as a result, the meaning undergoes a change. For instance, when William Guest uses the word “poor,” his interlocutor Dick understands it only as “sick” (see chapter four). Respectively, the meaning of “poor” becomes dissected from its socio-ideological format (i.e. destitute, but also of bad quality, unsuccessful, miserable), and is transposed to neutral territory, now simply meaning “ill,” “unwell.” Such a semantic shift is indicative of a larger process that took place in the socialist/Communist environs: poverty is unknown in the post-socialist world of the future. Although it appears to be common sense, Morris raises a radical question

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of how the human mind is capable of operating only within the artificial linguistic confines determined and defined by the dominant ideology. On this account, his vision is more advanced than any other Marxist alternative, including the contemporary schools. By “advanced” I mean that Marxist philosophers and critics still inadvertently use the language of capitalism, and so, by extension, operate within what Marx called in The German Ideology the “language of property.” In such an approach, language is but the constituent and reflection of the power system created by the middle class—the same words and terms are used by its proponents and opponents. Furthermore, even the most radical philosophers of today still operate within the language and terminology of the dominant group and thus reluctantly accept it.17 By so doing, they in fact only contribute to ideology (see chapter four) since, as noted by Raymond Williams,18 this apparent criticism is indispensable for the proper functioning of the system. Respectively, a new socialist world requires a new language and different forms of expression—a phenomenon that only Morris and Marx in their generation, and just few later on, managed to grasp.

News from Nowhere as a Transdiscursive Exposition of the Morrisean Universe William Morris’ News from Nowhere is a unique example of a political utopia which transcends the boundaries of politics. Although inspired and conditioned by socialism it also goes beyond the confines of a specific system. In a broader sense, although it represents Morris’ aesthetic ideal, the text does not refer specifically to art and aesthetics either. It reintroduces the natural order, which comes to humanity after a long process of social and political changes, many years after the socialist revolution. In the world of Nowhere there are no longer any theories and ideologies—their referent has either disappeared or been replaced by

17 Despite the fact that plenty of new terms have been introduced to the lexicon, along with David Foster Wallace’s observation that the usage of the established ones has become far more precise, a radical linguistic change still awaits its implementation. So far, the main difference, as compared to the past, derives from postmodern practices, particularly Deconstruction. The self-reflective and selfreferential focus of the postmodern praxis results in a greater awareness of the arbitrariness, even inadequacy, of the terminology that we utilise along with acceptance of the indeterminacy of meaning. 18 For instance, this issue is discussed in Williams’ Marxism and Literature (1977) and his essays published as Problems in Materialism and Culture (1980).

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nature perceived as a thing for and in itself rather than a philosophical category or a theorem. News from Nowhere represents a version of the Earthly Paradise/Golden Age concept, yet only in its surface structure. The lack of ideology of the repressive apparatus and state apparatus, as well as the absence of a systemic structure in general, result not from Morris’ confusion about the art/politics priorities: Morris the socialist would intend to write a political utopia, and yet he produced another version of the art-embedded concept of the Earthly Paradise. The characteristics of his text were rather determined by his capacity to comprehend the intricacies of Marxian thought informed by his profound understanding of such notions as ideology and justice. By deliberately eschewing the prescriptive tone and prognostic specifications he left his text open-ended—like, in fact, his worldview in general. Conversely, we are entitled to read News from Nowhere as an unassuming story, an outline of a socialist future, and the vision of the protagonist, or to see William Guest as a casual stranger—an intruder in a land of hospitality who, in the end, leaves no mark on Nowhere. The Morrisean London is a special utopic construct in which Morris came closest to his ideal of an “expressive life”; in other words, to the notion of the “beauty of life” which encapsulates his holism. This was only possible in a world which has completed all transformational phases from the socialist revolution to the dissolution of the state, eventually becoming a compound of loosely-bound communities of peers. The metamorphosis is so thorough that the reader has an impression of visiting a consciously reconstructed Earthly Paradise. Although Marxism ignited that chain of reactions, Nowhere transcends the specific prescriptions of any type of socialism: the most adequate phrase could be the “communist paradise” provided that “communism” denotes “community” or “communal life,” not a system of beliefs or a political doctrine. Eventually, the word “paradise” also transgresses common associations. Characteristically, Morris did not aim at perfection—after all, neither crime has been totally eliminated, nor has justice been equally distributed or absolute equality come into existence. In addition, as observed by Owen Holland in his article “Mulleygrabs and Misfits in William Morris’s News from Nowhere,” some residents who are by nature ill-disposed malcontents still nourish their character, despite the fact that there are few things they can direct their disappointment at (2012, 36). These qualities may in turn point to the seemingly missing element of fire, which is not extinguished, only kept under control.

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Morris’ utopia is definitely more mature than most of the other works representing the genre, perceived as a mode of seeing the world in general. This conviction is embedded in the complexity of the seemingly very simple life of Nowhere: people are not reduced to the role and function of automatons in the service of a system, however just, but they experience their existence in all its aspects, including those which can be deemed “bad” or “undesirable.” Dissatisfaction, melancholy, even violence constitute a part of life, Morris implies, perhaps necessary for its full completion and utmost realisation. In view of these observations, Morris’ opinion from the review of Looking Backward becomes significant: “the only safe reading of a Utopia is to consider it as the expression of the temperament of its author” (Morris 1998, 354). Opting for the emotive word “temperament,” instead of “conviction” or “belief,” he would disapprove of reading News from Nowhere as a guideline to the specific schemes and prescriptions which usually proliferate in this kind of literature. His decision to produce a text which is fragmentary and open to interpretation was rooted in the universalism of his worldview. First, it complied with his holistic convictions. Second, by leaving a lot of room for individual reception and interpretation, he also emphasised the role of the reader as the active participant in the process of the text production. As a result, we are dealing with a unique work that transcends the limitations of a specific genre, political system, and historical epoch. Furthermore, although News from Nowhere is based on Morris’ aesthetic and political creed, it transcends both realms, offering a glimpse of a world as compelling as life can ever be.

CONCLUSION

I have exposed the following aspects of Morris’ approach to art and politics: the importance of the process of production, points of convergence between these two spheres, conceptions of time, and the linguistic significations of Morris’ utilisation of conventional terminology. Respectively, applying different methods that correspond to the fields of study, the conclusions drawn by me are presented below.

The Process of (Creative) Production I began with the act of storytelling as the basis for the analogous processes manifested in various enterprises and endeavours undertaken by William Morris. The process of production appears as equally important as the finished product, which derived from Morris’ involvement in the practical side of both art production and political agitation. It additionally explains his preoccupation with the Middle Ages, perceived by him not so much as a historical epoch but as a period informed by a special kind of sensitivity reflected in the principles of architectural design, the treatment of nature, and the general view of human life as a progression. Conversely, the notion of creative process appears to be an integral point of the medieval episteme.

Storytelling as the basis (chapter one) Storytelling was the first example of Morris’ utilisation of the notion of creative process. It may have resulted from the atmosphere permeating nineteenth-century Oxford, yet it could simultaneously hark back to the earliest memories of his childhood. Storytelling could therefore be considered the natural predilection which Morris displayed in every phase of his life. Storytelling is the basic mode of plot conveyance in the genre of the Romance. Morris’ interest in that period could stem from and be interconnected with this specific aspect of his favourite epoch. To him, storytelling was more than just a manner in which the world is described; it became the mode of narrating the world in its entirety. In other words, it was synonymous with the actual experience of living.

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Furthermore, as observed by Julia Kristeva, storytelling is a special kind of “poetic discourse” which, by circumventing the dominant ideology and the “authoritarian word of the fathers” (Bakhtin), makes it possible to express oneself in a free and natural manner. Given Morris’ aversion to the circumstances in the Victorian age, the very act of storytelling could already possess an implicit political message, and thus prepared the ground for his subsequent socialist agitation.

Process as an integral element of art production The notion of process was extended by Morris to the sphere of art in general. Since it was more noticeable in the field of crafts than in what is conventionally labelled “high art,” Morris opted for making crafts the basis of his art production. As a result, he would either perceive arts as integrally related to crafts, or insisted on the non-separation of the two domains. In the latter case, the same kind of process occurs in crafts and arts alike, i.e. there is no fundamental difference between the act of writing poetry and the process of producing a pattern design for a tapestry. Respectively, Morris opposed the popular belief in the practical purpose of crafts and the intellectual character of the arts, to which conviction he gave evidence in his article “The Lesser Arts” (1877). According to Morris, the communal character of the process manifests itself more strongly in crafts rather than in the arts where, regardless of the actual division of labour leading to the finished product, the result is usually credited to a single author. As far as art is concerned, the most natural fusion of arts and crafts can be found in architecture—the “master art,” as he labelled it. Building construction seen as a process especially pertained to the period of the early Middle Ages when the worker participated in such a process often without expecting to observe the finished product, since the completion of a medieval cathedral exceeded the average lifespan of a physical labourer. Although the last point is identical to the main conviction proposed by Ruskin in The Stones of Venice, it appears that the original tenets of Morris and Ruskin were different. Eventually, Morris would combine the processes mentioned above when he related stories and recited medieval romances to his friend Edward Burne-Jones while the latter was preoccupied with art production.

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The political process (chapters two, three, and four) On the political arena, Morris, especially after the failure of the revolutionary attempts on Bloody Sunday, also began to perceive socialism as a process. After 1887 he no longer expected to observe the triumph of socialism in his lifetime. He would emphasise the necessity of the gradual building of more favourable environs for the socialist turnover instead of pinning his hopes on the immediate revolution. The most prominent example of that approach was his insistence on the workers’ education, understood as the step-by-step realisation of the latent powers and potentials hitherto undiscovered by the physical labourers themselves. Simultaneously, Morris opposed the perception of education as a formal system he associated with the dominant position of the middle class and capitalism. He expressed his viewpoint on that matter in his article “The Thoughts on Education Under Capitalism” (1888). The fullest manifestation of education as a free, optional process of learning about the world around can be found in the section on education in News from Nowhere (1890).

Exposition of the notion of creative process in the studies devoted to William Morris Eventually, the notion of process comes to prominence in the latest studies on Morris. Nowadays, the objective is not to confine William Morris to a specific system of beliefs but to show the possible avenues of thought which could derive from or be inspired by him. Accordingly, the critics and scholars do not aim at the final statement on Morris and his politics and art, but only discover and explore various terrenes outlined in his texts and art production. For instance, the notion of process which was paramount to Morris has nowadays been transposed into the methods and procedures of studying his oeuvre. I have drawn from different approaches to the notion of creative process. In particular, I owe a great deal to Esme Whitaker’s observations concerning the act of storytelling as the starting point for Morris’ craft productions. I have subsequently extended them to and implemented them with various other facets: the productive process, the creative process, the intellectual process, the process of realisation, the process of meaning production, as well as, ultimately, perceiving life itself in terms of a process. This approach, in turn, determined the general structure of this book; namely, drawing attention to the process viewed as the value in its own right, I have purposefully left it open-ended. Although it may appear

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unfinished and fragmentary, my choice has been deliberate: the same qualities inform the works and general thought of Morris.

Points of Convergence (chapters three and four) Due to Morris’ extensive commentary on a wide range of areas and disciplines, it appears necessary to find points of convergence, i.e. the junctions where different trajectories of thought meet. Here, I have returned to the first reviews issued after Morris’ death, in particular those which exposed life alone as central to his subsequent endeavours and fields of inquiry, including art and politics. In other words, life understood both naturally and aesthetically subordinates the rest. The terrain which lies in between art and politics is therefore the notion of life which should be “expressive,” i.e. beautified and fulfilled. Nevertheless, as I have explicated in detail in chapter four, “life” to Morris meant more than just an act of leading a happy existence in favourable environs—life is a totality of human experience and the integral part of the natural domain. The related task was to show the abovementioned points of convergence, with a special emphasis placed on art and politics. Those tangent spots are simultaneously the vanishing points: the notion of labour which applies to art and politics alike as well as the aesthetic of the political which derives from the early definition of aesthetics by Baumgarten. Respectively, such a juxtaposition of the areas in question allows for locating both in the cultural sphere. The apparent contention and contradiction disappear: art and politics share the common ground under the broader natural and cultural perspectives.

Conceptions of Time (chapters four and five) The paradoxical character of the interrelation between the past and the future is manifested in Morris’ attitude towards his present, which he basically rejected as corrupt, profit-oriented, and deprived of style. Yet, like no other Victorian, Morris was simultaneously preoccupied with his times both practically and theoretically. The admirable conditions existing in the past, whose certain aspects could also be applied to a future world, Morris tested against the specification of the Victorian age. For that reason, the spatiotemporal construct of the Morrisean universe is achieved through the negation of the contemporary civilisational progress. The most prominent example of my treatment of the subject of chronos in Morris can be found in chapter five, which deals with News from Nowhere. Utilising the methodological approach of “theft-and-gift” from

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the studies of the retro-Victorian novel, I have attempted to recreate the paths that led Morris directly from the past to the future. Due to the fact that his viewpoint of the Middle Ages became more critical in the course of the political agitation, Morris selected only certain elements of the past, namely those which in the most adequate manner fit the “ornamental part of life” (see chapter four). As a result, he achieved a peculiar combination of his favourite epochs, particularly the medieval and the Byzantine, though without making any direct references to the historical circumstances. The present in that respect served as the filter: a great part of the past was blocked and removed, while only the aforementioned ornamental elements were transmitted to the microcosm of Nowhere. Conversely, Morris could remain faithful to his earlier aesthetic convictions and, at the same time, was consistent with the Marxist studies of history.

Linguistic Aspects (chapters three, four, and five) The problem regarding the appreciation of Morris in the totality of his art production, political agitation, literary works and political essays is directly related to the sphere of linguistics. It concerns the utilisation of conventional and seemingly well-established terms in different contexts and significations that transcend the confines of the Victorian episteme. On a deeper level, this practice is also the indication of Morris’ realisation that language to the same extent provides the framework for our comprehension of the world, as it limits and influences human perception. On this account, Morris attempted to define his beliefs by investigating them against the linguistic aspects of the available terminology. Unlike most of the authors who endeavour to breach the gap between the intended message and the inadequacies or biases of language by inventing neologisms, Morris’ strategy was different. He operated on the recognised lexicon and within the specific linguistic field, but he also extended the meanings and significations of those terms so that he could convey his worldview most comprehensively. As a result, such words as “art,” “culture,” or “politics” signify more than conventional association or dictionary entries would suggest. A special emphasis that Morris placed on language as the constituent of human consciousness and, simultaneously, its limitation, transcended the Victorian episteme. His approach anticipated the field of study which was given due concern in the twentieth century with the theoretical works of such authors as Mikhail Bakhtin, Roman Jakobson, or the French postMarxist and post-Structuralist schools.

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Art as the point of convergence (chapter one) The term “art” is the most transparent example of meaning extension by Morris. It becomes the point of convergence for separate and independent disciplines, at least perceived in their conventional sense. In the Freudian model of displacement of condensation (Laplanche 2011, 133), we can speak of “art” as the meaning condensation along the axis of analogy (or metaphor in Jakobson’s and Lacan’s terminology) as well contiguity (metonymy).

Significations of the word “politics” (chapter three) The chain of analogies parallel to “art” does not seem to occur in the case of “politics” due to Morris’ more specific usage of the term. Nevertheless, he was aware of the correlation between them, implied in the theory of general aesthetics (see chapters one and four). Morris believed in a strong connection between specific political action and the social character of politics. In consequence, the political and the social became relative synonyms (see chapter three). Such an approach to art and politics may appear confusing to the reader who is not acquainted with the entire output of Morris. The methodology and theoretical frameworks applied in this work range from synthetic, deductive, and descriptive (part one), to analytical and inductive (part two, especially chapter four). I have utilised specific methods, such as: Close Reading (mainly chapters three and four); Deconstruction (chapter four); and the “theft-and-gift” principle (chapter five). The theories and practices I have drawn upon include: General Aesthetics (chapters one, three, and five); Gynocriticism (chapter one); Raymond Williams’ theory of emergent and residual cultures (chapters one and four); Narratology (chapter three); Structuralism—the synchronic/diachronic approach to language (chapters three and four), and the notion of binary opposites (chapters one and four); Post-Structuralism—the metaphor/metonymy theory of Roman Jakobson; New Criticism (chapter three); New Historicism (chapters one and four); Orthodox Marxism,1 including the base-superstructure model, Marxist dialectic, Marx’s theory of the language of property, historical materialism, relative autonomy, the alienation of labour theory; Western 1

I almost exclusively refer to The German Ideology by Marx and Engels instead of the better-known Capital since the former suits the thematic scope of this text. Accordingly, the problems and issues are more diverse (art, politics, language), and they are also more consistent with the interdisciplinary approach that dominates my text.

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Marxism—the notion of commodity fetishism, Theodore Adorno’s and Zygmunt Bauman’s cultural theories (chapter one); Post-Marxism—the theory of rhizomes by Gilles Deluze (chapter one) and the approaches of the New Left; Utopian Studies (chapter five); generic studies on Romance (chapter one), symbol and allegory (chapter one), as well as utopia and the Golden Age/Earthly Paradise distinctions (chapter five). A separate branch consists of the Victorian art theories: “Art for art’s sake,” PreRaphaelitism, and Aestheticism (chapter one). In addition, I make wide use of the terms associated with literary studies; Russian Formalism: defamiliarization; New Criticism: ambiguity, imagery, paradox, irony (chapters one, three, and four), intentional fallacy (chapter five); Marxism; sub-text and Psychoanalysis: archetype, Eros and Thanatos, the Oedipus complex, and repression (introduction). The abovementioned theories, methods, notions, and approaches are employed to either show the parallel between art and politics not only in Morris, but in the general aesthetic and cultural dimension, to situate Morris in the frameworks of his times, or for the specific purpose of textual analysis. Whenever possible, I attempted to work on primary sources; yet, due to the extensity of the subject as well the scarcity of critical materials by Morris from the middle phase of his life, I have implemented them with a wide range of secondary texts both from the Victorian age and subsequent publications.

EPILOGUE

I have attempted to present William Morris as the artist, writer, and political activist who was influenced by the episteme of the Victorian age and who, simultaneously, could foresee the future that was unimaginable to his contemporaries. His powerful vision of the world transmitted through the medium of art and politics, and yet transcending the confines of specific realms and systems, embedded in the notion of an expressive life, remains as timeless as when Morris consciously observed the beauty of nature for the first time and decided to depict it in his early poetry. Despite his own words from “How I Became a Socialist” about his “hatred of modern civilization,” his entire life and production, both artistic or political, was informed by deep love and concern for the preservation of the world as well as, however simplistic and commonplace the phrase may appear, making this world a better place for everyone. Once he realised that the task could not be accomplished in his lifetime, he invested his time and energy in and for the sake of the future. For that reason, in the fifth chapter I decided to diverge from the popular strategy to show the microcosm of Nowhere from the point of view of William Guest—a tired, aging Victorian who constantly compares the future London with his contemporary one—and focus on the point of view of Nowhereians, who have only a vague idea of life in the past. Morris’ message seems to be clear: in this better world he projected, people are fortunate enough to choose from history only those things they consider worthy and beautiful, yet without recreating historical circumstances or studying history in general. On this account, while Morris’ work could be described as divided between art and politics, “Nowhere” has gone past that phase: both art and politics are superseded. The word which comes to mind with regards to William Morris is “universal.” In this special instance, it has a wide range of meanings and significations. We may trace it back to its genesis, i.e. the Latin universum (“universe”), comparing Morris’ life-world to the actual universe (see introduction). Analogously, following the linguistic development of the word to its subsequent sense of the Latin universalis, i.e. “pertaining or characteristic of all,” we will be capable of comprehending the fact that Morris was more interested in the happiness of humanity as a whole, rather than in the wellbeing of individuals. Morris’ “universalism” would,

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in turn, determine the holistic and interdisciplinary perspectives and approaches. It is virtually impossible to be faithful to Morris’ vision and simultaneously study it by means of reduction and dissociation. As shown, such terms as art, politics, culture, nature, and life constantly overlap in his writing, or, alternately, constitute one inseparable entity. On the other hand, it is equally difficult to discuss them en masse, at least within the confines of conventional terminology. Morris’ preoccupation with language was not so much perpetrated by his interest in linguistics but by his realisation that the necessary change of society must begin with the change in the perception of seemingly well-established yet in fact artificially constructed terms. His methodology in that respect preceded the current research strategies which are directly influenced or derive from Deconstruction—aiming to demonstrate the instability of meaning as well the ideology of power that informs the notion of the transcendental signified (see chapter four). On this account, in the process of writing I became more and more aware that the plausible answer to the seemingly irreconcilable dilemma of how to negotiate the aspects of Morris’ art and politics as integrally related had to be sought in the sphere of linguistics, and more precisely semantics and semiotics. Even if this was not my primary objective or main subject, I have devoted considerable space to studying the roots of specific words as well as their utilisation by Morris. Only in this way was I able to investigate the relationship between these spheres without relapsing into the practice of their dissociation and isolation. This approach is especially discernible and prominent in chapter four. William Morris deliberately left the map of his universe unfinished, fragmentary, and open-ended, offering an endless spectrum of possibilities. Accordingly, in contrast to the other more “outstanding” Victorian thinkers whose oeuvres are today mainly analysed in the specific context of the Victorian age, Morris constantly inspires new generations of critics and scholars. The Arts and Crafts tradition is still visible in the British and American approaches to handmade production, the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings has branches in various parts of the world, and the Green Movement holds Morris’ concern for the environmental protection in high esteem. His political views, as noted by Peter Kropotkin, saved British socialism from the totalitarianism of the continental versions of the movement (Gagnier 2010, xvii), gain relevance in the world in which the orthodox Marxist directives have proven fallacious. The fragmentary and open-ended character of his universe suits

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the contemporary approaches marked by the postmodern distrust of anything grand, totalitarian, and authoritarian. In consequence, Morris is probably the most widely recognised inspirer of all time. His impact is acknowledged by diverse groups, such as architects, urban planners, post-industrial sociologists, neo-Marxists, craftsmen, art theorists, ecologists, linguists, and historiographers. His unique views on education from News from Nowhere are reflected in the novel teaching approaches in which “teaching Morris” has become a subject in its own right (Bennett and Miles 2010, 4). Of late, the influence of Morris can be observed in, given Morris’ distrust of civilisational progress, the most unlikely sphere of state-of-the-art technology, particularly web designing and message transmission via the internet (Tobin 2010, 255). In a word, William Morris has a great deal to offer, and in all likelihood will continue to do so in the future, even if it is highly speculative whether this world will exist in the shape and form he imagined and prophesised.

WORKS CITED

Primary sources Morris, William, and Eiríkr Magnússon. Völsunga Saga. The Story of the Volsungs [and] Niblungs, With Certain Songs from the Elder Edda, translated from the Icelandic by Eiríkr Magnússon and William Morris. London: F.S. Ellis, 1870. Morris, William. “The Manifesto of the Socialist League.” Commonweal, 1885: 1–2. Morris, William, and E. Belfort Bax. Socialism from the Root Up. “Political Movements in England.” Commonweal 2 (33) (1886): 170– 1. Morris, William. A Dream of John Ball and A King’s Lesson. London: Reeves and Turner, 1888. —. Earthly Paradise. London: Reeves and Turner, 1890. —. “The Relations of Art to Labour.” The Co-operative Wholesale Societies Ltd., England and Scotland Annual for 1890. Manchester: Co-operative Wholesale Society, 1890: 371–82. [Reprinted with 3 appendixes]. Edited by Alan Bacon and Lionel C. Young. London: The William Morris Society, 2004. —. “The Revival of Architecture.” Architecture, Industry, and Wealth. Collected Papers by William Morris. London: Longman, Green, and Co., 1902. —. “Address at the Twelfth Annual Meeting, 3 July, 1889.” The Collected Works of William Morris, I–XXIV. Edited by May Morris, 146–7. London: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1910–1915. —. Journals of Travel in Iceland: 1871, 1873. Collected Works of William Morris (VIII). Edited by May Morris. London: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1911. —. William Morris: Artist, Writer, Socialist. Edited by May Morris and George Bernard Shaw. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1936. —. The Collected Works of William Morris. Edited by May Morris. New York: Russell and Russell, 1973. —. William Morris and Selected Writings and Designs. Edited by Asa Briggs. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1984.

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—. The Collected Letters of William Morris. Edited by Norman Kelvin. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988. —. The Unpublished Lectures of William Morris. Edited by Eugene D. LeMire. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1969. —. News from Nowhere and Other Writings. Edited by Clive Wilmer. London: Penguin Books, 1998. —. News from Nowhere or An Epoch of Rest . Edited by David Leopold. New York: Oxford University Press, 2003. Oxford World’s Classics.

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Bivona, Daniel, and Roger B. Henkle. The Imagination of Class. Ohio: The Ohio State University Press, 2006. Bloch, Ernst. The Spirit of Utopia. Translated by Anthony Nassar. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000. Bloomfield, Morton W. “The Concept of the Hero in the Early Middle Ages.” In Concepts of the Hero in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, edited by Norman T. Burns, and Christopher J. Reagan. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1975. Boos, Florence, S. Socialist Aesthetics & The Shadows of Amiens. Hammersmith: The William Morris Society, Kelmscott Lecture, 2007. Bradley, Ian. William Morris and his World. London and New York: Thames and Hudson, 1978. Burne-Jones, Georgiana. Memorials of Edward Burne-Jones. London: Macmillan, 1904. Claeys, Gregory. Machinery, Money, and the Millennium: from Moral Economy to Socialism, 1815–1860. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1987. Cooper, Suzanne Fagence. Effie: The Passionate Lives of Effie Gray, Ruskin and Millais. London: Duckworth Overlook, 2012. Craig, David M. John Ruskin and the Ethics of Consumption. Virginia: University of Virginia Press, 2006. Cuddon, J., A. The Penguin Dictionary of Literary Terms and Literary Theory. London: Penguin Books, 1999. DeLaura, David J. Hebrew and Hellene in Victorian England: Newman, Arnold, and Pater. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1969. Deleuze, Giles, and Felix Guttari. A Thousand Plateaus. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987. Dennis, Barbara, and David Skilton (eds.). Reform and Intellectual Debate in Victorian England. London, New York, Sydney: Croom Helm, 1987. Disraeli, Benjamin. Sybil, or the Two Nations. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998. Drabble, Margaret (ed.). The Oxford Companion to English Literature. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985. Eagleton, Terry. The Idea of Culture. Oxford: Blackwell, 2000. —. The Ideology of the Aesthetic. Oxford: Blackwell, 1990. Faulkner, Peter (ed.). William Morris and the Critical Heritage. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1973. Foucault, Michel. The History of Sexuality: The Will to Knowledge. London: Penguin, 1998. Fredrickson, Barbara. Positvity: Insights from the Science on Art of Living. New York: Random House, 2009.

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Kelvin, Norman. Letters as Biography and Autobiography: Morris’s Letters to Jane and Jenny Morris. London: The William Morris Society, 1996. Laplanche, Jean. Freud and the Sexual. Edited and translated by John Fletcher. United States: IPBooks, 2011. Lazarus, Richard. Emotion and Adaptation. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991. Lefebvre, Henri. Critique of Everyday Life. Translated by John Moore. London: Verso, 1991–2005. Legouis, Emile, and Louis Cazamian. A History of English Literature. Translated by Helen Douglas Irvine and W. D. MacInnes. London: J. M. Dent and Sons Ltd., 1933. Lindsay, Jack. William Morris. Dreamer of Dreams. London: Nine Elms Press, 1991. MacCarthy, Fiona. William Morris: A Life of Our Time. London: Faber, 1994. Mackail, J. W. The Life of William Morris (I, II). New York: Dover Publications, 1995. Male, Emile. The Gothic Image. Religious Art in France of the Thirteenth Century. Translated by Dora Nussey. New York and London: Harper and Row, 1973. Manser, Martin, H., and Nigel D. Turton. The Penguin Wordmaster Dictionary. London: Penguin Books, 1987. Marx, Karl. Critique of the Gotha Programme. Translated and edited by C. P. Dutt. New York: International Publishers, 2002. Marx, Karl, and Frederick Engels. The German Ideology. Translated by Lawrence and Wishart. Edited with an introduction by C. J. Arthur. London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1999. Mari, Philippe. Architecture at the Service of Ideology: William Morris, the Anglican Church and the Destruction, Restoration and Protection of Medieval Buildings in Victorian England. Montreal: Universite de Montreal, 2010. Mill, John Stuart. Principles of Political Economy. London: John W. Parker, 1848. Murry, J. M. Between the Worlds. London: Jonathan Cape, 1935. Newman, Michael. Socialism: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. Palmgren, Jennifer A. and Loretta M. Holloway. Beyond Arthurian Romances: The Reach of Victorian Medievalism. Houndmills, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. Parry, Linda. William Morris. New York: Henry Abrams, 1996.

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Pease, Edward, R. The History of the Fabian Society. New York: E. P. Dutton and Company Publishers, 1916. Peck, John, and Martin Cole. A Brief History of English Literature. Houndmills, Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2002. Pevsner, Nikolaus. Pioneers of Modern Design: From William Morris to Walter Gropius. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2005. Pierce, P. M. Colour Library Books of Great British Writers. Godalming: Colour Library Books Ltd, 1989. Praz, Mario. The Romantic Agony (2nd edition). Edited and translated by Angus Davidson. Oxford: Oxford University Press, [1933] 1990. Prettejohn, Elizabeth. The Art of Pre-Raphaelites. London: Tate Publishing, 2007. Purkis, John. Morris, Burne-Jones and French Gothic: Being an Account of a Walking Tour in France July to August 1855. London: The William Morris Society, 2000. Ruskin, John. Works. Edited by T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn. London: George Allen, 1903–12. —. The Genius of John Ruskin. Edited by John Rosenberg. London: George Allen, 1963. Russell, Stephen J. The English Dream Vision. Anatomy of a Form. Columbus: The Ohio State University Press, 1988. Sargant, William Lucas. Robert Owen and His Social Philosophy. London: Smith, Elder and Co., 1860. Schwarzkopf, Jutta. Women in the Chartist Movement. Houndmills and London: Macmillan, 1991. Silver, Carole. The Romance of William Morris. Athens: Ohio University Press, 1982. Spengler, Oswald. The Decline of the West: Perspectives of World History (abridged). Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991. Spurr, David. The Rhetoric of Empire: Colonial Discourse in Journalism, Travel Writing, and Imperial Administration. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1969. Thompson, E. P. The Making of the English Working Class. New York: Vintage Books, 1966. —. William Morris: Romantic to Revolutionary. London: Merlin Press, 1977. Vallance, Aymer. His Art His Writings and His Public Life The Art of William Morris. London: Chiswick Press, 1897. Verhoeven, Cornelis. The Philosophy of Wonder. Translated by Mary Foran. New York: Macmillan, 1972.

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Waithe, Marcus. William Morris’s Utopia of Strangers: Victorian Medievalism and the Idea of Hospitality. Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2006. Wells, H. G. The Time Machine and The Invisible Man. Introduction and notes by George Macadam. New York: Barnes and Noble, 2003. Whittaker, Esme. William Morris: Story, Memory, Myth. London: Two Temple Place, 2011. Zaczek, Ian. William Morris. Bath: Paragon, 2002.

(b) Essays and articles Adams, Jad. “Take Her Up Tenderly.” Times Literary Supplement (1997): 33. Aho, Gary. “William Morris and Iceland.” Kairos, 1.2 (1982): 101–33. Aldous, Roger. “Compulsory Baxination: Morris and the Misogynist.” Journal of William Morris Studies 12 (1) (1996): 35–40. Althusser, Louis. “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses”. Translated by Ben Brewster. In Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays (1971): 121-176. Bacon, Alan. Introduction to “William Morris: The Relations of Art to Labour.” London: The William Morris Society, 2004. Barczewski, Stephanie. “Nations Make Their Own Gods and Heroes.” Journal of Victorian Culture 2 (2) (1997): 179–207. Beckett, Reginald. “The Immortal Morris.” The Labour Prophet 11 (1896): 169–70. Benjamin, Walter. “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.” Modern Art and Modernism: A Critical Anthology, edited by Frascina Francis and Charles Harrison. London: A Sage Publication Company, 1982. Berlin, Isaiah. “Benjamin Disraeli, Karl Marx and the Search for Identity”. In Against the Current (2000): 252–87. Birchall, Ian H. “Morris, Bax and Babeuf.” Journal of William Morris Society 12 (1) (1996): 41–8. Bloomfield, Morton W. “The Concept of the Hero in the Early Middle Ages.” Concepts of the Hero in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, edited by Norman T. Burns, and Christopher J. Reagan. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1975. Bonar, James. “Socialism.” The Encyclopaedia Britannica, Eleventh Edition (XXV), 308. Cambridge, England and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1911.

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Briggs, Laura. “The Race of Hysteria: ‘Overcivilization’ and the ‘Savage’ Woman in the Late Nineteenth Century Obstetrics and Gynecology.” American Quarterly 52 (2) 2000: 246–73. Bruyn, Frans De. “Anti-Semitism, Millenarianism, and Radical Dissent in Edmund Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution in France.” Eighteenth-Century Studies 34 (4) (2001): 577–600. Carre, Jacques. “Architecture, Utopia, and History in Morris’s Thought.” Morris Day, 2005: 1–19. Challinor, Ray. “Peter Murray McDouall and ‘Physical Force Chartism’.” International Socialism 2 (12) (1981). Draper, Hal. “Karl Marx’s Theory of Revolution, Volume IV: Critique of Other Socialists.” Monthly Review Press (1990): 1–21. Faulkner, Peter. “Morris and the Study of English”. Journal of William Morris Studies 11 (1) (1994): 26-30. ——— “Ruskin and Morris.” Journal of William Morris Studies 14 (1) (2000): 10–15. —. “Ruskin and the British Empire.” Journal of William Morris Studies 14 (1) (2000): 54–66. Gagnier, Regina. Preface. In William Morris in the Twenty-First Century, edited by Phillippa Bennett and Rosie Miles, xv–xix. Bern: Peter Lang, 2010. Geras, Norman. “The Controversy about Marx and Justice.” New Left Review 1 (150) (1985): 47–85. Goode, John. “Thompson and the Significance of Literature.” In E. P. Thompson: Critical Perspectives, edited by Kaye J. Harvey and Keith McLelland, 195. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1995. Grey, Jennifer. “Althusser, Ideology, and Theoretical Foundations: Theory and Communication.” Journal of New Media and Culture 3 (1) (2005). Gutleben, Christian. “Nostalgic Postmodernism. The Victorian Tradition and the Contemporary British Novel.” Postmodern Studies 31 (2001): 5–225. Hale, Piers J. “William Morris, Human Nature and the Biology of Utopia.” In William Morris in the Twenty-First Century, edited by Phillippa Bennett and Rosie Miles, 107–28. Bern: Peter Lang, 2010. Hassett, Constance W. “The Style of Evasion: William Morris’ The Defence of Guenevere, and Other Poems.” Victorian Poetry 29 (2) (1991): 99–114. Heywood, Andrew. “Gustav Holst, William Morris and the Socialist Movement.” Journal of William Morris Studies 11 (4) (1996): 39–47. Johnston, Judith. “Colonising Botany.” Journal of Victorian Culture 3 (1) (1998): 30–44.

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Kinna, Ruth. “Morris, Anti-Statism and Anarchy.” In William Morris: Centenary Essays, edited by Peter Faulkner and Peter Preston, 215–28. Exeter: Exeter University Press, 1999. Jakobson, Roman. “Two Aspects of Language and Two Types of Aphasia.” In On Language, edited by Roman Jakobson. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996. Laplanche, Jean. “Displacement and Condensation in Freud.” In Freud and the Sexual, edited by Jean Laplanche, 133–8. United States: IP Books, 2011. Latham, David. “Between Hell and England: Finding Ourselves in the Present Text.” In William Morris in the Twenty-First Century, edited by Phillippa Bennett and Rosie Miles, 192–207. Bern: Peter Lang, 2010. Leopold, David. Introduction. News from Nowhere or An Epoch of Rest. New York: Oxford University Press, 2003. Oxford World’s Classics. Litzenberg, Karl. “William Morris and Scandinavian Literature: A Bibliographical Essay.” Scandinavian Studies and Notes 13 (7) (1935): 93–105. Lorimer, Douglas. “Theoretical Racism in Late-Victorian Anthropology, 1870–1900.” Victorian Studies 31 (3) (1988), 405–30. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1988. Lyotard, Jean-Francois. “The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge.” Translated by Geoff Bennington and Brian Masumi. Foreword by Frederic Jameson. Theory and History of Literature 30 (1984): 3–85. Mabel, Ira, B. “Introduction: Pre-Raphaelitism: A Re-Evaluation.” The Journal of Pre-Raphaelite Studies 1 (1988): 1–4. Marsh, Jane. “Red House: Past and Future.” In William Morris in the Twenty-First Century, edited by Phillippa Bennett and Rosie Miles, 53–71. Bern: Peter Lang, 2010. Morris, May. “Embroidery.” In Plain Handkerchiefs: Essays by Artists Setting Forth the Principles of Established Methods of Workmanship, edited by M. H. Mackmurdo, 46–7. London: Percival and Co., 1892. Neal, Frank. “The Irish in 19th Century Britain—Integrated or Assimilated?” In Les Immigrants et La Ville (XXIe-XXe), edited by D. Menjot and Jean Lac Pinol, 119–37. Paris: Harmatton, 1996. Newey, Katherine. “Climbing Boys and Factory Girls: Popular Melodramas of Working Life.” Journal of Victorian Culture 5 (1) (2000): 28–44. Nicholls, Angus. “The Subject-Object Wissenschaft: On Wilhelm Dilthey’s Goethebuilder.” Colloquia Germanica 39 (1) (2006): 69–86.

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Pearson, Nicholas. “Morris’s View of the History of Industrialism.” The Journal of William Morris Studies 4 (3) (1981): 7–25. Pinkney, Tony. “Versions of Ecotopia in News from Nowhere.” In William Morris in the Twenty-First Century, edited by Phillippa Bennett and Rosie Miles, 93–107. Bern: Peter Lang, 2010. Pinto, Robert C. “Argument, Inference and Dialectic.” Collected Papers on Informal Logic. Argumentation Library 4 (2001): 168–9. Pizer, Donald. “Frank Norris and the Frontier as Popular Idea in America.” American Studies 23 (2) (1978): 230–9. Shuttleworth, Sally. “Natural History: The Retro-Victorian Novel.” In The Third Culture: Literature and Science, edited by Elinor S. Shaffer, 253. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1998. Schiller, Dana. “The Redemptive Past in the Neo-Victorian Novel.” Studies in the Novel 29 (1997): 558. Smith, Elder and Co., Cornhill. “Pre-Raphaelitism by John Ruskin. Review.” Economist 9 (47) (1851): 933–4. Smith, Peter. “Attractive Labour and Social Change: William Morris Now.” In William Morris in the Twenty-First Century, edited by Phillippa Bennett and Rosie Miles, 129–51. Bern: Peter Lang, 2010. Stansky, Peter. “From William Morris to Sergeant Pepper: Studies in the Radical Domestic.” The Journal of William Morris Studies 14 (2) (2001): 96–108. Sussman, Herbert. “The Study of Victorian Masculinities.” Victorian Literature and Culture 20 (1992): 366–77. Sypnowich, Christine. “William Morris’s Egalitarian Perfectionism.” The Journal of William Morris Studies 13 (2) (1999): 12–21. Tobin, Thomas, J. “William Morris 2.0: Spreading Socialist Ideals via the Internet.” In William Morris in the Twenty-First Century, edited by Phillippa Bennett and Rosie Miles, 255–75. Bern: Peter Lang, 2010. Walsh, Frances. “Disraeli, Benjamin, 1st Earl of Beaconsfield 1804–1881.” In Reader’s Guide to British History, edited by David Loades. London: Routledge, 2003. Wedin, Michael, V. “Aristotle on the Firmness of Principle of NonContradiction.” Phronesis 49 (3) (2004): 225–65. Weston, Richard. “Introduction.” In Pioneers of Modern Design, edited by Nikolaus Pevsner, 6. New Haven and London Yale University Press, 2005. Wiens, Pamela Bracken. “Fire and Ice: Clashing Visions of Iceland in the Travel Narratives of Morris and Burton.” Journal of William Morris Studies 9 (2) (1991): 12–18.

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Wilmer, Clive. Introduction to William Morris. News from Nowhere and Other Writings, ix–xlviii. London: Penguin Books, 1998.

(c) Newspaper cuttings Brooks, Libby. “Amid the Economic Rubble, a Revolution is Being Knitted.” The Guardian, July 10, 2009: 32. Brown, Mark. “Pre-Raphaelites Exhibition Celebrates ‘Revolutionary’ Art.” The Guardian, April 16, 2012. Field, Marcus. “Pre-Raphaelites: The Young Ones.” The Independent, August 26, 2012. Skelly, Colin. “William Morris and the Hammersmith Socialist Society.” The Socialist Standard (1190), October 2003. Sooke, Alastair. “Pre-Raphaelites: Victorian Avant-Garde.” The Telegraph, September 10, 2012. Wallace, Wendy. “Sent to the Asylum: Victorian Women Locked Up Because they were Suffering from Stress, Post Natal Depression and Anxiety.” Daily Mail Online, May 15, 2012.

(d) Internet sites Brandist, Craig. “The Bakhtin Circle.” http://www.iep.utm. Bloy, Marjie. “Conservatism.” http://www.victorianweb.org. Encyclopaedia Britannica. “Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.” http://www.britannica.com. Fleming, P. C. “The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine: Introduction.” http://rossettiarchive.org. Gere, Charlotte. “Morris and Company (1961–1939).” http://victorianweb.org. Gorman, David. “Art, Work, and Communism: The Vision of William Morris.” What Next: Marxist Discussion Journal. [email protected]. Originally published in New Interventions 10 (2) (2000). Hamilton, Carole. “The Scary Echo of the Intolerance of the French Revolution in America Today.” George Mason’s University: http://www.hnn.us. Holland, Owen. “Utopia and the Prohibition of Melancholy: Mulleygrubs and Malcontents in William Morris’s News from Nowhere.” Modern Humanist Research Association. MHRA Working Papers in the Humanities 6 (2012): 36–45. http://www.mhra.org.uk. Landlow, George, P. “Newman on the Gentleman.”

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http://victorianweb.org. —. “Introduction to John Ruskin.” http://victorianweb.org. —. “Victorian Art Criticism and the Rise of Middle Class Audience.” http://www.victorianweb.org. Rowbotham, Sheila. “Arts, Crafts, and Socialism.” History Today 58 (2), 2008. http://www.historytoday.com. Rose, Felicity. “Angels in the House? Victorian Women in Great Expectations.” Brown University, 2004. http://www.victorianweb.org. Wohl, Anthony, S. “Liberalism and Cultural Shock in the Victorian Age.” http://www.victorianweb.org.

INDEX OF NAMES

Aristotle, 13, 66, 244 Arnold, Matthew, 8, 23, 31, 36, 37, 38, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 50, 51, 58, 141, 236, 237, 238 Arscott, Caroline, 3, 25, 136, 176 Baumgarten, Alexander Gotlieb, 2, 47, 136, 228 Beckett, Edmund, 23 Beckett, Reginald, 23, 82 Benjamin, Walter, 2, 11, 31, 61, 79, 137, 138, 155, 237, 241, 244 Beowulf, 13, 155 Burne-Jones, Edward, 16, 18, 40, 44, 61, 70, 73, 79, 82, 141, 142, 143, 150, 158, 166, 226, 237, 240 Carlyle, Thomas, 6, 10, 15, 31, 36, 38, 43, 44, 50, 54, 55, 78, 148 Clutton-Brock, Arthur, 12 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 6 Darwin, Charles, 17, 34, 36, 44, 47 Eagleton, Terry, 18, 46, 47, 80, 81, 136, 180, 237 Earthly Paradise, 2, 5, 16, 35, 61, 82, 139, 148, 149, 150, 151, 153, 162, 199, 209, 210, 211, 212, 214, 217, 218, 219, 220, 223, 231, 235 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 6, 10, 56 Eros and Tanatos (Freudian concept), 21, 231 Faulkner, Peter, 14, 21, 38, 50, 157, 237, 242, 243 Golden Age, 1, 5, 209, 210, 211, 214, 220, 223, 231 Goldzamt, Edmund, 25, 172, 238 Heidegger, Martin, 13, 168 Henderson, Philip, 20, 43, 45, 238 Holland, Owen, 21, 203, 223

Homer, 13, 60 Hume, David, 15, 238 Iliad, 12, 13, 60, 156 James, Henry, 7 Journal of William Morris Studies, 26 Kant, Immanuel, 15, 33, 80 Keats, John, 16, 36, 38, 52 Legouis, Emile, 16, 44, 239 Lindsay, Jack, 20, 38, 55, 56, 77, 78, 149, 162, 164, 166, 239 Lyotard, Jean-François, 26, 46, 243 MacCarthy, Fiona, 18, 20, 142, 161, 239 Mackail, John William, 18, 19, 20, 21, 23, 37, 38, 40, 44, 54, 56, 73, 148, 149, 157, 166, 191, 218, 219, 239 Marx, Karl, 17, 31, 33, 45, 47, 50, 57, 62, 77, 141, 166, 167, 169, 170, 171, 173, 174, 178, 180, 182, 188, 189, 190, 191, 201, 205, 206, 208, 217, 218, 219, 220, 222, 230, 239, 241, 242 Marxism, 4, 18, 19, 24, 44, 45, 134, 166, 169, 170, 172, 173, 175, 176, 180, 182, 184, 194, 205, 208, 217, 218, 219, 220, 222, 223, 230 Morris, Jane, 18, 20 Morris, May, 9, 24 Morris, William, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 30, 31, 32, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69,

248

Index of Names

70, 73,74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 186, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 196, 197, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, 212, 213, 214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 224, 225, 226, 227, 228, 229, 230, 231, 232, 233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 238, 239, 240, 241, 242, 243, 244, 245 News from Nowhere, 1, 5, 11, 15, 17, 18, 21, 22, 26, 32, 35, 39, 41, 49, 56, 60, 64, 65, 66, 110, 111, 113, 120, 126, 140, 145, 146, 154, 155, 170, 185, 187, 191, 198, 199, 200, 202, 203, 204, 205, 207, 208, 209, 210, 211, 212, 214, 216, 218, 219, 220, 222, 223, 224, 227, 228, 234, 236, 244, 245 Odyssey, 12, 13, 60, 133 Old Hammond (charcter in News from Nowhere), 15, 201, 203, 204, 212, 213, 214, 217 Pevsner, Nikolaus, 25, 240, 244 Pinkey, Tom, 22 Plato, 13, 198, 203, 205, 212, 217 Pre-Raphaelite movement, 14, 54, 68, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 78, 79, 141, 142, 162, 243, 245 Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 14, 18, 20, 61, 68, 70, 71, 73, 74, 75, 79, 148, 149 Ruskin, John, 6, 7, 9, 10, 21, 22, 31, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 43, 44,

45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 54, 55, 56, 57, 62, 67, 70, 71, 75, 134, 141, 142, 145, 147, 148, 159, 166, 169, 174, 175, 176, 182, 184, 187, 189, 195, 208, 226, 236, 237, 238, 240, 242, 244, 246 Silver, Carole, 21, 63, 78, 151 Smith, Peter, 3, 37, 136, 137, 138, 176, 178 Spencer, Herbert, 17, 36, 47 Spenser, Edmund, 16 Stansky, Peter, 15, 138, 244 Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 14, 22, 82 Sypnovich, Christine, 9, 15 Szacki, Jerzy, 5, 209 Tennyson, Alfred, 16, 38, 53, 150, 151, 157 Thompson, Edward Palmer, 19, 20, 135, 149, 153, 159, 171, 212, 240, 242 Vallance, Aymer, 22, 23, 24, 175, 176, 184, 240 Victorian age, 1, 4, 5, 7, 9, 11, 15, 16, 19, 22, 24, 26, 30, 31, 32, 33, 35, 36, 41, 42, 48, 50, 51, 52, 53, 56, 57, 66, 71, 72, 75, 76, 77, 80, 81, 83, 86, 96, 105, 116, 140, 141, 144, 149, 159, 164, 165, 172, 178, 179, 185, 187, 191, 201, 213, 226, 228, 231, 232, 233 Waithe, Marcus, 21, 55, 66, 67, 203, 213, 241 Wells, George Herbert, 22, 241 William Guest (character in News from Nowhere), 21, 35, 66, 145, 191, 198, 200, 201, 202, 203, 204, 207, 208, 212, 213, 214, 217, 221, 223, 232 William Morris Society, 26 Williams, Raymond, 18, 222, 230 Yeats, William Butler, 12, 23