Women from the Parsonage: Pastors’ Daughters as Writers, Translators, Salonnières, and Educators 9783110590364, 9783110587517

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Women from the Parsonage

Women from the Parsonage Pastors’ Daughters as Writers, Translators, Salonnières, and Educators Edited by Cindy K. Renker and Susanne Bach

ISBN 978-3-11-058751-7 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-059036-4 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-058762-3 Library of Congress Control Number: 2018960719 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2019 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Cover image: Patrick Branwell Brontë: The Brontë Sisters (Anne Brontë; Emily Brontë; Charlotte Brontë), oil on canvas, ca. 1834. National Portrait Gallery, London. © DEA PICTURE LIBRARY /  Kontributor / De Agostini / gettyimages.de Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Table of Contents Cindy K. Renker 1 Introduction Cornelia Niekus Moore A Maiden’s Pastime: Susanna Elisabeth Zeidler (1657 – 1693)

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Peter Damrau Elizabeth Singer Rowe (1674 – 1737): From Parsonage to Bestselling Author 31 Pia K. Jakobsson Public Ambition as Moral Obligation: The Intellectual Career of Elizabeth 51 Carter (1717 – 1806) Cindy K. Renker Madame Necker (1737 – 1794): Educator, Salonnière, Mother, Writer, Charity 69 Patron Heide Wunder Dorothea Friderika Baldinger, née Gutbier (1743 – 1786): A “Woman Intellectual” in the Age of Enlightenment? 87 Valérie Leyh and Vera Viehöver Sophie Schwarz (1754 – 1789): “Wonderful Antagonism in My Own Soul” – Annotations to Sophie Schwarz’s Travel Journal 107 Gudrun Loster-Schneider Poetics, Politics, Gender and Pedagogics in Friederike Brun’s (1765 – 1835) 131 Autobiography Wahrheit aus Morgenträumen (1824) Irene Collins (†) Jane Austen (1775 – 1817): A Novelist from the Parsonage

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Renata Fuchs Louise Aston (1814 – 1871): A Liberal Author and Feminist

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Susanne Bach “I will never have another man in this house”. The Perpetual Curate Patrick 195 Brontë and His Perpetual Daughter Charlotte (1816 – 1855) About the Authors

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Introduction

What do Lessing, Wieland, Emerson, Tennyson, and Nietzsche have in common? They are among the many prominent writers and thinkers who were the sons of Protestant clergymen, something of a cultural phenomenon during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. When one looks at the exceptional education these men received, often at the hands of their fathers themselves, it comes as no surprise that the sons of pastors became some of the most influential minds of their time. But what about the daughters of clergymen? The influence that the parson had on the education of his own daughters, at a time when learned women were frowned upon, has largely been ignored.¹ We need not be surprised that many accomplished women, since the seventeenth century, were brought up in parsonages and educated by a pastor-father.² The pastor was a learned man with a university education (trained theologically and philosophically) and his parsonage was a center of learning with a study and an above average library. These circumstances alone offered unparalleled learning opportunities for girls. Studying a group of women by way of the fathers’ profession is a rather recent approach in gender, historical, and especially literary studies.³ This edited volume is intended to shed light on a group of well known as well as lesser known women from the seventeenth to the middle of the nineteenth century whose fathers were Protestant clergymen of different ranks and occupations, with diverse incomes and levels of education. These women became important writers, accomplished translators, celebrated salonnières, and distinguished educators; they founded schools and hospitals and headed charitable organizations and events. Their privileged education and social standing provided

 In historical, literary, and gender-studies scholarship, the focus has been on the pastors’ wives and their duties rather than on the daughters. August Angermann’s treatise (for the German-speaking regions) is the only one that focuses on the daughters. See (Angermann and Quandt 1955). For an inside look at daughters of parsons in England see (Yamaguchi 2014).  Please note that with each century, the number of pastors’ daughters found among writing women increases, beginning with the second half of the eighteenth century and especially in the nineteenth century. See (Ramm 1998: 15). See also (Showalter 1978). Showalter emphasizes that many of the women writers presented in her book are daughters of clergymen. From the following two lexica, which list the parentage of accomplished women in the German-speaking regions, it becomes apparent how many pastors’ daughter are found among the women. See (Friedrich 1981) and (Woods and Fürstenwald 1984).  See (Yamaguchi 2014). See also my own study (Renker 2010). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110590364-001

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them with opportunities to participate not only in private but often in public literary, intellectual, and pedagogical discourse by publishing in such non-genderspecific genres as autobiographies, novels, poetry, treatises on education and health, travel writing, and translations. Although scholars in the past have taken occasional note of these women’s origin, parentage, upbringing, and extraordinary education – often, however, only as an aside – there has been little focus on the connection between the upbringing and education and the later lives and works of these women. In the case of the most prominent writers included in this collection, Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë, biographers recognized and investigated that connection to some extent.⁴ This is especially true in the case of Jane Austen. The late Irene Collins, who contributed a chapter on Austen to this collection, examined the life and work of the novelist by bringing to light her role as a pastor’s daughter, her relationship with the clergy, and the ways in which that relationship manifested itself in her novels.⁵ However, in the case of most pastors’ daughters, the connection between their priviledged education and their intellectual pursuits has remained largely unexplored. The essays on individual women included in this volume will reveal commonalities and parallels among this group who hail from various Protestant regions of Europe. In all, this collection contains essays on ten daughters of clergymen, some of which have been marginalized and neglected. Five women (Susanna Elisabeth Zeidler, Friderika Baldinger, Sophie Schwarz, Friederike Brun, and Louise Aston) are from German-speaking areas; one of the women (Susanne Curchod aka Madame Necker) is from French-speaking Switzerland, and the other four writers (Elizabeth Singer Rowe, Elizabeth Carter, Jane Austen, and Charlotte Brontë) are from England. Examining the lives and works of these women with their diverse geographical, linguistic, and cultural backgrounds offers opportunities for comparison across borders. In sum, this collection of essays attempts to underline the significance of this group for transnational, cultural, and social history and for the history of gender and education, as well as for literary studies. It is meant as a closer examination of the connection between women’s upbringing/education and their intellectual pursuits.

 From among the many biographies on the Brontës, the following biographies and monographs spend some time on the upbringing, parentage, and education of the Brontës (including Charlotte): (Gaskell 2009, Fraser 1988, Thormälen 2014).  Collins, a contributor to this volume, is the only scholar who investigated more closely and singularly the unique upbringing, exemplary education, and unique role of a pastor’s daughter. Her two books on Jane Austen are invaluable because they explicitly draw the connection between her parentage, life, and work. See (Collins 1993, Collins 1998).

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The essays have been organized in chronological order (by birthdates) and not by region, so that the reader can recognize the shift from mostly religious writing to more secular writing, the increase in productivity and prolificity, and the rise of women in the public sphere across these regions of Europe. In the same vein, it also becomes apparent that the pastor-fathers increasingly allowed their daughters to study more subjects such as the natural sciences (for example, physics) and languages (such as Hebrew and Greek) that had been off-limits to women of previous generations. While this appears to have been the general trend, it is also important to remember that the father’s level of education, willingness to teach such subjects, and financial means to support such instruction, if he was unable to teach those subjects himself, were also factors. In addition, sometimes it was the pastor-brothers or pastor-husbands or other “spiritual fathers” (for example in the case of Susanna Elisabeth Zeidler or Friderika Baldinger) who not only continued to provide educational opportunities and supported their sister, wife, or “spiritual daughter” in her writing and other intellectual pursuits, but who also encouraged publishing and assisted in the publishing process. Intellectual, cultural, and social historians have highlighted and examined the central importance of the pastor, his family, and the parsonage – the “Old Rectory” or Pfarrhaus. The parsonage was a space where private and public spheres intertwined. The important role of the pastor or parson in society and for the local community as religious leader and educator has also been established. Even the singular importance and various roles of the pastor’s wife in the local community as housekeeper, boarder, gardener, or midwife have been examined.⁶ In all, the parson’s family constituted an integral part of early modern and modern society, with women increasingly taking on more roles and inhabiting more functions that called for more education. Family members did not necessarily operate in different spheres, as was the case in other middle-class families, but rather worked as a unit. As for education, the parson and his family had become the example par excellence in that arena and in the rearing of children for the rest of the middle class and gentry by the end of the Ancien Régime. Education had been highly valued in the Protestant parsonage since the Reformation, initially instigated by the fervency to read the Bible for oneself and the desire to understand and impart the new theology to one’s own family and the local community. This pursuit of knowledge and education manifested itself in the fact that pastors often educated their sons themselves before sending them off to universities and frequently took in boys to board and educate along-

 For the German-speaking areas, see (Schorn-Schütte 1991). For England, see for example (Watt 1943).

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side their own children. Furthermore, it is common knowledge that the sons of pastors often joined the clergy themselves or became educators, writers, and scholars. Moreover, in most cases, the pastor also took it upon himself to educate his own daughters and often taught subjects that were not deemed appropriate or necessary for girls by other educators or society at large. The lives and works of the pastors’ daughters examined in this volume offer us insight into the education and upbringing they received—a kind of upbringing that favored certain conditions and provided opportunities for intellectual exchange, writing, and publishing. This project aims to explore the way their world helped them to participate in public discourse and promote literary activity (private or public). The pen truly was the mark of women’s education. In turn, education was important for their sense of self. Friederike Brun, for example, received an exemplary education from her father, whose parsonage was frequented by the great minds of her time, among them Herder and Klopstock. Her contact with these writers and poets not only encouraged her reading of their works but also inspired her own poetry. Furthermore, from an early age, she was privy to intellectual discourse unavailable to other girls her age, building lifelong friendships that provided continued opportunities for intellectual exchange, the possibility of the publication of her own works, and the establishment of her own salon in her later years. Suzanne Curchord, later known as Madame Necker and mother of Germaine de Staël, grew up in the humblest of parsonages in French-speaking Switzerland. However, the extensive education she received from her pastor-father provided her with the opportunity to support her mother and herself financially as an educator and governess after his death. Her intellectual gifts and impressive education facilitated her entrance into French high society, where she would establish and host a salon for the great minds of her time in Paris. In addition to intellectual opportunities for daughters of pastors, one cannot underestimate the importance of a religious upbringing in the early modern and modern parsonage. Religious education always was the primary focus and was never neglected in any educational training imparted to pastors’ children. Religious and theological motives were part of the enlightened ideals about education during that time and the representatives of the theological Enlightenment were often pastors. Moreover, enlightened and rationalist theologians, later known as neologians, pushed for reforms in child rearing, religious instruction, and pedagogy. Education then provided a woman with the capacity to practice her religion intellectually and rationally as Friderika Baldinger stated in her autobiography. In addition, the Protestant pattern of constant self-examination, induced by a rigorous education and fervent and strict religious observance, also produced an outpouring of writing, as in the case of Suzanne Curchod (Madame

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Necker), who chose not to publish most of it. Out of the overlapping movements of Pietism and Sentimentalism came writings by women that expressed religious themes and, feelings and individual faith. And while culture and society became more secularized over the course of the Enlightenment and beyond – and the case for improved and equal women’s education was made, partly because of women’s role as mothers and educators of children –, one constant in the upbringing, education, and lives of pastors-daughters becomes apparent: pastors continued to instill piety and religious values in their daughters throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The mere fact that these women had a pious background and upbringing opened doors for them to participate in public discourse and publishing (although some remained private writers). While their upbringing provided them with access and legitimacy, these women had more difficulty distancing themselves from their heritage and (religious) upbringing, with its standards of virtue and piety, than their male counterparts. A pastor’s daughter in particular was often put on a pedestal. Her pious nature, domestic skills, and unblemished virtues were then emphasized along with a clear emphasis that her ‘dabbling’ in writing was only undertaken after all her domestic duties had been fulfilled and that the act of writing was only performed in the praise and service of God. Nevertheless, in many cases the pastor-father had experience in publishing⁷ and not only encouraged but in some cases used his contacts to help his daughter publish her own writing, as in the case of Elizabeth Carter, whose father’s progressive stance towards women’s education and writing is by no means contrary to his emphasis on traditional and moral obligations of women. He not only encouraged her writing ambitions and assisted in getting her writing published but also supported her decision to remain unmarried, trusting in her ability to make moral decisions for herself. Another woman writer from England, Elizabeth Singer Rowe, began to write devotional poetry at an early age and later was known as a ‘pious lady’ throughout her literary career. Following her father’s moral example, she continued to write religious poetry that influenced religious writers in her own country as well as abroad in Germany. In contrast, however, we see in the case of Louise Aston that an upbringing in a pious household of a pastor did not necessarily lead to the publication of religious writing. Her emancipatory and rebellious stance after a forced marriage produced works that question patriarchy and the belief  Many clergymen contributed, for example, to the moral weeklies and lamented the lack of adequate education for girls. See (Sparn 2005). Also, women writers, among them pastors’ daughters, contributed frequently to the moral weeklies, especially since they often offered the first or only opportunities for women writers to publish their works.

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that men are superior to women. Her lifestyle, feminist stance, and intellectual as well as literary pursuits appear contrary to those of most women presented in this book; however, while they again underline the advantageous education of pastors’ daughters, they also attest to the diversity within this group of women. The small selection of pastor-daughters included here only provides a glimpse into a surprisingly large group of women that deserve special mention and a place in literary and cultural history. This collection shall thus serve as a starting point for the investigation of women’s education and upbringing in Protestant parsonages during the Early Modern and Modern Eras, examining how this exemplary education manifested itself in the lives and works of these women. The essays’ overarching themes include the women’s views on and concepts of women’s education, the daughters’ intellectual and educational role models, the role and expression of religion and spirituality in their lives, querelles des femmes, gender roles, patriarchy, and attitudes toward the clergy. The contributors’ approaches and readings differ and range from psychological analyses, to religious, feminist, and political readings. In Chapter One, Cornelia Moore first provides an overview of the role of women in the parsonage. She offers various examples of women writers coming from parsonages to underscore the literary possibilities available to them. She then focuses on one particular early modern writer and her literary career, Susanna Elisabeth Zeidler (1657– 1693), a pastor’s daughter from Fienstedt near Halle, Germany. Her collection of poems is a testimony to the people she knew, the places she visited, the intellectual and literary impulses she received. Moreover, Moore calls attention to and encourages the reevaluation of how the home life was conducive to women’s writing. In Chapter Two, Peter Damrau discusses the life and works of the English Bluestocking writer Elizabeth Singer Rowe (1674– 1737). Her father, a dissenting minister, became her admired moral and intellectual role model, who not only afforded her an extraordinary education but who also encouraged her artistic interests. At the age of eighteen, she possessed the equivalent of an academic education, setting her apart from the fashionably educated women of her time. Damrau shows how Rowe became a bestselling author and how her works influenced the development of the English novel, the women of the Bluestocking Society, and religious and secular writers in Germany. Pia Jakobsson’s chapter is included because Elizabeth Carter (1717– 1806) was celebrated as one of the most learned women in eighteenth-century England. Thanks to her father, the Reverend Dr. Nicholas Carter, she had learned several European languages and even had a reading knowledge of Hebrew and Arabic. Often described as having devoted her life to keeping house for her father and serving her family, she nonetheless established a successful publishing re-

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cord, which included poetry, essays, and contributions to both The Gentleman’s Magazine and The Rambler. Her most influential work, however, was translating – most famously her translation of the complete works of the Stoic philosopher Epictetus. Jakobsson argues that, to Dr. Carter, the intellectual and spiritual development of his daughter was important beyond her education; he wanted to help her lead a moral life. He clearly did trust her to be prudent, but also saw it as his Christian obligation to encourage the development and exercise of her moral judgment. Suzanne Curchod (1734– 1794) has long been standing in the shadow of her famous daughter Madame Germaine de Staël and thus neglected by scholars. This chapter explores the upbringing, education, and different roles of this pastor’s daughter, whose star rose during the political upheaval of the pre- and early revolutionary years. Born to a Calvinist pastor in the French-speaking village of Crassier in Switzerland, she grew up in poor circumstances but became highly educated under the tutelage of her father. After his death, Suzanne put her education to good use by becoming a teacher and governess to support herself and her mother. Through her marriage to the prominent Swiss financier Jacques Necker, Suzanne entered Parisian society. Her salon in Paris attracted the powerful minds of the time like Diderot and D’Alembert, and proved advantageous to her husband’s career as head of the French finance ministry. While she became known mainly as a celebrated salonnière, Madame Necker’s writings reflect her interest not only in bettering the circumstances of the less fortunate but also her literary skills and ambitions. Her prime focus, however, was directed towards her only child’s education. In Chapter Five, Heide Wunder examines the private writer Friderika Baldinger (1743 – 1786). Contemporaries such as Sophie von La Roche and Abraham Gotthelf Kästner described Friderika Baldinger as an enlightened woman, whose exceptional education gave her the intellect and character of a man. Baldinger was born and brought up in a parsonage, but after the early death of her father, her soon-to-be-pastor brother as well as the family friend and her ‘spiritual father,’ Pastor Kranichfeld, made it their responsibility to educate her. Baldinger’s autobiography, published posthumously by Sophie von La Roche, is an attempt to describe this exceptional education and her lifelong intellectual development. Wunder investigates Baldinger’s autobiographical text to determine if and how Baldinger can be defined as an “intellectual,” considering that only men were afforded that description in the Age of Enlightenment. Sophie Schwarz (1754– 1789) was born in German-speaking Neu-Autz/Courland (today Latvia). Following her early death in 1789, she became known as a close friend of the more famous aristocratic writer Elisa von der Recke, whom she accompanied on a two-year journey through Germany. During this journey,

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she kept a diary that was meant as the basis for a book on the education of young women, which she intended to complete upon her return. The journal was published in 1884 and reflects Sophie’s concept of education (Bildung). Sophie considers the trip through the German territories, with their cultural and confessional singularities, as an opportunity to verify her convictions acquired in the Courlandian parsonage and to confront them with alternative opinions. Although open-minded, she asserts an idea of holistic education beyond being exclusively about intellectual knowledge. This essay outlines Sophie’s key educational experiences in the Courlandian parsonage and the literary, pietistic, and sentimental influences on her thinking. The next chapter by Gudrun Loster-Schneider introduces the reader to a text by a contemporary of Goethe, a woman author who has been unjustly ‘forgotten’ and marginalized: Friederike Brun (1765 – 1835). Only in the last decade, by means of a new edition by Brian Keith-Smith and thanks to the new interest in bicultural, culturally mediating authors and transnational modes of writing, has she come to the attention of literary scholars and social historians. Born and reared in a parsonage, Brun was educated by her pastor-father and introduced by him to the prominent writers, thinkers, and artists of her time who frequented her father’s home. Her upbringing and descriptions of her early learning, education, and relationship with her father are documented in her autobiography. However, her childhood autobiography also mounts resistance to a variety of demarcations and imposed separations: from gender separation, to national separation, to the separation of poetry from truth, and to the separation of myths about authorship and critiques of those myths. The late Irene Collins’ essay focuses on one of England’s most famous women writers. The famed early Victorian novelist Jane Austen (1775 – 1817) was the daughter of a clergyman, a circumstance that remains somewhat underplayed in most Austen scholarship. Her upbringing in a parsonage and the education she received at the hand of her pastor-father shaped her as a writer. Throughout her life, the clergy was an integral part of Austen’s social circle whose attitudes and beliefs she shared. In her essay, Collins explores not only the dominance and significance of the clergy in Austen’s life, family, and social circle but also the portrayal and function of these types of characters in Austen’s novels. In addition, Collins takes the time to explore a later shift in Austen’s writing that includes the author’s decision to no longer include a character from the clergy such as in her last novel Sanditon. Renata Fuchs’s chapter focuses on one of the first feminist and emancipated writers in Germany. Louise Aston (1814– 1871) was the offspring of a love marriage between a pastor and a countess; a circumstance that left its mark on her work. Fuchs’s essay examines how Aston’s privileged education and upbring-

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ing in her father’s parsonage makes itself manifest in her autobiographical novel entitled From the Life of a Woman. The novel follows Aston’s theories of emancipation, wherein she rejects the belief that men are superior to women and that married women must always be sexually available. Aston’s political rebellion against patriarchy manifests itself also in the aesthetic defiance of the established patriarchal form of autobiography. In Chapter 10, Susanne Bach provides the reader with a fresh perspective on another famous Victorian novelist who came out of an English parsonage: Charlotte Brontë (1816 – 1855). Under the tutelage of their father, Charlotte and her siblings had been attracted to the literary life since their youth. Bach’s essay investigates fathers and father-substitutes in Charlotte Brontë’s work and shows how Charlotte’s intense relationship with her father shaped her general idea of fatherhood. Using a psychoanalytic reading of her novels, this chapter attempts to understand where presence and absence, desire and repulsion intersect, with orphanhood and substitute parents as major themes. The lives and works of the women presented in this volume not only highlight the change in women’s education and gender relations over the course of two and a half centuries but also reveal links to the rise of feminism, the development of women’s professional pursuits, and the increasing presence and acceptance of women in intellectual and literary circles. The common thread of an exceptional education, which helped shape their identities, is woven through the lives of these ten women. Nevertheless, how they put that education to use differs from individual to individual. While some continued on a pious path in their lives and writings, as perhaps expected of pastors’ daughters, others chose more secular pursuits that ensured continuous opportunities to exercise their intellect. This volume’s topic has found great support along the way. Early enthusiasm for this book came from Jerry Soliday, equally from Elisabeth Krimmer and Julia Cook whom we thank for their valuable input and suggestions. We also thank Maria Weber and Sarah Jäger for their help with editing and formatting in the final stages of the manuscript. Last but not least, we are very grateful to the Coalition of Women in German for their generous grant in support of this project. Denton, TX and Kassel, Germany, August 2018 Cindy K. Renker and Susanne Bach

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Works Cited Angermann, August and Quandt, Willy. 1955. Deutsche Pfarrerstöchter, Essen: Lichtweg-Verlag. Collins, Irene. 1993. Jane Austen and the Clergy, London: Hambledon Press. Collins, Irene. 1998. Jane Austen, the Pastor’s Daughter, London: Hambledon Press. Fraser, Rebecca. 1988. The Brontës: Charlotte Brontë and her family, New York: Crown. Friedrich, Elisabeth. 1981. Die deutschsprachigen Schriftstellerinnen des 18. und 19. Jahrhunderts: ein Lexikon, Stuttgart: Metzler. Gaskell, Elizabeth. 2009. The Life of Charlotte Brontë, Oxford: Oxford UP. Ramm, Elke. 1998. Autobiographische Schriften deutschsprachiger Autorinnen um 1800, Hildesheim: Olms-Weidmann. Renker, Cindy K. 2010. “Die Bildung von Pfarrerstöchtern im 18. Jahrhundert: Untersuchungen zu Leben und Werk auf prosopographischer Grundlage,” in Internationales Archiv für Sozialgeschichte der deutschen Literatur, 35.1, 143 – 76. Schorn-Schütte, Luise. 1991. “‘Gefährtin’ und ‘Mitregentin’: Zur Sozialgeschichte der evangelischen Pfarrfrau in der Frühen Neuzeit” in Wandel der Geschlechterbeziehungen zu Beginn der Neuzeit, eds. Heide Wunder und Christina Vanja, Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp, 109 – 53. Showalter, Elaine. 1978. A Literature of their Own: British Women Novelists from Brontë to Lessing, London: Virago. Sparn, Walter. 2005. “Religiöse und Theologische Aspekte der Bildungsgeschichte im Zeitalter der Aufklärung,” in Handbuch der deutschen Bildungsgeschichte, Munich: Beck, 155 – 156. Thormählen, Marianne. 2014. The Brontës in Context, Cambridge: Cambridge UP. Watt, Margaret H. 1943. The History of the Parson’s Wife, London: Faber and Faber. Woods, Jean M. and Fürstenwald, Maria. 1984. Schriftstellerinnen, Künstlerinnen und gelehrte Frauen des deutschen Barock: ein Lexikon, Stuttgart: Metzler. Yamaguchi, Midori. 2014. Daughters of the Anglican Clergy: Religion, Gender and Identity in Victorian England, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.

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A Maiden’s Pastime: Susanna Elisabeth Zeidler (1657 – 1693) On April 22, 1684, the pastor’s daughter Susanna Elisabeth Zeidler in Fienstedt (near Halle) married the newly appointed pastor of Detershagen, Andreas Haldensleben (1652– 1736). To honor this occasion, her brother, assistant-pastor Johann Gottfried Zeidler (1655 – 1711) published a collection of her poetry: Jungferlicher Zeitvertreiber. Das ist allerhand Deudsche Gedichte Bey Häußlicher Arbeit und stiller Einsamkeit verfertiget und zusammen getragen von Susannen Elisabeth Zeidlerin (‘A maiden’s pastime, that is a variety of German poems, made and collected during housework and quiet solitude by Susanna Elisabeth Zeidler’).¹ It is a unique collection of both religious and secular poetry. This chapter intends to highlight two things: (1) the poetry of a superb woman author, Susanna Elisabeth Zeidler and (2) the environment in which she grew up and which greatly influenced her poetry: the seventeenth-century German parsonage. In doing so, it will become clear, that although Zeidler’s poetry is unique, she is not the only figure in the literary landscape of her time who profited from being a pastor’s daughter. The following pages will show how growing up in a parsonage could be conducive to literary endeavors and how literary products of a pastor’s daughter in Fienstedt resembled those of other pastor’s daughters at the end of the seventeenth century, with one exception: a larger portion of Susanne Zeidler’s work was published and so we have a record of what one pastor’s daughter at that time could and did write.² Setting

 Zerbst: Johann Ernst Betzel, 1686; 2nd edition 2000: Cornelia Niekus Moore (ed.). Bern et al.: Peter Lang. referred to as JZ. The title picture of this work is dated 1684, the year of the wedding, but the actual work was not published until 1686. Poems are listed with their Roman numeral and the page numbers of the 1686 edition. Susanna Zeidler passed away on October 4th, 1693. See Johann G. Zeidler et al. (1699), p. A3v. I thank Asaph Ben-Tov (Erfurt) for his help in finding this information.  See Woods and Fürstenwald 1984, further referred to as WF. See also Koldau 2005. Koldau quotes many of the comments by contemporaries. I have added dates whenever these are known. Women authors are referred to by their married and their maiden name. In the seventeenth century, women could be referred to by their maiden name even after marriage often with the feminine suffix ‘in’, e. g., “Zeidlerin.” https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110590364-002

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the scene will also help us to understand “die Zeidlerin,” her choice of topics and the high quality of her poetry.³

Setting the Scene: The Parsonage One of the profound changes that the Reformation enacted was the abolishment of life-long celibacy for the clergy in protestant churches (Karant-Nunn 2003; Plummer 2012). As the sixteenth century progressed, there emerged the picture of a homogeneous class with a homogeneous mission, although the life of a preacher at a court or a theologian at a university was far removed (and not only geographically) from that of a village pastor (Schorn-Schütte 1998). There were shared commonalities among members of the new Protestant clerical estate and these reflected on their families. First of all, pastors were invariably of burgher origin and their profession solidified their position in this class. Secondly, clergymen were university educated. They had attained university degrees, saw themselves as scholars and published whenever possible the fruits of their pastoral labor, sermons for all occasions or books of spiritual advice for a variety of circumstances. As the only one with a higher education, the pastor must have stuck out in a primarily agrarian community and that reflected on his wife and children as well. In many cases their daily activities also included a fair amount of farm labor, as small-town clergymen tried to augment their income by maintaining live-stock and growing produce for the everyday needs of their family. There, the family was supposed to pitch in. In fact, in his popular handbooks for pastors Johann Adami advised his readers to marry daughters of clergymen, especially those that were accustomed to country life and country labor, because they knew what was expected of them (Adami 1692: 223 – 229). In his advice for “the exemplary and god-pleasing preacher child,” he emphasized that the children of pastors were to set a good example for everyone (Adami 1701). The local pastor might offer meals and lodging to the schoolmaster or to boys studying to enter a university. This provided the children of pastors with an intellectual schoolhouse atmosphere, but also required cooperation of the

 The extensive exhibition and catalogue Leben nach Luther: Eine Kulturgeschichte des Evangelischen Pfarrhauses in the Deutsches Historisches Museum in Berlin (Oct. 2013–March 2014) concentrated mostly on the eighteenth century and beyond.

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whole family, of especially wife and daughters.⁴ Many an obituary of a pastor’s daughter records that their childhood had been harsh and laborious (Göschel 1668; Moore 2012). But their education also enabled them to help in more intellectual endeavors. For instance: Paul Bose (Bosius, 1630 – 1694), a deacon in Dresden was well known for his sermons and his scholarship. After his wife died in childbirth, his two daughters ran the household and were known to take care of his extensive library and help him with his correspondence (Kühn 1690).⁵ Despite their humble origins, the pastors’ education and profession often gained them entry into and access to the landed gentry. As students, they may have had to work as home tutors or sing in the school choir at weddings and funerals to earn their keep. But after years of study, they obtained a position, married, and joined the citizenry of large and small towns. Their children, including daughters, received an education commensurate with this social position, extending beyond the basics of reading and writing. This was especially true for pastor’s daughters in larger cities, where tutors were available. It was not crucial whether the father or mother did the teaching, it was more important whether they saw the need to have instruction for their daughters as well as their sons. Boys would leave home to attend school elsewhere; for girls, home schooling was the only avenue of learning beyond the basics (Koldau 1002). The study of a foreign language, Latin and increasingly French, was useful to female children who could not attend the so-called Latin schools, as it provided them access to books and subjects not available in the mother tongue. The Magdeburg pastor Andreas Cramer created a Wunderkind in his daughter Anna Maria (1613 – 1627), who died at age fourteen. On her gravestone, the proud father ordered the inscription that she was well versed in Latin and Hebrew and devoted to the study of sacred literature (Bauer 1917: 2, 149; Koldau 1019). Adalbert von Hanstein in his opinionated but still highly informative and insightful book groups pastor’s daughters with “Gelehrtentöchter,” daughters of scholars, and that is certainly appropriate (Hanstein 1899: 1, 41– 49). Although many pastors’ daughters married pastors, they also tended to marry men in other learned professions. In 1668, Christina Regina Kratzenstein, daughter of an Erfurt pastor, married the physician Christoph von Hellwig (1663 – 1721), who became well known for his medical works among which was a  The most famous example of this arrangement was Luther’s household in Wittenberg. See also the description of the household of Ernst Stockmann (1634– 1712) and his wife Margaretha Securius (1645 – 1707) in Carrdus 2004: 412– 413.  Kühn 1690 = Funeral for Johanna Margarethe Hofkunst née Bose (1668 – 1690). For Johanna Margaretha Bose see WF: 52. For Christiane Eleonore Bose (1695 – 1715) see WF: 8; Koldau: 328.

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Frauenzimmer-Apoteckgen (“The Women’s Apothecary” 1700).⁶ His preference for writing in German rather than Latin was prompted by his desire to reach a wider audience including women and especially midwives. Well versed in chemistry, his wife is supposed to have helped him with his medical recipes. Justina Siegemund née Dittrich (1636 – 1705), daughter of a pastor in Ronstadt, wrote her own handbook for midwives entitled Die Hof-Wehemutter (“The Court Midwife” 1690) with extensive instructions and illustrations that went through seven editions. It was the first medical handbook written by a German woman. We find mention of similar accomplishments in the works of Georg Christian Lehms, Christian Franz Paullini, Gottlieb Siegmund Corvinus, who gained literary fame by publishing collections with short biographies of women who had come to their attention.⁷ In the case of Corvinus’s Lexicon such mention was mixed in with recipes for cakes, explanations of kitchen gadgets and useful household hints. The authors copied each other diligently, interspersing names of historical figures with those of contemporaries, in many cases those of acquaintances. It was all highly flattering and shows that some portions of society were indeed welcoming the accomplishments of women in socially approved endeavors. However, the fact that such accomplishments received notice shows that they were by no means common and that such approval could be withdrawn at any moment. Thus, was the experience of Maria Margarethe Winckelmann (1670 – 1720), who had been educated by her father, a pastor in Panitzsch near Leipzig (Schiebinger 1996: 21– 38; WF 57). She had studied astronomy from an early age, then married an astronomer, Gottfried Kirch (1639 – 1710), and assisted him in many of his observations and in the publication of a number of popular calendars and almanacs. On March 21, 1702, she even discovered a previously unknown comet, although her husband took credit (had to take credit) for its discovery. After Gottfried Kirch died, she was denied her husband’s place as the head of the Royal Academy of Sciences. When in 1716 Maria’s son Gottfried became director of the Berlin Observatory of the Royal Academy, members complained that she took a too prominent role during visits to the observatory and she was forced to withdraw. In circles in which literacy was a given and fathers were often published authors, family members were inclined to look favorably on the literary activities of sons and daughters. In his Säkularisation als sprachbildende Kraft, Albrecht  www.volkskunde-rheinland-pfalz.de/dreckapotheke/seiten/hellwig.shtml; WF 48; Koldau 1018.  Lehms 1715; Paullini 1705 + 1712; Corvinus (pseud. Amaranthes) 1715 + 1739. For others see “Preface” of WF.

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Schöne (1968) discusses the writings of four well known authors all of whom were the sons of pastors. For their lexicon Women of the German-Speaking Lands in Learning, Literature and the Arts during the 17th and the Early 18th Centuries (1984), Jean Woods and Maria Fürstenwald discovered the existence of about 600 forgotten women who came from all stations in life, about thirty of which were pastor’s daughters; all living around 1700. Of these thirty, most had published at least one or two poems. The publishing aspect is important here, because in addition to preserving a record, it also meant that someone did sponsor, prepare or accept what a woman had written and saw to it that it was published. In the Lexicon, burgher daughters, including pastor’s daughters, appear in the company of noble women, whose access to publishers was facilitated by their larger purse and political influence. It is, therefore, revealing that the thirty pastor’s daughters not only represent a cross section of the social and professional standing of the Lutheran clergy but also of most of the literary genres available to women authors. A supportive social setting was conducive to providing women with inspiration, occasions, a forum and an opportunity to see some of their poems in print. One such setting was the Pegnesischer Blumenorden in Nuremberg, one of the few literary societies originating in the latter half of the seventeenth century that admitted burgher women as members (Wade 2011; Scheitler 2007). Anna Maria Omeis became a member under the presidency of her brother Magnus Daniel Omeis.⁸ Maria Magdalena Götz née Stephan, a pastor’s daughter married to a goldsmith was one of thirteen women admitted in 1680 under the presidency of Sigmund von Birken (1626 – 1681).⁹ When his successor, Martin Limburger, edited a poetry collection to commemorate his predecessor, Götz-Stephan contributed poetry as well.¹⁰ The most prolific of the pastor’s daughters in the Blumenorden was Maria Catharina Stockfleth née Frisch (1634– 1692).¹¹ She was one of the earlier members, having been admitted by Sigmund von Birken

 Children of Johann Heinrich Omeis (1610 – 1633, a Nuremberg deacon and Gertraud Saubert, daughter of Johann Saubert (1592– 1646) well known theologian. See Herdegen (pseud. Amaranthes) 1744: 584– 585; Koldau: 404.  Maria Magdalena Götz née Stephan (1657– 1722), pseud. Chlorinde. See Herdegen 1744: 505 – 513; Schuster 2009: 289 – 314; WF: 36.  Poem “Soll ich die Feder dann das erstemal ansetzen,” in Limburger 1684: 334. Years later the bibliophile theologian Georg Jacob Schwindel (1748: 137– 147) commented positively on several of her poems, a manuscript collection of which he owned.  Pseud. Dorilis; father: Johann Leonhard Frisch (1604– 1673), pastor in Nuremberg; first husband: Johann Conrad Heden, court preacher in Hilpoltstein; second husband: Heinrich Arnold Stockfleth (1643 – 1708), pseud. Dorus, theologian in Baiersdorf. See Schuster 2009; 103 – 144; Herdegen 1744: 337– 340.

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in 1668. Together with her husband, the theologian Heinrich Arnold Stockfleth, she wrote Die kunst- und tugendgezierte Macarie (“The Artistic and Virtuous Macarie” 1669). The second volume of this popular pastoral novel (1673) is considered to be one of the first German novels written by a woman, focusing on many issues concerning women. Her “Rede der Dorilis” (1679) is a plea for women’s emancipation.¹² In a less organized but equally supportive social setting, women engaged in similar literary activities. In her thorough study of a group of upper class women in the city of Altenburg, Anna Carrdus has shown how in a supportive environment of family and friends, women were encouraged to write poetry, and that such literary activities were part of a social network, that ultimately benefited the culture and education of the town. Pastor’s wives and daughters who resided in Altenburg or the surrounding countryside were part of this network (Carrdus 2004). There were two literary categories, in which the participation of women was prized and praised, although usually with some condescension. One was devotional literature, the other occasional literature.¹³ Piety was one of the desired virtues for all women and the reading of devotional literature was much encouraged (Moore 1991). When women wrote religious literature, this was generally admired as the expression of a pious woman. Sophia Regina Laurentius née Gräf, daughter of a small-town pastor and married to a small-town pastor was one of the few who saw her writing published as an independent work: Eines andächtigen Frauenzimmers S. R. G. Ihrem Jesu im Glauben dargebrachte Liebes-Opffer. ¹⁴ In the foreword, the unknown editor (“N.N.”) provided the traditional justification for the printing. The poetry might not be of high quality, he wrote, but it was the result of a devout habit of Sunday meditations. Actually, the poems, some of which could be sung with existing melodies, are in clear language and they evidence a sense of rhythm and style. Like much of the devotional poetry written by women, they are influenced by church hymns.

 See WF: 122 – 123 and p. VII of the WF introduction; Koldau 2005: 398.  In his foreword to Keller (2010: 9 – 32), Volkhard Wels suggests doing away with the term “Kasualdichtung” or “Gelegenheitsdichtung,” primarily because the boundaries of the genre are vague. However, these terms do describe the kind of poetry by women, when reacting to social occurrences around them.  “A Sacrifice of Love, offered to Jesus by a devoted Woman S.R.G”. (1715). The unknown editor could have been her (future) husband: Christian Gotthold Laurentius, pastor in Wehlen, or her father Johann Rudolph Gräf, pastor in Weltewitz near Eilenburg. The initials of the author refer to her maiden name: S.R.G; See WF: 41; Hanstein 1899: 101.

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Although pastor’s daughters could be considered to learn about religion and theology from the cradle and although many are praised for their piety and knowledge of the Catechism, the Bible, and devotional literature, they walked a fine line when it came to expressing more unorthodox religious ideas. Controversial statements, especially in print, could reflect adversely on their fathers and husbands. Only on rare occasions did pastors’ daughters speak out on controversial subjects, e. g., Dorothea Ruckteschel née Schilling (1670 – 1744), daughter of a pastor in Stübach (Franconia) who was married to a pastor as well.¹⁵ She was one of the more radical adherents of Lutheran Pietism, publishing letters she had sent to those who in her opinion had not adhered to the teaching of Luther, taking issue with their thoughts especially regarding marriage and family. She also wrote a furious but theologically sophisticated treatise: Das Weib auch ein wahrer Mensch: Gegen die unmenschlichen Lästerer Weibl. Geschlechts (‘Women, True Human Beings, Against the Inhuman Blasphemers of the Female Gender,’ 1697) against a spurious document that made the rounds all through the seventeenth century in which the anonymous authors maintained that women had no soul.¹⁶ Most of the publications by women in the seventeenth century were occasional poetry, that is, they were written for certain occasions (births, weddings, funerals, holidays, visits by friends, family or dignitaries) and they occur with other poems and prose written for that occasion. Women may have written in other genres, but the occasional poems were most likely to be printed and thus preserved. It is not accidental that the growing custom of writing poetry intended to commemorate and thus memorialize social and familial occasions in the lives of the bourgeoisie coincided with an increase in poetry by burgher women. Many of these literary activities remained unrecognized, unheralded, and unpublished, but in a society that grew accustomed to write or receive poetry for many public and familial events, women too could take up the pen to honor religious and/or social occasions and some of these efforts did make it into print. The tradition of printing funeral books, which contain – in addition to the funeral sermon and a biography – poems of condolence (epicedia), provided women with an opportunity to add their verses to a compilation of poetry in an approved published genre. Dorothea Gress née Pfeiffer wrote poems for several funerals of the noble families of her acquaintance, signing them with “your

 Weigelt 2001. Blaufuß 2010: 105 – 128.  Rpt. of “Das Weib […]” in Gössmann 2004. 321– 456.

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faithful servant Dorothea Greßin.”¹⁷ However, women were more likely to add their verses to occurrences in more familiar surroundings. Catharina Kettner née Deuerlin(g) (1617– 1686), married to Hermann Kettner, pastor in Stolberg, appended her poetry to the funeral book of her children. She also published devotional literature, some of which she wrote with her son, also a pastor.¹⁸ Anna Charitas Lochner, daughter of Jacob Hieronymus Lochner, cathedral pastor in Bremen, contributed a commemorative poem to her father’s funeral book.¹⁹ These poems adhere to an established tradition, but especially the ones written for family members show personal sorrow. They belie the criticism that such poetic expressions were invariably formulaic and lacked feeling and personality.²⁰ Other occasions for which poetry would be welcome were birthdays, weddings, and visits. Again, women took advantage of the budding tradition that welcomed poetry for such occasions, showing that they, too, could participate in an accepted poetic pastime that praised and commemorated life’s stations of rulers but also of people in their acquaintance. As the daughter of the court preacher in Wolfenbüttel and later the wife of the superintendent in nearby Seesen, Anna Margaretha Pfeffer née Specht delivered poems for all occasions.²¹ In addition to religious poetry, she wrote verses commemorating social occurrences at the ducal court in Wolfenbüttel.²² Later, as a widow, she sent a manuscript collection of her poetry to the newly founded University of Göttingen, and was made a poet laureate in return. She could not attend the ceremony in Göttingen

 E.g., a poem of condolence to Catharina Constantia von Einsiedel at the death of her husband Haubold von Einsiedel. Dorothea Greß née Pfeiffer (after 1653 – after 1728); father: Wolfgang Pfeifffer, pastor in Niedergräfenhain; mother: Dorothea Scheibe (d. 1691); husband: Stephan Conrad Gress (1646 – 1710), pastor in Hopfgarten and (Ober)Frankenhain (near Altenburg). See Carrdus 2004: 417– 418 and 257– 266; WF: 44.  Her grandson held the sermon for her funeral. See Kettner 1686. I have not been able to find any of her publications, although they are mentioned in several literary lexicons. See WF: 57.  “Der Himmels hoher Schluß hat gar zu hart gewehet,” in Schulenburg 1701, appendix. Rosina Dorothea Rückteschel née Schilling wrote a “Trauergedicht” (1715) for her sister. See Rückteschel 2004: 291– 456. The three daughters of Margaretha Stockmann née Securius (1645 – 1707) all signed for a poem in their mother’s funeral book. They wrote individual poems for the funeral book of their father Ernst Stockmann (1634– 1712). See Carrdus 2004: 242– 245 and 412– 415.  See Volkhard Wels’s foreword in Keller 2010.  Anna Margaretha Pfeffer née Specht (1679 – 1746); father: Christian Specht (1647– 1706), court preacher in Wolfenbüttel; mother: Elisabeth Lucia Steding; husband: Johann Georg Pfeffer (1666 – 1734), superintendent in Seesen. See Henkel 2006: 560 – 561.  “Grosse Fürstin/ weil die Stunden” and “Henriette/ Schönes Kind” commemorate the departure from Wolfenbüttel of resp. Louisa, countess of the Palatinate and Maria Wilhelmina Henriette, princess of Waldeck. See Martens 2, 235 – 238.

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since women had no access to functions at the University, but someone made the trip to Wolfenbüttel to deliver the silver laurel wreath (Ebel 1969: 32– 33). Most of the pastor’s daughters listed by Woods and Fürstenwald never saw more than a few poems published. Compared with the noblewomen in the Lexicon, there is a dearth of independent works by burgher women. But once in a while, we find mention of (unpublished) collections of poems, like the one by Maria Magdalena Götz née Stephan, which shows that some women were not only prolific poets but collected and saved their poetry.

The Parson’s Daughter: Susanna Elisabeth Zeidler It is against this late seventeenth-century background – the educated, socially respected climate of the parsonage and the possibilities and limitations of its daughters – that we have to view the Jungferlicher Zeitvertreiber, ‘the Maidenly Pastime’ of Susanna Elisabeth Zeidler. It helps to explain what and why and how she wrote, living in a supportive household, excelling in allowed conventions, writing in socially approved genres, and still being subject to doubtful criticism, whenever her poetry ventured outside not neccessary supportive social circles and approved topics. The collection resembles a portfolio, showcasing what a pastor’s daughter was capable of, while never negating – indeed it says so in the title – that this was a “pastime.” But along with that recognition comes a defense of the poetic talents of a woman poet, who will be able to write in a supportive albeit restricted environment. With the Thirty Years War (1618 – 1648) finally over, Gottfried Zeidler (1623 – 1699) was ordained a Lutheran pastor. He married and obtained a position in the small town of Fienstedt near Halle that had been vacant for a long time because of the war.²³ Seven children were born. The oldest two were boys; the younger five were girls.²⁴ Susanna was the third child and the first daughter.

 His wife was called Margarita or Margarethe, maiden name unknown. Gottfried Zeidler was ordained July 10, 1650. See Biering 1742: 158. See also his biography written by his son Johann Gottfried (Zeidler et al. 1699)  Siegfried (b. March 1, 1651– 1682), Johann Gottfried (b. April 11, 1655), Susanna Elisabeth (b. March 16, 1657– Oct. 4, 1693), Margaretha, (Oct. 28, 1664– Nov. 11, 1664), Margarita (Oct. 5, 1667– Dec. 16, 1670,) Justina (b. Jan. 30, 1671), Regina (b. March 29, 1673), Sabrina (dates unknown) wife of Peter Müller, shoemaker in Hettstedt. See Zeidler et al. (d. 1699). See Johann G. Zeidler et al (1699). P. A3v.

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In 1674, Susanna’s father lost his eyesight.²⁵ When this affliction began to intervene seriously with his pastoral duties, the second son, Johann Gottfried, became the substitute pastor in 1679, a position he held until 1700.²⁶ It was not his ideal career choice. Later on he published several works that were highly critical of the clerical profession, especially the never-ending duties and deprivations of the village pastor.²⁷ However, it probably saved the family’s livelihood. If he had not come home, the position would have gone to a different pastor. Never mind his misgivings, he seemed to have acquitted himself faithfully.²⁸ When the father passed away in 1699 the town offered him the permanent position, which he declined. Zeidler, his family, including his mother and his sister Regina moved to Halle where he earned a (not always copious) living as an auctioneer that is, as a buyer and seller of books for the University of Halle. Among the many works he published were a primer that showed a new method to teach reading,²⁹ several encyclopedic picture books;³⁰ an extensive defense of the divining rod;³¹ and a bookbinding manual that because of its thoroughness has stood the test of time.³² As a fervent admirer of Christian Thomasius, he translated several of the latter’s Latin works into German.³³ This list of works shows his varied interests. They did not always earn him the respect of the critics, who were turned off by his anticlerical statements and his staunch defense of unexplained natural phenomena.³⁴ However, his “homecoming” in 1679 must have livened up the family discussions, and he certainly proved to be a supportive force when it came to the literary endeavors of his sisters. For Susanna, he arranged the publication of a collection of her poetry. Their sister Regina contributed extensive translations from French to his Pantomysterium. ³⁵

 Gottfried Zeidler reflected on the loss of his eyesight in a sermon entitled: Der blinde getröstete und tröstende Priester (Halle n.d.).  He studied theology in Jena, Wittenberg, and Leipzig where he was ordained. See Jaumann 1992; Biering 1742: 205 – 206.  Neun Priester-Teuffel (1701). Excerpt rpt. in Lechner 2008: 78 – 97, esp. 83.  During his tenure, the church in Fienstedt was also substantially renovated. See Dehio 1974: 105.  Neu-verbessertes vollkommenes ABC=Buch. 1700 + 1706.  Theatri Eruditorum Pictura. 1690; Bilder–Büchlein. 1691; Bilder-Bibel. 1691.  Pantomysterium. 1700.  Buchbinder=Philosophie 1708. Rpt. Hanover: Schlüter, 1978.  E.g. Christian Thomasius 1701. Dreyfache Rettung des Rechts Evangelischer Fürsten in KirchenSachen, transl. and ed. Johann Gottfried Zeidler.  See Löscher 1702: 89 – 93.  The translations were invariably attributed to Susanna Elisabeth, but the Pantomysterium clearly states that they were done by Regina. WF: 136.

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In some of his works, Johann Gottfried mentioned that his childhood was poor. In her introduction to the Jungferlicher Zeitvertreiber, Susanna recollected that she had been “lonely” since she had missed the company of similarly educated girls, but she found pleasure (“Ergetzlichkeit”) in “excellent history books, and merry songs and poems,”³⁶ the earliest ones of which must have been supplied by her father, who probably instructed her in reading and writing as well. Like her sister she must also have learned French. From the close relationship with her brother Johann Gottfried, crowned a poet laureate while in Wittenberg (JZ 16 – 18), we can gather that he probably provided her with the books that helped her acquire the extensive knowledge of classical literature and versification that is so evident in her poetry, especially after he moved back to Fienstedt in 1679.³⁷ In spite of her purported loneliness, her family connections provided a fertile field for the poet’s pen. They appear in the various letters to her brother when he was a student and then a lector in Wittenberg, as well as in a funeral poem for the death of her grandmother (VI. 39 – 40). One poem is addressed to her future husband, commenting on his departure after a visit (XVI. 48 – 51).³⁸ The family likewise lauded the publication of the Zeitvertreiber with congratulatory verses: by her father (6 – 7), her husband-to-be (10 – 11), one of her husband’s new colleagues, Benedict Debresius (6), and one by her brother, who raised her up to the Olympus and compared her to Sappho (7– 10). Beyond the immediate family, the Zeidlers were part of a “parson’s network”. Various epithalamia and other wedding-related poems show a wide circle of family and acquaintances.³⁹ Susanna also contributed a poem to the publication of a

 “in feinen Historien-Büchern, Lusterweckenden Gesängen/ und dergleichen Gedichten”, JZ foreword 3.  Susanna wrote a congratulatory poem for this coronation in Wittenberg: “III. An ihren Bruder/ Johann Gottfried Zeidlern. Als er zum Poeten gekrönet worden/ 1678”, JZ 16 – 18.  Andreas Haldensleben (1542– ?), father: pastor Konrad Heinrich Haldensleben, pastor in Borne, mother: Magdalena Lüdemans. From 1673 – 1676, he studied theology in Helmstedt, was then appointed conventualis senior of the Kloster Unserer Lieben Frau in Magdeburg, and became pastor in Detershagen and Schermen in 1683. See Landesarchiv Magdeburg: A 12 Spec. Detershagen.  “XV “Auff Herrn Gottfried Hübners/ und Jungfer Annen Susannen Sikelin hochzeitliches Ehrenfest,” 43 – 47. After Hübner’s death, Anna Sicelius married Johann Gottfried Zeidler. See “XVII. Auff ihres Bruders Joh. Gottfried Zeidlers/ und Fr. Annen Susannen Hübnerin/ gebohrnen Sikelin Hochzeit/ d. 10 October. 1682,” 52– 55. “II. Hochzeitliches Ehrengedicht” (8 – 15) for the wedding of Samuel Müller and Sophia Glaß (Feb. 19, 1683) probably appeared as an individual print. The bridegroom was a cousin of the Sikelius sisters. Johann Gottfried also wrote a poem for this wedding: “Islebium Peste Vastatum” (Eisleben: Diezel 1683).

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prayer book of another pastor.⁴⁰ Even the poems written after her wedding, one to an uncle of her husband and one to her husband’s new employer, give evidence of a circle of family, friends, and acquaintances, all somehow connected to pastors and/or their families, illustrating again that support for their writing ambitions from family and friends was conducive to emerging women poets.⁴¹ Susanna’s most valued friendship was with the pastor’s daughters in the neighboring town of Beesenstedt. Susanna corresponded, often in verse, with Anna Susanna Sicelius and her younger sister Maria Elisabeth, when the rough condition of the roads or the all-pervasive plague-epidemics would prevent visits.⁴² When the younger sister passed away in the plague epidemic of 1681, she wrote a heartfelt poem, evincing that such funereal poetry could be deeply personal. Wir hofften als man sprach/ es wird nu Frieden werden/ Das Unglück würde gantz verschwinden von Erden/ Weil man bey Friedenszeit fein sicher leben kann. So ist es weit gefehlt/ so fängt sichs erst recht an. Das hochbetrübte Land/ das durch das schlimme Morden. Und Tyranney der Pest so gar verwüstet worden/ Das stecket allbereit die Trauerfahne aus/ Weil man in grosser Zahl die Kinder trägt hinaus. […] Ich aber wuste mich damahls nicht zu besinnen Aus was Ursachen sich die edlen Pierinnen So sehr bekümmerten/ und wer die Nimphe sey/ Die edle Nimphe die der blasse Tod so frey Und jehling hingerafft in ihren jungen Tagen Und möchte gleichwohl nicht die Pierinnen fragen Biß ich hernach erfuhr mit hochbetrübten Sinn/ Es sey das liebe Kind/ Die Jungfer Sikelin.⁴³

 “IX. Auf Herrn Bened. Kunstmanns Büchlein” JZ: 30, introductory poem to Kunstmann 1681. It is the only one of seven dedicatory poems that is signed with initials rather than the full name of the contributor.  “Auf der Wohlgebohrnen Fr. Sophien Lucien von Schierstedt/ gebohrnen von Alvensleben ihren Nahmens Tag,” JZ: 93; “Auff Herrn Andreae Haldensleben/ wohlverdienten Pastoris in Schneidlingen seinen Nahmens–Tag” JZ: 94.  No Sicelius poems have survived. Susanna’s poems are “VII. Auf die Jungfrau Sikelinnen in Besenstedt” JZ: 24– 31; “XXIII. Nahmens–Gedicht an Frau Annen Susannen Hübenerin” JZ: 63 – 66; “XXXII. An Jungfr. Marien Elisabeth Sikelin” JZ: 73. See Moore 1995.  “XXXIII. Trauergedicht Über den sel. Abschied Iungfr. Marien Elisabeth Sikelin d. Julii 1681,” JZ: 73 – 84. “When it was said that peace was at hand, we hoped that adversity would also disappear from the earth, because one is supposed to be able to live securely in peacetime. Sadly, this is not the case. Calamity has struck. All through the deeply saddened country site that has been so destroyed by the murdering tyranny of the plague, the flags are now lowered, because a

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The author must have gained nothing but praise from the recipients of her poems, honoring special events and milestones in the lives of family members and acquaintances, all of them tied to specific occasions, some with religious topics.⁴⁴ However, she entered a male domain when she wrote a welcoming poem for the visit of the Elector Friedrich Wilhelm, new ruler of the Duchy of Magdeburg. It was printed and presented to the Elector with other congratulatory poems during a reception at the town hall in Halle on July 4, 1681, attended by the clergy of Halle and the surrounding region (Dreyhaupt 1880). Ihr Musen/ die bißher mit hochbetrübter Zungen, Ein trauriges Gedicht und Sterbelied gesungen/. […] Indem der schnelle Gifft der Pestilenz verheeret/ So manche schöne Stadt/ in welcher er verzehret/ Und mehr als tausendfach vermindert und geschwächt Durch seine Grausamkeit das menschliche Geschlecht, Stellt dieses Trauren ein/ nachdem sich alles wieder Nunmehr ergetzet hat/ stimmt an die Freuden–Lieder. Das in den Himmel schalt derselben süsser Thon. Erhebt mit hohen Ruhm bis an der Götter Thron Den grossen Friederich/ last eure Seiten klingen/ Den theuren König und Churfürsten zu besingen.⁴⁵

It is a well-crafted poem in alexandrines, one of the most commonly used meters, hitting just the right note of pride and humility, using a variety of classical allusions. It showed her familiarity with the poetics of her time, and her mettle as an accomplished poet. It assured her a mention in the works of Erdmann Neu-

large number of its children are being buried. […] But I did not know at that time, why the muses were so troubled, and who the noble nymph was, who had been carried off by death so callously in the flower of her youth. I did not want to ask the muses, but I was sad to discover afterwards that it was that dear child, the maiden Sikelin.”  “VIII. Beicht” 27; “XX. Neujahrsandacht” JZ: 58; “XI. Advent–Ode auff den 1. Sonntag des Advents” JZ: 32– 33; “XII. Auff den 2. Sontag des Advents” 34– 36; “XIII. Auff den 4. Sontag des Advents” JZ: 37– 40. “Prediger Salomo cap. 1.2. Es ist alles ganz eitel” JZ Anhang: 96.  “I. Dem durchleuchtigsten Großmächtigsten Fürsten und Herrn Herrn Friedrich Wilhelm/ Marggrafen zu Brandenburg/ des Heil. Römischen Reichs Ertz–Cämmern und Churfürsten/ Unserm Gnädigsten Churfürsten und Herrn bey der Solennen Erb–Huldigung des Hertzogsthumbs Magdeburg am 4. Junii Anno 1681. Zu Ehren übergeben” JZ: 1– 8, esp. 1. “You muses who until now have raised your doleful voices in sad songs and funereal poetry, while the swift poison of the plague destroyed so many beautiful towns and decimated and weakened the human race! Stop your wailing because everything has rejuvenated! Commence your songs of joy, so that the heavens will reverberate with their sweet sound! Raise your voices unto the thrones of the Gods, sound your instruments to sing a song of high praise to our dear King and Elector!”

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meister and subsequently in those of others. (Neumeister 1695: 117– 118.) Neumeister called her poetry elegant and graceful (anmutig), comparing it with the poetry of Paul Fleming, a poet of occasional poetry par excellence. However, Neumeister could not refrain from commenting that most of the works by women required a more lenient approach. Other critics must have openly questioned whether a woman was capable of writing such an accomplished piece, since the overall tone of the Zeitvertreiber is defensive. In the foreword, she admitted to having had less academic training in versification and poetics, but she defended her literary creations. While her hands were busy doing the daily chores, she wrote, the making of these German verses occupied her mind leaving no space for idle thoughts, resulting in poems that are virtuous enough that they will be pleasing to God and Man. To print these in a collection had not been her idea. On the contrary, she had discarded many of her poems, after doubts had been raised that a woman could have written them. In the “Begläubigung der Jungfer Poeterey (‘Accreditation of Women’s Poetry’ 31), she confronts a Rhapsodius, who had doubted that she had written the poetry she claimed as her own, countering that one could just as well doubt that he was the author of his wedding poem. While again admitting that women lacked academic training, she maintained that God and nature gave them the same talents. Some of her responses were in a lighter vein. When she received praise for her poetry, she answered humorously but pleased: “What? Has Apollo now deigned to descend from Parnassus to bestow praise on an unworthy nymph?”⁴⁶ In another she answered a laudatory poem with one of her own, using the traditional form of the alexandrine and a number of classical allusions proving her artistry.⁴⁷ However, in one short poem she refused to engage in a mode of writing, called Gelehrtenpoesie (literally: scholars’ poetry), an emerging tradition in which university educated poets tried to impress the reader with as many learned allusions as could be crammed into their verses. “Whatever is too high to put into verse, I will leave to the scholars. Although I have loved the art of poetry for a long time, they have had more training in this art.”⁴⁸ One of the reasons for printing the collection was that it would leave a token with friends and acquaintances that she would not be able to visit as often in her

 “Wie? Ist Apollo nu von des Parnassus Spitzen […] gestiegen so herab/ […] daß er mit hoher Gunst […] die Nimphe so beehret Die sich nicht würdiget.” See “XXXI. Antwort auf S. Excell. Herrn I.F.S. Ehren-Gedicht. An. 1678” JZ: 70 – 74, one of the earliest poems in the collection.  “V. Echo auf eines klugen Phoebus Sohns Lob-Gedicht” JZ: 20 – 22.  “XXX. Verweigerung eines Reimgedichts” JZ: 70: “Was für mich zu hoch in Verse zuverfassen/ Dasselbe will ich den Gelehrten überlassen/ Ob mir war iederzeit die Tichterkunst beliebt/ Sind sie doch mehr den ich in solcher Kunst geübt.”

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new abode. That this social life played against the background of a parsonage in a small town seemed not to have bothered her, although it must have been an issue with her brother, who had to leave Wittenberg for Fienstedt as can be gathered from one of Susanna’s verses, a dialogue, in which one party defends living in the country and another living in the white mountains (Wittenberg).⁴⁹ In another poem she defends the farmers, saying they have far better manners than the world gives them credit for.⁵⁰ It is therefore fitting that the collection closes with a poem written after the goats destroyed most of her vegetable garden, a prime example of the poet’s ability to find subjects in every-day life, showing that occasional poetry can be a creative outlet for a woman’s poetic talents, even for those living in the confines of a village parsonage. Ach ist es nicht schade/ der herrliche Garten/ Aus welchem man könte viel Früchte erwarten Voll köstlicher Bäume und Kräuter gepflanzt/ Mit künstlichen Wällen und Mauren umschantzt. […] Das irdische Paradieß lustiger Pracht Das haben die Böcke zu nichte gemacht. […] Die Thüren und Riegel? Ist alles vergebens/ Der Bock mit Gefährligkeit Leibes und Lebens Steigt über die Mauer/ springt wider hinab/ Beschelet die Bäume / die Zweige bricht ab. Macht also in wenigen Stunden zu nichte Das was ich viel Jahre mit mühe verrichte/⁵¹

 “XXXIV. Gespräch zwischen Coridon/ und auff dem weissen Berge wohnenden Nimphen in welchem jener das Land=diese aber das Stadtleben rühmen” JZ: 85 – 89.  “XXIV. Hochzeitliche Fastnacht Mummerey” JZ: 67– 68.  “XXXV. Klage über die tyrannischen Ziegenböcke” JZ: 89 – 92. Same meter as Ronsard’s “Mon Age et mon sang,” cited by Martin Opitz in his Deutsche Poeterey (1624) as an example of a Sapphic ode. The meter reflects the trampling of the goats. My translation here is with apologies to Susanna Zeidler. It does not do her poem justice. “It’s really a pity, the beautiful garden, From which we expected to harvest a bundle; Planted with trees and most precious herbs And well protected by hedges and walls. This earthly paradise’s wonderful joy Was totally destroyed by the billy goats. The doors and the locks could not have prevented The billy-goat risking its life and its limbs, Climbing the wall going up, jumping down, Attacking the trees. A branch is cut off. And in a few hours it ruined completely My labors and efforts of many years.”

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After Susanna Zeidler married, she moved to Detershagen. Since the publication of the Zeitvertreiber was delayed she had the opportunity to add several poems written after her wedding, thereby contradicting her prognosis that she would have little time for writing as a new pastor’s wife. She dedicated the volume to the wife of one of her husband’s new employers, showing again that she could use her writing in a public setting, this time in aid of her husband’s career. Then she disappears from our records, except for a short mention in the funeral book for her father, that she passed away on October 4, 1693 (Zeidler et al. 1699: A3v). But her publication provides a permanent record and the city of Fienstedt has recently recognized their famous daughter by renaming a street in her honor. It seems a fitting tribute. May this short discussion of one pastor’s daughter in the seventeenth century and her exemplary collection lead to further discoveries of her poetic contributions and those of others and a reevaluation of the home environment that was conducive to the writing of women.

Works Cited Adami, Johannes Samuel. 1691. Der exemplarische Priester. Leipzig: Mieth. Adami, Johannes Samuel. 1692. Die bösen Priester–Feinde, welche Gott bekehre. Die frommen Priester–Freunde, welche Gott bewahre. Leipzig: Mieth. Adami, Johannes Samuel. 1693. Der Gott wohlgefallige Priester. Leipzig: Mieth. Adami, Johannes Samuel. 1695. Der wohlgeplagte Priester. Leipzig: Mieth. Adami, Johannes Samuel. 1701. Das exemplarische Priester–Kind. Leipzig: Mieth. Adami, Johannes Samuel. 1702. Die exemplarische und Gott–wohlgefällige Priester–Frau. Leipzig: Mieth. Ammersbach, Heinrich. 1678. Letzte Ehe- und Ehrengedächtnüß. Halberstadt = funeral book for Anna Elisabeth Villitz (1639 – 1678). Auserlesene Früchte der deutschen Poesie […] in Ober und Nieder-Sachsen. 1731. Ed. H. R. Martens. Halberstadt: Schoppen. Bauer, Max. Deutscher Frauenspiegel. 1917. Munich and Berlin: Georg Müller. Biering, Johann Albert. 1742. Clerus Mansfeldicus […] In der ganzen Graffschaft Mansfeld, Von Lutheri Reformation an, bis auff gegenwärtige Zeit. Leipzig: A. Martini. Blaufuß, Dietrich. 2010. “Rosina Dorothea Schilling-Ruckteschel: Eine Separatistin im Pietismus.” Der radikale Pietismus: Perspektiven der Forschung. Ed. Wolfgang Breul et al. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht. 105 – 128. Bolte, Johannes. 1887. “Magdalena Eccard, eine vergessene Dichterin”. Korrespondenzblatt des Vereins für niederdeutsche Sprachforschung 12: 18 – 21. Bosse, Fritz. 1974. “Die kaiserlich gekrönte Dichterin Anna Margareta Pfeffer, geb. Specht.” Tausend Jahre Seesen 974 – 1974. Seesen: Stadtverwaltung. 343 – 348. Breu, Georgius. 1597. Christliche Leichpredigt. Freiberg = funeral book for Margaretha Junghans (1559 – 1597).

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Brückner, Shirley. 2013. “Selbst-Inszenierung des Pfarrhauses”. Leben nach Luther: Eine Kulturgeschichte des evangelischen Pfarrhauses. Berlin: Deutsches Historisches Museum. 55 – 73. Buckwalter, Stephen E. 1998. Die Priesterehe in Flugschriften der Frühen Reformation. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Dreyhaupt, Johann Christoph von. 1880. Einzug und Huldigung des Großen Kurfürsten Friedrich Wilhelm von Brandenburg in Halle. Halle. Carrdus, Anna. 2004. Das “Weiblich Werck” in der Residenzstadt Altenburg 1672 – 1720: Gedichte und Briefe von Margarethe Susanne von Kuntsch und Frauen aus ihrem Umkreis. Hildesheim: Olms. Corvinus, Gottlieb Siegmund Corvinus (pseud. Amaranthes). 1715 + 1739. Nutzbares, galantes und curiöses Frauenzimmer-Lexicon. Leipzig: Joh. Friedrich Gleditsch. Dehio, Georg. 1974. Handbuch der deutschen Kunstdenkmäler. Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag. Ebel, Wilhelm. 1969. Memorabilia Gottingensia: Elf Studien zur Sozialgeschichte der Universität. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht. Göschel, Christian. 1668. Frommer Christen zeitlicher und bester Ruhm. Jena: Bauhofer = LP für Susanna Müller (1623 – 1668). Hacke, Daniela (ed.). 2004. Frauen in der Stadt: Selbstzeugnisse des 16. bis 18. Jahrhunderts. Ostfildern: Jan Thorbecke. Halm, Karl Felix Ritter von. 1877. “Joachim Feller”. ADB 6: 614 – 615. Hanstein, Adalbert von. 1899. Die Frauen in der Geschichte des Deutschen Geisteslebens des 18. und 19. Jahrhunderts, 2 vols. Leipzig: Freund & Wittig. Harsdörffer, Georg Philipp. 1647. Poetischer Trichter. Nuremberg: Endter. Hellwig, Christoph von. 1700. Frauenzimmer-Apoteckgen. Leipzig: Groschuff. Henkel, Gabriele. 2006. “Anna Margaretha Pfeffer, geb. Specht”. In: Horst-Rüdiger Jarck (ed.). Braunschweigisches Biographisches Lexikon. Vol. 1: 8. bis 18. Jahrhundert. Braunschweig: Appelhans. 560 – 561. Herdegen, Johann (pseud. Amaranthes). 1744. Historische Nachricht von deß löblichen Hirten– und Blumen–Ordens an der Pegnitz Anfang und Fortgang. Nuremberg: Riegel. Jaumann, Walter. 2011. “Johann Gottfried Zeidler”. Killy Literaturlexikon. Munich et al.: Bertelsmann. 12: 631 – 632. Kantzenbach, Friedrich Wilhelm. 1988. “Die Schriften der Pfarrfrau Rosina Ruckteschel als Quelle für die Geschichte des Pietismus”. Theologie in Franken: Der Beitrag einer Region zur europäischen Theologiegeschichte. Saarbrücken: Kantzenbach. 158 – 189. Karant-Nunn, Susan. 2000. “Reformation Society: Women and the Family”. The Reformation World. Ed. Andrew Pettegree. London and New York: Routledge. 433 – 460. Karant-Nunn, Susan. 2001. “Preaching the Word in Early Modern Germany”. Preachers and People in the Reformations and Early Modern Period. Larissa Taylor (ed.). Leiden: Brill. 193 – 220. Karant-Nunn, Susan. 2003. “The Emergence of the Pastoral Family in the German Reformation: The Parsonage as a Site of Socio-religious Change”. In: C. Scott Dixon and Luise Schorn-Schütte (eds.). The Protestant Clergy of Early Modern Europe. Basingstoke: Pallgrave MacMillan. 79 – 99. Keller, Andreas et al (eds.). 2010. Theorie und Praxis der Kasualdichtung in der Frühen Neuzeit, Chloe 43. Amsterdam: Rodopi.

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Kettner, Friedrich Ernst. 1686. Die ausgelöschte Großmütterliche Gebethskerze. Chemnitz: Gütner = funeral book for Catharina Kettner née Deuerlin(g) (1617 – 1686). Koldau, Linda Maria. 2005. Frauen – Musik – Kultur: Ein Handbuch zum deutschen Sprachgebiet der Frühen Neuzeit. Cologne: Böhlau. Kormann, Eva. 2004. Ich, Welt und Gott: Autobiographik im 17. Jahrhundert. Cologne et al: Böhlau. Krusenstjern, Benigna von. 2004. “Schreibende Frauen in der Stadt der frühen Neuzeit”. Frauen in der Stadt: Selbstzeugnisse des 16. bis 18. Jahrhunderts, ed. Daniela Hacke. Ostfildern: Jan Thorbecke, 2004, 41 – 48. Kühn, Johann Heinrich. 1690. Jesu die alleredelste Perl. Dresden: Riedel = funeral book for Johanna Margarethe Hofkuntz née Bose (1668 – 1690). Kunstmann, Benedikt. 1681. Singender Christen-Mund über die Sonntäglichen Evangelia. Halle: Walter. Laurentius-Gräf, Sophia Regina. 1715. Eines andächtigen Frauenzimmers S. R. G. Ihrem Jesu im Glauben dargebrachte Liebes-Opffer. Leipzig: Martini. Lechner, Elmar. 2008. Pädagogik und Kulturkritik in der deutschen Frühaufklärung: Johann Gottfried Zeidler (1655 – 1711): Zehn Thesen und Edition einiger seiner autobiographischen, pädagogischen und historischen sowie aphoristischen Schriften. Frankfurt/Main: Lang. Lehmann, Georg. 1677. Das verlassene, aber in der That keines weges verlassene Weiblein. Leipzig: Hahn. Lehms, Georg Christian. 1715. Teutschlands Galante Poetinnen: mit ihren sinnreichen und netten Proben. Frankfurt/Main: Hocker. Löscher, Valentin. 1702. In: Unschuldige Nachrichten von Alten und Neuen Sachen. Leipzig: Braun: 89 – 93. Magirus, Johannes. 1604. Christliche Leichpredigt = Funeral book for Lucas Osiander (1535 – 1604). Tübingen: Gruppenbach. Martens, Heinrich R. (ed.). 1731. Auserlesene Früchte der deutschen Poesie […] in Ober und Nieder-Sachsen, 2 vols. Halberstadt: Schoppen. Meelführer, Christoph. 1702. Biblia: Das ist die gantze Heilige Schrift. Nuremberg: Buggel. Meelführer, Christoph. 1702 (2). Historisches Spruchbuch/ Darinnen Hundert vornehme Sprüche aus Gottes Wort. Leipzig: Lankisch. Moore, Cornelia Niekus. 1991. “Erbauungsliteratur als Gebrauchsliteratur für Frauen; Leichenpredigten als Quelle weiblicher Lesegewohnheiten”. In: Hans Erich Bödeker and Patrice Veit (eds.). Le Livre religieux et ses pratiques: Der Umgang mit dem religiösen Buch. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. 291 – 315. Moore, Cornelia Niekus. 1995. “’Meine glückwündschenden Lieder Gedichte:’ Susanna Elisabeth Zeidler’s Occasional Poetry”. In: Martin Bircher and Guillaume van Gemert (eds.) Brückenschläge, eine barocke Festgabe für Ferdinand van Ingen. Amsterdam: Rodopi. 255 – 267. Moore, Cornelia Niekus. 2012. “Mädchenbildung in Helmstedter Professorenfamilien”. In: Jens Bruning and Ulrike Gleixner (eds.). Das Athen der Welfen: Die Reformuniversität Helmstedt 1576 – 1810. Wolfenbüttel: Herzog August Bibliothek. 160 – 167. Neumeister, Erdmann. 1695. De poëtis germanicis hujus saeculi praecipuis dissertatio compendiaria. Rpt Franz Heiduk (ed.). Bern and Munich: Francke, 1977.

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Omeis, Daniel and Christoph Christian Händel. 1688. Dissertatio de eruditis Germaniae mulieribus. Altdorf: Heinrich Meyer. Rpt.: Elisabeth Gossmann. 2000. “Eva Gottes Meisterwerck”. In: Archiv für Philosophie- und Theologiegeschichtliche Frauenforschung. Munich: Iudicium. 8: 131 – 141. Opitz, Martin. 1624. Buch von der deutschen Poeterey. Breslau: Müller. Paullini, Christian Franz. 1705 + 1712. Hoch- und Wohl-gelahrtes FrauenZimmer. Frankfurt/Main: Stößel. Plummer, Marjorie. 2012. From Priest’s Whore to Pastor’s Wife: Clerical Marriage and the Process of Reform in the Early German Reformation. Farnham (G.B.): Ashgate. Rittmeyer, Johann. 1683. Die sichere Friedens- und Ruhekammer der Gerechten in und nach dem Tode. Helmstedt: Hessen = funeral book for Andreas Fröling (1629 – 1683). Rublack, Hans-Christoph. 1989. “’Der Wohlgeplagte Priester’: Vom Selbstverständnis lutherischer Geistlichkeit im Zeitalter der Orthodoxie”. Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 16: 1 – 37. Rückteschel-Schilling, Rosina Dorothea. 2004. “Das Weib auch ein wahrer Mensch. Gegen die unmenschlichen Lästerer Weibl. Geschlechts”. In: Elisabeth Gössmann and Sabine Koloch (eds.). Weisheit eine schöne Rose. Munich: Iudicium. 291 – 456. Scheitler, Irmgard. 2007. “Poesie und Musik im Umkreis der Nürnberger Pegnitzschäferinnen: Nürnberg als Ort kulturellen Handelns”. In Susanne Rode-Breymann (ed.). Orte der Musik: Kulturelles Handeln von Frauen in der Stadt. Cologne: Böhlau. 35 – 66. Schiebinger, Londa. 1996. The Mind has no Sex? Women in the Origins of Modern Science. Cambridge (Mass): Harvard University Press. Schöne, Albrecht. 1968. Säkularisation als sprachbildende Kraft: Studien zur Dichtung deutscher Pfarrersöhne. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Schorn-Schütte, Luise. 1991. “Gefährtin und Mitregentin: Zur Sozialgeschichte der evangelischen Pfarrfrau in der Frühen Neuzeit”. In: Heide Wunder und Christina Vanja (eds.). Wandel der Geschlechtsbeziehungen zu Beginn der Neuzeit. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. 132 – 137. Schorn-Schütte, Luise. 1996. Evangelische Geistlichkeit in der Frühen Neuzeit. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Schorn-Schütte, Luise. 1998. “The Christian Clergy in the Early Modern Holy Roman Empire: A Comparative Social Study”. The Sixteenth Century Journal 29/3: 717 – 731. Schulenburg, Johann Christian. 1701. Memoriae Lochnerianae. Bremen: Brauer = Funeral book for Jacob Hieronymus Lochner (1649 – 1700). Schuster, Ralf (ed.). 2009. Die Pegnitz-Schäferinnen: eine Anthologie. Passau: Schuster. Schwindel, Georg Jakob (pseud. Theophilus Sincerus.) 1748. Librorum Nonnisi Veterum Rariorumque […] Neue Nachrichten von lauter alten Büchern. Frankfurt/Main and Leipzig: Felsecker. Siegemund-Dittrich, Justina. 2005. Die Kgl. Preußische und Chur–Brandenburgische Hof-Wehemutter (The Court Midwife). Lynne Tatlock (ed. and transl.). Chicago Uuniversity Press. Steck, Wolfgang. 1984. “Im Glashaus: Die Pfarrfamilie als Sinnbild christlichen und bürgerlichen Lebens”. In: Martin Greiffenhagen (ed.). Das evangelische Pfarrhaus: Eine Kultur- und Sozialgeschichte. Stuttgart: Kreuz. 109 – 125. Stockfleth, Heinrich Arnold and Maria Catharina Stockfleth-Frisch. 1669. Die kunst- und tugendgezierte Macarie. 2 vols. Nuremberg: Mittenberger.

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Strauss, Gerald. 1993. “Local Anticlericalism in Reformation Germany”. Peter A. Dykema and Heiko A. Oberman (eds.). Anticlericalism in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe. Leiden: Brill. 625 – 638. Tatlock, Lynne. 1992. “Speculum Feminarum: Gendered Perspectives on Obstetrics and Gynecology in Early Modern Germany”. Signs 17: 725 – 740. Thomasius, Christian. 1701. Dreyfache Rettung des Rechts Evangelischer Fürsten in Kirchen-Sachen. Johann Gottfried Zeidler (ed.). Frankfurt/Main. Wade, Mara. 2011. “Strategien des Kulturtransfers im Pegnesischen Blumenorden”. Daphnis 40: 287 – 326. Weigelt, Horst. 2001. Geschichte des Pietismus in Bayern. Anfänge – Entwicklung – Bedeutung. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht. Woods, Jean and Maria Fürstenwald. 1984. Women of the German-speaking Lands in Learning, Literature and the Arts during the 17th and early 18th centuries, A Lexicon. Stuttgart: J. B. Metzler = WF. Zaepernick, Gertraud. 1982. “Johann Georg Gichtel und seine Nachfolger”. Pietismus und Neuzeit 8: 74 – 118. Zeidler, Gottfried. 1677. Der blinde getröstete und tröstende Priester. Halle: Hübner. Zeidler, Johann Gottfried. 1683. Islebium Peste Vastatum. Eisleben: Diezel. Zeidler, Johann Gottfried. 1690. Theatri Eruditorum Pictura. Wittenberg: Henckel, 1690. Zeidler, Johann Gottfried. 1691. Bilder–Büchlein: Welches bestehet in hundert und sechs auserlesene, künstlich geschnittene Biblische Figuren. Magdeburg: Müller. Zeidler, Johann Gottfried. 1691 (2). Neu ausgefertigte Bilder-Bibel/ Darinnen die denckwürdigsten Historien Heiliger Schrifft in vielen anmuthigen und künstlichen Biblischen Figuren vorgestellet. Magdeburg: Müller. Zeidler, Johann Gottfried. et al. 1699. Historische Lebens-Beschreibung und Ehren-Gedächtnis Des […] Gottfried Zeidlers. Halle: Johann Jakob Krebs. Zeidler, Johann Gottfried. 1700. Pantomysterium oder das Neueste vom Jahre der Wünschelruthe. Halle: Renger. Zeidler, Johann Gottfried. 1700 + 1706. Neu-verbessertes vollkommenes ABC–Buch: Oder Schlüssel zur Lesekunst. Halle. Zeidler, Johann Gottfried. 1701. Neun Priester-Teuffel. Das ist ein Sendschreiben Von Jammer, Elend, Noth und Qual der armen Dorff-Pfarrer. Rpt: Elmar Lechner (ed.). 2008: 78 – 97. Zeidler, Johann Gottfried. 1708. Buchbinder-Philosophie oder Einleitung in die Buchbinder-Kunst. Halle: Renger, Rpt. 1978. Hanover: Schlüter. Zeidler, Susanna Elisabeth. 1686. Jungferlicher Zeitvertreiber. Das ist allerhand Deudsche Gedichte Bey Häußlicher Arbeit und stiller Einsamkeit verfertiget und zusammen getragen Zerbst: Johann Ernst Betzel. Rpt. 2000. Cornelia Niekus Moore (ed.). Bern et al.: Peter Lang.

Peter Damrau

Elizabeth Singer Rowe (1674 – 1737): From Parsonage to Bestselling Author Elizabeth Singer Rowe, a highly successful author and role model for women writers in the eighteenth century, owed much of her foundation to her father, a dissenting minister, whose life, teaching, and the environment he created influenced the themes of her most successful works. Elizabeth’s mother died early and her father became her admired moral and intellectual role model who supported her literary interests. She often studied to please him and began to write poetry at the age of twelve to deepen her devotion. At the age of eighteen, she possessed the equivalent of an academic education, which distinguished her from other rather fashionably trained women (Stecher 1973: 32). Elizabeth Singer Rowe became one of the most widely read woman writers of the eighteenth century. Eighty-nine editions of her works were published before 1840; and in a recent study, Bigold has found that in the years after her death up until 1820, almost every year yielded the publication of one of her writings – an accomplishment that cannot be claimed by some of the most significant writers of the time (Bigold 2013: 62). Rowe was not only a bestselling author but her works also influenced the development of the English novel, the women of the Blue Stocking Society, and highly regarded writers in Germany.¹

The Religious Background Elizabeth’s father, Walter Singer, was a Presbyterian minister who was imprisoned for nonconformity in Ilchester Gaol during the reign of Charles II. It was here that he met his wife, Elizabeth Portnell, a devout and dedicated woman, who saw visiting persecuted believers as her religious duty. They were married in Ilchester, and after another prosecution he retired from his ministry and became successful in the wool business. Elizabeth, the first of their three daughters, was born in 1674. The relationship between her and her father was very close. In a letter to Arabella Marrow, she describes him as a pious man with a strong desire for reading: “The perfect sanctity of his life, and the benevolence

 In recent years, Rowe has been rehabilitated in the literary history of the eighteenth century. While research of the twentieth century focussed mainly on her biography, more recently there have been numerous studies of her poetry and prose writing (Stewart 2013). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110590364-003

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of his temper, make him a refuge to all in distress, to the widow and the fatherless: “[…] The rest of his hours are entirely spent in his private devotion, or books, which are his only diversion.” (Singer Rowe 1756: 328)² The following excerpt from a letter addressed to the Reverend Benjamin Colman in 1709 is a rare writing of her father that survived. It provides insights into the Singer household, especially about the religious atmosphere in which Elizabeth was brought up: O why has Providence denied me so great a Blessing as the Enjoyment of thy dear Relation and Society! This often makes me, with a melancholly Sigh, with Agford at Boston, or Boston here – But infinite Wisdom and Goodness cannot err, or the Thought would make too deep an Impression. Methinks there is one Place vacant in my Affections, which Nobody can fill besides you. But this Blessing was too great for me, and God has reserved it for those that more deserved it. I cannot but hope sometimes that Providence has yet in Store so much Happiness for me, that I shall yet see you […]. My dear Philomela [Elizabeth’s pen name] improves daily in Knowledge and Piety, in the Love of God, and all that is good; lives above the Fears of Death, or rather under the strong Desires of it. Your real, passionate Friend Walter Singer (Turell 1749: 48 – 49)

Walter Singer’s description of his daughter touches in only a very few words on some of the main themes that are still associated with her writing today. Knowledge, piety, and friendship were all values that Elizabeth inherited from her religious father and which influenced her as a writer. Her breadth and depth of knowledge won the respect of her contemporaries and paved her way as a writer; her reputation of being a ‘pious lady’ would remain closely intertwined with her literary success, and the literalization of passionate friendships would constitute her most influential contribution to English literature. In this letter, Walter Singer also emphasizes his belief in providence and shares his reflection of his young daughter’s attitude towards death, providing an insight into the role of religion as a focal point of life, and also as a coping mechanism for the tragedies in their family life. One of Elizabeth’s sisters died when she was a child, her mother died when she was in her teens, and her other sister when she was in her twenties. No specifics are known about her youngest sister’s or her mother’s death, but the death of the other sister is recorded in a letter from Benjamin Colman to Isaac Watts, the nonconformist hymn writer who edited Elizabeth’s Devout Exercises of the Heart (1737): According to this account, when Elizabeth was seriously ill, her sister asked her whether she was ready to die. When Elizabeth answered in the negative, her sister professed the assurance of her own election and willingness to die in her place:

 Further references to this edition are given after quotations in the text.

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“And what is almost incredible to relate, from that hour I grew better, and recovered, but she took to her bed and died in a few days.” “Conceive, if you can, Mr. Colman,” said she, “how astonished I was at this event of Providence, and overwhelmed with sorrow! Yet I recovered health […].”³

The Singers’ concern with death and providence was reinforced by their reading of nonconformist literature. One of the authors read in the Singer household was Stephen Charnock. In a letter dated 1697, Elizabeth writes about lending an unnamed gentleman some of Charnock’s works: My service to Mr.——–-; he talk’d of reading Charnock’s sermons, but not knowing whether he’ll carry them to L——–-. I did not send them now; but tell him, if he will, he may send for them tomorrow, and keep them as long as he pleases. ’Tis pity, when there’s so much divinity in the world, people should be forc’d to read Ludlow’s Memoirs on Sundays (II, 106).

Stephen Charnock was, like Walter Singer, a persecuted Presbyterian minister. He, too, stressed the importance of God’s providence and wrote the 397 page Discourse of Divine Providence. In one of the subsections of this work, titled “Fix not your eye only upon the sensible operations of providence, but the ultimate end” he writes: “We must not only consider the present end, but the remote end, because God in his Providence towards his Church hath his end for after times. God acts for ends at a great distance from us, which may not be completed till we are dead and rotten.” (Charnock 1685: 365 – 366) In his other works, Charnock also refers several times to deathbed scenes (Charnock 1864: I, 167, 197, 566). The shared strong belief in the providence of God, that determines events beyond death, can also be found in Elizabeth’s private writing. The following passage is directly linked to her reflections on her father’s health and his possible death: I dare not persuade my father to change the air, nor undertake a journey to London, for fear what the consequence may be. Our ways are in the hands of God, who prevents, or succeeds our designs; there is a determin’d event to every thing, which ‘tis not in the power of man to resist. These thoughts keep my mind from much anxiety (II, 276).

The Singers believed that it is providence that determines the time of death and that the knowledge of the caring nature of providence eases the believer’s concerns about it. For Elizabeth, the acknowledgement of divine providence also became a criterion for the religious quality of a writer: “His remarks on the conduct of divine Providence are a proof to me of the author’s piety, and thro’ every page  The letter is published in The Children’s Magazine and Missionary Repository (Foulkes 1848: 285).

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the delicacy and justness of his sentiments appear” (II, 252). Even in her later fictional writings, Elizabeth still refers to providence, though the tone in the following example from the very popular Letters Moral and Entertaining (1729 – 33), where an English merchant reports about the adventures of his journeys, appears to be more secular: There was something in the air of this young stranger superior to adversity, and yet sensible of the present disadvantage of his fate; while I felt for him an emotion, soft as the ties of nature, and could not but impute it to the secret impression of some intelligent power, which was leading me to a height of generosity beyond my own intention, and, by an impulse of virtue on my soul, directing it to the accomplishment of some distant and unknown design of Providence. The heavenly instigation came with a prevailing force, and I could not but obey its dictates. (Singer Rowe 1755: 207)

Walter Singer was very concerned with the spiritual wellbeing of his daughter, and she saw in him a Christian role model. He taught her to put her trust in divine providence and how to become a pious woman, and he was also ambitious for her to gain an excellent education.

Elizabeth’s Education As a single parent, the cultivation and learning of his daughters was one of Walter Singer’s main objectives. Elizabeth’s relatives, Henry Grove and Theophilus Rowe, who wrote and published her first biography “The Life of Mrs. Elizabeth Rowe” with her Miscellaneous Works (1739) two years after her death, mention how her father encouraged her appreciation of the arts: She lov’d the pencil when she had hardly strength and steadiness of hand sufficient to guide it; and in her infancy (one may almost venture to say so) would squeeze out the juices of herbs to serve her instead of colours. Mr. Singer perceiving her fondness for this art, was at the expence of a master to instruct her in it (I, v).

Elizabeth painted pictures for the rest of her life and Reynolds, who lists her in The Learned Lady in England under the category “artists” points out: “Mrs. Rowe’s paintings were likewise highly prized by discriminating friends.” (Reynolds 1920: 87) In another version of her biography, published with her Poems on Several Occasions, there is also an account of Elizabeth’s sister, with whom she studied excessively:

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She had the same extreme passion for books, chiefly those of medicine, in which art she arrived to a considerable insight; and if it could not be said of them in the letter, as of the virtuous woman in the Proverbs, That their candle went not out by night, yet it frequently burnt till after the middle of it; so great was their thirst of knowledge, and the pleasure they had in gratifying it! (Singer Rowe 1767: 5)

The daughters’ pursuit of knowledge is linked to the biblical understanding of a virtuous woman.⁴ For Elizabeth Singer Rowe, education and virtue would always be inextricably linked. Another account of the two sisters can be found in the biography by Benjamin Colman who recalls a conversation with Elizabeth about her sister, whom she considered “equal in Knowledge and Superior in Grace”: My Sister, said she, was a Year or two younger than I, and her Affection as well as Wit was quicker. I seemed however to my self to think more thoroughly. She desired ever to be with me, and I wanted to be more by my self. We often retired by Consent, each to her Chamber, to compose and then to compare what we wrote. She always exceeded me in the Number of Lines, but mine I think were more correct. (Turell 1749: 37)

These passages show the seriousness and commitment of Walter Singer’s daughters to education and writing in particular. The question in the Singer household was not whether girls should be educated, but rather who was making better progress. This must also be seen in context of their nonconformist church. Compared with Anglican churches, women in dissenting congregations had significantly more opportunities to participate in meetings and to express their views through speaking and writing (Crawford 1992: 124). It was common in families of nonconformist ministers that great care was given to the education of their children. For dissenting groups, reading and writing was a means to defy oppression, as it was the only way to communicate their beliefs at a time when the public, communicative roles such as preaching, assembling and teaching were denied to them (Achinstein 2003: 4). The following account of a meeting between Walter Singer and another nonconformist in the year 1680 shows the need to put religious convictions into writing. Like Singer, the Quaker John Whiting was imprisoned at Ilchester Gaol for his dissenting beliefs. I happened [to fall] into some discourse with one Walter Singer, a Presbyterian in the town, envious enough against truth, who opposed us in several points of principles and practice; and to confirm his opposition the more, produced John Faldo’s book, falsly called ‘Quaker-

 Proverbs 31. 10 – 31: “Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies […] her candle goeth not out by night […] she openeth her mouth with wisdom.”

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ism no Christianity;’ whereas it should have been ‘Forgery no Christianity;’ which he offered to lend me, I having never seen it before: and though I answered all his objections, as it then arose in my mind according to the understanding the Lord was pleased to give me, as the apostle advised, 1 Pet. iii. 15. Yet afterwards in a sense of their opposition against the truth, I wrote my mind fuller on each head, in a book entitled, ‘A Threefold Apology for the People of God, called Quakers, in vindication of their principles and practices, against all their opposers,’ directed to him the said W[alter] S[inger].⁵ (Whiting 1791: 61– 61)

Like Whiting, nonconformists identified with the apostle Paul, who, as a prisoner, wrote letters to his persecuted fellow believers. The mentioned Bible verse 1 Peter 3. 15 contains Paul’s appeal “always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you” (Authorized Version). Elizabeth was indoctrinated with this strong belief of the nonconformist responsibility to witness and was motivated to produce texts with a strong religious, moralistic and educative purpose (Backscheider 2011: 43). In the following letter, written during an illness, she seems to negotiate her publication with the Almighty, whom she significantly addresses as “My father’s God”⁶: My father’s God; if thou wilt now speedily deliver me, and send me an answer of peace, then I will record thy several mercies, and leave the catalogue as a testimony of thy truth, and a seal to the veracity of the scripture promises; and leave it with a charge to be published to thy honour, at my death, that ages yet unborn may rise up and bless thee, and trust in thy word (I, xxxi).

As nonconformist groups stressed the importance of individual faith, they participated even more in the “Protestant turn away from clerical intermediaries,” and focussed on their own responsibility for the education of their children (Staves 2003: 86). Therefore, it is not surprising that in his investigation of the nonconformist literary culture of the late seventeenth century, Keeble has found that literacy rates were higher amongst nonconformists than in other sections of society, and that there were far more books by nonconformists printed than their proportion of the English population would warrant. Nonconformists were more likely to read and more eager to write than their contemporaries (Keeble 1987: 128, 136, 137). This characterizes the environment of Elizabeth’s formative years. One of the most popular books of the seventeenth century was A Token for Children; being an exact account of the conversation, holy and exemplary lives,  There was another Walter Singer living in Frome, who, however was a Victualler. It is likely that this account refers to Elizabeth’s father, as she also distanced herself from the Quakers in a letter to the Countess of Hertford: “I am afraid you will think I am turned Quaker.” (II, 130).  She also refers to “the God of my pious father” (Singer Rowe 1738: 129).

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and joyful deaths of several young children (1672) written by the nonconformist minister James Janeway. Already in his preface, Janeway asks the young readers: Did you never hear of a little Child that died and if other Children die, why may not you be sick and die? […] How do you know but that you may be the next Child that may die? and where are you then, if you be not God’s Child? […] Now tell me, my pretty dear Child, What will you do? Shall I make you a Book […] Read the most searching Books and get your Father to buy you Mr. White’s Book for little children, and A Guide to Heaven. ⁷ (Janeway 1977)

Janeway’s book itself consists of short biographies of dying children like, for example, Susannah Bicks, born of ‘very religious parents’, who proclaims on her deathbed the providence of God: “Seeing her Parents still very much moved, she further argued with them from the Providence of God, which had a special hand in every common thing, much more in the disposal of the lives of men and women.” (Janeway 1977: 33) Another girl’s biography is that of the eight year old and already very spiritual Sarah Howley who prays and weeps for her siblings, loves her parents and spends much time in reading the Bible and devotional works. At the age of fourteen she falls ill but being prepared, “She was exceedingly desirous to die, and creyed out, Come Lord Jesus, come quickly, conduct me to thy Tabernacle.” (Janeway 1977: 16) Considering the untimely deaths of his wife and two daughters, his strong nonconformist convictions, and his belief in God’s providence in death, it is very likely that Walter Singer provided his surviving daughter with literature like this. Elizabeth, who was born in the year Janeway died, not only described her father’s deathbed scene with almost identical words used by Janeway (“He would be often crying out “Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly […] conduct my soul to the skies”)⁸ but she would also follow in Janeway’s footsteps to write another bestselling book on the preparation for eternity, her magnum opus Friendship in Death (1728). Although there can be no doubt that the young Elizabeth benefited from the support of her bookish father, there is very little information on his precise involvement. Many studies have pointed out the wide range of literary references in her works and some even provide a list of authors. However, due to the fact that her first publication only appeared when she had already moved in highly educated circles including clergy, all of these references could have stemmed from later sources and there is almost no direct reference to her father’s library.  In his introduction of this reprint of the 1676 edition, Robert Miner refers to the great popularity of the work when he suggests that these early editions of the book “were read to pieces those hundred times each by increasingly intense little children.” (p. viii).  A more detailed account can be found on p. 44 of this chapter.

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Finding reliable details in her biography and letters is difficult due to the constructed and idealized nature of this writing. Bigold, who compared transcriptions of Rowe’s original letters with those used in her ‘fictional letters’ and her ‘Miscellaneous Works’, comes to the conclusion that due to the shaping of her material for religious purposes as well as for entertainment, there is no straightforward access to a biographical history (Bigold 2013: 24). The same could be said for her highly successful Letters Moral and Entertaining (1729 – 32), where biographical aspects are mingled with nonconformist teaching, topics of contemporary intellectual discourses and romantic stories. Biographically significant, however, is the combination of religion, education and death; themes that not only made Rowe’s works highly successful but also mirror important aspects of her childhood, especially when they appear together in a single character. There is, for example, the story of Rosalinda, who writes to Lady Sophia: The only intimacy I have contracted is with a daughter of the minister of this parish; they call her Sally; Her conversation is perfectly innocent and agreeable, and has something in it charming beyond all the specious rules and studied elegance of the beau-monde. She has spent her leisure in reading, and has certainly perused all the good books in her father’s study, having never opened a page on any subject but religion, except Argalus and Parthenia. […] She believes herself in a consumption, and talks of dying as calmly as most people talk of going to sleep. […] She has a surprising memory, and speaks the finest parts of Milton by heart […]. Mr Pope’s Messiah is another of her favourite poems. (Rowe 1755: 213 – 217)

These are recurring themes from Elizabeth’s childhood: the minister’s daughter, the eagerness to read and perusal of her father’s books, the interest in heroic romance, the preoccupation with death and the love for poetry. The details of this fictional letter seem to portray a strong similarity to Elizabeth’s upbringing in her father’s house. However, there are other letters. For example, from Sylviana, who gives an account of her manner of life before her marriage: My father was a country-clergyman, a person of exemplary piety […]. I was the eldest of three daughters, which were all the children they had. […] Reading was my prevailing attachment; and I had turned over every book in my father’s library, except Latin and Greek. But here was not one play or novel for my entertainment. However, I was supplied with amusements of this kind by my Lady Worthy’s youngest daughter; who was our neighbour, and was pleased to honour me with some degree of intimacy. But I perused these authors with great secrecy, and not without some inward remorse; this sort of reading being against my father’s severe injunctions, and the pious rules I had been taught. (237– 238)

Here is another example of a minister’s daughter (with two sisters) who has an attachment to reading, and another description of the extensive use of a parsonage’s library. Whether or not Walter Singer possessed many secular books and

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how strict he was with his daughter’s choice of books, we don’t know. Nevertheless, these two accounts confirm the significance of the access to the minister’s library, its influence on the education of his daughters, and how it was fundamental for their exposure to and interest in literature. Elizabeth provides a good example of this influence as she started writing poetry at a young age: “But her strongest bent was to poetry and writing. Poetry indeed was her favourite employment, in youth, her most distinguished excellence” (I, v). From one of her youthful poems “To one that persuades me to leave the Muses,” it becomes clear that Elizabeth also attended a boarding school. Here, young girls were supposed to gain skills considered appropriate for females. As it was widely believed that intense study was unsuitable for girls, topics such as needlework and weaving were taught rather than academic subjects (Reeves 1997: 18 – 19). Rowe’s thirst for knowledge, reinforced by the religious ideals of her father, and the dual admiration and competition with her sister, set her apart from the average pupil and she demanded more than singing and dancing lessons. When she was discouraged by the school to compose poetry, Elizabeth wrote the following lines, revealing the obstacles that a young ambitious female writer could face (Stecher 1973: 33). In this poem, she also seems to echo her father’s nonconformity by standing up for her beliefs: Forgo the charming Muses! No, in spight Of your ill-natur’d Prophecy I’ll write, And for the future paint my thoughts in large, I rob no Neighbouring Geese of Quills, nor flink For a collection to the Church for ink: […] And let the world think me inspir’d or mad, I’le surely write whilst papers to be had; Since Heaven to me has a Retreat assign’d, That would inspire a less harmonious mind. […] And that my Muse may take no counter Spell, I fairly bid the Boarding Schools farewel: […] Thy self for me, my dancing days are o’re; I’le act th’ inspired Bachannels no more. […] And since the dearest friends that be must part, Old Governess farewell with all my heart. Now welcome all ye peaceful Shades and Springs, And welcome all the inspiring tender things […]. (Rowe 1696: 6 – 9)

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Elizabeth rebels against those who discouraged her to follow her desire of writing poetry and against the traditional female education at her school. She justifies her desire for writing poetry on religious grounds, claiming heavenly guidance. Nonconformists generally believed in the divine origin of poetry. The poem was published anonymously in the Athenian Mercury, a periodical that aimed to appeal to both sexes and advocated the education of women. It was edited by John Dunton, a man with dissenting connections who published a good number of nonconformist writers. It was later included in Elizabeth’s first book Poems on Several Occasions (1696) which, also published by Dunton, contains a preface with a protofeminist agenda: But when they [men] wou’d Monopolize Sence too, when neither that, nor Learning, nor so much as Wit must be allow’d us, but all over-rul’d by the Tyranny of the Prouder Sex; […] [We] are forc’d to Protest against it, and appeal to all the World, whether there are not Violations on the Liberties of Freeborn English Women? (Rowe 1696: 2v – 3r)

The knowledge and education that Elizabeth desired, would be provided by her father’s likeminded and well-established friends. Walter Singer used his connections with the Thynne family at Longleat to acquire aristocratic patronage for his daughter which would enable her to embark on a literary career.

Her Father’s Friends At the end of the seventeenth century, many dissenting authors relied on the patronage of friends who were sympathetic to nonconformity (Keeble 1987: 144). According to Rowe’s biographers, it was Mr Singer’s religious fervour and personality that brought him the friendship of Thomas Thynne, the first Viscount Weymouth: […] he [Mr Singer] became so well known and distinguished for his good sense, […] and at the same time truly catholic spirit, as to be held in high esteem, even by persons of superior rank: My Lord Weymouth, who was reckoned a very good judge of men, not only writing to him, but honouring him with his visits; as did the devout Bishop Kenn very frequently, sometimes once a week; such a charm is there in unaffected goodness, and so naturally do kindred souls, warmed and actuated by the same heavenly passion, and pursuing the same glorious end, run and mingle together with the greatest pleasure (I, ii).⁹

 The term “catholic” does not refer to the Roman Church but is used in the original Greek sense of “universal” or “general Christian” as in the Nicene Creed.

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In order to introduce his adolescent daughter to one of the country’s most distinguished families, who had a tradition of being patrons of the arts, Walter Singer took a collection of Elizabeth’s first literary attempts and circulated them among the Thynne’s household. The family’s interest in Miss Singer was awakened and the friendship between them and Elizabeth remained until her death (Clarke 2004: 174). This connection brought a number of benefits for the young author. First of all, the friendship itself became an important theme of her writing, particularly the later letter correspondence with Frances Thynne, the Countess of Hertford, who had the same interest in literature and religion, but held more moderate views. In one of her letters, Elizabeth apologizes for her nonconformist style: “Your Ladyship will certainly think that I am transcribing some honest Dissenter’s sermon for your edification” (II, 185). These letters, however, became the basis for her bestselling epistolary works which she published after her father’s death (Prescott 2001: 36). Another benefit for the young Elizabeth was the learning of new languages: She had no other tutor for the French and Italian languages, than the honourable Mr. Thynne, son to the Lord Viscount Weymouth, who willingly took that task upon himself, and had the pleasure to see his fair scholar improve so fast under his lessons, that in a few months she was able to read Tasso’s Jerusalem with great ease (I, vii).

For the ambitious Elizabeth, the lessons with Thomas Tynne were important as she was able to discover the poetic language of foreign writers by practicing her translation skills. She was also supplied with foreign books that broadened her horizon: The Italian tragedies your Ladyship has been so obliging as to send, will be a most agreeable entertainment in some of my peaceful hours. There is something in tragedy so great, and so superior to the common way of life, that in reading tho’ I can’t fancy myself a princess, I very often wish for the regal dignity that I might speak in the sublime, and act the heroine (II, 142).

Access to an extensive library was another benefit for Elizabeth and a necessity for any young author. Later in the eighteenth century, most women writers would rely on the use of such private libraries (Staves 2007: 199 – 200). The library in Longleat had been enriched by a great number of religious works when Thomas Ken, the former Bishop of Bath and Wells, was offered asylum there after his dismissal. Ken had studied with Thomas Thynne in Oxford and had a great love for books. In his biography it is mentioned that “the only companions of his removal from Wells to Long Leat were his beloved books.” (Anderdon 1854: 624) That Longleat must have had an impressive library can be seen from the description

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of Ken’s lodging: “It is an apartment of most ample dimensions, filled with books, of which some were his own, and others belonging to Lord Weymouth, the overflowings of the great library below.” (626) Today, Longleat claims to be one of the largest private book collections in Europe. Thomas Ken did, however, not only provide religious books but he became a good friend of the Singers. Although not a nonconformist himself, he shared with the father the experience of imprisonment and with his daughter the love of religious poetry. Ken’s biographer has described his perception of Walter Singer’s daughter: […] who was in every respect worthy of her parent, and who attracted the peculiar regard of the Bishop; for there existed in her young mind a spirit of piety, and similarity of tastes, so kindred to his own, that he could not but take a pleasure in her society, notwithstanding their difference in age, and in ecclesiastical opinions. (628 – 629)

After her father, Ken became the second most important religious and literary influence on Elizabeth. Ken had authored religious poetry and meditations, composed hymns and wrote the well-known stanza “Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow.” His influence on Elizabeth’s writing has not been investigated in detail, but by comparing her early and later works, it must be assumed that it was Ken who steered her away from her amorous pastoral style to a more serious and religious kind of poetry (Stecher 1973: 68 – 72). Elizabeth also received a commission from Thomas Ken, when he suggested to her the paraphrasing of the thirty-eighth chapter of the book of Job. Her biographer points out that this “gained her a great deal of reputation” (I, vii). Ken would not remain her only supporter connected with the Thynne family. In 1703, the poet Matthew Prior, also the son of a nonconformist, spent two weeks at Longleat. He advised Elizabeth on her translations and helped her with the publication of her poetry. For the rest of her writing career, Rowe would be supported by a network of ministers and nonconformist literary figures (Prescott 2001: 33). One of Walter and Elizabeth Singer’s friends outside the Thynne’s house was Benjamin Colman. He was a preacher and minor poet from Boston who had been offered the opportunity to preach in Bath by the Presbyterian Board in London. Walter Singer encouraged him to spend more time with his daughter. From Colman’s biography we learn that “Mr. Singer called himself Argos, having an hundred Eyes upon his Daughter.” (Turell 1749: 36) Colman was impressed with Elizabeth’s piety and level of education: How she had collected such a Stock of Knowledge and Literature, by reading and Conversation, without a learned Tutor was wonderful. But her Wisdom and Discretion outshone her Knowledge. She had only her Mother Tongue, but had made all the Improvement of

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an Academical Education. She was a Poet, a Philosopher and a Divine. And above all, a most devout Worshipper of God in Secret and in Publick. (39 – 40)

Walter Singer showed him the place near his house where his daughter spent her time meditating and writing, and together with Colman’s friend Mr Rogers, he requested of him “to make a compliment” of the place whereupon Colman composed the following poem: So Paradise was brightened, so ’twas blest, When innocence and beauty it possest. Such was its more retired Path and Seat, For Eve and musing Angels a Retreat. Such Eden’s Streams, and Banks, and tow’ring Groves; Such Eve her self, and such her Muse and Loves. Only there wants an Adam on the Green, Or else all Paradise might here be seen. (36)

How much more must Walter Singer have motivated his own daughter to write poetry when she already composed seriously at the age of twelve and published at nineteen? Although Colman seemed to have been Walter Singer’s preferred choice as a future son in law, he never proposed to Elizabeth. Instead he went back to New England in 1699, where he married, and fathered Jane Colman Turell, who herself became a poetess and, being taught by her father, considered Elizabeth Singer Rowe as her role model. Elizabeth remained single and stayed with her father until the age of thirty-six.

The Recurring Theme of Death Elizabeth married in 1710. According to her biographers, her husband Thomas Rowe, whose father and grandfather were both nonconformist ministers, combined the same ideals as her own father: “a considerable stock of useful learning, joined the talents of preaching” (I, viii). Thomas Rowe is described as a man with a thirst for knowledge and a pleasure in books: “His library, in collecting which he was assisted by his great knowledge of the best editions of books, consisted of a great number of the most valuable authors; and as he was making continual additions to it, amounted at his death to above five thousand volumes” (I, xi). Thomas Rowe, a poet, a classics scholar and a master of the Greek, Latin, and French languages further enhanced Elizabeth’s education. However, he died from tuberculosis only five years after their marriage and in her grief, Elizabeth published the poem “On the death of Mr. Thomas Rowe,”

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in which she appears to quote her husband’s last poetry, on the subject of death and divine Providence: My dearest wife! My last, my fondest care! Sure Heav’n for thee will hear a dying pray’r: Be thou the charge of sacred Providence, When I am gone, be that thy kind defence; Ten thousand smiling blessings crown thy head, When I am cold, and number’d with the dead (I, 114).

The poem won her great respect and in 1720, Alexander Pope added it to the second edition of his successful Eloisa to Abelard. After her husband’s death, Elizabeth moved back to her father in Frome. Only four years later, Walter Singer also fell seriously ill and, since at the time it was a woman’s responsibility to tend to the dying, she looked after him until his final hours (Walmsley 2011: 324). Her father’s deathbed experience is described in her biography: My father often felt his pulse, and complained that it was still regular, and smil’d at every symptom of approaching death: He would be often crying out “Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly; Come, ye holy angels, that rejoice at the conversion of a sinner, come and conduct my soul to the skies, ye propitious spirits.” […] The sight was so affecting, that a person listed among the free-thinkers of the age, as they are pleas’d to compliment themselves, being present, was exceedingly struck with it, and ready to say, Almost thou perswadest me to be a Christian; as every one who rightly considers such examples, and how naturally they arise out of the principles of the gospel, firmly believed, and steadily practised upon, must be intirely persuaded by them (I, iii-iv).

Her father’s proclaimed confidence in the afterlife not only influenced his daughter in her youth but was also an important source for her bestselling work Friendship in Death, which would perpetuate her father’s mission to preach the afterlife. The direct link between her father’s evangelistic views and Elizabeth’s major fictional work can be seen, for example, in the very deathbed scene of her work (Stecher 1973: 27). The freethinker, referred to by Elizabeth in the passage above, who was present at her father’s deathbed and who did not believe in a future life, appears also in Friendship in Death in the character of Earl of R. who is present at his devout brother’s death, “which was all a demonstration of the immortality of the soul.” (Rowe 1755: 2) His friend Clerimont describes the deathbed scene: With what ready composure did he endure the violence of his distemper! with what conviction and full assurance expect the reward of his piety ! […] Never was the last, the closing part of life, performed with more decency and grandeur. His reason was clear and elevated; and his words were the very language of immortality. (2– 3)

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After this sight, Earl of R. is prompted to confess “that men who flattered themselves with those gay visions, had much the advantage of those that saw nothing before them but a gloomy uncertainty, or the dreadful hope of an annihilation.” (3) Inspired by the religiosity of her father, Elizabeth’s work asks readers to reconsider the importance of the immortality of their souls in an entertaining way. As Edward Young, author of this work’s preface, states: The drift of these letters is, to impress the notion of the soul’s immortality […]; But since no means should be left unattempted in a point of such importance, I hope endeavouring to make the mind familiar with the thoughts of our future existence, and contract, as it were unawares, an habitual persuasion of it, by writings built on that foundation, and addressed to the affections and imagination, will not be thought improper, either as a doctrine, or amusement. (v – vi)

Rowe’s text also links the theme of death with the importance of a girl’s education, when a dying lady called Amanda writes to her sister to look after her daughter: “This is the Motive of my writing to you that you would take the charge of her education, and protect her infant innocence.” (13) Friendship in Death became a bestseller and was issued thirty-three times between its first publication in 1728 and 1814 (Staves 2006: 168). From the year 1733, this work was also bound with Rowe’s Letters Moral and Entertaining and editions of the combined letters were printed almost every year until 1818 (Bigold 2013: 245). Here again, one of the themes is dealing with death, which is played out in deathbed scenes, dying siblings, and the use of devotional books to prepare for death.¹⁰ However, there is another feature that made these letters very popular: the idealized description of the rural existence. In the following letter, a woman called Sylvia writes about her pious father: I spent the last winter in the country with my father, whose pious instructions, confirmed by his own practice, directed me to a refined and immortal happiness: nor could any invitations from the Countesse de R—-, nor all my brother’s importunity, prevail with me to quit a retirement where I found so much peace, and unmolested tranquillity. […] This sacred ardour, like incense, mingled with the morning fragrance, and cheared in the evening-shades; the whispering brooks and sylvan retreats witnessed to the heavenly flame; where, in language like this, I often addressed the invisible, but present Divinity. (Rowe 1755: 148)

 See, for example, “To Philario, from the Duke of—. Written on his death-bed” (Rowe 1755: 78); “To Lady Mary, from her sister just before her death” (19) and the “Account of the death of Amanda”, where an ignorant father dies a pagan death: “Instead of prayers and pious meditations, one of his libertine companions read Dryden’s translation of Lucretius to him, in his last hours; while fearless and insensible he met death, and all its succeeding horrors” (157).

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As Backscheider points out, many of the scenes in Rowe’s fictions and private letters are of a pastoral nature (Backschneider 2013: 188). In a letter to the Countess of Hertford, for example, Rowe again combines the description of a rural area with the piety of the people who live in a parsonage: You are not more delighted with a country farm, than I am with an old parsonage house, in a little village, where I was lately a few hours; so situated to my content, that I seem’d to want nothing but your reflections and society, to form complete happiness. A large garden and orchard, half modern and half antiquated, long codling hedges, old fashion’d bowers, elms and apple trees, green squares and maple bushes, all in the most gay and agreeable confusion imaginable: These scenes infinitely charm’d me; and, with the unaffected piety and politeness of the family, gave me an exceeding favourable opinion of their principles, and sort of suspicion of my own (II, 204).

Elizabeth remained in her hometown for the rest of her life and before her own death, she requested to be buried in her church “near the pulpit under the same stone with her father.” (The Congregational Magazine 1830: 397)

Her Legacy Elizabeth Singer Rowe’s seemingly exemplary life and works went beyond her writing, and extended to the education of young people; first of all, in a very practical sense. Having received an extensive education herself and the opportunity to achieve literary success, Elizabeth believed it was her duty to help others to benefit from the privileges she experienced. In Thomas Ken’s biography it is mentioned that, like the bishop himself, she loved to further the education of children by providing them with books (Anderdon 1854: 630). In her own biography this is expressed in more detail: […] when she met in the streets with children of promising countenances, who were perfectly unknown to her, if upon inquiry, it appeared, that thro’ the poverty of their parents they were not put to school, she added them to the number of those who were taught at her own expense (I, liii).

From the time of her death until the second half of the nineteenth century, Elizabeth’s texts and life story were used as a role model and included in books for young people, in England as well as in America. In religious publications, they would be used as guidance to live virtuously, and to consider the afterlife. In this way, her works had a similar function as the aforementioned Token for Children by James Janeway. In The Children’s Magazine and Missionary Repository (1848), for example, a list of “Serious questions” for children is added to the story of

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Elizabeth and her sister: “There is a glorious heaven. Are you in the way to it?” and “You must soon die. Are you prepared for the solemn change?” (Winks 1848: 286) Elizabeth’s texts were also included or recommended in books for young ladies because they were seen as ideal and proper instructions for youth. A biographical sketch of her appeared, for example, in James G. Gregory’s Women of Worth: A Book for Girls (1863) and in William Henry Davenport Adams’ Child-life and Girlhood of remarkable Women (1883). Clara Reeve recommended Elizabeth’s works for young ladies in The Progress of Romance (1785) and she was included in the list of books suggested for young ladies in A Mother’s Advice to her Absent Daughter (1817) by Lady Sarah Pennington. Elizabeth’s letters were also used as literary role models, for example, in Elizabeth Frank’s Classical English Letter-writer; Epistolary Selections; Designed to improve young Persons in the Art of Letter-Writing and in the Principles of Virtue and Piety (1814) which, according to its preface, was […] designed for the instruction and amusement of young persons. By presenting to their view, some of the best models, both with respect to language and sentiment, which English literature affords, it will render them considerable assistance in acquiring the epistolary art. […] without endangering their moral. (Frank 1816: iii)

During her lifetime, Elizabeth Singer Rowe influenced the careers of many English women writers, like her friend Mary Chandler, who was also a poet (A Description of Bath, 1733) and daughter of a nonconformist minister. Penelope Aubin dedicated The Life of Charlotta Du Pont, An English Lady (1723) “To My much honoured Friend Mrs. Rowe” and praised her as “the best Friend, the most prudent, most humble, and most accomplish’d Woman I ever met withal.” (Aubin 1723: iii) Elizabeth Singer Rowe’s works also influenced women of the Blue Stockings Society. Elizabeth Carter, for example, the daughter of a clergyman, adopted her as her moral and literary role model and in the elegy “On the Death of Mrs. Rowe,” she reveals her ambition to emulate her success as a writer.¹¹ Fix’d on my soul shall thy example grow, And be my genius and my guide below; To this I’ll point my first, my noblest views, Thy spotless verse shall regulate my muse. And oh! Forgive, tho’ faint the transcript be, That copies an original like thee:

 See in more detail (Clarke 2000).

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My justest pride, my best attempt for fame, That joins my own to PHILOMELA’S Name. (Carter 1777: 12)

Elizabeth’s influence extended beyond the English-speaking world. In Germany she was celebrated in the moral weeklies and considered a genius. Her Friendship in Death was translated by the very influential Johann Mattheson and imitated by Meta Klopstock (Briefe von Verstorbenen an Lebendige, 1757). Christoph Martin Wieland, who himself was brought up in a parsonage, saw in Elizabeth a role model for the progressive and educated woman, and he confessed: “The first book I attempted to write was an imitation of Mrs. Rowe’s Letters from the Dead to the Living.” (Robinson 1869: 216) His Briefe von Verstorbenen an Hinterlassene Freunde was published in 1753. Wieland became the champion for women’s writing in Germany and published his cousin Sophie La Roche’s epistolary novel Die Geschichte des Fräuleins von Sternheim (1771) which has been widely regarded as a watershed for female German authors. Recent literary research on Elizabeth Singer Rowe has suggested that her prose texts had a significant impact on the development of the English novel. Backscheider, in particular, has shown how her works fill the gap between the fiction of the earlier eighteenth century and, for example, the works of Samuel Richardson (Backschneider 2013). Her epistolary form started to create the illusion of natural feelings, introduced psychologized novelistic protagonists and depicted women as virtuous and discreet characters in harmonious friendships with each other. This instigated a literary trend followed by numerous writers of novels. At the end of the seventeenth century, academic education for young females was provided not by schools but by supportive parents or patrons. This was particularly true for nonconformist circles, where religion could be used as a catalyst for young women to express their intellectual potential. Elizabeth Singer Rowe is a good example of a nonconformist minister’s daughter who benefitted from her father’s religious fervor, commitment to education, and his relationships with liked-minded friends. This provided her with the foundation and motivation to rise above the fashionable education available to women at that time. The religious nature of her writing, with the themes of friendship, death, and the afterlife, was influenced by her father’s nonconformist convictions, and enabled her to sidestep the literary limitations for women, and establish herself as a bestselling writer. In this way, she became a role model for female virtue, women writers, and the epistolary novel.

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Works Cited Achinstein, Sharon. 2003. Literature and Dissent in Milton’s England, Cambridge: CUP. Anderdon, John Lavicourt. 1854. The Life of Thomas Ken, Bishop of Bath and Wells, London: John Murray. Aubin, Penelope. 1723. The Life of Charlotta Du Pont, An English Lady; Taken from her own Memoirs, London: A. Bettesworth. Backscheider, Paula R.. 2011. ‘Elizabeth Singer Rowe: Lifestyle as Legacy’, New Contexts for Eighteenth-Century British Fiction: “Hearts Resolved and Hands Prepared”: Essays in Honor of Jerry C. Beasley, ed. by Christopher D. Johnson, Newark: University of Delaware Press, 41 – 65. Backscheider, Paula R. 2013. Elizabeth Singer Rowe and the Development of the English Novel, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Bigold, Melanie. 2013. Women of Letters, Manuscript Circulation, and Print Afterlives in the Eighteenth Century: Elizabeth Rowe, Catharine Cockburn, and Elizabeth Carter, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Carter, Elizabeth. 1777. Poems on Several Occasions, 4th ed., Dublin: William Watson. Charnock, Stephen. 1864. The Complete Works of Stephen Charnock, 4 vols (Edinburgh: James Nichol. Charnock, Stephen. 1865. A Discourse of Divine Providence. London: John Harris. Clarke, Norma. 2000. ‘Soft Passions and Darling Themes: from Elizabeth Singer Rowe (1674 – 1737) to Elizabeth Carter (1717 – 1806)’, Women’s Writing, 7(3), 353 – 71. Clarke, Norma. 2004. The Rise and Fall of the Woman of Letters, London: Pimlico. Crawford, Patricia. 1992. ‘The Challenges to Patriarchalism: How did the Revolution affect women?’, Revolution and Restoration, ed. by John Morrill, London: Collins and Brown, 112 – 128. The Congregational Magazine. 1830. New Series, 7, 393 – 400. Frank, Elizabeth. 1816. Classical English Letter-Writer: or, Epistolary Selections; Designed to improve young Persons in the Art of Letter-Writing and in the Principles of Virtue and Piety, Philadelphia: Caleb Richardson. Janeway, James. 1977. A Token for Children, ed. by Robert Miner, New York: Garland. Keeble, N. H. 1987. The Literary Culture of Nonconformity in Later Seventeenth-Century England, Leicester: Leicester University Press. Prescott, Prescott. 2001. ‘Provincial Networks, Dissenting Connections, and Noble Friends: Elizabeth Singer Rowe and Female Authorship in Early Eighteenth-Century England’, Eighteenth-Century Life, 25(1), 29 – 42. Reeves, Marjorie. 1997. Pursuing the Muses: Female Education and Nonconformist Culture 1700 – 1900, London and Washington: Leicester University Press. Reynolds, Myra. 1920. The Learned Lady in England 1650 – 1760, Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Company. Robinson, Henry Crabb. 1869. Diary, Reminiscences, and Correspondence, ed. by Thomas Sadler, London: Macmillan and Co. Rowe, Elizabeth Singer. 1696. Poems on Several Occasions. Written by Philomela, London: Raven. Rowe, Elizabeth Singer. 1738. Devout Exercises of the Heart in Meditation and Soliloquy, Prayer and Praise, 2nd ed., London: R. Hett.

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Rowe, Elizabeth Singer. 1755. Friendship in Death in Twenty Letters from the Dead to the Living. To which are added, Letters Moral and Entertaining, Edinburgh: William Gray. Rowe, Elizabeth Singer. 1759. The Miscellaneous Works, in Prose and Verse, ed. Theophilus Rowe, 4th ed., 2 vol., London: Henry Lintot. Rowe, Elizabeth Singer. 1767. Poems on Several Occasions. To which is prefixed an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author, London: Midwinter, 1767. Staves, Susan. 2003. ‘Church of England Clergy and Women Writers’, Reconsidering the Bluestockings, ed. by Nicole Pohl and Betty A. Schellenberg, San Marino: Huntington Library Press, 81 – 103. Staves, Susan. 2006. A Literary History of Women’s Writing in Britain, 1660 – 1789, Cambridge: CUP. Staves, Susan. 2007. ‘“Books without which I cannot write”: How did Eighteenth-Century Women Writers get the Books they read?’, Women and Material Culture, 1660 – 1830, ed. by Jennie Batchelor and Cora Kaplan, London: Palgrave Macmillan, 192 – 211 Stewart, Dustin D. 2013. ‘Elizabeth Rowe, John Milton and Poetic Change’, Women’s Writing, 20(1), 13 – 31. Stecher, Henry F. 1973. Elizabeth Singer Rowe, the Poetess of Frome: A Study in Eighteenth-Century English Pietism, Frankfurt/M: Lang. Turell, Ebenezer. 1749. The Life and Character of the Reverend Benjamin Colman, Boston: Rogers and Fowle. Walmsley, Peter. 2011. ‘Whigs in Heaven: Elizabeth Rowe’s ‘Friendship in Death’, Eighteenth-Century Studies, 44 (3), 315 – 30. Winks, Joseph Foulkes. 1848. The Children’s Magazine and Missionary Repository. London: Simpkin, Marshall and Co. Whiting, John. 1791. Persecution Exposed: In Some Memoirs Relating to the Sufferings of John Whiting, and Many others of the People called Quakers, 2nd ed., London: James Phillips.

Pia K. Jakobsson

Public Ambition as Moral Obligation: The Intellectual Career of Elizabeth Carter (1717 – 1806) To do Good is to endeavor after the Comfort and Pleasure of others. It is to embrace all reasonable Opportunities of making them wiser, and better, and happier; to lend them all fitting Assistance to procure and improve every equitable Advantage of Body, Mind, and Condition .… It is to extricate the Perplexed, raise the Depressed, comfort the Afflicted, ease the Tormented, relieve the Necessitous, forgive the Penitent, congratulate the Prosperous, and be pleased with every fair Occasion, either of mitigating the Sufferings, or increasing the Delights of our Fellow Creatures (N. Carter 1738: 54).

Feminist scholars have done important work exploring the role and impact of the Bluestocking Circle in the past few decades (Kelly 1999, Harcstark Myers 1990, Eger 2010, eds. Pohl and Schellenberg 2003). In that scholarship, Elizabeth Carter (1717– 1806) is given a prominent role and her translation of the Greek philosopher Epictetus makes her a suitable symbol of the intellectual ambitions of the circle. Even so, she is regularly described as something of an odd and even marginal character, at the same time part of and separate/d from her environment. Judith Hawley speaks at length about “the difficulties in the representation of Carter and presentation of her works,” whereas Harriet Guest asserts that “Carter’s position at the margins of fashionable society allows her to function as both its ornament and its conscience.” (eds. Hawley, Kelly and Eger 1999: xii, Guest 2000: 133) In some ways Carter’s life and works affirm the emerging modernity of the Enlightenment, but her upbringing as the daughter of a priest, her profound religiosity, and the trajectory of her later life make her a more traditional character. Carter was unusual in some ways, even for a Bluestocking. She was intimidatingly learned (she certainly read in more languages than any woman and most men around her), she never married, and she had a professional writing career while remaining reassuringly domestic. As Samuel Johnson put it, “My old friend, Mrs. Carter … could make a pudding, as well as translate Epictetus from the Greek, and work a handkerchief as well as compose a poem.” (Boswell 1799: 142) Our understanding of Carter has been further confused by her nephew, Montagu Pennington. He thankfully made sure to publish a biography of Carter’s life and substantial portions of her letters and some other writings, but he edited the letters heavily, with the express purpose of demonstrating her virtues and in the hopes that “the contemplation of so much piety, virtue, and learning may be attended https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110590364-004

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with better effects than the gratification of mere curiosity; that her precepts and example may serve to rouse the indolent, while they confirm and strengthen the good.” (Pennington 1807: preface) He then points out that “the deep scholar and pious moralist” also “loved dancings; was somewhat, when very young, of a romp, and subscribed to assemblies; nay, once at least, she took a part in a play,” adding further complexity to an already confounding account (Pennington 1807: 12). To the modern reader, it is difficult to reconcile the “modern” female scholar and public intellectual with the traditional, unmarried daughter of a priest whose obedient virtue colored every aspect of her life. To Guest this tension demonstrates “the difficulty of reconciling polite femininity with publicly acclaimed scholarship” (Guest 2000: 133). Carter easily becomes a bit of a conundrum, particularly if her piety is taken to imply subservience. As Mendelson and Crawford argue, men not only “monopolized the institutional expression of religion,” but “the trappings of Protestant Symbolism also reinforced a general sense of male spiritual hegemony” (Mendelson and Crawford 2000: 31– 32). Thus religion, deeply felt, would seem to inhibit any public role and stand in conflict with our notions of the Bluestockings as representatives of newly emerging forms of public female intellectuals. From her writings, no such conflict appears to have bothered Carter herself; to her, life and work, pudding and translation, sociability and solitude seem to have formed a harmonious whole, part and parcel of the same moral obligations that directed everything in her life. She had taken to heart other strains of Protestant thought on what it means to be a Christian, inculcated in her by her father, the Reverend Nicholas Carter, Perpetual Curate of Deal Chapel, and one of the six preachers at Canterbury Cathedral. In an untitled poem published in 1762 and dedicated to her father, Carter articulates the importance of her father’s role in shaping her life (this is not long after Carter had bought a house for herself and her father in Deal, with money earned by her publications). The epigraph is from Horace, “causa fuit Pater his [the reason for these things being my father],” an apt choice considering that Horace’s text describes how his father, despite his low social standing, gave him an education equal to that of the sons of senators, guarded both his virtue and his chastity, and made him content with his lot in life (Horace 1926: 82– 83). Carter speaks directly to her father, “thou by whose fondness and paternal care, Distinguish’d blessings glad my cheerful days,” and argues that after Heaven, he is the most important influence on her life. She tells us that he “formed her mind” to science, and “gently let it thro’ the thorny Road” from “idle toys to real Good (Carter 1762: 63).” Better than ambition, wealth, fame,

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or even health is the studious search for wisdom and “the treasured Stores of each enlighten’d Age” that he directed her toward (Carter 1762: 63). The next two verses very specifically speak to the relationship between faith and reason, and the need to lead by example and explanation, rather than by command. N’er did thy Voice assume a Master’s Pow’r, Nor force Assent to what thy Precepts taught; But bid my independent Spirit soar, In all the Freedom of unfetter’d Thought. Nor e’er by blind Constraint and servile Awe, Compell’d to act a cold external Part: But fixt my Duties by that sacred Law, That rules the secret Movements of the Heart (Carter 1762:63)

Faith cannot be blind obedience; it must be a conscious personal choice, based on reason. Wisdom comes not just from repeating received knowledge, but from deep personal conviction and understanding. Carter then makes clear that the principles and attitudes she learned are not in the past, not just about how she was raised, but how she interacts with the world: “Still be that sacred law my faithful guide / Conduct my actions, and my soul engage.” The sacred law is still a guide for her decision-making, but never a rule to be blindly followed. Training her to think for herself, with the understanding that it is a responsibility to use her capacity for reason, will pay off, as “ev’ry generous care, thy youth apply’d / Shall form the comfort of old age.” As her father once took care of her, Carter is now able to take care of him. Guest agrees that Carter’s “attitude to her scholarship is of a piece with her religion and upbringing” but then goes on to say that those “endow her with a moral direction which recognizes liberty and independence as the reward of industry.” (Guest 2000:126) I argue that to Carter, liberty and independence are not only rewards, but always also obligations. The world and its wonders are there for us to see, and so we must pay attention, whatever we decide to make of it. “For what end has the lavish hand of Providence diffused such innumerable objects of delight but that all might rejoice in the privilege of existence, and be filled with gratitude to the beneficent author of it?” (Johnson 1752:81) In her opinion, God gave us free will to choose, and if we are not free we cannot choose and so cannot be saved, but the reason with which we were endowed makes it our duty to use it to make the best possible choices. No one else can reason on our behalf. From those of Dr. Carter’s letters that have been published (most are in a private collection) and from his sermons, it is possible to piece together a sense of how Dr. Carter’s education of and interactions with his daughter are a direct con-

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sequence of his understanding of faith and the moral obligations it entailed. We can see how Elizabeth Carter, in turn, took on those obligations and made them the touchstone for her life and works. She may serve as an example of Enlightenment sociability and learned women acting in the public sphere, but her intellectual and public life was a consequence of her father’s interpretation of Christian ethics. (e. g. Eger 2000) There is limited biographical information about Nicholas Carter, but Pennington begins his biography of Elizabeth Carter with some details about Nicholas Carter, who was the son of a “very considerable farmer” and who was “originally designed for his father’s business, and did not begin to study the learned languages till he was nineteen years of age; and very uncommon was the progress he made in them, since he became a very deep and critical scholar in the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew languages; and also acquired a very considerable degree of knowledge of the sciences.” (Pennington 1807: 4) What prompted his change of heart we do not know, and how supportive Dr. Carter’s family was of his professional goals is likewise unknown, so we can only speculate about whether he felt obliged to give his children the same opportunity he was given to determine his own path or wanted to relieve them of an onerous duty to fulfill family obligations that he himself had only narrowly escaped. When it comes to Elizabeth, Pennington states that from a very early age, it was Elizabeth’s “most eager desire to be a scholar” but insists that “she gained the rudiments of knowledge with great labour and difficulty; and her perseverance was put to a most severe trial. The slowness with which she conquered the impediments, that always oppose the beginning of the study of the dead languages, was such that it wearied even the patience of her father. He repeatedly encouraged her to give up all thoughts of becoming a scholar.” (Pennington 1807: 6) The accuracy and purpose of this claim is unclear, and the evidence from later years suggests rather the opposite. Maybe her purported slowness was a way for Pennington to focus on her perseverance and commitment, qualities that any reader could potentially emulate, over innate talent that would be difficult to mimic and that might indicate an unsuitably masculine turn of mind. Carter’s studies were extensive. Pennington tells us that she learned Greek, Latin, and Hebrew. Her father sent her for a year to board in the house of Mr. Le Sueur, a French refugee minister at Canterbury, where she learnt French as well as needle-work and music. She also studied Italian, Spanish, and German, the latter as part of a scheme planned by her father to find her a position at court. Later in life she learned Portuguese and taught herself Arabic. Moreover, Carter “bestowed a great deal of attention upon astronomy; which she thought a noble science” and also studied geography and mathematics. She “gained a knowledge of history, both ancient and modern, such as is very rarely acquired,”

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but apparently did somewhat less well with drawing and painting, “which she learnt and practiced for some time, but without much success” (Pennington 1807: 10 – 17). Dr. Carter “gave all his children, daughters as well as sons, a learned education.” As far as can be ascertained, he had five children with his first wife Margaret; Elizabeth (b. 1717), John (b. 1723), and Margaret (mother of Montagu, b. 1725), as well as Nicolas and James, birthdate unknown, but who both died abroad at a young age while serving as Lieutenants in the Royal Navy. With his second wife, Mary Bean, Dr. Carter had at least two children, Mary and Henry. We are not told details of their individual studies, but Pennington specifies that his mother Margaret (Elizabeth’s younger sister) was “a very good Latin and French, and a tolerable Greek and Italian scholar, with some knowledge also of Hebrew.” (Pennington 1807: 5) Elizabeth Carter would later explain that: If I have any natural gift, it is right that it should be attributed to God All-mighty … . If, on the contrary, I seem to have improved this gift in any way, the credit for it is due to the care and attention of my most loving father, who … led me by examples and encouragement to the study of the humanities, and supported me until such time as I should be able to swim by myself without assistance. (Hampshire 2005: 50)

Dr. Carter was unusually close with his oldest daughter, but raised her to be highly independent. He gave her an education worthy of a scholar and treated her generally as an intellectual equal. His consistent respect and support for his daughter are well documented in his letters, but he does not discuss his parenting goals there. Scholars speculate that he perhaps “was wise enough to perceive the quality of his eldest daughter’s mind and personality from an early age” (Hampshire 2005: 17) or suggest that his approach was due to “the special views and hopes of her father,” but do not explore what exactly those views were and how they were special (Myers 1990: 46). From his Sermons, (he published seventeen of them on one volume and at least six others separately) it is clear that Dr. Carter saw reason as an intrinsic part of any meaningful faith. To him, “the Laws of Reason … are the Laws of God,” so understanding one would enable understanding of the other. As a guide for our reason, we have the Bible, which he described as “that settled Rule, which the Spirit of God has published for the secure Direction of all Believers and which is the only one by which they can safely compare their Behaviour.” (Carter 1738: 162) Understanding is a necessary, but not sufficient condition of faith, since faith is not something to be passively believed, but something to be actively performed. Dr. Carter argued that “every kind and degree of faith, which proves neither an help, nor incitement to good works, is, in religious estimation, unprofitable. Virtue has intrinsic excellencies, which faith is destitute of, and which give

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it a vast pre-eminence.” (Carter 1752: 7) It is, Dr. Carter stated, a “necessary practice on our Part, both in Scripture and Reason, as the Condition of our being admitted into Communion with God and to a Participation of his Love is, that we copy after his moral Perfections, in a uniform Observation of Righteousness, Purity and Holiness.” (10) As a Christian, a priest, and a father, Dr. Carter saw it as his moral obligation to encourage the development of reason that would lead to understanding of the Laws of God, which would incite in his children (and his parishioners) good works and virtue. And they had to do it themselves; he could not make them. “Nor was it ever yet heard of, that Faith came by Beating. To Dragoon others into believing, can be thought a proper Method by those only, who care not what becomes of Men’s Souls, if they can but get the Dominion of their Bodies.” (9) Thus, it makes sense that Dr. Carter would want to give his children the best education possible as the means to attaining reason and thereby the tools to imitate the moral perfection of God, but he did not stop there. Carter wrote to his daughter regularly, now and then in Latin, and he apparently chose to advertise Elizabeth’s talents enough to get her noticed “by some of the most respectable families in Kent” (Pennington 1807: 8). In a letter to his daughter, Dr. Carter explains that he has shown one of her letters to his patron Sir George Oxenden who “commended it extremely [and] could hardly believe that one of your age could spell so exactly and choose such proper expressions.” (Hampshire 2005: 17) In the next few years, Carter’s life and work became increasingly public. In 1734 some of her verses, signed “Eliza,” started appearing in the Gentleman’s Magazine whose publisher, Edward Cave, was well known to Dr. Carter (Cave had published some of his sermons). In 1737, Elizabeth’s An Elegy to Mrs Rowe was published in Cave’s magazine. “The publication of these poems, and her character now beginning to be known, produced her many compliments in the same Magazine,” including from Samuel Johnson, who became a lifelong friend (Pennington 1807: 25). It is likely that Dr. Carter made the arrangements for these first pieces to be sent to Cave and while Dr. Carter does not directly discuss why he accepted, indeed encouraged, his daughter’s writing, he had a clear set of priorities for his own writing that likely informed his view. If “the Matter of a Discourse be good, it is capable of doing some Service; and when every Degree of Service is Necessary, all Imperfections in the Manner of it are excusable.” (Carter 1716: 3) He raised his daughter to be able to make thoughtful contributions and to be capable of doing some service, despite any imperfections. He was also mindful about the details of his daughter’s public character. When some other person signed as Eliza, Dr. Carter directed his daughter how to make sure her reputation was not confused with the work of a stranger, telling Carter that:

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It is generally believed by all who know Eliza, that that riddle was wrote by you, because signed Eliza. An advertisement in the Magazine asserting only a matter of fact (that the Eliza in the Magazine is not the Eliza in that Almanack) I think would not savour of ostentation, but be very right and prudent. (Pennington 1807: 25)

He had no issue with her appearing in print, and actively built her reputation, but he wanted to make sure that no inferior writing would color people’s perception of his daughter’s wit and wisdom. At some point, Carter appears to have taken up residence in London, possibly with an uncle who was a silk merchant. Hampshire states that this move took place in March of 1738, while Pennington is a bit more vague, telling us that “from the age of 18 or 19 years, Mrs. Carter generally passed a great part of the winter in London, where her acquaintance was much courted, and estimated as it deserved,” whereas the summers were “chiefly spent with her father at Deal, or with her friends at Canterbury.” (Hampshire 2005: 8) Dr. Carter told the Dean of Canterbury in 1738 that his daughter was in London for her education (Myers 1990: 47) (incidentally indicating a temporary arrangement), whereas Pennington emphasized the networking opportunities, noting that “Mr. Cave was much connected with the literary world, and his friendship for Mrs. Carter was the means of introducing her to many authors and scholars of note.” (Pennington 1807: 26) If this was indeed intended as a temporary arrangement or was meant to become permanent, and whether there were hopes of finding a husband for Carter or the time in London was strictly a career move is not known, only that much of her time while she was there appears to have been taken up with her work for and with Cave and that her reputation was spreading. Her father not only accepted her unusual finishing school, but made the arrangements for it, and it paid off. In 1738, Cave published a collection of Elizabeth’s writing, Poems upon Particular Occasions. The same year saw a poem on the planetary system addressed to Mr. Wright, the astronomer, and in November, 1739 her Ode to Melancholy was published. The latter was not signed, but was “soon traced … to its source, and, more than any of her former productions, contributed to spread the reputation of her name. So widely, indeed, was her celebrity diffused, that it reached many parts of the Continent, and occasioned the celebrated Barratier, then nearly of her own age, to solicit a correspondence with her.” (Drake 1810) In 1739, she translated from French an attack on Pope’s Essay on Man by J. P. de Crousaz; and in the same year appeared her translation from the Italian of Algarotti’s Newtonianismo per le Dame, under the title of Sir Isaac Newton’s Philosophy explained for the use of the Ladies, in six Dialogues on Light and Colour. Translations hold an odd position, since the translator is usually not understood

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to be articulating original ideas, but instead making someone else’s thoughts available in a new language. Carter’s friend, Hester Chapone, complained that a translation is “much less than your genius is capable of acquiring in other ways … you ought to be an original writer,” but as Guest points out, Chapone may have “simply failed to grasp the implications of Carter’s translation of a work central to the most exclusively masculinist and Shaftesburian forms of civic humanism.” (Guest 2000: 129) Any translation is dependent on a particular reading of the text, an interpretation. The level of command of a language required to render scientific ideas in a new form indicate a profound depth of knowledge, sophistication, and professionalism. Additionally, both the translation of Crouzac and that of Algarotti contained notes and comments that engaged in a dialogue with the texts, inserting Carter as a voice of authority debating the authors and explicating the text to the reader. The two translations, “however little they may now be supposed to add to Mrs. Carter’s fame, had a considerable influence upon it then.” (Pennington 1807: 34) Johnson “gave it his entire approbation; and Dr. Birch, another writer in Cave’s circle, addressed a Latin epistle to her, in commendation of the propriety and elegance of the style which she had adopted.” (Drake 1810: 77) Carter was established as a phenomenon. Birch’s Latin epistle is thought to have led to something of a change in Carter’s circumstances. Pelz suggests that Birch’s “hyperbole contrasting Carter with famous female achievers from ancient and modern times was evidently a public embarrassment.” (Pelz 2008: 70) Ruhe goes further and suggests that Dr. Birch harbored a more personal interest, indeed that they spent considerable time together and that Birch actually proposed marriage to Carter, which she turned down. Whatever the immediate cause, Birch’s diary entry for June 2 of 1739 notes that “Elisa Carter rus redibat” [Elisa Carter left for the country]. These lines have been broadly accepted as evidence that Carter abruptly left London and from then spent most of her life in retirement with her father (Birch’s diary entry is related in Hampshire (2005: 24) and Myers (1990: 57) follows the traditional narrative closely). Even those scholars who note inconsistencies in this version of events, feel the need to mention Carter’s “abrupt departure from London.” Hawley notes that “it is commonly supposed that Carter spent the next decade in Deal in retreat from marriage and from writing,” even as she acknowledges that Carter’s letters evidence “frequent and flirtatious attendance at balls and parties” and that Carter was still writing poetry (Hawley 2008). Looking at Carter’s letters tells us that she did go back to her father’s house in the summer of 1739, since there is a letter from Deal, dated in June. Further evidence of Carter’s return to Deal and to some sort of quasi-monastic seclusion, has been proffered in a letter from her father, in which Dr. Carter appears to have very specific ideas about what she should do. He tells her that “If you in-

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tend never to marry, as I think you plainly intimate in one of your letters, then you certainly ought to live retired, and not appear in the world with an expense which is reasonable upon the prospect of getting a husband, but not otherwise.” (Pennington 1807: 22) This has been understood to mean that he thought it was time for Carter to return to Deal and live in a manner more suitable for an unmarried woman. Carter did set up house in Deal, but she did not retire there for good. In November of 1740 she was back in London, and all evidence suggests that she resumed the regular long stays there that she would keep up for most of her life. Using the winter of 1744– 45 as an example, Pennington claims that “the greatest part of Mrs. Carter’s time seems to have been spent either in London, or with her friends at Canterbury.” (77) As with so many aspects of her life, Carter was at the same time part of and separate/d from her environment, both in Deal and in London. Since she never married, yet clearly did not withdraw from the world, did her choices put her at odds with her father? According to Pennington, Dr. Carter firmly believed it was in his daughter’s best interest to get married since “though he was able and willing to maintain her [Elizabeth Carter] while he lived, should he die and leave her unprovided for, her situation would have been very painful and distressing.” (19) At the same time, Dr. Carter consistently and unhesitatingly left it up to her judgment. […] I will lay no commands upon you, because it is more immediately your own affair, and for life: but you ought certainly to consider with a great attention, before you reject an offer, far more advantageous in appearance that any other you can ever expect. You may always depend upon my indulgence; but do not let my indulgence mislead you. If you cannot bring your mind to a compliance, I and all your friends will be sorry for your missing so good a prospect: but I will give you no uneasiness. Consult calmly what you think will be for your own good; and may God direct you to come to that final resolution which will prove best for you. (21)

As with faith, he leaves it up to her reason and free will to make a decision, and his confidence in her judgment is reinforced by his belief in Providence. “I end, as I began, in leaving you to your own inclinations, and in assuring you of my indulgence and affection in whatever part you take. I recommend you in this, and in all concerns of life, to the kind direction of Providence.” (21) There is nothing that suggests that Dr. Carter had concerns about his daughter’s judgment or reputation, and he had the utmost respect for her ability to handle herself. So what kind of retirement did he have in mind? His desire to see her married in the first place appears to have been grounded in the financial security it would hopefully entail, and in the letter where he suggests she consider her circumstances, he specifically mentions the expense of appearing in

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the world. Norma Clarke points to Reverend Carter’s concern with his daughter’s standing in the world since single life “is often errant, and seldom meets with much respect” (2000: 37). If that is what he meant, limiting her expenses rather than her social interactions, it fits better with what we know of Carter’s life. She still spent time in London and Canterbury, but she did not at this point, or for some years ahead, have her own establishment either in London or Deal. She stayed with her father when she was in Deal and with friends when in London (Pennington 1807: 90). The focus of this period in Elizabeth’s life appears to have been her friends, with her either spending time or exchanging letters with a growing circle of people, including Catherine Talbot, the friendship that so profoundly affected her, and brought her “more into the world than ever, although she had never lived a life of seclusion even in the country.” (69) They met in 1741 through a mutual friend, the astronomer and mathematician Thomas Wright. According to Pennington, it was the “fame of [Talbot’s] virtues and of her superior understanding” that made Carter “so earnestly desirous” to meet her (Carter 1809: 1:I). Talbot was of a good family, but more importantly she read and spoke French and Italian, and had some knowledge of Latin; and at some point she taught herself German. (1:x) The delight they took in their correspondence and friendship, which would last almost thirty years until Talbot’s death from cancer in 1770, is obvious from their letters. Carter writes from Deal in 1741: People here are not in the least danger of losing their wits about you, but proceed as quietly and as regularly in their affairs as if there was no such person in being. Nobody has been observed to lose their way, run against a door, or sit silent and staring in a room full of company in thinking upon you, except my solitary self, who (as you may perceive in the description) have the advantage of looking half mad when I do not see you, and (as you know by many ocular proofs) extremely silly when I do.¹ (1:9)

For the next decade, Carter’s publication record appears thin, but she is still writing. Kelly lists some of her pieces appearing in The Gentleman’s Magazine in 1741 and one in 1744 (Hawley, Kelly and Eger 1999: 2: xxviii). She did keep up correspondence with Cave about possible projects and at least at one point sent him some verses for publication, on the strict condition that he “print them without

 The intensity of their friendship has led some scholars, eg. C Easton, Donaghue, and Fadderman, to speculate that there was physical intimacy. It seems unlikely there will ever be conclusive evidence, but it is striking that the relationship is so transparently joyous. Neither Carter nor Talbot demonstrate any hint of concern or guardedness toward each other or toward their feelings for each other and there is no indication that their friends or family members were concerned about anything “untoward”.

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any name, & never tell any one person [wha]tsoever that they are mine … . They have never been seen only by one person. \neither my papa or my friends in London know any Thing of the matter.” (Hampshire 2005: 75) This is, incidentally, a rare example of Carter explicitly not consulting her father or other friends about her writing, but without knowing what she had written, there is no way to know what her concerns were or her reasons for secrecy. It is possible she wrote and even published other texts, but all this letter tells us with certainty is that she did not treat everything she wrote in the same way; putting her name to some of her works but not to others, distributing some writings only in manuscript form while other texts went directly to a printer. We know of at least one text, The Ode to Wisdom, that first circulated only in manuscript form until Samuel Richardson read a copy and included it in his novel Clarissa. Carter then had a corrected version published in the Gentleman’s Magazine.² She also wrote to Richardson to express her concerns on learning that he had “thought proper to print an Ode, which, I apprehended, no one had a right to publish, if I did not choose to do it myself.” (McGeary 2012: 442) When she wrote to Talbot about it, she refered to the poem having “flown post through the kingdom upon a hackney newspaper” and thought that “to see it fluttering in two or three journals is beyond all sufferance.” (Carter 1809: 2:249) Here it appears she was concerned more with controlling the text (the publication in Gentleman’s Magazine claims to be a “corrected” version) and the context of its publication, rather than with publication itself. When Talbot encouraged Carter to contribute some pieces to an edition of Dodsley’s Miscellanies, she suggests that since “things will steal abroad some time or other,” it would be better for Carter if they “appear in the dress you wish them, and in proper company,” at least if they are published “without any name than by a lady.” (2:200) Carter in her response to this again emphasized the matter of control of her texts, saying that “If I ever writ anything worth printing, I should rather chuse to publish them myself than have them published by anybody else.” (2: 203) Letters to and from Dunscombe indicate Carter translated an Ode by Horace (number fifteen) around 1751, which she offered for Dunscombe’s use on condition she was not named. She contributed two pieces to Johnson’s Rambler, #44 and #100 (in 1750 and 1751 respectively). She also commented on the complete translation of Horace, and she read and commented on Hawkins Browne’s Poem on Immortality. Providing commentary on and suggestions for other people’s writing was not common for a woman writer at the time, but it is the

 For a detailed discussion of the publication history, see Thomas McGeary (2012: 431– 458).

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kind of mentoring and support expected of a scholar, and the extent to which her knowledge and opinion was sought out by male writers is notable. In 1752, Carter published something of a very different nature. Her father had been taken to task by the Mayor and Corporation of Deal for refusing to read the Athanasian Creed in Church. He believed it was a tradition that did not exactly match the articles of faith and read instead that of the Apostles, which he believed the more important since “it requires no profession of faith, at baptism or by sick persons, in order to receive absolution, but that which is expressed in the words of the Apostles creed only.” (Carter 1752: 9) If the Apostles‘ Creed on its own had that power, it should be sufficient for the weekly services. Dr. Carter was kept from preaching for some time. A number of pamphlets arguing the various positions were published (including at least one by Dr. Carter himself). Finally, Elizabeth Carter entered the fray. Using her education, her language skills, and her superior reason to defend both her father and her faith must have seemed a very worthwhile opportunity and she adamantly defended her father’s position. She pointed out, in no uncertain terms, that the Athanasian Creed is inconsistent with scripture (which has primacy) and that its insistence on the unity of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit is at odds with reason. Although she did not put her name on the pamphlet and Pennington nowhere mentions it as hers, other sources are confident that she was the author and that her authorship was common knowledge at the time (The Monthly Magazine 1812: 108 – 110). The incident demonstrates the importance both Dr. Carter and his daughter assigned to reason in matters of faith, but also that they were both willing to stand up for the beliefs their reason led them to, at the risk of censure and, at least theoretically, criminal prosecution. The 1750s was otherwise marked by two major endeavors – one domestic and one very public. The domestic assignment was the preparation of her younger brother Henry for University. She tutored him for several years before he went to Cambridge in 1756, where he so impressed his teachers they thought he had been to some unknown elite school – they were stunned that his training was the work of a woman. She had taken her work seriously; Carter was so engaged with Henry as to “spend but little time from Deal” and resisted the urgings of her friends to spend part of the winters with them in London” (Pennington 1807: 108). The other major venture was a project encouraged by and completed with the steady support of Talbot and the Bishop of Oxford (Thomas Secker; with whom Talbot and her mother lived) – a complete translation of all the extant works of Epictetus, started in 1749. This was an ambitious and very demanding undertaking which Carter apparently began as a personal favor to Talbot who was not able to read the text in the original Greek. Talbot is quoted in Penning-

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ton’s Memoir as saying the translation of Epictetus was undertaken at her request “and rather contrary to [Carter’s] own inclination.” (131) The translation was originally finished in 1753, when Carter went to London for the first time in several years. Pennington believes this is when Talbot and the Bishop persuaded Carter to publish the work, setting off a whole new round of additions, edits, and corrections to make it presentable to a wider audience. Talbot had concerns that reading a heathen thinker would be problematic. She worried that “it is so much the way of the world to reduce Christianity to a mere moral system (not only consonant with, as it is, but) discoverable by mere reason and natural light, that I could not help earnestly wishing to have persons continually reminded in reading his excellent morals, how insufficient and imperfect mere morality is, and how much of his is borrowed, at least, if not stolen, from true Religion.” (131) The solution was a series of notes, intended to set out where Epictetus’ philosophy was misleading or wrong. The process took several years and it was only in 1758 that the whole text was finally printed, to much acclaim. It remained the standard translation of Epictetus for more than a century, but more immediately, the publication served to cement Carter’s reputation as one of the most learned women in Europe. “Curiosity was excited, not only here, but upon the continent, to learn the particulars of her life; and even in Russia an account was published, in 1759, of her studies and acquisitions” (Drake 1810: 83). Carter had become a national icon and an international celebrity, but Pennington claims that “her character was truly feminine, however strong the powers of her mind might be; and even to the last, she shrunk from too much notice.” (Pennington 1807: 104) The two positions seem impossible to reconcile, at least as long as her public writing persona is considered in terms of personal expression or even indulgence. In this case, being able to do something for a friend probably had been a powerful motivation, but the project also allowed her to use every ounce of her talents and the particular training her father had given her to make available to her contemporaries a text she thought was useful and morally instructive. Carter had explained in The Rambler No. 44 that “whoever would be really happy must make the diligent and regular exercise of his superior powers his chief attention, adoring the perfections of his Maker, expressing goodwill to his fellow-creatures, cultivating inward rectitude.” (Johnson 1752: 2:77) Her father similarly believed that there is “an essential Fitness also in the Exercise of our Faculties, and which we are constantly obliged to pursue.” (Carter 1738: 21) If you have the knowledge and capacity to do something extraordinary, it is your obligation to regularly use those abilities. The translation allowed her an opportunity to do just that. And yet, it was not acceptable for a woman to focus all her time and energy on intellectual work. Pennington took pains to set Carter’s scholarly work in a

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domestic context, reminding us that she considered those duties as important as any others, repeatedly referring to her doing needlework for herself and her family. He proudly reports that Carter, in response to a request from Talbot for a biography of Epictetus to go with the translations, told her friend that “Whoever that somebody or other is, who is to write the life of Epictetus, seeing I have a dozen shirts to make, I do opine, dear Miss Talbot that it cannot be I.” (Pennington 1807: 126) Clearly aware of the dissonance – one was a chore any number of people could do and the other a challenge for which she was uniquely suited – she may still have been serious in her rebuff, intending it as a reminder that her intellectual work was of a kind with her domestic concerns, both ways to express good will to fellow creatures and both equally important moral obligations. Virtue was to use your faculties “in Proportion to the Means and Power of which we are possessed” to do good, and the good had to be directed outward, toward neighbors, since “society is the true sphere of human virtue.” (Carter 1738: 62, Johnson 1752: 2: 84) The translation of Epictetus did not only bring fame to Carter, it also brought tangible benefits. With the money from the translation, Carter bought a house in Deal for her and her father to live in. She was also able to spend several months each winter in London in a rented apartment. She could socialize freely and she had a broad network of correspondents. The salonnière Elizabeth Montagu had sought her out after reading Epictetus and around the two of them, and some of their friends and acquaintances, the Bluestocking circle formed. Montagu and the Lord of Bath conspired to make Carter put out a book of her own poetry in 1762, Poems on Several Occasions. This time Carter demonstrated considerable reluctance and anxiety, warning Montagu that this was a “scheme which I always drive as fast as possible out of my head, because I never think of it without a very painful degree of confusion.” (Carter 1817: 1:389) Later on she expressed more worry about sending Montagu “the Ode” to be included in the collection and prays that Montagu “will not fail to admire the hand writing, for to be sure it is marvelously (sic) pretty, I heartily wish there may be anything else in it worth admiring; but of this I am no judge.” (Carter 1817: 1:142) Guest sees Carter’s hesitation as ambivalence toward publication, stating that “on the one hand she expresses modesty and even reluctance about publishing her work […] and on the other she evidently takes pleasure in its favorable reception, and in her increasing fame.” (Guest 2000, 114) It is possible that the inclusion of the poem to her father is a sign of her ambivalence and that it was intended as an apologia for the endevor, but the epigraph draws a comparison between herself and Horace and the tone of the whole poem is joyous and exuberant rather than defensive. What Carter expresses seems less of a concern about publication and being immodest, or fear that her moral reputation will suffer, than uncer-

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tainty about the merit of her work, the constant apprehension of the scholar that her contribution may not hold up. She leans on Montagu’s judgment, barraging her with questions about the details:”Do you think what I have inclosed will do for the dedication? Do you rather chuse I should put my name to it? Pray tell me all about this, and everything else that you think necessary; and be so good, not to forget to furnish me with a title, about which I am utterly at a loss.” (Carter 1817: 142) Because it was her own work, it was more difficult for her to judge its merit and accept the attending notoriety. As Carter grew older and wrote less, she seems to have focused more on enjoying the world around her, her friendships and learning from strangers about how they saw the world. The year after her collection of poems was published, she, Montagu, Lord Bath, and some others went on a trip to continental Europe to take the waters at Spa (now in Belgium). Her letters from the trip detail not only what she saw and experienced, but numerous interviews with locals from all walks of life. She seems to have been particularly curious to see how other nations practiced religion. She conversed with nuns at the monasteries they visited, shocked at the lack of knowledge they exhibited and sometimes playfully teasing church wardens with detailed, sophisticated questions about the relics and rituals they encountered (Pennington 1807: 221– 225). Always interested and never condescending, she must have served as a missionary of sorts in every encounter, both by sharing insights about her faith and as a living embodiment of her beliefs. As far as we know, for the rest of her life, Carter wrote nothing at all for publication. She did see to it that Talbot’s Reflections on the Seven Days of the Week was published after her death in 1770, which to her may have been as important as having her own writings or translations published (Talbot 1770). She wrote copious numbers of letters, but at least according to Pennington, did not want to see them published. She did, still according to Pennington, leave some groups of letters neatly organized, and she did tell him to do as he pleased with at least some of her writings, but she did not actively set out to have any of them published. Maybe she wanted to let others decide if they were useful, trusting Providence to make or let happen what would be best in the long run. Maybe Pennington had instructions to organize and circulate the letters in their extended family or maybe she did intend for at least some of them to be published, and Pennington added her protestations to safeguard her reputation in a time that in some ways was becoming more hostile to women in the public sphere. Carter was in many ways deeply traditional. Although she embraced female friendships and encouraged intellectual and public ambitions of other women, she had no proto-feminist agenda and loathed radicals like Mary Wollstonecraft. And though she saw reason as a guiding light, she detested the Philosophes and

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new-fangled British empiricists like David Hume. Just like her father, she believed in the development and practice of reason, not in opposition to faith, but as a means to salvation. Dr. Carter was certain that […] every Man from mere natural Notions of his Understanding may sufficiently discern, that there is a God of infinite Perfections, who is the Maker, Governor, and Judge of the World […]. Thus Reason, or natural Conscience, if it were duly regarded, would, without other Help, convince all Men, that their Duty is, To be just, and pure, and holy. (Carter 1738: 89)

Her training as a scholar, her public life as a writer, and her social life as a friend and conversationalist were all aimed at fulfilling the moral obligation put on her by her father to use reason to find eternal truth, to be just, and pure, and holy, and to do good to her fellow human beings. Her father supported her as an equal because he respected her intellect and as a person, but he encouraged her to pursue her studies with a view to religious principle. Carter was a product of Enlightenment ideas, but an Enlightenment that did not radically break with the past, one that rather incorporated change with tradition, in order to better fulfil the obligation to “endeavor after the Comfort and Pleasure of others” (54).

Works Cited Boswell, James. 1799. The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D. Comprehending an Account of his Studies and Numerous Works, in Chronological Order; a Series of his Epistolary Correspondence and Conversations with Many Eminent Persons; Various Original Pieces of his Composition, Never Before Published: the Whole Thing Exhibiting a View of Literature and Literary Men in Great Britain, for near Half a Century, During Which He Flourished, 4 volumes, London: H. Baldwin and Son, for Charles Dilly. Carter, Elizabeth. 1809. A Series of Letters between Mrs. Elizabeth Carter and Miss Catherine Talbot, from the Year 1741 to 1770, 4 volumes, London: F.C. and J. Rivington. Elizabeth Carter. (1762). Poems on Several Occasions. London: John Rivington. Carter, Nicholas. 1716. A sermon preach’d at Dorchester, January the 30th, 1715/16, London: J. Churchill, at the Black-Swan in Pater-Noster-Row. Carter, Nicholas. 1738. Seventeen Sermons on the Following Subjects, viz …, 4, London: E. Cave at St John’s Gate. Carter, Nicholas. 1752. A sermon preach’d in the chapel, at Deale in Kent, before the Mayor and Corporation, August 9, 1752. Upon a Particular Occasion, London: E. Cave at St John’s Gate. Clarke, Norma. 2000. Dr. Johnson’s Women. A&C Black. Drake, Nathan. 1810. Essays, Biographical, Critical, and Historical, Illustrative of the Rambler, Adventurer, and Idler and of the Various Periodical Papers which, In Imitation of the Writings of Steele and Addison, have been Published, Between the Close of the Eighth

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Volume of the Spectator and the Commencement of the year 1809, London: J. Seely, Buckingham. Eger, Elizabeth. 2006. “Representing Culture: The Nine Living Muses of Great Britain (1779)” in Eger, Elizabeth and Charlotte Grant, (eds.) Women, Writing and the Public Sphere, 1700 – 1830, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Eger, Elizabeth. 2010. Bluestockings: Women of Reason from Enlightenment to Romanticism, Basingstoke, England; New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Guest, Harriet. 2000. Small Change: Women, Learning, Patriotism, 1750 – 1810, Chicago: Chicago University Press. Hampshire, Gwen. 2005. Elizabeth Carter, 1717 – 1806. An Edition of Some Unpublished Letters, Newark: University of Delaware Press. Hawley, Judith, Kelly, Gary and Eger, Elizabeth (eds.). 1999. Bluestocking Feminism: Writings of the Bluestocking Circle, 1738 – 1785. London ; Brookfield Vermont : Pickering & Chatto, 1999. Hawley, Judith. 2008. Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2004, online edn, Oct 2008. Accessed 12 July 2014. Horace. 1926. Satires. Epistles. The Art of Poetry. Translated by H. Rushton Fairclough. Loeb Classical Library 194. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Johnson, Samuel. 1752. The Rambler, 4 volumes, London: J. Payne and J. Bouquet, in Pater-Noster-Row. Kelly, Gary. 1999. Bluestocking Feminism: Writings of the Bluestocking Circle, 1738 – 1785, London; Brookfield, Vt.: Pickering & Chatto. McGeary, Thomas. 2012. “Clarissa Harlowe’s “Ode to Wisdom”: Composition, Publishing History, and the Semiotics of Printed Music” in Eighteenth-Century Fiction 24, no. 3, p. 431 – 458. Mendelson, Sara and Crawford, Patricia. 2000. Women in Early Modern England 1550 – 1720, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Myers, Sylvia. 1990. The Bluestocking Circle: Women, Friendship, and the Life of the Mind in Eighteenth-Century England, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Pelz, Lucy. 2008. ‘Living Muses: Constructing and Celebrating the Professional Woman in the Literature and the Arts’, in: E. Eger and L. Peltz (eds.) Brilliant Women: 18th-Century Bluestockings, New Haven: Yale University Press. Pennington, Montagu. 1807. Memoirs of the Life of Mrs. Elizabeth Carter with a New Edition of her Poems some of which have never appeared Before; to which are added, some Miscellaneous Essays in Prose, together with her Notes on the Bible and Answers to objections concerning the Christian religion., 2 volumes, London: F.C.& J. Rivington. Pohl, Nicole and Schellenberg, Betty A. (eds.). 2003. Reconsidering the Bluestockings, San Marino, California: Huntington Library. Talbot, Catherine. 1770. Reflections on the Seven Days of the Week, London: John and Francis Rivington.

Cindy K. Renker

Madame Necker (1737 – 1794): Educator, Salonnière, Mother, Writer, Charity Patron Introduction

This chapter explores the life and many roles of Suzanne Necker, née Curchod, a Swiss pastor’s daughter from humble circumstances whose strict Calvinist upbringing, extraordinary education, and intellect paved her advancement in Parisian society during the prerevolutionary years. Suzanne Curchod or Madame Necker, as she was known after her marriage to Jacques Necker, has long been neglected by scholars, standing in the shadows of her influential husband as well as her famous daughter Germaine de Staël. Born in the French-speaking village of Crassier in the Swiss Canton of Vaud, Suzanne grew up in poor circumstances in the village’s parsonage but became highly educated under the tutelage of her father. After his death, Suzanne had no choice but put her education to good use by becoming a governess to support herself and her mother. After the death of her mother, she left Switzerland for Paris. Through her marriage to the prominent Swiss financier Jacques Necker, Suzanne entered Parisian high society and became known for her beauty and intellect. Her salon in Paris attracted the powerful minds of the time, such as Grimm, Mably, Diderot, d’Alembert, and d’Holbach, and proved advantageous to her husband’s career, as he became the head of the French Finance Ministry. While she has become known mainly as a celebrated salonnière, Madame Necker took on many roles during her lifetime. She worked as a governess and later her only child’s education became her prime focus. Her daughter Germaine, known to scholars as Madame de Staël and a stout opponent of Napoleon, not only received the same exemplary education and strict Calvinist upbringing Madame Necker had received from her pastor-father but also gained early contact with the intellectuals who frequented her mother’s salon. Through these educational opportunities she was set on the path to become one of the most influential female thinkers and writers in Europe during the Revolutionary, Napoleonic, and Restoration periods. Although Madame Necker was also a prolific writer, most of her work remained private during her lifetime. The influence of her Calvinist upbringing and singular education drove her writing, but the act of writing also became a means to situate her thinking. In addition, her written work demonstrates her interest in contemporary and social issues and how to better the circumstances of https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110590364-005

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the less fortunate, stemming perhaps from her own and frequent illnesses she suffered, as her letters mention. I operate from the premise that despite her humble childhood and circumstances, it was the exceptional education that she received from her pastor-father that afforded her intellectual pursuits and societal advancement. This chapter is mainly concerned with making that connection and establishing Suzanne Necker née Curchod among the educated leading ladies at the end of the ancien régime exploring the diverse roles she inhabited in her life. More specifically, this chapter is interested in the intersecting themes in Madame Necker’s life, such as education, religion, motherhood, writing, and charity work.

Education Education, women’s education in particular, became a hotly debated topic during the eighteenth century, which has since come to be known as the pedagogical century. In the salons of the French capital and in the writings of the elite, women’s education was discussed by men and women alike. From memoirs, letters, and diaries, we know how individualized and highly inconsistent the education of girls and women across Europe actually was. In France, illiteracy remained widespread, even among bourgeois and aristocratic girls and women (Spencer 1984: 83). The poet, reformer, and royal tutor François Fenelon believed that girls should be educated mainly in the domestic arts, with only little training in reading and writing. Educators of the time, among them female educators, emphasized the moral training of girls over intellectual development (89). This limited education, as Fenelon perceived it, should lie in the hands of the mothers preferably (84 – 85). Enlightenment thinkers such as Rousseau, Diderot, and Voltaire all were proponents of home instruction (90). In reality, the education of bourgeois and aristocratic girls usually lay in the hands of governesses (85). However, one must differentiate between early and late childhood education. While mothers themselves, often with the help of a governess, instructed their daughters in the early years, tutors were often called upon in the later years to teach various subjects. Due to the lack of female instructors in certain fields, these tutors were usually male (87). Nevertheless, in general, women’s education was lagging behind and calls for reform became louder in the late eighteenth century. As a pastor’s daughter, Louise Suzanne Curchod had the good fortune to be educated by her university-trained father. She was born on June 2, 1737 as the only child to the Swiss Calvinist minister Louis Antoine Curchod and a Huguenot mother, whose family had fled France and settled in Lausanne (D’Haussonville

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1882: 8 – 10, Gambier-Party 1913: 1– 2). Her mother was said to have been a beautiful woman (Gambier-Parry and Neckar 1913: 2), something that was always emphasized about her daughter Suzanne as well. However, Suzanne’s beauty was never pointed out without the mention of her impressive intellect and education. Her father’s parish of Crassier, located only a few miles from Lausanne and Geneva and in very close proximity to the French border, was located in the Canton of Vaud, where Calvinism had first taken root and from there had continued to spread. In Calvinist fashion, Suzanne received a thorough and strict education from an early age (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 3). The Vicomte D’Haussonville, her descendant and biographer, reports that she obtained that rigorous education from her father. As an only child, she actually procured the same education she would have received if she had been a boy. Her father taught her Latin and Greek, the languages of learned men. She also loved the sciences (Haussonville and Trollope 11– 13). Due to her father’s interest in the sciences and history, these subjects became an integral part of Suzanne’s education. Her biographer states that she responded well to the education her father imparted; she became acquainted with the classics, history, and science, conversant in geometry, philosophy, and the literature of her time (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 3). How well rounded her education was, manifests itself in the fact that she also learned how to paint and play the harpsichord and violin (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 14). However, her biographer seemed not to have approved of the education she received: “Suzanne Curchod’s parents, instead of foreseeing any disadvantages of their system of education, seem rather to have endeavored to prepare her for a more open and freer life.” (20) Haussonville voices his misgivings about the kind of education his great-great-grandmother had received, surprising, if one considers that he wrote about her life roughly a century and a half later, when views on women’s education had somewhat improved. Suzanne’s exemplary education and intellectual talents became publicly known beyond the borders of her little village with her introduction into Lausanne society. Every spring and summer, Suzanne spent time with relatives there (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 6, 8). Even after being introduced into society and spending much time in Lausanne away from her parents, Suzanne continued her studies and became to some extent self-taught. With time, she became somewhat of a celebrity and known as the “girl who knew Latin, and who showed herself willing to talk on the most difficult problems in philosophy […].” (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 27) She borrowed books from a professor’s library in Lausanne und taught herself such subjects as geometry and physics (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 13). One of the professors at Lausanne praised her intelligence, which he said was “exceptionally strong for a woman.” (25 – 26)

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The patronizing and somewhat mysogynistic attitudes toward women, of course not uncommon for the time, are all too apparent in this statement. Suzanne not only furthered her education in Lausanne but also pursued her literary ambitions. Together with the young people of the city, among them students from the university, Suzanne founded a literary circle of which she became the president. The only obligation the members of this society had, was to compose and share an essay or poem from time to time. Inspired by her studies, Suzanne had literary aspirations and was only too happy to contribute (GambierNarry and Necker 1913: 11– 12). It was probably at the meeting of her literary society in Lausanne that she met Edward Gibbon, a young Englishman and later the first serious contender for her hand (12). Gibbon remarked on her “talents of the mind” upon meeting Suzanne. In his opinion, she was “learned without pedantry” (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 35). Gibbon had not only met Suzanne in Lausanne but had also been a guest at the parsonage in Crassier. At the parsonage, he got a glimpse of Suzanne Curchod’s upbringing: Her father, in the solitude of a lonely village, devoted himself to giving his only daughter a liberal and even a learned education. She surpassed his hopes by her progress in the sciences and languages; and in the brief visits that she paid to some of her friends at Lausanne, Mademoiselle Curchod’s wit, beauty, and learning were subject of universal applause. (Saint-Beuve and Wormeley 1964: 66)

At the age of twenty-three, Suzanne suddenly lost her father. The only income her mother and she could now rely on was a small widow’s pension. They also had to vacate the parsonage, so Suzanne and her mother moved to Geneva. In order to supplement their meager income, Suzanne put her education to good use and became a governess (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 76 – 77). Since she played both the harp and the violin, she was also able to give music lessons (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 24). During this difficult time, it was the family friend Paul Moultou, also a pastor, who not only took her under his wing but also gave her this opportunity of employment. After the death of her mother, Suzanne’s teaching was her only means of support. Her friends, fully aware of her circumstances, helped as they could. It was through the Moultous, whose children she taught and who had become dear friends, that she met Madame de Vermenoux. The marquise was impressed with Suzanne’s gifts and, after a few weeks of knowing her, became rather attached to her. When it was time for Madame to return to Paris, she proposed to take Suzanne to the French capital as her companion. Suzanne hesitated at first to follow the marquise to Paris but was soon persuaded by Moultou and accepted the invitation in hopes of escaping her sadness over her parents’ deaths and the dissolution of her engagement to Gibbon (37– 39). After her mother’s

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deaths and the rejection by Gibbon, Suzanne had considered going as a governess to England or Germany (39).

Salonnière Madame de Vermenoux, a Parisian widow of Swiss origins, recognized Suzanne’s talents and wanted to introduce her new companion into Parisian society. Suzanne’s move to the French capital would also create the opportunity for an advantageous marriage that could offer occasions for intellectual stimulation and patronage. The marquise, originally from Geneva, had built up contacts with men from the literary and financial world in Paris. Once or twice a week, these men were guests at her house, where the latest poems and romances were discussed. So when Suzanne took up residency with the marquise in Paris in the summer of 1764 (40), she was rather pleased to find that she could be part of a social circle where she could continue her intellectual pursuits. Among the men who frequented Madame de Vermenoux’s house was the Swiss financier Jacques Necker, who had begun to make a name for himself in the French capital as a very able man (43). He had asked the marquise, who was widowed, to marry him, but she had delayed the decision indefinitely (46). When he met Suzanne Curchod at the marquise’s house, he was instantly taken by her beauty, character, and intelligence, and from then on he diverted all attention to her (47). Eventually, he proposed to her, and in order not to displease the marquise, they hid their engagement and subsequent wedding from her. Only after the wedding did they disclose to Madame de Vermenoux that they had wed (49 – 54). Her initial displeasure is understandable, but she eventually approved of the marriage between her former suitor and her protégé from Switzerland. In becoming Madame Necker, Suzanne had no longer to worry about making ends meet. Jacques Necker had great abilities in regards to numbers and had started his financial career as a young clerk in one of Geneva’s counting houses. But he was also interested in literature and wrote two short (but unpublished) plays. His parents, aware of his career ambitions in the financial world, had sent him to one of Paris’s banking institutions. Eventually, he and his more experienced compatriot Peter Thelusson founded their own financial establishment, which made both very prosperous (44 – 45). When Suzanne became Madame Necker, she became his stout and loyal supporter and tried to further his career ambitions. In 1776, his and her efforts came to fruition, when Necker was nominated to be the Associate Director of the Royal Treasury.

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While Suzanne knew she had made a very suitable match, she had also married for love and devoted herself to her new husband from the beginning. Her biographer writes: No sooner had she become the wife of Necker than she began to assist him in his career by every means in her power, and it was to a great extent with this object in view that she now decided to form a literary salon. By cultivating the society of men of letters she hoped by degrees to be able to secure their support for her husband in the probable event of his entering political life, for they exercised, as she well knew, enormous influence over public opinion, of which, in those days, they represented ‘the only legal mouthpiece.’ (56)

Madame Necker’s determination to hold a salon in Paris apparently stemmed from her ambitions to become a prominent member of Parisian society, pursue her intellectual interests, as well as help further her husband’s career. However, not only her weekly salons but also dinner parties and the occasional ball were hosted to further the Neckers’ ambitions (138). Jacques Necker’s prominence in French politics and economics manifested itself in his three appointments to the office of Controller-General of Finances during a time of great change in France. After spending some time in Parisian society, Suzanne realized that there was a different kind of learning. She wrote to a friend in Lausanne: “When I arrived in this country, I thought that letters were the key to everything, that a man cultivated his mind by books alone, and was great only in proportion to his knowledge.” (Saint-Beuve and Wormeley 1964: 71) Suzanne discovered that the ability to converse, debate, and discuss was just as important. It must have been then that the idea of a salon became appealing to her since this is where learned men (and women) in Paris gathered. Madame Necker’s desire to establish a salon in Paris does not come as a surprise, if one considers the long tradition of this venerable institution in the French capital. Nevertheless, while Madame Necker’s salon became popular quickly, establishing herself in Parisian society was not an easy undertaking. Her Protestant faith, humble upbringing, provincial manners and demeanor, and her nationality made her stand out among the Parisian elite. Moreover, while she strove to establish herself socially and sought intellectual stimulation, she abhorred the temptations and frivolity associated with the Parisian upper classes. In his memoires, the Abbé Morellet claims that Mme. Necker came to him, Abbé Raynal, and Abbé Marmontel for help to get her salon started (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 128). In addition, like other salonnières before her, she attended other salons to learn the “trade.” She “apprenticed” under Geoffrin and Lespinasse to learn how to host a salon and how to enforce the rules of polite conversation (Goodman 1996: 54, 76).

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Among the women in Parisian society, with whom Madame Necker came in contact and who shared her interest in hosting and/or attending literary circles, were several who enjoyed a great reputation and air of importance. Besides the famed Madame Geoffrin who taught Suzanne how to host such gatherings, Suzanne also consulted the prominent salonnière Madame du Deffand, who was more than willing to help the young wife of Jacques Necker. Of aristocratic birth, she was acquainted with the literary elite. Her salons were attended by those who had made a name for themselves in the realm of literature, philosophy, art, or politics in France and abroad. Many years Suzanne’s senior, Madame du Deffand became acquainted with the Neckers and attended Suzanne’s salon. However, while she was impressed with Jacques Necker, her opinion of Madame Necker was not all favorable at first. To her longtime friend and correspondent, Horace Walpole, she wrote: “His wife is intellectual, but in too loft a way to make it possible to exchange ideas […].” Madame du Deffand goes on to describe her as “stiff, cold, and full of self-respect.” (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 155 – 156) Madame Geoffrin, who welcomed literary greats such as Diderot, Marmontel, Saint Lambert, and d’Albert to her salon, was also advanced in age and did not have the intellectual aptitude that Madame Necker possessed (57– 59). Soon, Suzanne’s salon became the focal point of Parisian society. Her initial apartments in the Rue Michel de Comte were too small for company, and so her husband acquired a bigger and grander house in a more suitable quarter of town (65). There, at the Hotel Leblanc, as it was called, she had a stately drawing and dinner room in which to receive men and women of letters. In order to not interfere with reception days at other houses or salons of Parisian society, Mme. Necker held her salon on Fridays (Houssonville and Trollope 1882: 110). After Necker purchased the Chateau de Saint Ouen (nestled along the Seine between Paris and Saint Denis) as a summer residence, Mme. Necker’s salon was held there during the warmer months of the year (113). Since her summer residence was outside the city, she even provided transportation for her less wealthy literary friends so they would be able to attend (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 140). During Necker’s service as the Director General of Finance, the Neckers lived in the Hotel du Contrôle-Général. When he resigned, they found new accommodations in a suitable townhouse in the Rue Bergère since their old house, the Hotel Leblanc, was occupied by tenants. On Fridays, Madame Necker continued to welcome literary friends, politicians, and diplomats to her salon, which she had by then hosted for almost fifteen years (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 218). With the increasing number of attendees of her Friday salon, Madame Necker opened up her drawing room for an additional day. Lighter discussions and entertainment (music, recitations, or dramatic readings) now took place Tues-

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days, while Fridays remained her designated day for serious literary and philosophical debate (135 – 136). With the appointment of Jacques Necker to the post of Chief Minister of Finance in 1788 to the delight of those who attended Madame Necker’s salon, there was now hope that reform would follow. Thus, the focus of debate in the Necker’s drawing room shifted from literary to social and political matters (Houssonville and Trollope 1882: 109 – 110). This was, of course, not only due to the new office Necker held but also to the changing political climate in the pre-revolutionary years. More and more ministers, members of the court, and foreign dignitaries attended Madame Necker’s salon (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 182– 183). Literary men of the time were drawn to Madame Necker’s salon by her extensive literary knowledge (among their other reasons for attending), and sought and welcomed her opinions of their works (63 – 64). Not always had the hostesses of salons been able to participate in the literary and philosophical discussions that took place in their drawing rooms. However, those who attended Madame Necker’s salon attested not only to her lively participation but also to her abilities and intellect to successfully do so. In his memoirs, Morellet states that Madame Necker was very able to take part in literary discussions: “[…] we talked pleasantly, about literature, upon which she spoke herself extremely well.” (122) Among Suzanne’s many papers, there are letters and notes on discussions at her salon, for example with Diderot and Naigeon, that prove that Madame Necker could hold her own in discussions with these learned men (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 151– 154). Voltaire also sang her praises, comparing her to the famed Hypatia, the head of the Platonist School of Alexandria who had lectured on mathematics, philosophy, and astronomy: Vous qui chez la belle Hypatie, Tous les vendredis raisonnez, De vertu, de philosophie, Et tant d’exemples en donnez.¹ (111)

Hypatia’s murder by a Christian mob marked the end of classical antiquity. Mme. Necker’s salon was not only one of the most prominent salons in Paris during the Age of Enlightenment but also the last of the great salons of the Ancien Régime. Haussonville attributes the quick success of Mme. Necker’s salon to her agreeable appearance, her devotion to literature, and the ability to flatter her guests (108). Besides abbés and men of letters, representatives of various European sov “You, who at the home of the beautiful Hypatia,/Every Friday reason/About virtue, about philosophy,/giving so many examples.”

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ereigns also frequented Madame Necker’s salon: the English ambassador Lord Stormont, the ambassador of Sweden, the Comte de Creutz, the Neapolitan ambassador the Marquis Caraccioli, the Abbé Galiani, and others (168). The prominence of Madame Necker’s salon and her husband’s influence is underlined by the visit of Emperor Joseph II. of Austria, brother of Queen Marie Antoinette, to the Neckers’ house (168). The success of Madame Necker’s salon can be traced back to her education and her pious upbringing and to her continuous pursuit of intellectual stimulation. The French poet and literary critic Antoine Leonard Thomas, who was a great friend to Madame Necker until his death, concluded that the lady strove to instruct “her mind only in order to improve her soul.” (73) Jean-François Marmontel, one of the encyclopedists, described her in a similar vein: “A virtuous education and solitary studies had given her soul every improvement which talents and an exemplary disposition can derive from cultivation.” (78) One might be surprised to find even the notorious philosophe Diderot at Madame Necker’s salon. And yet, apparently, Madame Necker welcomed Diderot, in spite of his unconventional and adulterous lifestyle. When her Calvinist friends in Switzerland expressed fear for her soul because of her close association with the philosophes, Mme. Necker replied: “I have friends who are atheists; but why not? They are friends who are to be pitied.” (150 – 151) Madame Necker’s biographer points out that due to Madame Necker’s noble influence, Diderot was a reformed man in her presence and even wished to have met her earlier (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 88 – 89). Friedrich Melchior Grimm was also said to be attracted to Madame Necker’s character as well as her mind, and when he lived at the court of Catherine the Great of Russia, he kept her informed about his experiences abroad, while Madame Necker kept him abreast of literary and other matters in Paris (103 – 104). Jean François de Saint Lambert, a poet and philosopher, also stayed faithful to Madame Necker and her salon until the eve of the Revolution. He was one of the principal regular attendees of her Friday meetings (107). Her religious attendees such as Abbé Morellet lamented that discussions in Mme. Necker’s salon always concerned literary matters while other subject matters were “restricted by the austerity of the mistress of the house.” (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 128) Madame Necker insisted on avoiding religious topics, for which she was reproached by her religious attendees (170). Even so, a few of her guests complained about her strict religious convictions. Grimm concluded that Mme. Necker was “devout after her own way” and that she would probably wish to be “Huguenot, Socinian, or Deist” or something after her own mind (137– 138). Not only did the great men and women of Parisian society attend her salon, but philosophes such as Diderot, Grimm, d’Alembert, Marmontel, Buffon, and

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Saint Lambert also corresponded with her. These letters show that her correspondents held her in high esteem. In a letter, the Abbé Galiani writes: Your letters are like Socrates, the most lovely soul in the most hideous body. Your letters are also as beautiful as the envelope is ugly. […] It would not be in your nature to address an envelope neatly. Such a matter-of-fact undertaking would not be compatible with the sublimity of your too glorious transcendentalism. (172)

Such wording and exaggerated praise were common at the time. Diderot’s letters also show that he had the utmost respect for Madame Necker (155). In one of his letters he asked apologetically for her advice on a manuscript: “[…] When this manuscript is useless, or has become fastidious to you, pray send it back to me in a sealed cover. I ask you, madam, on my knees, for a thousand pardons and for a thousand excuses.” (156 – 157) The letter not only confirms Diderot’s admiration and respect for Madame Necker but also the trust he put in her opinion of his work. In a later letter he continues: When I call to mind my audacity in showing to you those Salons, I cannot bear to think of it. It is as though I had dared to come up to you in church wearing my dressing-gown and my night-cap. But still it is myself, line for line. I did not more than copy myself – altering nothing; there is not one of my works that is more like me. The metal is unpolished, just as it came out of the mine. If you can extract from it one spangle of gold the merit is yours rather than mine. It is a matter of regret to me not to have had the happiness of knowing you sooner. You would certainly have given me a taste for purity and a delicacy of feeling which would have made its way from my heart into that which I have written. (161)

This passage not only confirms their familiarity with each other but also Diderot’s teasing and submissive admission of the good influence Madame Necker had on him and his work. Those who were no longer able to attend Madame Necker’s salon yearned for her company. Thus, the Abbé Galiani writes: “The moment I think of Paris and of my friends I am lost. I am not there, and you are. These are two reasons for my sad and unhappy reflections.” (171) In another letter, Galiani laments: “A Friday does not pass by but I go to you in spirit,” (173) and in yet another we read: “The Alps separate us. But neither time nor the Alps efface from my memory those delightful hours which I passed in your house.” (175) Similarly, when Grimm traveled to Prussia and Russia for an extended period of time, he kept Mme. Necker informed about life at court while expressing his longing for her salon (139 – 143). Madame Necker also assisted lesser known men of letters and became an advocate of their work by reading passages from their writings to her salon audience (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 128 – 129). Most of the literary men who

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attended Madame Necker’s salon were members of the French Academy. Hence, she was always informed about the goings-on behind the walls of the Academy, which remained closed to women. When vacant positions were to be filled, Madame Necker was often asked for advice. Those hopeful to gain such a position took great pains to become favored in her eyes, since so many members of the French Academy frequented her house (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 180 – 182). Claude Joseph Dorat, for example, sought Madame Necker’s support for his candidacy to the Academy. In a letter, he beseeches her to put in a good word for him, a testimony to her influence in the literary society of Paris: I have so much confidence in your goodness, madam, that I do not fear to lay my case before you. I should like better to be under an obligation to you than to any one else, and that is the reason why I expose myself with a feeling of security. You know most of the Academicians. Those gentlemen have as much deference for your good taste as they have pleasure being in your company; and if you would in their presence support my candidature I am sure that their prejudices would not prevail against anything you might say in my favor. (183 – 184)

Even after Dorat was denied, he remained courteous and obliged to Madame Necker, assuming that she had indeed spoken up in his favor: “I shall never be an Academician, but I shall be one of your friends, and I will never do anything to make me unworthy of being so considered. I would rather have a good name than an arm-chair, and your suffrage than those of the forty.” (185 – 186) His friendship with Madame Necker was worth more to Dorat than a “seat” in the Academy and the vote of confidence by forty academicians. Another example of Mme. Necker’s hospitality, influence, and interests is the night when seventeen of her guests decided to erect a statue in honor of the great Voltaire (136). Madame Necker had known Voltaire from Switzerland, where the philosopher had spent some time at his chateau in Ferney. Since those days before her marriage, she had admired and corresponded with him. Grimm, Diderot, Suard, Marmontel, Morellet, d’Albembert and the others decided unanimously to erect a statue in the honor of the still living Voltaire. Madame Necker was to preside over the project and wrote to Voltaire to ask for his permission. Six years later, a statue of him was erected in Paris (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 132– 133, 135). Her extraordinary education and her interest in diverse subject matters, especially in literature, and her experiences as the president of a literary society in Lausanne, made it possible for Suzanne to host such a successful salon. In addition, her intellect, virtue, knowledge, and great disposition made her very agreeable with men and women of letters. With all these attributes, Madame Necker stands apart from other salonnières in Rousseau’s critique of Parisian sa-

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lons and the women who hosted them. When the political landscape of the late 1780s and thus the discussions in Madame Necker’s salon changed, she retired from hosting and handed the baton over to the next generation, her daughter.

Mother Traditional family patterns began to change during the last decades of the eighteenth century. Slowly, marriages were no longer contracted chiefly for economic advantages but also for mutual affection, and family relationships became more intimate, caring, and loving (Fairchild 1984: 97). Germaine Necker was born into such a family. Suzanne Curchod and Jacques Necker had married for love, and it comes as no surprise then that their only daughter received all their affection and attention. The fundamental shifts in family and marriage relationships would also be felt in the perception of and attitudes towards motherhood. Many Enlightenment thinkers were concerned with motherhood and maternal practices. Their reformative thinking revised previously held notions about mothering. Rousseau, for example, redefined women’s roles and responsibilities, assigning their maternal duties greater importance. He argued that a mother’s influence on the upbringing of children results in strong families and is beneficial to society at large. Suzanne was not only a friend of Rousseau’s but also shared his ideas. For example, she chose to breastfeed her daughter, thus following Rousseau’s call for more intimate mothering. For Madame Necker, the role of mother supplemented her role as salonnière. One might even claim that this role gave her far greater satisfaction than that of salonnière, albeit her relationship with her daughter would not always prove easy. As a mother, she again became an educator, providing both spiritual and intellectual training for her daughter. While waiting for the birth of her child, Madame Necker grew uneasy about the dangers of childbirth. She took precautions to ensure that her child would receive a Christian education in case of her death (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 19). When she survived childbirth (which she described as very unpleasant, vowing to never be with child again), she educated her daughter according to the values of her own upbringing. Haussonville confirms that she ensured that her daughter received the same kind of moral and intellectual education that she had enjoyed at her father’s hand (31), even insisting that all caregivers and childhood friends were of the Protestant faith (Boon 2011: 79 – 80). Germaine Necker was blessed with the same great mental faculties as her mother, and Suzanne’s sole concern was to perfect her daughter’s education (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 35). She expected the same sense of duty and

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obedience from her daughter that had been expected of her by her own parents. In a letter to her husband, Suzanne lists some examples of the education she bestowed upon her daughter: I taught her languages, and especially how to speak her own with facility. I strengthened her memory and her mind by the best kind of exercises. […] I read with her; […]. In a word, I always cultivated and increased those gifts which she had received from nature, thinking that her soul would benefit from my teaching […]. (32)

However, Germaine struggled with the stricture of her education (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 207). Haussonville points out that Madame Necker tried too much to model her daughter’s character and education after her own (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 51). When Germaine was thirteen years of age, she became ill from the rigors of her upbringing, which left little freedom for creativity and exploration. Doctors ordered a change of scenery and mental repose. Of course, Madame Necker was unhappy with this hiatus in her daughter’s formal education (39). But it was exactly this freedom in the countryside that allowed Germaine to explore her creative inclinations and become an important voice during the Revolutionary and Napoleonic eras. Although strict, Germaine’s extensive education and early introduction to literature proved of great value to her future literary career. While very different in character, mother and daughter possessed the same inclination for study and literature (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 210), whereas Jacques Necker opposed his daughter’s literary inclinations and ambitions as much as he had opposed his wife’s (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 39 and Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 143). Germaine received part of her training in her mother’s salon. From an early age, she was allowed to be present, to ask and answer questions, and to listen to the adults’ conversations (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 26 – 27). She was seated right next to her mother (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 143). Suzanne’s decision “to mother her daughter in the salon,” (Boon 2011: 20) as Sonja Boon expressed it, merged her roles of salonnière and mother. It also changes our perception of the eighteenth-century salon as an exclusively public sphere. As Madame Necker provided Germaine with the opportunity to participate in the public sphere of her salon, she turned the salon into an educational and pedagogical space. With her daughter attending, the private and public spheres converged. However, some objected to the presence of the young Germaine in her mother’s salon surrounded by ‘beaux esprits.’ In her memoires, Madame de Genlis lamented Germaine’s upbringing and the fact that she spent so much time in her mother’s salon privy to adult conversations (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 212). Nevertheless, in a private letter, de Genlis praised Suzanne for the educa-

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tion she had afforded her daughter: “[…] what woman, what mother, ever gave to her daughter a better education than that which Mlle. Necker has received from you?” (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 31) After her marriage to Eric Magnus, Baron de Stael Holstein, Swedish ambassador to France, whom she had met in her mother’s salon, Germaine visited her parents’ house several times a week and, with her mother’s declining health, took over her social responsibilities, including her salon (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 249). Many of Madame Necker’s old literary acquaintances such as Diderot and Buffon had already died, and thus her interest in the Tuesday and Friday réunions declined. An when Madame Necker’s salon became more political in the late 1780s due to the growing liberal opposition and even antiroyalist sentiments in the French capital, Germaine took a leading role in her mother’s salon, which now met almost every day of the week (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 67– 68, 148, 159). Now Madame de Staël became the focal point of conversation while Madame Necker further and further retreated from the role she had played so well (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 159 – 160). Although grateful for her daughter’s efforts in continuing her salon, Madame Necker nevertheless expressed regret about the changing atmosphere in her salon in a letter to a friend: I have no literary news to give you, for that kind of conversation is no longer the fashion; the crisis is too great; people do not care to play chess on the edge of precipice; our attention is entirely fixed on other things, and [literature] that flower of the imagination, last refuge of refinement and culture, is lost in our political discussions and is becoming a stranger to us. (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 249 – 250)

The dire political situation at the dawn of the Revolution left its mark on Parisian society and on Madame Necker’s salon. Soon, she and her family were drawn into the changing tides and barely escaped with their lives because of the family’s continuous support of the royal family, with whom they had lived at Versailles in their final years in Paris.

Writer Suzanne’s writings are extensive, but to this day much of her work has remained locked up in the archives at the family’s estate in Coppet. Her extensive journal entries, notes on conversations, short reflections and ideas, essays, and of course her pamphlets on health and other matters make it clear that she could not resist the urge to write but, like many women of her time, chose to withhold publication. Even so, Melton points out that the sheer volume of her writings sug-

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gests a certain level of literary ambition and ability (Horn 2001: 154). As was common at the time, her husband published some of her work, comprising in all five volumes, a few years after her death (Necker, Necker and de Pougens 1798, 1801). In the introduction to her work, he emphasized her virtues as a wife and woman of charity as well as her intellectual gifts. Women of her time earned praise for not seeking a public life (Goodman 1995: 213). However, he also pointed out that she had no literary ambitions: “She had taste and intelligence to the highest degree; but this taste never inspired in her the desire to be published; it lay in her without any ambition to appear, and above all without any feeling of envy or jealousy.” (Necker, Necker and de Pougens 1798, 1801: vii) Although Necker had always admired his wife’s education and intellect, he also had made it clear that he disliked her passion for books and refused to support any literary ambitions she had. Necker did not consider literary writing a worthy occupation for women (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 127). Needless to say, she obeyed his wishes, at least for the most part. Madame Necker’s letter to him after a few years of marriage offers insights into her acceptance of her husband’s wishes and her attempts to negotiate some of the freedoms she had enjoyed when she was younger and unmarried: After that, can you reproach me that I am fond of books? My dear friend, it is only an old habit that I think admirable to retain, because of the restlessness of my soul and because of the loneliness that I feel in your absence. But your reproach is too frequent […]. I will therefore make a bargain with you: the moment that you have for ever given up all connection with the India Company I will promise you, if you wish it, to lay aside Fe(‘)nelon, and never to take up a pen upon any other subject; and I hope with all my heart that the sacrifice I ask of you will not be greater on your side than that which I on my side shall make for you. (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 9)

Madame Necker’s correspondence (as well as her husband’s) was extensive and makes up a major part of her private writings. Her husband included some of her letters in Mélanges, but much of her correspondence has yet to be published. D’Haussonville found twenty-seven volumes of letters the Neckers had written (4). Their extensive correspondence comes as no surprise when one considers the numerous friendships they entertained in France and Switzerland. As Sonja Boon summarizes, Madame Necker presented herself as a woman of sensibility in her letters, presenting different personae in her private and public letters (Boon 2001: 9). The above quoted letter offers insights into Madame Necker’s passion for books and writing and her skill and intellect in arguing her position. However, it is the private journal entries, reflections, and notes in Mélanges and Nouveaux mélanges that provide us insights into Madame Necker’s thoughts

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about writing. Her journals in particular reveal that writing was not simply an occupation to pass time but a means to further educate and better herself. Her strict Calvinist upbringing and its attendant attitudes towards education and learning are apparent in some of her private writings. Modeled after the Spectator (Goodman 1996: 81), Suzanne’s journals reflect her sense of duty and her thinking. For example, she drew up strict codes of conduct called “Maxims necessary for my happiness.” She also recorded her daily activities to ensure she spent her waking hours in the most useful way. In one of her journals (“Journal of the expenditure of my time”), she scheduled the hours of her day so as to avoid frivolous activities (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 4– 5). She also used her journals to prepare for her weekly salons: “One is most ready for conversation when one has written and thought about things before going into society.” (Necker, Necker and de Pougens 1798, 1801: 300) With this kind of preparation she hoped to shape and direct the discourse in her salon. She also used her journals to reflect on her salon guests and the conversations from which she intended to learn and form her own opinions. Finally, she used her journal to learn from and think about what she had read (177– 183): “Conversation maintains the mind, reading cultivates it, but only composition enlarges it.” (329) Madame Necker not only used writing to better herself but also to improve society and the lives of the less fortunate. Her writings include treatises on divorce, hospital care, and premature burial. During the last year of her life, she wrote her treatise against divorce, the Reflexions sur le divorce (1794), which her husband published a few months after her death (Goodman 1995: 220). This short piece of writing protests the new French law legalizing divorce (Boon 2011: 49). Neither the philosophes nor her own daughter agreed with her on the subject. Germaine de Staël’s own divorce and the characters in her literary works such as in Delphine stand in stark contrast to her mother’s objection to the dissolution of marriage. Her husband’s decision to publish his wife’s essay (which remained a fragment) so shortly after her death might have to do with his grief over her passing as well as the intent to affirm Suzanne’s position as a virtuous wife (Goodman 1995: 220). With her treatise Mémoire sur l’Etablissement des hospices (1786), Madame Necker took up the pen in support of charitable work. The pamphlet called for much needed hospital reform based on pioneering procedures observed in the hospital she had founded with the help and financial support of her husband. In her treatise, she suggested having only one patient to a bed and having a medical record for each patient for the entire length of his or her stay. Her concepts of hygiene and health were progressive, and she had them implemented in her hospital. These standards later became the norm in France. Patients finally received beds to themselves, and care was secured by the aid of religious sisters (Gam-

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bier-Parry and Necker 1913: 175). Suzanne’s great sense of duty stems from her Calvinist faith. Her charitable work came from the same belief that it was her duty to clothe the naked, feed the hungry, and attend to the sick. Her hospital was founded in 1778 and still bears her name today (175). She was both its director and treasurer (185). Madame Necker’s pamphlet on premature burial, Les Inhumations Précipitées (1790), stems from her own fear and paranoia of being buried alive. It contains specific directions on burial and highlights the necessity to ensure the body was really dead (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 158 – 262). She was concerned with premature burial through her observations at her hospital and what she had learned from physicians. In addition, her background and continued interest in the sciences since the days she was taught by her father in his parsonage might also have been the reasons for her interest in this particular issue. Her preoccupation with the topic, not unusual for the time, is apparent in her lengthy instructions for her own passing (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 352).

Conclusion The Neckers, living at Versailles, were witnesses to the early events of the Revolution (302). After Jacques Necker’s resignation as France’s Chief Minister of Finance in 1790, the Neckers immediately left Paris for Coppet in Switzerland but were met with hostility in the villages and towns through which they passed (328). Necker had bought the chateau and estate of Coppet from his former banking business partner as a summer residence for his family (222– 223). In France, all of the family’s remaining assets were confiscated by the revolutionary government (349). Necker’s continued support for the royal cause had made him unpopular with the people (322, fn. 1). At Coppet, the Neckers lived in almost complete seclusion (335). With most of her old friends dead or not wanting to be considered traitors by mingling with the Neckers, Suzanne found herself in utter solitude (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 223). Madame de Staël, who later also had to flee Paris and join her parents in Coppet, could not bear the solitude she experienced there (225). We know that Suzanne did not enjoy her solitude either: “Never, since my early youth, have I lived in such solitude as this, and I cannot say that I appreciate it.” (Necker, Necker and de Pougens 1798, 1801: 231) She had enjoyed social and literary circles, good conversations, and debates all of her adult life. It is likely that this solitude contributed to her worsening health. “I live in the past rather than in the future,” she writes with resignation while at Coppet (Gambier-Parry and Necker 1913: 232). However, it was then and there that Madame Necker would again turn to writing. In the last years of her life, she lived close to where she had been brought up. Cop-

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pet was only an hour’s journey from Crassier, the village of her father’s parsonage (Haussonville and Trollope 1882: 220). Suzanne’s lifelong intellectual pursuits find their roots in her Calvinist upbringing and the exceptional education she had received at the hand of her pastor-father. It is this upbringing and education that manifested itself in her constant self-examination, overly active conscience, and rigorous study. She put her learning to good use by becoming an educator (although for financial reasons), participating in the public sphere by hosting a salon, writing about social issues, and becoming a patron to charities. But she also accepted her husband’s wishes and chose not to pursue a literary career. Sonja Boon concludes: “She perceived her filial neglect and her desire for literary success as moral failures, instances of personal weakness which undermined her virtue” (Boon 2011: 65). Madame Necker was canonized as a salonnière, not as a mother, charity patron, or writer, yet she inhabited all these roles with a sense of duty and a dedication to lifelong learning inspired by her upbringing.

Works Cited Boon, Sonia. 2011. The Life of Madame Necker: Sin, Redemption and the Parisian Salon, London: Pickering & Chatto. Fairchilds, Cissie. 1984. “Women and Family” in French Women and the Age of Enlightenment, ed. Samia I. Spencer, Bloomington: Indiana UP. Gambier-Parry, Mark and Curchod Necker, Suzanne. 1913. Madame Necker, Her Family and Her Friends, With Some Account of Her Husband’s Three Administrations, Edinburgh: W. Blackwood and Sons. Goodman, Dena. 1995. “Suzanne Necker’s Mélanges: Gender, Writing, and Publicity” in Going Public: Women and Publishing in Early Modern France, eds. Elizabeth C. Goldsmith and Dena Goodman, Ithaca: Cornell UP. Goodman, Dena. 1996. The Republic of Letters: A Cultural History of the French Enlightenment, Ithaca: Cornell UP. D’Haussonville, Vicomte and Trollope, Henry M. 1882. The Salon of Madame Necker, London: Chapman & Hall. van Horn Melton, James. 2001. The Rise of the Republic in Enlightenment Europe, Cambridge: Camridge UP Necker, Suzanne Curchod, Necker, Jacques and de Pougens, Charles. 1798, 1801. Mélanges extraits des manuscrits de Mme. Necker, Paris: C. Pougens and Nouveaux méleanges extraits des manuscrits de Mme. Necker, Paris: C. Pougens. Sainte-Beuve, Charles Augustin and Wormeley, Katherine P. 1964. Portraits of the Eighteenth Century: Historic and Literary, New York: Frederick Ungar. Spencer, Samia I. 1984. “Women and Education” in French Women and the Age of Enlightenment, ed. Samia I. Spencer, Bloomington: Indiana UP.

Heide Wunder

Dorothea Friderika Baldinger, née Gutbier (1743 – 1786): A “Woman Intellectual” in the Age of Enlightenment? Alive with wit, enlightened by her knowledge; Though goodness was her greater merit still; Devoted to her duty, not laboring to shine; Now He who sees what’s hidden, has seen to her reward.¹ (Kästner 1971: 81)

This is the “Epitaph for Mme. Councilor Baldinger” [Grabschrift der Fr. Hofräthin Baldinger] that Abraham Gotthelf Kästner of Göttingen, professor of natural sciences and geometry (1719 – 1800) (Cantor and Minor 1882) wrote in honor of Dorothea Friderika Baldinger, deceased in January of 1786 at the age of 42² (Otto 1999: 33). She was the late wife of Ernst Gottfried Baldinger (1738 – 1804), professor of medicine at the Collegium Carolinum in Kassel. The location of her grave is unknown; (Casselische Policey- und Commercien-Zeitung 1786: 90) there is no record of any other obituary. Kästner, however, did send his “Epitaph” to the writer Sophie von La Roche in Speyer, knowing that she held Baldinger in the highest regard and trusting that she would distribute the poem among her circle of friends and acquaintances.³ When Sophie von La Roche published Baldinger’s Essay about the Education of My Intellect. To One of My Friends [Versuch über meine Verstandeserziehung. An einen meiner Freunde], she once more solicited attention for Baldinger with the epitaph written by the famous Kästner (Lebensbeschreibung von Friderika Baldinger von ihr selbst verfaßt. Herausgegeben und mit einer Vorrede begleitet von Sophie, Wittwe von La Roche 1791)⁴. Kästner himself composed a short critique of the “Essay” for the Göttingischen Anzeigen in 1791. It apparently brought Baldinger to the attention of Theodor Gottlieb von

 “Durch Witz belebt, durch Kenntniß aufgeklärt; Doch gut zu seyn, war ihr noch größrer Wert; Treu ihrer Pflicht, zu glänzen unbemüht; nun lohnt Er ihr, der in’s Verborgene sieht.”  I identified 1743, in contrast to the usually listed 1739, as the year of her birth.  On 3/4/1786, Sophie von La Roche wrote to the countess Elise zu Solms-Laubach: “Meanwhile, I lost my friend Baldinger in Kassel, and Kästner sent me a copy of the verses that he wrote on her cinerary urn. [Ich verlor indessen meine Freundin Baldinger in Kassel und erhielt von Kästner die Abschrift der Verse, welche er auf ihren Aschenkrug schrieb.]” (Maurer 1983: 280, 436) In the version quoted by La Roche, the second line is transposed, “War gut zu sein doch ihr noch größrer Wert.”  Cited hereafter as Essay, according to Heuser 1994: 10. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110590364-006

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Hippel, inducing him to name her in his famous opus Über die bürgerliche Verbesserung der Weiber (1792) as an exemplar of inappropriate feminine humility (Holdenried 1995: 414– 415, Hippel 1981: 251, Weckel 2000). Even though Baldinger hardly made a name for herself in the literary world, she was well known and included in Adalbert von Hanstein’s Die Frauen in der Geschichte des Deutschen Geisteslebens des 18. und 19. Jahrhunderts (1899/1900). A notable tradition can be traced through the biographies of scholars and the obituaries that paid tribute to her famous husband and at the same time mentioned his wife. For example, we read in Strieder’s history of scholars and writers: “Baldinger was so taken with this rare gentlewoman’s outstanding intellectual development, as well as with the great dignity of her character, that he asked for her hand in marriage.” (Strieder 1819: 4, 8 – 9) Clearly, Baldinger was not unknown prior to her rediscovery by feminist literary criticism. Sophie von La Roche valued Baldinger’s Essay because she considered it evidence that women could create educational opportunities for themselves, even in the face of extremely unfavorable conditions. Her preface, written as a letter addressed to Caroline, Baroness von Lühe, speaks of Baldinger’s “male spirit and character,” (Essay: 9) as evidenced in her friendship with scholars such as Kästner and Lichtenberg. Kästner, a scholar feared for his incisive and ironic remarks, (Joost 1986: 46)⁵ described Baldinger as “alive with wit,” “enlightened by her knowledge” and an embodiment of “goodness.” With this characterization, referencing German Enlightenment discourse, the Enlightenment philosopher Kästner pronounced Baldinger his equal. But if Kästner recognized in her a kindred spirit and intellect, we might ask if Baldinger can justifiably be described as an “intellectual” and how the Enlightenment defined genius. To begin with, we need to ask how the eighteenth century defined genius. Taking Kästner’s epitaph as a point of departure, I shall explain the semantic fields and contexts of his central characterizations, “alive with wit,” “enlightened by her knowledge,” and “goodness.” The second part of my article parses Baldinger’s essay. Here, I ask whether and how Friderika Baldinger might be classified as an “intellectual.” My sources include Kästner’s epitaph, Baldinger’s Essay on the Education of my Mind. To One of my Friends, the correspondence between Kästner and Baldinger (Kästner 1912, Heuser 1996), Kästner’s letters to Baldinger’s daughter Amalie v. Gehren, his epigrams about members of the Baldinger family, (Gehren 1809)⁶ and the edited letters of Georg Christoph Lich-

 Kästner was said to be “notoriously cantankerous” [ein notorischer Zankhahn].  The commentary by Baldinger’s daughter provides important insights for the appreciation of Kästner’s letters and epigrams.

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tenberg (Lichtenberg 1983 – 2004), Georg Forster (Forster 1970), and Therese Huber (Lichtenberg 1983 – 2004).

“Alive with wit” – “enlightened by her knowledge” – “goodness” Kästner’s appreciative descriptions must be situated within eighteenth-century discourse and the Enlightenment’s pantheon of values. In the Enlightenment, “wit” corresponded to the French word “ésprit” (Grimm and Grimm 1984: 880). Thus, “enlightened by her knowledge” describes the comprehensive learning that the deceased had acquired. The intensification – “but goodness was her greater virtue still; devoted to her duty, not laboring to shine;” – is more problematic today. It speaks to the idea of “woman’s destiny” and her duties to her husband and children, which did not permit intellectual endeavors since the latter were identified with the specter of the “bookish spinster” (Heuser 1994: 246 – 247). In fact, Sophie von La Roche, in her 1791 preface to Baldinger’s Essay, related this passage to “the heart of the best mother and most cherishable friend” [das Herz der besten Mutter und schätzbarsten Freundin] (Essay: 10). It is likely, however, that the Enlightenment philosopher Kästner alluded to a comprehensive concept of goodness as a characteristic of the enlightened human being, which formed part of the “message of virtue.” (Martens 1968) Kästner’s characterization must be based on close acquaintance with Friderika Baldinger, for she did not appear in the public literary sphere until late in her life – 1782/83 – and with only two contributions in the “Magazin für Frauenzimmer” [Journal for Ladies] (Baldinger 1783: 179 – 186, 99 – 103). Kästner had known Friderika Baldinger since 1773, when she had followed her husband, a well-known scholar, from Jena to Göttingen, a center of the Enlightenment, where the university’s professors cooperated on various publishing projects (Hassenstein 2002). These include the critical journal, “Göttingische Zeitungen von gelehrten Sachen” [Göttingen Papers on Academic Matters] (published by Vandenhoeck since 1739), which reviewed books on the sciences and “belles lettres,” and offered a forum for intense scholarly controversies (Joost 1968). The Deutsche Gesellschaft, founded in 1738, had been reinvigorated and reformed by Kästner in 1762. From now on, not only students, but a select circle of prominent professors convened with the goal of cultivating the German language and using it to popularize research results. The literary journal “Göttinger Musenalmanach” (published by Dieterich), established by Heinrich Christian

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Boie and Friedrich Wilhelm Gotter in 1769 and continued in 1779 by Gottfried August Bürger, became the official publication of the “Hainbund” as early as 1774. The Baldingers, with their wide range of interests,⁷ quickly established connections to these circles of literary scholars. Their home was always open to friends and acquaintances, but especially to their colleagues, primarily on Saturdays. Friderika Baldinger wrote on the subject of professors’ wives, “I have met most of my women colleagues, but I also have already seen enough of some of them during their first visit, so that I do not long for closer acquaintance with them” (Panke-Kochinnke 1993: 67). She knew Therese Heyne (nee Weiß), the first wife of the professor Christian Gottlob Heyne,⁸ and corresponded with Dorothea Spangenberg who published poems in the Musenalmanach under the name of “Emilie” (Gehren 1809: 32). The famous “young university ladies” [Universitätsmamsellen] of Göttingen (Hassenstein 2002: 968 – 971), such as the daughters of the professors Heyne, Michaelis, Gatterer, Wedekind, and Schlözer, were still young children, as were her own daughters. Baldinger’s remarks from their time in Kassel suggest a rather critical perception. Thus, she reported to Kästner about the Forsters’ first visit on September 8, 1785, “She [Therese Heyne] was dressed like a vagabond, in an ugly blue traveling costume with a bare bosom, which we are not accustomed to here, her hair was cut into her face.” (Huber 1999: 578, 103) Georg Forster reported about this meeting to his father-in-law Heyne: Baldinger looks healthier than ever and his wife showed herself to be quite agreeable towards Therese, approximately in the manner of a fierce animal that retracts its claws and, contrary to its normal habits, is affectionate with those who gently stroke it. Therese, of course, did not fail to administer a large number of gentle strokes. (Forster 1970: 369)

The literary works of Philippine Gatterer, married in Kassel to Johann Philipp Nikolaus Engelhard, the Secretary of War, did not meet Baldinger’s undivided applause. Very likely, her thoughts were similar to those of her Göttingen friend Dorothea Spangenberg, who wrote to her on May 26, 1782: Ph(illipine’s) new poems prove again how thoroughly she spurns the obligations of modesty. I read them – and I was angry. Some of them are excellent, but only interesting to a wife and mother, and not to a young audience. Reading one of them, entitled The Marriage Ceremony, I was glad that my name was not listed among the subscribers – and a

 Baldinger’s library provides information about his varied scientific interests and activities. (Broszinski 2000: 62– 65)  On Therese Heyse see: (Heuser 1996: 158). On the daughter Therese’s negative opinion about her mother see: (Panke-Kochinke 1993: 153 – 154).

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girl had written this. (…) My husband was astonished when he read it, and he said, “No man would write of such things with so little delicacy.” (Dawson 1986: 26)

Kästner visited regularly with the Baldingers in their home and they saw each other at parties held by colleagues and publishers (Lichtenberg 1983 – 2004: 629, 695 – 701, 753 – 778). The Baldinger children felt at home in Kästner’s garden (Heuser 1994: 193), Kästner corresponded with the daughters, especially with “Malchen” (Amalie) (Gehren 1809). He taught her geometry (Gehren 1809: 49),⁹ and provided her, as well as her mother, with books from his large library (Kästner 1971: 126).¹⁰ As a matter of fact, Kästner, who had been widowed since 1758, was conspicuously solicitous of Friderika Baldinger, causing Lichtenberg to comment in 1983, “If it were any other two persons, without a doubt the chronique scandaleuse would already be telling any number of things”¹¹ (Lichtenberg 1983 – 2004). Treated as a member of the family, Kästner was given sufficient opportunities to witness Baldinger’s “wit,” which blossomed in conversation and during social occasions, (Grimm and Grimm 1984: 876 – 877) and her “knowledge.” She impressed not only him but also the younger philosopher and satirist Georg Christoph Lichtenberg (1743 – 1799) who, in letters to Friderike Baldinger, devised two treatises, “Gedanken über das Verlieben und Macht des Frauenzimmers” [Thoughts about Falling in Love and Woman’s Power] and “Fragment von Schwänzen” [Fragment about Tails]. (Lichtenberg 1986 – 2004: 395 – 701, 753 – 760) The letters give us an idea of the subject matter and tone of Baldinger’s and Kästner’s conversations. Kästner preferred letters because in this manner he could be certain of his conversation partner’s undivided attention.¹² The intensi-

 “Old Councilor Abraham / is gallant in his own way, / sending many an epigram to Mama / and drawing circles for the daughters. [Der alte Hofrath Abraham / ist doch galant auf eigne Weise, / Schickt der Mama manch Epigram / Und zeichnet für die Töchter Kreise.]”  Kästner to F. Baldinger on 3/20/1777.  Lichtenberg to Johann Andreas Schernhagen on June 12, 1783.  Kästner to Friderika Baldinger on 8/17/1779, “So this is what I wrote that evening when you were at the observatory. You must have thought to yourself: If anything could be done about this stubbornness, you would ask him to come eat [with us] in the evening. But then I would not have been able to converse with you alone as undisturbed as here in this letter. So you will understand that I am stubborn out of self-interest. [Das habe ich nun den Abend da Sie auf dem Observatorio waren geschrieben. Sie haben gewiß bey sich gedacht: Wenn mit dem Eigensinne was anzufangen wäre, so bätest Du ihn auf den Abend mit zu essen. Aber da hätte ich mich doch nicht mit Ihnen so ungestört allein unterhalten können, als hie in diesem Brief. Also sehen Sie wohl, dass ich aus Eigennutze eigensinnig bin.]” (Kästner 1971: 129) Kästner to Friderika Bal-

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ty of the exchange of ideas is documented in numerous letters Friderika Baldinger had written to Kästner through January of 1783 (Heuser 1994: 195), and in May of 1783 she owned “a whole drawer full of letters by Kästner in a chest, many epigrams […].” (Heuser 1996: 166) Even though only fragments of the correspondence have been handed down, especially with regard to Baldinger’s own letters (Heuser 1994: 195), they convey an impression of the tone of the conversations and of the range of topics they discussed with each other.

Essay about the Education of My Intellect. To One of My Friends In her Essay, Friderika Baldinger did not speak of her wit, nor did she call herself “enlightened by […] knowledge,” but she did refer to her “intellect,” a term that evokes Kant’s famous 1784 definition of enlightenment: “Sapere aude! Have the courage to use your own understanding! This, then, is the Enlightenment’s motto.” [… Habe Mut, dich deines eigenen Verstandes zu bedienen! Ist also der Wahlspruch der Aufklärung.] It is likely that Baldinger alluded to this Kantian definition in spite of semantic shifts from the pre-Kantian conceptual pair of “intellect” (lat. intellectus) and “reason” (lat. ratio) to their redefinition in Kant’s “Critique of Pure Reason.” ¹³ After all, Baldinger’s husband declared that, “To explain intellect to one’s audience means enabling them to use it.” [Seinen Zuhörern den Verstand erklären heist sie in den stand setzen solchen anzuwenden.]¹⁴ Still, in order to avoid misinterpretations, it is imperative that we clarify the phi-

dinger on 11/8/1781 “The ending of your letter was the best part I hope to talk to you on Saturday. I had already been resigned to the fact that you would have to cook on Saturday, just as I have already been resigned to being away from my home country and to knowing that most of my good male and female friends are in heaven. [Das Ende Ihres Briefes was das beste: Ich hoffe Sie Sonnabends zu sprechen. Ich hatte mich schon darein ergeben dass Sie auf den Sonnabend würden wieder zu kochen haben wie ich mich schon darein ergeben habe, von meinem Vaterlande entfernt zu seyn und fast alle meine guten Freunde und Freundinnen im Himmel zu wissen.]” (Kästner 1912: 136) “I cannot hear Mara when she is singing in the choir with others; but when she sings only for me, I am all ears. [Die Mara hör‘ ich nicht, macht sie mit Andern Chor; doch singt sie mir allein, nur dann bin ich ganz Ohr.]” (Gehren 1809: 125)  Article “Vernunft; Verstand” [Reason; intellect], (Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie 2001: 748 – 749, 817– 818, 829 – 823). The articles “Vernunft” and “Verstand” in the Deutsches Wörterbuch are informative as well.  Friderika Baldinger to Sophie von La Roche on May 16, 1783 (Heuser 1996: 160).

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losophic semantics of the concepts used in the Essay, i. e., intellect, psyche, heart, head, and will, including all of their correlations and hierarchizations. Some of Kästner’s letters to Friderika Baldinger discuss the term “intellect.” On November 13, 1777, Kästner wrote: One more word to the older one of the two Friderikas who so despairs of being equal to the older one of the two Thereses.¹⁵ (…) Th.’s intellect was not so very natural, really, but largely educated. Since she had read copiously and was knowledgeable of the world, her judgment of those things about which she had been educated was very good. However, I do not remember having observed in her many thoughts of her own, a mind capable of inventing anything. (Kästner 1912: 120)

On this occasion, he alludes to his wife who had died very early, “… but then I had a woman whose intellect was stronger.”¹⁶ Kästner thus differentiated between “educated,” “well read,” and “knowledgeable” on one hand, and “natural intellect” distinguished by “thoughts of one’s own, a mind capable of inventing

 This refers to Friderika Baldinger and her younger daughter of the same name, as well as to Therese Heyne, first wife of Professor Christian Gottlob Heyne and the mother of Therese Heyne/ Huber.  In his “Selbstbiographie” [autobiography] of 1764 Kästner wrote about her, “In September of 1856, I entered into matrimony with a woman from Leipzig, the maiden Johanne Rosina Baumann. The long period of social interaction I had enjoyed with her promised me that her constant companionship would make me completely happy. In addition to her moral virtue, based on judiciousness, and Christian piety, she was possessed of a skillful intellect, a desire for more serious and lofty knowledge than what otherwise incites the curiosity even of women who accept the flattering title of scholar, and a wit that knew how to skillfully make a point with these manifold insights. Thus, in conversations with her, I was not allowed always to condescend to the kind of subject matter to which one often has to stoop in conversations with scholars. In December of 1756, she fell ill with a disease that almost constantly, until her passing on March 4, 1758, inflicted on her the harshest ordeals that may be imposed on the human person and that she overcame through patient endurance and divine succor. [Ich habe mich 1756 im September mit einem Frauenzimmer aus Leipzig, Jungfer Johanne Rosina Baumann, verheiratet. Ein langer Umgang, den ich mit ihr gehabt hatte, versprach mir, dass ihre beständige Gesellschaft mich vollkommen glücklich machen würde. Bei einer auf Einsichten gegründeten moralischen Tugend und christlichen Frömmigkeit besaß sie einen geübten Verstand, eine Begierde nach ernsthafteren und erhabeneren Kenntnissen, als sonst die Neugier auch der Frauenzimmer reizen, die sich mit dem Namen Gelehrter schmeicheln lassen, und einen Witz, der selbst diese mannigfaltigen Kenntnisse geschickt anzubringen wußte. Ich durfte mich also bei den Unterredungen mit ihr nicht immer zu den Gegenständen herunterlassen, zu denen man sich oft bei den Unterredungen mit Gelehrten herablassen muß. Sie verfiel im Dezember 1756 in eine Krankheit, wo sie fast unablässig bis an ihr Ende, den 4. März 1758, die härtesten Prüfungen, welche der menschlichen Natur auferlegt werden können, durch Geduld und göttlichen Beistand überwand.].”

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anything,” on the other.¹⁷ Moreover, Kästner criticized Heyne’s literary taste, her favorite authors being Richardson, Klopstock, and Young, and then turned his attention to Baldinger again: I have noticed that the wife of Pr[ofessor]. B[aldinger]. thinks about these writers approximately the same as I do: And if, then, thinking as I do were a sign of intellect – a proposition that comes naturally to every scholar at least, no matter how wrong it may be, so—.¹⁸ (Kästner 1912: 121)

Even though this self-mocking sentence is left unfinished, Kästner here declares that he, the scholar, and his friend have “intellect” in common. At times, however, he condescendingly referred to her illiteracy in order to stress her “intellect,” i. e., in a letter of August 17, 1979: Why do I not want to give you the epigram? Because I do not want to create trouble for myself with the man whom it concerns. He possesses wit as well, and Boileau, whom you must know at least by name, just as Becmann knows Newton, the only difference being that you would be able to appraise Boileau if you understood French, whereas B. will never be able to comprehend anything about Newton other that his name, even though he knows a meager bit Latin. (Kästner 1912: 127– 128)¹⁹

With these words, Kästner expressed his anger about his colleague Beckmann, citing the Enlightenment philosophers’ prevalent criticism of traditional self-satisfied scholarship based on knowledge of the classical languages, of Latin in particular, that in itself in no way imparts the power of critical judgment.²⁰ This decoupling of “scholarship/scholarliness” and “intellect” made it possible for women, who had been excluded from the institutions of learning, to claim the enlightened ideal of emancipation for themselves. It may explain Baldinger’s use of light imagery, on which the concept of “enlightenment” was based, in order to accentuate the education of her intellect as a process of self-enlightenment: “From his letters, the first bright ray of understanding pierced my head (…)

 Kästner also formulated the difference between education and acquired knowledge and “reason” in his critique of the Essay, “She had read extensively and thought about it quite a lot, [Sie hatte viel gelesen und viel darüber gedacht]” (Göttingische Anzeigen 1891: 691).  The edition of the letter does not contain any editorial comments, so it is not clear whether the marking signifies an omission or illegible words.  For the context of this dispute with Beckmann: (Joost 1986: 51– 53).  In his critique of the Essay, Kästner quotes the proverb, “When God gives you an office, He also provides the intellect you need. [Wem Gott ein Amt giebt, dem giebt er auch Verstand.]” (Kästner 1912).

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How I was looking forward to the arrival of my brother who was going to bring daylight into my dark brain.” (Essay: 17)

“Education of Intellect” and “Character” The Essay about the Education of My Intellect has mainly been read as an autobiography²¹ and, at the same time, as evidence of the discrimination against women in terms of education, and as radical criticism of the institution of marriage (Goodman 1986, Meise 1996, Heuser 1996, Ramm 1998, Niethammer 2000). Baldinger states in her Essay, “I so wished to become very learned” (Essay: 16), and notes that the “Biographies of Physicians and Natural Scientists now Living in Germany and Abroad” [Biographien jeztlebender Aerzte und Naturforscher in und ausser Deutschland], published since 1768 by her husband, E. G. Baldinger, might have provided models seems obvious as well (Heuser 1996: 157). Friderika Baldinger herself, in a letter to Kästner of February 26, 1782, only spoke of “a fragment from the laborious, miserable life of my youth.” (Heuser 1994: 189) Without a doubt, Baldinger’s Essay is autobiographical writing. It allows us to parse Friderika Baldinger’s intentions (Epple 2003: 154). It is telling that she titles her text “Essay,” which, in the eighteenth century, meant academic treatise,²² and thus signals, possibly ironically, that Baldinger is not simply telling “her story.” She rejects her friend’s wish that she should write a “history of my intellect” for him, and she sets the following task for herself: “I present it [the history of my intellect, HW] not as such a one, but rather as a contribution to my education, to the extent that it has a bearing on the whole of my [!] character.”²³ Her intention, then, was to record and reflect on the process of her self-formation, the “education of intellect” representing a component of her “character” formation in the sense of personality development. This interrelation between “intellect” and “character” explains why Baldinger placed self-critical state The assignment of genre goes back to Sophie von La Roche who published the Essay under the title of “Lebensbeschreibung” [Biography]. Kästner immediately corrected this in his critique of the work (Kästner 1912: 690 – 691), “In truth merely, as the inside inscription proclaims as well, about the intellectual education of the deceased spouse of the privy councilor Baldinger in Marburg. [Eigentlich nur, wie auch die innere Aufschrift lautet: über die Verstandeserziehung der verstorbenen Ehegattin des Hrn. geh. Rath Baldinger in Marburg.]”  The Deutsches Wörterbuch lists both meanings and discusses the reception of the French word “Essay” (Grimm and Grimm 1984: 1824– 1825).  “Character” = “gemüthsart, wie sie sich in den menschen ausgeprägt hat,” “sinnesart” (Kant) [Character = nature, as it has found expression in human beings, disposition (Kant)] (Grimm and Grimm 1984: 611).

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ments about her moral development alongside an analysis of the “education of her intellect.” In writing this critical self-analysis, she could not have been guided by Rousseau’s Confessions, which informed later autobiographies, since a German translation of this work did not exist until 1782, when she had already finished the Essay (Heuser 1994: 255 – 256). Unsparing “admissions” and “confessions,” however, published in print as revival narratives, already played an important part in pietist writing. It is conceivable that Baldinger, who was brought up in a strict pietist household, was familiar with such narratives (Kormann 2004, Gleixner 2005). Even though she expressly denied that her mother had in any way influenced her intellectual education, she stressed the importance of her religious upbringing on “all of her happiness.” (Essay: 15) Therefore, it is unlikely that this statement is a “concession” to models of femininity (Holdenried 1995: 117).

Stages in the Formation of Intellect and Character Friderika Baldinger probably wrote the Essay at a friend’s request around 1780. In February of 1782, while organizing her desk, she found it and sent it to Kästner (Heuser 1994: 186, 189). In it, she explained that the “education of her intellect” “gradually” (Essay: 24) gained influence on “the whole of her character.” It is possible to define four stages, although intellectual education and character formation are not always presented as parallel processes. The first stage is informed by the early death of her father, Johann Christian Gutbier (1705 – 1744), pastor in Langensalza. Her pietist mother was destitute and did not have the means to pay for her daughter Friderika’s education in spite of her giftedness, noticeable early on – by the age of three she was already able to read. The girl found reading material in the home of an aunt who was married to a doctor and who did possess wit and intellect but had remained without instruction. Just like her aunt, the “merry” and bright girl read anything she could obtain and made sense of it for herself. While reading the “Göttingische Zeitungen von gelehrten Sachen,” she noted that “these learned men were accorded as much respect as the potentates of the world” with whom she was familiar from reading the “Hinkenden Boten” [Limping Messenger]. At that time she “first developed respect for learning” and “so wished to become very learned, and [I] was angry that my sex excluded me from it. Well, you may become clever at least, I thought, and you become such from books, so you will read diligently.” (16) The only book available to her was the Bible, which she

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read to the family at home, thus developing a virtuosity in reading out loud that was admired by all. Baldinger’s self-criticism should not be missed: She wanted to become “learned” in order to become famous but the admiration accorded to her was unfounded, for her intelligence was as uneducated as her moral education was neglected. The next phase of her education is marked by the return of her older brother, Johann Christian (1734– 1761) from the University of Wittenberg, where he had studied theology, and with whom she had already exchanged letters before. “From his letters the first ray of intellect pierced my head, or rather, I sensed what many a learned man has never perceived, that is, that I did not know anything.” (17) However, her mother not only kept her from reading, she also did not permit Johann Christian to teach his sister French, to play the piano “and such,” since “after all, she would never be able to marry a professor.” Baldinger commented defiantly, “but I did not want a man anyway.” (18) “I began finding a great many persons intolerable, and especially men who were not scholars.” “This made me antagonistic to a whole gender, which the unreflecting girl that I was only judged in accordance with the sphere, in which I was living.” The girl was not only unreflecting but she also delighted in mockery and insisted stubbornly on misguided ideas and on her “wish to always be free and independent of the whole world.” (18) As a result, she was “lonely.” Eventually, Baldinger was rescued from this isolation by the pastor Johann Wilhelm Kranichfeld who was connected in a “musical friendship” (18) with her brother.²⁴ He became Friderika’s “spiritual father” (19) who carried on unrestricted conversations with her and corresponded with her until the time of her death (Heuser 1994: 202). “One of the first books my friend lent me was the “Zuschauer” [Spectator] (Heuser 1994: 202– 203). I gazed at the book in wonder, for never in my life had I read anything more beautiful” (Essay: 19). The Zuschauer clearly contributed to the “refinement of her intellect,” but in retrospect she commented, “Last year I tried reading this book again and I was not able to do it. That’s how I relate to that period nowadays.” Kranichfeld also helped her overcome the depression she had slipped into after her brother’s death in 1761: The fiery willful spirit of my youth turned into a quiet earnestness, beyond the habits of my age … and intelligent persons spoke with me as though I were their equal in age and expe-

 Johann Wilhelm Kranichfeld was born in Langensalza in 1718, studied in Jena, became deacon of the Stephanikirche in Langensalza in 1760 and deacon of the St. Bonifaz church in Langensalza in 1770. He died 1791 in Langensalza. This information dates back to the obituary written by his successor in office, the deacon August Gottlieb Sommer (1793: 314– 316).

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rience. I … now endeavored to truly earn their esteem, which previously I had received by happenstance only. (21)

Her intellectual education started to affect the “whole of her character,” she was not quite so “lonely” anymore. Even so, her enmity towards all men had led to the refusal of a marriage proposal that her family, wanting to see her provided for, had urged her to accept. She felt “revulsion to all physical love,” had a “predisposition to sainthood, was pious and a vestal virgin, had raptures as well, except that I was not able to perform miracles, for – according to all rules – I would have had to die first,²⁵ so that people would have been able to recount things about me.” (21) In this last sentence, Baldinger treats her youthful “predisposition to sainthood” with irony – in line with with Enlightenment criticism of religion. In the physician Ernst Gottlieb Baldinger, Friderika (1761/62) found the “learned, intelligent, and likewise honest man” (22) whom she was able to love and for whom she changed her previous attitude towards marriage. She owed “all development of my mental faculties” to her husband. “He built my intelligence, improved my will and my heart” (22). Thus, intelligence, will, and heart are presented as essential components in “the whole of her character.” In Baldinger’s company, Friderika read copiously,²⁶ he himself reviewed for her more than 1,000 titles, including medical textbooks, presumably books in Latin, French, and English, since she did not master these languages. Her unreflecting “I so wished to become very learned” was replaced by a […] love for the sciences […], the more I became familiar with them. I think I would have become a scholar if providence had not assigned me to the cooking pot, and I still believe that even in womanly pursuits we have use for the intelligence of men that we find in their books. ²⁷ (Habermas 1998: 250)

Not without irony, Baldinger reports that after the most womanly of all “womanly business” – the birth of her six children – she used the six postpartum confinements, intended for the recuperation of her body, as periods of intensive reading for “the recuperation of my soul” by strengthening her intellectual pow-

 The text of this edition says “streben” [to strive]. Presumably, this is a typographical error, for only “sterben” [to die] gives the sentence the intended meaning.  Ernst G. Baldinger owned an extensive specialist library (Broszinski 2000, Heuser 1994: 197– 198).  Based on these passages, Rebekka Habermas has interpreted the Essay as a eulogy for the marriage of scholars.

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ers. “Since I had acquired the habit of thinking at all times, I also remained present to myself even during the most intense pain – and even the Bible calls it that.” (Essay: 24) Once more, Baldinger links intellectual education to “the whole of her character,” “I have always tried to live in such a way, that I will not have to fear any evil even when I die, and some day I will have to do just that, after all” (25). Praying out of fear, therefore, is offensive to her. To Baldinger, the friendships with Kästner and Lichtenberg furthered the education of her intellect and provided access to the society of Enlightenment thinkers. How does Friderika Baldinger assess the contribution of her intellectual education “to the whole of her character?” The unfolding of her “natural intellect” was restricted early on: material hardship, her mother’s Pietist notions about education and her social circle. Initially, Baldinger was self-taught and lacked guidance. The obstacles she faced made her disobedient, obstinate, and misanthropic. Only the sympathy and support she received, initially from her academically educated brother and then from his clerical friend Kranichfeld, created conditions that allowed her intellectual education to progress and influence the “improvement” of “the whole of her character.” Baldinger notes that she was vitally influenced by enlightened theologians. After the early death of her father, her older brother, educated at Schulpforta (1746 – 1752) (Bittcher 1843) and a theologian as well, took his place, and after his premature death in 1761, it was primarily Kranichfeld who cared for her as a pastor and made the world of fine literature accessible to her. He established a bookstore and founded a “Journalgesellschaft” [journal society] in Langensalza, as well as a musical circle. In the small town of Langensalza, he was a central authority for education and promulgated an enlightened Christianity, especially to young people.²⁸ Baldinger entered into marriage with a man who was not inferior to her. Their relationship was grounded in mutual deep respect and allowed her to continue developing “the whole of her character” to such a point that Kästner and Lichtenberg sought her out as a critical and discriminating conversational partner. Through this, she was able to participate in enlightenment discourse. She did not, however, define herself through her husband and scholarly friends, but rather through her independence of mind.

 Our current knowledge about Kranichfeld is based on the Nekrolog (Sommer 1793: 314– 316) and the obituary by an anonymous writer in the Gothaer Gelehrten Zeitung of 1791, 33rd item of April 20, 1791, 305 f. Both authors describe Kranichfeld as an “insightful scholar and enlightened theologian; as a sermonizer; as a man of irreproachable integrity; as an active philanthropist, and an amicably inclined colleague [(als) einsichtsvollen Gelehrten, und aufgeklärten Gottesgelehrten; als Prediger; als einen Mann von unbescholtener Rechtschaffenheit; as thätigen Menschenfreund, und freundschaftlich denkenden Collegen].” (305).

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The last sentence of the Essay – a traditional gesture of modesty – calls such a construction of identity into question. “As a woman, I have become passable, but how small would I be as a man” (24). In his review, Kästner corrected Baldinger’s statement of self-depreciation by relating “intellect” to the respective “destiny” of a woman/a man. However, Baldinger might have referred to something else here. She stated herself that her body was “extremely excitable” (24), and it may have been the cause of a passing downheartedness that she expressed in that last sentence. But her depression might also be fundamental and connected to the limits imposed on a “woman’s destiny.” We cannot know if the last sentence of the printed edition was already contained in the version of the Essay that had gone to Kästner on February 26, 1782 or if Baldinger inserted it later. When she wrote the essay, Baldinger already knew about her husband’s infidelity that had wounded the core of her being. Initially, she did not give up hope that she might win him back. She sent Kästner the letter of homage that her husband had written after reading the Essay, stating that it “was so flattering that I could not keep such an [attachment, HW] only to myself and not have a friend such as you share it with me.”²⁹ (Heuser 1994: 192) Nevertheless, she was overcome by despondency, and so, as early as October of 1782, in a letter to Kästner, she no longer argued that the education of intellect and character are interrelated. “Out of love for him, she now did voluntarily what she would not have done on any king’s orders. She became obedient and flexible, for she felt very happy when she pleased him, and extremely unhappy when she displeased him.” (Heuser 1996: 168 – 169) Here Friderika Baldinger presents herself as a slave to her love, which made her a “foolish woman” who sacrificed her autonomy. Baldinger did not want to share her husband, who was of such vital importance for her, with another woman. Her despair about having only Baldinger’s respect but no longer his love robbed her of “all her happiness” and darkened her perspective on life. Her “woman’s destiny,” she wrote, steered her intellectual faculties into the wrong direction, “[…] I often had to intentionally shroud my intellect in a fog, so as not to think, not to feel.” (Heuser 1996: 173)

 “Meanwhile my husband had read the essay, and he sent me the attached note of which, seeing that after almost 18 years of ownership my husband is still able to write like that, I am prouder than an 18-year-old girl who is enchanting a stammering young man. [Mein Mann hatte indessen den Aufsatz durchlesen, und schikte mir die beilage, auf welche ich stolzer bin, dass mir mein Mann nach einem balt 18 Jährigen besitz noch so schreiben kann, als ein 18 Jähriges Mädgen, wen sie einen taumelnden Jüngling bezaubert.]” (3/1/1782)

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Friderika Baldinger – A Woman Intellectual in the Age of Enlightenment? The analysis of the Essay provides a partial answer to my initial question. Friderika Baldinger was enlightened by her knowledge and knew how to use her intellect, in Kant’s sense, as a guideline for correct behavior. Through the process of her intellectual education, she had attained the capacity for critical assessment of authorities as well as an independence of spirit. Like Kästner, she reconciled these with “moral virtue and Christian piety based on understanding.” Baldinger’s intellectuality aligns her with the enlightened Republic of Letters in the second half of the eighteenth century before the French Revolution and before Kant’s “Critique of Pure Reason” (1781). “The bright ray of understanding in my head” [Enlightenment] constituted a crucial intellectual experience for her, lifted her beyond pedantic book learning, and enabled her to participate in the enlightened discourse. Only her steps into the public literary sphere were wary; maybe she feared that she would not be able to do justice to her own high standards, by which she also judged others. We can only speculate what sort of influence the French Revolution might have had on Friderika Baldinger, whether she would have dared to foray into the public literary sphere, be it in approval or repudiation of the revolutionary events.

Digression on the Textual Criticism of the Essay about the Education of My Intellect Until now, Baldinger’s Essay has been read as a text that is all of a piece. But we do not know whether Friderika Baldinger revised the 1782 version for her husband, whether her husband passed the version presented to him on to Sophie von La Roche unchanged, and whether Sophie von La Roche interfered with the text in connection with its publication in 1791. There may have been three revisions with varying intentions. Sophie von La Roche probably owned a copy that Ernst Gottlieb Baldinger had sent to her. Baldinger’s own copy, which, to this day, has not been found, may be with his estate, the whereabouts of which are unknown. Thus, we cannot know if Baldinger’s copy followed the “original” verbatim and we cannot rule out that La Roche changed the text, just as she did when quoting from Baldin-

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ger’s letter, leaving out the clause that alluded to her husband’s infidelity.³⁰ Sophie von La Roche’s publication of the Essay contains yet another inconsistency. She quotes Baldinger’s letter in which he asks his wife to record the development of her intellect. Nothing within the text of the Essay supports such a request, and the dedication, “to one of my friends,” does not refer to her husband who was not “one of” her friends. Moreover, it seems strange that E.G. Baldinger, with whom Friderika had exchanged so many letters during the two years that he had to wait for an official position in order to be able to marry her (Essay: 22), would claim that he did not know anything about the “history of her intellect.” Why was her husband not able to read the Essay before 1782, when it was in Baldinger’s desk, forgotten for years (Heuser 1994: 189)? Finally, why did Friderika Baldinger not give the Essay to her husband for his birthday in 1782, but waited until 1783 – a year later? (Essay: 11– 12). The wording of her dedication of 1783 provides an answer to these questions: “I wanted to have the attached pages printed first and present them to you as a gift, because they once had the good fortune to please you.” (11) With the Essay, she meant to woo her unfaithful husband, who had had a mistress since 1780, by conjuring up their unity of “heart” and “mind.” (11– 12) Since the Essay contains a number of very intimate confessions, La Roche may have changed or even invented Baldinger’s letter to avoid embarrassment. In view of the marital drama, it is possible that Friderika Baldinger revised the essay for the presentation copy in 1783 and prefaced the “gift inscription” with a new dedication. The sentence, “Since the higher strengths of my mind have always maintained the ascendancy over all the lower ones; I do not know, whether he, looking at me as a woman, has always fared with me according to his desires” (22) may allude to her husband’s infidelity. Tellingly, the previous and the following paragraphs connect with each other directly, which suggests a later insertion: “[…] for many of the letters that we wrote to each other in the interim more often than not contained a list of our respective flaws.—I tried to improve my faults, intending to enlarge my mind […]” (22). Alas, without the Essay’s version of February 1782 we can neither confirm nor disprove this assumption. Still, the existing text should be read in a more critical frame of mind than has been done so far, and any interpretation needs to take the genesis of the text into account. It is possible that the “friend” who asked Baldinger for a history of her intellect was Abraham Gotthelf Kästner, Baldinger’s ‘intellectual partner,’ who was familiar with “the education of her intellect.” Kästner, not her husband,

 Niethammer (2000: 120) was the first one to point this out.

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was the first person entrusted with reading the Essay (Heuser 1996: 159). The penultimate sentence of the Essay might have been addressed directly to him: “Could a person who keeps so much of Kästner’s intellect and wit safely in her desk drawer possibly remain completely simpleminded?” (Essay: 24) Evidence that supports my assumption may be found within the correspondence between Kästner and Baldinger in the previously quoted discussions about “intellect.”

Works Cited Baldinger, Dorothea Friderika. 1783. “Über das alte Schloß Plesse (*), bei Göttingen. Ein Brief von Madame *** an H. K. in C.” in: Magazin für Frauenzimmer 1, 179 – 186. Baldinger, Dorothea Friderika. 1783. “Ermahnungen einer Mutter, an ihre Tochter. Am Confirmationstage” in: Magazin für Frauenzimmer 2, 99 – 103. Baldinger, E.G. 1768. “Biographien jeztlebender Aerzte und Naturforscher in und ausser Deutschland”. Hannover: Ernst Geibel. Bittcher, C. F. (ed.). 1848. “Pförtner Album. Verzeichniß sämmtlicher Lehrer und Schüler der Königl. Preuß. Landesschule Pforta vom Jahre 1543 – 1843”, Leipzig, No. 6453 (https://ar chive.org/details/bub_gb_8Ak9AAAAYAAJ). Broszinski, Hartmut. 2000. “illiteratissima urbs? Kassler Privatbibiliotheken im 18. Jahrhundert”, in: Heide Wunder, Christina Vanja, Karl-Hermann Wegner (eds.), Kassel im 18. Jahrhundert. Residenz und Stadt, Kassel: Euregio, 47 – 70. Cantor, M. and Minor, J. 1882. “Kaestner, Abraham Gotthelf Kästner” in: ADB, Bd. 15, Leipzig, 439 – 451. Casselische Policey- und Commercien-Zeitung of 1/13/1786. Dawson, Ruth P. 1986. “Im Reifrock den Parnass besteigen. Die Rezeption von Dichterinnen im 18. Jahrhundert (am Beispiel von Philippine Gatterer-Engelhard)”, in: Frauensprache – Frauenliteratur? Für und Wider einer Psychoanalyse literarischer Werke, eds. Inge Stephan, Carl Piezcker, Tübingen: Niemeyer, 24 – 29. Eckart, Rudolf (ed.). 1909. “Abraham Gotthelf Kästners Selbstbiographie und Verzeichnis seiner Schriften nebst Heyne’s Lobrede auf Kästner,” Hannover: Ernst Geibel. Epple, Angelika. 2003. Empfindsame Geschichtsschreibung. Eine Geschlechtergeschichte der Historiographie zwischen Aufklärung und Historismus, Beiträge zur Geschichtskultur 26, Köln, Weimar, Wien: Böhlau Verlag. Forster, Georg. 1970. Werke in vier Bänden, 4. Briefe, ed. Gerhard Steiner, Frankfurt a. M.: Insel. Gleixner, Ulrike. 2005. Pietismus und Bürgertum. Eine historische Anthropologie der Frömmigkeit. Württemberg 17. – 19. Jahrhundert. Bürgertum Neue Folge 2, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Goodman, Katherine. 1986. Dis/Closures. Women’s Autobiography in Germany between 1790 and 1914, New York, Berne, Frankfurt a. M.: Peter Lang. Gothaer Gelehrten Zeitung. 1791. Grimm, Jacob and Grimm, Wilhelm. 1984. Deutsches Wörterbuch. Reprint, vol. 30, München: dtv.

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Habermas, Rebekka. 1998. “Friderika Baldinger und ihr Männerlob: Geschlechterdebatten der Aufklärung”, in: Heide Wunder, Gisela Engel (eds.), Geschlechterperspektiven. Forschungen zur Frühen Neuzeit, Königstein i. Ts.: Ulrike Helmer, 242 – 254. Hassenstein, Friedrich. 2002. “Das literarische Leben”, in: Ernst Böhme, Rudolf Vierhaus (ed.), Göttingen. Geschichte einer Universitätsstadt, Bd. 2, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 947 – 978. Heuser, Magdalene, et al. 1994. “Ich wünschte so gar gelehrt zu werden.” Drei Autobiographien von Frauen des 18. Jahrhunderts. Texte und Erläuterungen, Göttingen: Wallstein, 8 – 24. Heuser, Magdalene. 1996. “Zwischen Kochtopf und Verstandeserziehung, Briefen und Gelehrtenautobiographie: Dorothea Friderika Baldinger” in: Magdalene Heuser (ed.), Autobiographien von Frauen. Beiträge zu ihrer Geschichte, Berlin/Boston: De Gruyter, 152 – 174. von Hippel, Theodor Gottlieb. 1981. Über die bürgerliche Verbesserung der Weiber. Anhang: Nachlass über weibliche Bildung, Vaduz/Liechtenstein: Topos. Holdenried. Michaela. 1995. “‘Ich, die schlechteste von allen.’ Zum Zusammenhang von Berechtigung, Schuldbekenntnis und Subversion in autobiographischen Werken von Frauen, in: Michaela Holdenried (ed.), Geschriebenes Leben. Autobiographik von Frauen, Berlin: E. Schmidt, 402 – 420. Joost, Ulrich. 1986. “Göttinger Gelehrtengezänk. Zur inneren Verfassung der Gelehrtenrepublik, dargestellt am Beispiel von Professorenstreitigkeiten im 18. Jahrhundert”, Göttinger Jahrbuch, Göttingen: Verlag die Werkstatt, 34, 45 – 59. Kästner, Abraham Gotthelf. 1912. Briefe aus sechs Jahrzehnten 1745 – 1800, Berlin: B. Behr. Kästner, Abraham Gotthelf. 1971. Gesammelte Poetische und Prosaische Schönwissenschaftliche Werke, T. 1, 81, Berlin, 1841, Reprint Frankfurt a. M.: Athenäum. Kästner, Abraham Gotthelf und Amalie von Gehren. 1809. Dreissig Briefe und mehrere Sinngedichte, Darmstadt: Leske. Kormann, Eva. 2004. Ich, Welt und Gott. Autobiographik im 17. Jahrhundert. Selbstzeugnisse der Neuzeit 13, Köln, Weimar, Wien: Böhlau. von La Roche, Sophie (ed.). 1791. Lebensbeschreibung von Friderika Baldinger von ihr selbst verfaßt. Herausgegeben und mit einer Vorrede begleitet von Sophie, Wittwe von La Roche. Offenbach: Weiß und Brede. Lichtenberg, Georg Christoph. 1983 – 2004. Briefwechsel, 5 vols., eds. Ulrich Joost and Albrecht Schöne, München: Beck. Maurer, Michael. 1983. Ich bin mehr Herz als Kopf. Sophie von La Roche. Ein Lebensbild in Briefen, München: Beck. Martens, Wolfgang. 1968. Die Botschaft der Tugend. Die Aufklärung im Spiegel der deutschen Moralischen Wochenschriften, Stuttgart: Metzler. Meise, Helga. 1996. “Bildungslust und Bildungslast in Autobiographien von Frauen um 1800”, in: Elke Kleinau, Claudia Opitz (eds.), Geschichte der Mädchen- und Frauenbildung, Bd.1, Frankfurt a. M., New York: Campus Verlag, 453 – 466. Niethammer, Ortrun. 2000. Autobiographien von Frauen im 18. Jahrhundert, Tübingen, Basel: Francke. Otto, Astrid. 1999. Schreibende Frauen vom 16. bis 20. Jahrhundert. Lebensläufe und Bibliographien, mit einer Einführung von Angelika Schlimmer. Schriftenreihe des Archivs der deutschen Frauenbewegung 2, Kassel: Archiv der Dt. Frauenbewegung.

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Panke-Kochinke, Birgit. 1993. Göttinger Professorenfamilien. Strukturmerkmale weiblichen Lebenszusammenhangs im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert Pfaffenweiler: Centaurus. Ramm, Elke. 1998. Autobiographische Schriften deutschsprachiger Autorinnen um 1800: “es ist überhaupt schwer, sehr schwer, von sich selbst zu reden” (Sophie von LaRoche), Hildesheim, Zürich, New York: Olms-Weidmann. Sommer, August Gottlieb. 1793. Nekrolog auf das Jahr 1791, Nachrichten von dem Leben merkwürdiger in diesem Jahre verstorbener Personen. Gesammelt von Friedrich Schlichtegroll, 2. Jg, 2. Bd, Gotha, 314 – 316. Strieder, Friedrich Wilhelm. 1819. Grundlage zu einer hessischen Gelehrten- und Schriftsteller-Geschichte. Seit der Reformation bis auf gegenwärtige Zeiten, Vol. 18, Marburg: Karl Wilhelm Justi. Weckel, Ulrike. 2000. “Gleichheit auf dem Prüfstand. Zur zeitgenössischen Rezeption der Streitschriften von Theodor Gottlieb von Hippel und Mary Wollstonecraft in Deutschland.” In: Claudia Opitz, Ulrike Weckel, Elke Kleinau (eds.), Tugend, Vernunft und Gefühl. Geschlechterdiskurse der Aufklärung und weibliche Lebenswelten, Münster: Waxmann, 209 – 247.

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Sophie Schwarz (1754 – 1789): “Wonderful Antagonism in My Own Soul” – Annotations to Sophie Schwarz’s Travel Journal In October of 1789, shortly after what had been an uncomplicated delivery of her first child, the unexpected death of Sophie Schwarz, née Becker, the daughter of a Courland parson, caused a great deal of dismay in her circle of friends in Halberstadt. Only two and a half years before, Sophie had wed the nephew of the poet Johann Wilhelm Ludwig Gleim. Together with her new husband, the lawyer Johann Ludwig Georg Schwarz, she set up home in Halberstadt. There had been a period of hesitation between their first meeting in the winter of 1784/85 in the Harz Mountains and their marriage in April 1787. Sophie, although more than well-disposed to Schwarz, was concerned that her obligations to her ailing parents in Courland would not be compatible with her liaison to Schwarz. Only after the death of both parents, who died within a month of each other in 1786, did she commit to marry Schwarz. In the few years she spent in Halberstadt, she gained much more respect and recognition in the circle of friends around Gleim than expected. The admiration she received – less as an author than as an attractive personality – was expressed in a “memorial” dedicated to her in the Deutsche Monatsschrift (Vieweg: 1790), which alongside a portrayal of Sophie penned by Göckingk, comprised her correspondence with Moses Mendelssohn and her story Arindas as well as her collection of lyrical obituaries. Her husband published these lyrical obituaries “Flowers on [Sophie’s] Grave”¹ (Schwarz 1790: 249) as an annex to a book of poetry Elisens und Sophiens Gedichte, in the preparation of which Sophie herself had been involved before her death. In the foreword of the collection, the widower evokes the tragic circumstances surrounding the publication and explains that the last poem by his deceased wife, a farewell verse from September 1788 entitled “An den Baron Thuri aus Siebenbürgen,” had not been intended to be included by Sophie because it was “rashly written” (Schwarz 1790: 250). How-

This essay was originally written in German and was translated into English by Christina A. Menzies.  In the original: “Blumen auf [Sophiens] Grab.” https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110590364-007

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ever, Schwarz decided to include it after her death. The poem’s message has become programmatic for Sophie’s lyrical legacy: Friend, brighten your face. Time and space do not divide souls. Thank the Lord! That we saw you, Man of simple heart, here […] No pleasure is enduring, We must travel on. But certainly! At the end of our journey We shall meet again.² (251)

Four times, at the beginning of every verse, the line “No pleasure is enduring!” (Schmidt in Schwarz 1790: 252– 256) is quoted in Klamer Schmidt’s elegy “An Elisa über den Tod ihrer Freundin Sophia” and transformed into a “swan song” (Schwarz 1790: 252). Hereby, the most important message of the deceased to the living is implicitly transformed into a leitmotif of life, meaning “eternal life.” In any case, taken together, the “Flowers on [Sophie’s] Grave” can be read as a repertory of Christian ideology that seeks to suppress the scandalon of death. And not only by conjuring up the bliss of the afterlife which was then to be bestowed upon the deceased,³ but also by admonishing the bereaved, that instead of grieving, they should display cheerfulness and serenity: “Alas! Sophia is laid to rest! / But brighten your pained face.” This is how Gleim himself comforts Sophie’s friend Elisa von der Recke: “Show thanks to your God that you had her, / And cry not.”⁴ (264) In the lyrical obituaries, Sophie figures as a fully integrated member of the Halberstadt Enlightenment community – truly as one of them. There is hardly a single word that reminds us that she was a “newcomer,” who not only in her

 In the original: “Freund erheitre dein Gesicht. / Zeit und Raum trennt Seelen nicht. / Dank sey Gott! dass wir Dich Mann, / Biedres Herzens, hier schon sahn. […] Bleibend ist hier kein Genuss, / Weil man weiterreisen muss. / Doch gewiss! Am Ziel der Bahn.”  See Kleist’s poem dedicated to the widower, An Denselben: “Wealth of highest bliss / Drink below the myrtle / her soul! – So, my friend, / Tell me why your eye cries? “ (in the original: “Hoher Seligkeiten Fülle / Trinkt schon unter Myrtenlaub / Ihre Seele! – Drum, o Freund, / Sag mir, was Dein Auge weint?”) (Schwarz 1790: 270).  In the original: “Ach! Sophia wird begraben! / Heitre doch dein Schmerzgesicht”, “Danke, sie gehabt zu haben, / Deinem Gott, und weine nicht.” (Schmidt in Schwarz 1790: 258) Similar to the poem of Fischer to Schwarz: “Just grieve, Schwarz! You have lost a human treasure. / But rejoice, too! For once she was yours.” (in the original: “Traure nur Schwarz! Du verlorst menschliches Kleinod. / Aber freue dich auch! Denn du besassest sie einst.”) (Fischer in Schwarz 1790: 264)

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childhood and youth, but also in adulthood, was exposed to completely different cultural influences than her writer friends who had been brought up in Central Germany. It was not until July 1784, when she was already 30 years old, that she set off on a great journey as chaperone to her aristocratic friend, Elisa von der Recke, née von Medem (see Leyh/Müller/Viehöver 2018 and Viehöver/Leyh 2015). This journey was to cause far-reaching changes, and not only in a private sense. As we will show below, Sophie’s attitude about writing changed after this journey. Before an inquisitive, open-minded rapporteur on cultural matters, she became a propagator of education for women – a transformation that did not take place without losses. To illustrate the magnitude of this change, we will first outline Sophie’s educational background in Courland. We will then present an in-depth analysis of the travel journal which was first published more than a hundred years after her death. To date, this work has not been read as an independent literary text, and yet it sheds light on how Sophie regarded the society of her time before she became a member of the male-dominated “Halberstädter Kreis.”

Sophie in Courland – Educated with an Eye toward “Intellectual Sweetness” Sophie Becker’s educational background can be reconstructed through statements made by third parties who, intent on honoring her memory after her death, recall her personality and how she made her way through life. The two most elaborate testimonies are by Göckingk, Elisa von der Recke’s long-time friend, and Sophie’s husband. In his autobiography, the latter evokes Elisa’s travels to Germany: On this journey, she was accompanied by Sophie Becker, daughter of a parson in Neuautz in Courland, who in educational matters was on a par with the noble Elisa v. d. R., and who wrote letters which were “ready for press”. Her recreation was playing the piano and singing. She found pleasure in writing poetry, spoke four languages and was as experienced as Penelope in all female matters.⁵ (Schwarz 1828: 131)

 In the original: “Auf dieser Reise begleitete sie Sophie Becker, Tochter eines Pfarrers zu NeuAutz in Curland, welche in der Bildung mit der edlen Elisa v. d. R. gleichen Schritt gehalten hatte, und Briefe schrieb, die als Muster gleich gedruckt werden konnten. Klavier Spiel und Gesang war ihre Erholung. Daneben war sie eine glückliche Dichterin, sprach vier lebende Sprachen, und war in allen weiblichen Künsten erfahren wie Penelope.”

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Beyond the skills and arts mentioned here, Sophie had also received drawing and dance lessons in Neu-Autz. “Such a high level of education for the fairer sex was at that time not common in Germany,”⁶ (132) Schwarz ascertained. He saw the extensive education of his late wife in striking contrast to the level he was used to among the women in his homeland: When we arrived in W. [Wülferode, Göckingk’s country estate, where the Courland ladies were guests; ed.] I felt I had entered another world, for I had never come across women of such intellectual sweetness. One felt lifted by their conversation, and the hours passed as though they were minutes […].⁷(132)

When Schwarz speaks of the particular “intellectual sweetness” of his new acquaintances, this expression touches on another aspect, which had obviously taken on a great importance in Sophie’s education and which cannot be explained by her parsonage background. The young ladies from Courland, both the aristocratic Elisa and the bourgeois Sophie had not only enjoyed a multifaceted education and were well-versed in literature, art, music and dancing, in Schwarz’s eyes they set themselves apart from the – also educated – women and girls of Halberstadt by their “sophistication of manners”: When a motion to kiss the hand of a lady was made, normally only a […] leather glove was offered; the Courland ladies, however, if a gesture was made to take their hand, removed their glove and, if drawn by the daintiness of the hand, allowed their palm to be kissed without any affectation.⁸ (Schwarz 1828: 132– 133)

Sophie may well have learned the confident elegance and social graces from the von Medem family at the neighboring country estate Gut Alt-Autz, rather than in her parents’ house. As she herself expressed, she considered “grace” an integral part of an all-around female education, as was made quite clear in her not quite so flattering observations of the ladies of Danzig:

 In the original: “Ein so hoher Grad von Bildung war damals bei dem weiblichen Geschlecht noch nicht allgemein in Deutschland”.  In the original: “Als wir in W. angekommen waren, fühlte ich mich in eine andere Welt versetzt, denn Frauen von solcher geistigen Lieblichkeit waren mir noch nicht vorgekommen. Man fühlte sich durch ihre Unterhaltung selbst gehoben, und die Stunden schwanden gleich Minuten […].”  In the original: “[D]enn wenn man diesen die Hand küssen wollte, so wurde einem sicher das […] Leder zum Kuß gereicht; die Curländerinnen aber zogen, so oft man nur Miene machte, nach der Hand zu fassen, den Handschuh ab und ließen es ohne Ziererei geschehen, wenn man von der Niedlichkeit der Hand sich angezogen fühlte, auch das Inwendige derselben zu küssen.”

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I found them all to be more enriched in their knowledge of the fine arts, but they were lacking in gentle, female grace in movement and speech, which you [her brother Bernhard; ed.] love so much and which also in our little country is admittedly not in abundance. (eds. Karo and Geyer: 13)⁹

In his contribution to “Denkmal”, Göckingk emphasizes that the “intellectual sweetness”, that struck Sophie’s husband so positively, is really the result of parental or family decisions – in this case the decision to free the talented Sophie with her wide interests from certain “female” tasks: In her parents’ home she was never allowed to busy herself with housekeeping tasks, her sisters would never have suffered it, but for their love of Sophie, they took on all tasks, so that Sophie could pursue her inclination for reading, sketching and music quite undisturbed.¹⁰ (Göckingk 1790: 73)

The “four living languages” Sophie could speak were German, English, French and one supposes − thanks to her music lessons – Italian. As far as German is concerned, Sophie’s mother tongue, it can be deduced from her writings and Göckingk’s testimony that she was skilled in switching from her Courland vernacular to a highly standardized literary language. Göckingk recognized her enormous aplomb in the use of written German: She expressed herself with great ease, however, conversation in company was never quite free of its own manner, how her fellow countrymen formed their syntax, and the occasional Courland provincial word came to light. Her written essays showed almost no trace of this! (74)¹¹

 Hereafter quotations will be noted with the siglum RT. In the original: “Ich fand sie zwar durchgängig weit bereicherter von gewissen Kenntnissen im Reiche der schönen Künste, aber dafür fehlt ihnen auch die sanfte weibliche Grazie in Bewegung und Sprache, welche Du [der Bruder Bernhard; ed.] so sehr liebst und die freilich auch in unsrem Ländchen nicht überflüssig zu Hause ist.”  In the original: “In ihrer Eltern Hause hatte sie sich um Wirtschaftssachen nie kümmern dürfen, ihre Schwestern hatten dies nie gelitten, sondern aus Liebe zu ihr alle Geschäfte übernommen, damit Sophie ungestört sich dem Hang zum Lesen, Zeichnen und zur Musik überlassen könnte.”  In the original: “Sie druckte sich mit Leichtigkeit aus, doch war ihr gesellschaftliches Gespräch nicht ganz rein von der eignen Art, wie ihre Landsleute den Perioden zusammensetzen, und mit unter kam auch wohl ein Kurisches Provinzwort zum Vorschein. Von beyden haben ihre schriftlichen Aufsätze fast nicht Eine Spur!”

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Sophie mastered the art of code switching – a skill not to be ignored for any woman seeking recognition in the linguistically standardized society of the Enlightenment. Even before Sophie set out on her journey to Germany and came into contact with some of the leading representatives of the Enlightenment, she already had a considerable knowledge of German literature. It may be presumed that she knew Gellert’s Geistliche Oden und Lieder since her friend Elisa had used Gellert as a model, composing her own ballads which were published in 1780 by Johann Adam Hiller, who on his part was also an admirer of Gellert (in Viehöver 2013). It can also be assumed that she knew Gellert’s popular fables.¹² Moreover, she often mentions Lessing who had played a special part in Elisa’s intellectual biography.¹³ In addition, for her elder brother Bernhard Becker, to whom many of the letters from her travel journal were addressed and who was her role model and dialogue partner, and who also had an impact on Sophie’s education, Lessing was the outstanding German poet. When Sophie noticed that the Stolberg brothers were not very appreciative of music, she comments to her brother: “Lessing was also insensitive towards music. So, please, in future do not sneer at certain people since this was also the case of your idol”.¹⁴ (RT: 31) Sophie had obviously seen stage productions by Lessing in Courland and had an exact idea of how his plays should be staged. In Schwedt, at the beginning of her journey, she attended a production of Emilia Galotti and noted: “The actors may not have been the most perfect, but the play itself was by Lessing, and my soul was preoccupied with the spirit of the incomparable author”.¹⁵ (20) Most likely, Sophie knew Goethe’s Werther. As early as 1775, her friend Elisa read the novel together with Gottlob David Hartmann, who was wretchedly in love with her, and who very strongly identified with the figure of Werther (Goodman 1990: 124– 125). In her journal, Sophie writes about life in the countryside and the reader has the impression that reading Werther informs Sophie’s view of people and how they deal with one another. For instance, in the following

 In the travel journal, she explicitly mentions the fable Der Informator (RT: 125).  As Elisa herself testifies, reading Lessing is what liberates her from the clutches of the deceitful Count Cagliostro. She reports in her script, which made her known throughout Europe: Nachricht von des berüchtigten Cagliostro Aufenthalte in Mitau im Jahre 1779, und dessen magischen Operationen (1787).  In the original: “Lessing ist auch für Musik unempfindlich gewesen. Bitte also künftig nicht mehr gewisse Leute darüber zu bespötteln, da es Deinem Abgotte ebenso gegangen ist.”  In the original: “Die Akteure möchten überhaupt genommen nicht die allervollkommensten gewesen sein, doch das Stück selbst war von Lessing, und meine Seele war mit dem Geiste des unvergleichbaren Verfassers beschäftigt.”

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passage she comments on a country scene in a lyrically enthusiastic Werther tone: How it did my heart good when by a small house, in the shade of a mighty tree, we saw a group of country people enjoying their meal! Oh! you pastoral scenes, how sweet you have always been to my heart, but now, that I so often compare you to the big wide world, it is worth twice as much. We descended, accepted some bread and cheese from the mother of the house, who had 11 children, and joined the people. In the face of such open innocence and joy, I felt so exhilarated that I finally had to drag myself away to join my carriage.¹⁶ (RT: 25)

Sophie’s familiarity with the literary production of the Göttingen Circle before she embarked on her journey is evident in her experienced judgement of a poem by Friedrich Leopold zu Stolberg: “As always, a lot of painting in his verses, but towards the end also a self-expression of the heart”.¹⁷ (27) The travel journal indicates that Sophie was not only familiar with German literature but also with the popular English novels of that time and some works of French literature (120).¹⁸ At the beginning of her journal, she mentions a conversation with a young Englishman in which she benefitted from her familiarity with popular works in English literature: “Milton, Young, Yorick, Fielding were his favorites, so that in contemplating these great men, we two became somewhat closer”.¹⁹ (29) However, Sophie was not as familiar with French literature and Göckingk notes that she had a rather distant relationship with it, since she associated the French language with court and a certain affectedness (1790: 78).²⁰ Even so, La Bruyère’s Characters still had a special significance

 In the original: “Wie wohl that meinem Herzen der Anblick, als wir auf einmal bei einem kleinen Häuschen unter einem dicken, schattigen Baume eine Gesellschaft Landleute mit vielem Appetite speisen sahen! O! ihr ländlichen Szenen, wie süß seid ihr meinem Herzen stets gewesen, doch nun, da ich euch öfter gegen die große Welt halten kann, gedoppelt wert. Wir stiegen ab, ließen uns von der Hausmutter, welche eine Reihe von 11 Kindern hatte, etwas Käse und Butterbrod reichen und mischten uns unter die Leutchen. Ich fühlte mich bei der offenen Unschuld und Freude, die auf ihren Gesichtern thronte, so erheitert, daß ich mich am Ende mit Gewalt nach dem Wagen ziehen mußte.”  In the original: “Viel Malerei, wie gewöhnlich in seinen Gedichten, doch gegen das Ende auch Gespräch des Herzens.”  Cf. a scene in the travel journal in which a pastor examines what Sophie is reading, where mention is also made of “English and French books”.  In the original: “Milton, Young, Yorick, Fielding waren seine Lieblinge, so dass wir beide über das Andenken an diese großen Männer warm wurden.”  “Although she understood the language, she was less partial to French literature. She preferred not to speak French until it was unavoidable, for she was averse to all kinds of affecta-

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for her. She writes in her journal that if you are exhausted in company, it is “very good to have La Bruyère to hand. One verse of this great man contains […] the result of so many foregone observations that you immediately have the thread again, where you can pick up on a new conversation”.²¹ (RT: 95) This practical assistance was not the only reason why Sophie had chosen La Bruyère as her constant companion. At the time La Bruyère, much like Sophie, was a bourgeois observer of aristocratic society: he was not a fully-fledged member of this society but rather a marginal figure and therefore an ideal projection surface for Sophie. As part of her upbringing in a protestant parsonage, Sophie received an education in theology. This went far beyond what was generally expected of protestant bourgeois daughters of that era. As Renker explains, the study in the parsonage was both the father’s work place and a place of education for his children, including his daughters (Renker 2010: 151).²² Week for week, the parson prepared his sermon for the Sunday church service and the children not only heard the result but experienced how it came to be. Sophie does not refer to this explicitly, but her marked interest in sermons – both Protestant and Catholic – shows that she felt competent to assess the intellectual level of a sermon. Note, for example, her strident criticism of the sermon by a catholic priest in Karlsbad: The sermon was divided into two main parts and dealt first with the sacredness of the name Maria in itself and in its effect, and secondly with the awefullness it meant for all enemies of Christianity. The sacredness he substantiated with the testimonies of churchmen that the name Maria did not appear more than eight times in the Bible and whensoever always in contrast to one of the seven deadly sins, which are illustrated by the seven evil spirits in Magdalena. […] This nonsense continued for an hour and was presented with such vehemence that the church and pulpit trembled. During this it was impossible that any one of the listeners was able to even think about anything, and much less learn anything for his life.²³ (RT: 39)

tion.” In the original: “Für Französische Literatur, so gut sie auch diese Sprache verstand, war sie weniger eingenommen. Sie sprach nicht eher französisch, bis sie es nicht Umgang haben konnte, denn alle Affectation war ihr zuwider.”  In the original: “Alsdann ist es sehr gut, den La Bruyère in der Tasche zu haben. Eine Strophe dieses großen Mannes enthält […] das Resultat so vieler vorhergegangener Beobachtungen, daß man sogleich einen Faden hat, durch den sich eine neue Unterhaltung anspinnen kann.”  For the role of education in the parsonage see also Gestrich 1984: 64.  In the original: “Die Predigt wurde in die zwei Hauptteile zerteilt und handelte erstens von der Heiligkeit des Namens Maria an sich selbst und in seiner Wirkung, zweitens von seiner Schrecklichkeit für alle Feinde des Christentums. Seine Heiligkeit bewies er mit dem Zeugnisse manchen Kirchenvaters daraus, daß der Name Maria nicht über achtmal in der Bibel stünde und allemal im Gegensatze mit einer der sieben Hauptsünden, welche durch die sieben bösen Geister in der Magdalena abgebildet sind. […] Dieses Geschwätz währte so eine Stunde fort und wurde mit der größten Heftigkeit vorgetragen, daß die Kirche und Kanzel erbebten. Es war unmöglich,

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Sophie’s confident evaluation of preachers suggests that in her youth, she was included in theological discussions and in the preparation of her father’s sermons; however, there is no evidence for that. In an article for the Halberstädter Gemeinnützige Blätter, dedicated to the memory of Sophie, only general information is given concerning her father’s influence on her upbringing and education: “Her dear father, a highly learned and righteous man, took exquisitly care to the education of his children.” (Fischer 1789: 365) Father Becker died before Sophie’s wedding, and thus could not exert any influence on her during the Halberstadt years, when Sophie became known as a woman writer among the circle of her friends. Sophie’s tendency to pass judgement may have been encouraged by the high regard for the art of sermon in Kurland and many a preacher – e. g. Christoph Friedrich Neander – was highly educated. Sophie’s husband, reporting in his memoir the impressions the parsonages in his wife’s native country left on him, concludes: “After all, Kurland is the paradise of preachers.”²⁴ (Schwarz 1828: 197) Sophie had no knowledge of Latin. According to Ursula A. J. Becher, Latin was as a rule not an integral part of the educational program for bourgeois daughters in the eighteenth century.²⁵ An episode in the travel journal confirms Sophie’s lack of knowledge of the Latin language: When she had to write a letter to a prelate on behalf of a countess who was unable to speak or write German, she had to copy the Latin address on the envelope: “The Countess laughed when I showed her the Latin address and assured her that I would not understand a word.”²⁶ (RT: 53) A young girl from a parsonage should have a well-rounded education but, at the same time, should be wary of too much “erudition.”²⁷ A difficult balancing act, which in the case of Sophie Becker, obviously gave rise to moral scruples, which manifested as social inhibitions. Göckingk describes the difficulties her above-average education caused her: she could very easily hold her own in con-

daß eines von den Zuhörern etwas dabei denken, noch viel weniger für sein Leben lernen konnte.”  In the original: “Ueberhaupt ist Kurland das Paradies der Prediger”.  Becher explains this by reference to Sophie von La Roche, who despite the adjuration of her father was not allowed to learn Latin. (Becher 1988: 222– 223)  In the original: “Die Gräfin lachte recht herzlich, als ich ihr die lateinische Aufschrift zeigte und dabei versicherte, daß ich selbst kein Wort davon verstünde.”  On the change of evaluation of female erudition in the eighteenth century see: Becker-Cantarino 1989.

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versations with “strangers with intellect;”²⁸ (1790: 72) however, she preferred not to get involved, so as not to be thought of as immodest and arrogant in the company of less educated ladies. This self-selected reserve, however, made her appear proud, so that she must have felt completely misjudged. Sophie did not fear the disapproval of erudite men but the malicious gossip of other women. Consequently, she kept a certain distance, particularly to women: “She very much feared being taken as an erudite”, writes Göckingk, and emphasizes that she was by no means a scholar. She knew too much, “not to know what the word erudite entails.” (72) Therefore, as Göckingk notes, she was most at ease in conversations about literature or other aesthetic and intellectual topics “with men she knew well: Gleim, Bürger, Bode etc.”²⁹ (72) Unlike the aristocratic Lady von der Recke, whose education was, as her husband put it, “on par”, the parson’s daughter Sophie unrelentingly considered herself inadequate intellectual company, yet the imperative “Thou shalt not be immodest” applied to her more categorically than to aristocratic women with a similar level of education. She made her above-average level of education known to “erudite” male dialogue partners, but kept it hidden from less educated women so as not to appear immodest. To be immodest was Sophie’s greatest fear.³⁰ Her fear of embarassment, as Göckingk reports, went so far that she was often the one to steer conversations with women to the topics of household and female activities (72). One may presume that in 1784, when Sophie set out on her journey, she did so – by the standards of that time − with a great deal of self-confidence drawn from her good education. Her concept of education was holistic insofar as it comprised knowledge and skills as well as good manners and social graces. This combination of hard and soft skills gained her attention and respect as the companion of the noble Lady von der Recke.

 In the original: “Sie fürchtete sich sehr, für eine Gelehrte gehalten zu werden; bey Männern deshalb, weil sie zu viel wußte, um nicht zu wissen, wie viel mehr das Wort gelehrt einschließt […]”.  In the original: “Daraus erklärt es sich von selbst, warum sie mit Wärme über literarische Gegenstände nur mit solchen Männern sprach, die sie genauer kannte, z. B. Gleim, Bode, Bürger u. a.m.”  See also the remark in the travel journal: “There were indeed clever men there […], but I am a girl, pretty enough to make myself ridiculous in serious conversations.” (RT: 41) In the original: “Es waren wohl kluge Männer da […], aber ich bin ein Mädchen, schön genug, um mich durch ernste Gespräche lächerlich zu machen.”

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“And yet life was the most important property” – Sophie’s Attitude toward Life in Her Travel Journal The travel journal’s publication history is complex. When Johann Ludwig Schwarz first published Briefe einer Curländerinn in 1791, this was one of the first book-length travel reports by a woman, preceded only by Sophie von La Roche’s travel report from 1787, a “pioneer work for women moving into this genre.”³¹ (Scheitler 1999: 42) However, Sophie Schwarz’s letters are based on her travel journal, which was written in 1784– 1786 and never meant for publication. The book Penelope from 1843, in which Julie von Großmann wanted to pay tribute to the memory of Sophie Schwarz, included excerpts from the Briefe einer Curländerinn (Großmann 1843), but under the misleading title “Fragments from Sophie’s Travel Journal.” The travel journal itself was first published in the 1880s, one hundred years after the journey. The publishers believed that this journal differs from the letters through its “freshness and directness” since it “had [been written] without taking the possible readers into consideration” and therefore “unreservedly” captures “the heart of the writer” (RT: 7).³² Until then, the (somewhat sparse) research had focused on individual aspects of the travel journal (Conrad 1998), and referred to its documentary value.³³ There was no effort made to approach the travel journal as a literary work, or to trace the literary development from the journal to the letters. The apodictic statement “No pleasure is enduring” in Sophie’s farewell poem An den Baron Thuri aus Siebenbürgen renounces worldly pleasure. In contrast, in her travel journal, “pleasure” is a key term in which Sophie’s dedication to this world is manifest. The consciously cultivated indulgence in sensual pleasure initially unfolds on a culinary level, enjoying small delicacies, such as red currants (RT: 161) and cherries: “The smell of a fresh roast caused us to pause and have a small formal meal here. And once finished, and we had imbibed some good Rhine wine, instead of Franconian, we took a portion of cherries  In the original: “als Pionierleistung für die Eroberung der Gattung durch Frauen.”  In the original: “Die Frische und Unmittelbarkeit des Tagebuches, das uns rückhaltslos das Herz der Verfasserin erschließt, das ohne jede Rücksicht auf ein etwaiges Leserpublikum geschrieben ist, ist nicht zu vergleichen mit der pädagogischen Glätte und dem moralisierenden Tone der Briefe.”  Adelheid Müller takes the view that both political and philosophical opinions of mankind were documented in the travel journal “without being in any way literarily stylized”. In the original: “dokumentiert, ohne literarisch stilisiert zu sein”. (Müller 2004: 117)

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with us on the way and continued our journey”.³⁴ (164) At another occasion, the indulgence in cherries is complemented by enjoyment of the beautiful country landscape: “In one of the pavilions we drank coffee and ate lots of cherries. I adored the abundance of roses in the garden”.³⁵ (160) Such passages lend the travel journal a certain naturalness and verve which is lost in the revision. Sophie, for whom sense perception plays a central role, derives pleasure from the most varied sensuous experiences. Alongside gastronomical pleasures and landscape, music also offers easy access to “soul feelings”.³⁶ (152) For instance, she very much enjoys listening to the piano works of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach (201). Alongside the sensual enjoyments of life, contemplation and rationality are of fundamental importance for Sophie. Sophie was “eager to increase her knowledge” (Göckingk 1790: 79)³⁷ through reading and was always delighted with an “enrichment of [her] ideas” (11)³⁸ through travel. The exchange with renowned persons such as Nicolai, Moses Mendelssohn, Klopstock, Gleim, Hiller, Göckingk, Bode, and Reimarus afforded her an opportunity to learn new things and confront familiar ideas with new perspectives. The travel journal therefore often illustrates the conflict between warm, rapturous feeling and “cold” reasoning, a conflict that hardens to an “inexplicable discrepancy”.³⁹ (68) Journeying and the travel journal are for Sophie the time and place to reflect upon her identity and her attitude to life. This journey opens up her world and at the same time enables her to find her inner self. Sophie tries to compensate the “inexplicable discrepancy” in her account with an attitude to life that feeds on her educational background and yet aims at a reconciliation of sensitivity and reason. In her journal, Sophie reflects again and again on the substantial role that reasoning plays in her life. “Yet, why this reasoning tenor? You, sensitive soul, only love things that have to do

 In the original: “Der Geruch eines frischen Bratens veranlaßte, daß wir hier eine kleine förmliche Mahlzeit hielten. Sobald sie eingenommen war und wir schon guten Rheinwein statt Franken getrunken hatten, nahmen wir noch eine Provision Kirschen auf den Weg und setzten unseren Stab weiter fort.”  In the original: “In einem der Pavillons tranken wir Kaffee und aßen eine Menge Kirschen. Die Menge Rosen überall im Garten war mir sehr reizend”.  In the original: “Gefühlen der Seele”.  In the original: “[…] vielleicht, weil sie zu sehr nach Vermehrung ihrer Kenntnisse begierig das Lesen liebte […].”  In the original: “Bereicherung meiner Ideen”.  In the original: “Unerklärlicher Widerspruch!”

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with the sweet feelings of the heart, thereunder also jest and caprice”.⁴⁰ (10) Thoughts on the influence of reasoning and feelings bring her to the unfathomable depths of her own personality: True humanity is seldom come by. Yet, away with reasoning! Am I sure that my eye does not only wish to see my own image, and whether the chagrin at finding it unnoticed by others, will not have an influence on my annotations on others? Oh, my heart, you have too many unknown depths for me!⁴¹ (79)

For Sophie, cold “reasoning” must be combined with sensuous experiences that can be subsumed in the term “pleasure.” Thus, in a moment of elation, she proclaims: “Yet enjoying is better than reasoning” (70), since only “the pleasure of the heart determines the value of life” (70). The journal is filled with examples of this philosophy of life. They draw a thread through her journal and illustrate Sophie’s devotion to this world: “Good heavens, what good is all this wisdom if, at the same time, I forget the art of life and pleasure?” (83). Or: “I now have so much to savour and enjoy that I would like to divide myself, so as not to miss anything and to prolong the present minute as long as possible. (153, 41). She can readily agree with the cantor’s statement: “‘[…] we also have to live here on earth’”.⁴² (135) Sophie’s positive attitude to life is in no way hedonistic, since pleasure cannot exist without pain − “No earthly pleasure without bitterness.” (235) − and should always be accompanied by reason: Sophie wants to experience “a lust for life […]” (140) and considers life “the most important property” (130), but she also speaks of a “morally sensuous sentiment” (55) and of “joyful yet reasonable pleasures in my life” (60).⁴³ Here, reason is a necessary corrective of sensitivity.  In the original: “Doch wozu dieser räsonierende Ton? Sie, zartfühlende Seele, lieben nur Sachen, die mit den süßen Gefühlen des Herzens zu thun haben, mit Scherz und Laune darunter”.  In the original: “Die wahre Humanität ist so gar selten anzutreffen. Doch weg mit dem Räsonieren. Bin ich sicher, ob mein Auge nicht auch nur mein eignes Bild zu sehen wünscht, und ob der Verdruß, es von andern unbemerkt zu finden, nicht Einfluß in meine Anmerkungen über andre hat? O mein Herz, du hast nur allzuviel unbekannte Tiefen für mich!”  In the original: “Doch genießen ist besser als räsonieren.”; “Nur der Genuß des Herzens bestimmt den Wert des Lebens.”; “Lieber Himmel, was soll mir nun alle Weisheit, wenn ich die große Kunst, zu leben und zu genießen, darüber vergesse?”; “Es ist jetzt für mich so mancherlei zu genießen, daß ich mich gern teilen möchte, um nichts nachzulassen und den gegenwärtigen Augenblick recht lang auszudehnen”; “‘[…] wir müssen aber auch auf Erden leben‘”.  In the original: “Keine irdische Freude ohne Bitterkeit.”; “[…] unser Dasein mit Wollust zu empfinden.”; “Dennoch war Leben das wichtigste Gut […]”; “in dieser sittlich wollüstigen Stimmung”; “in frohem und doch vernünftigem Genusse meines Lebens”.

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Sophie merges ratio and sensitivity in her writing. At social get-togethers, she combines a “delicious meal”⁴⁴ (106) with the pleasure of telling stories: What can I tell about the lunch, no more than there were many at the table, and from 2– 5 o’clock we were occupied with filling our plates with something new to eat and giving our stomach enough work. Sitting in such pleasant company was easy. What I was interested in was everything to do with the King. Since Ramler was seated next to me and noticed my interest in porcelain, admiring the flowers, he told me how the King was able to make a graceful exit from his factory […]. Here I add a few more anecdotes on the King, which we have from Nicolai and which are quite sure.⁴⁵ (226)

In the “pleasure” of anecdotes, the antagonistic powers that shape Sophie’s attitude to life and her philosophy come together in harmony. Anecdotes also define the form and shape of the travel journal.

Anecdotes from the Travel Journal: From Pleasure to Social Criticism Sophie Schwarz’s travel journal displays the typical characteristics of the genre, a “combination of diary and letters.”⁴⁶ (Scheitler 1999: 133) “More affinity to the countryside than to the town or city,”⁴⁷ (31) the key role of feelings, the “exact observation of everyday life,” and the “pleasure in acquaintances”⁴⁸ (45) show

 In the original: “wohlschmeckende[ ] Mahlzeit”.  In the original: “Ich kann nichts weiter von dem Diner sagen, als daß die Tafel sehr gut besetzt war und daß wir von 2– 5 Uhr damit zubrachten, immer etwas Neues auf unsren Teller zu nehmen und unsren Magen in steter Arbeit zu erhalten. Das lange Sitzen wurde uns in so guter Gesellschaft erträglich. Besonders interessiert mich alles, was den König betrifft. Weil Ramler mein Nachbar war und meine Aufmerksamkeit auf das Porzellan bemerkte, woran ich die Blumen bewunderte, erzählte er mir die Art, wie der König seiner Fabrik Abgang verschaffte […]. Ich setze hier wieder einige Anekdoten vom Könige her, die wir von Nicolai haben und die ganz gewiß sind.”  In the original: “[die] Mischung aus Tagebuch- und Briefcharakter”.  In the original: “eine[ ] größere[ ] Affinität zur Landschaft als zu Stadt oder Großstadt.”  In the original: “Genaue Beobachtung des Alltags und Freude an Bekanntschaften mit allen Ständen […].” These are characteristics that are intensified in the letters and move her closer to Sophie von La Roche. Scheitler: “Although she is 23 years younger than Sophie von La Roche, she is very close to her […]” (46 ff.). In the original: “Obwohl 23 Jahre jünger als Sophie von La Roche, steht sie dieser sehr nahe […].”

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that the text embraces “the ideal of female naturalness.”⁴⁹ (Scheitler 1999: 31) The journal “hardly contains general descriptions of landscapes, towns or cultural events,” ⁵⁰ (Conrad 1998: 210) but concentrates on the subjective and reflective. Sophie is well aware that her travel journal differs from the male form of travelogue, and she reflects on this explicitly: “Of course a travel journal includes new things that catch one’s eye, but for a diary on our feelings and intellectual activities, this is not necessary; this can often exceed the efforts in seemingly minor incidents” (RT: 99).⁵¹ Sophie gives her journal a particular form by introducing another genre, the anecdote. The anecdote as a “short pointed story said to have been attributed to a real person”⁵² (Schlaffer 2007: 87) or as a recitation of a “true, maybe still unknown, strange incident,”⁵³ (Hilzinger 1997: 17) reached its heydey during the Enlightenment. Popular in France, it caught on in Germany in the first half of the eighteenth century, before a certain “distancing to France” motivated an “acculturation of the genre anecdote.”⁵⁴ (42) Johann Adam Hiller, whom Elisa and Sophie were to meet on their journey through Germany in Leipzig and Halle (RT: 61 ff), had translated collections of anecdotes from the French and had given the German anecdote its own characteristic form. Under his influence, the anecdote highlighted “individual short incidents” that “adequately and authentically represent the character of a person and his biography.”⁵⁵ (Hilzinger 1997: 46) The anecdote, which during the Enlightenment was a popular feature in historiography, publicism, and literature, took on various functions ranging from entertainment and didactic moralizing to the historical-biographical, and even emancipatory.⁵⁶

 In the original: “das postulierte weibliche Natürlichkeitsideal”.  In the original: “kaum allgemeine Landschafts-, Städte- und Kulturbeschreibungen.”  In the original: “Zu einem bloßen Reisejournale gehören freilich neue und in die Augen fallende Gegenstände, aber zu dem Tagebuche unsrer Empfindungen und Geistesthätigkeit ist dies nicht nötig; der findet bei den sehr klein scheinenden Vorfällen oft am meisten seine Kräfte zu üben.”  In the original: “Kurze, pointierte Geschichte, die einer wirklichen Person nachgesagt wird.”  In the original: die Anekdote erzählt eine “wahre, noch unbekannte, merkwürdige Begebenheit.”  In the original: “Distanzierung von Frankreich”, “die Akkulturation der Gattung Anekdote.”  In the original: “einzelne kurze Begebenheiten und Aussprüche seien geeignet, den Charakter eines Menschen und damit seine Biographie angemessen und authentisch zu repräsentieren.”  See Hilzinger 1997. Hilzinger presents examples of these various functions in detail.

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Being so “close to oral tradition and its propagation in everyday communication,”⁵⁷ (Weber 1993: 21) the anecdotes that Sophie tells in her journal, create a certain “directness,” associated with the form of the journal: anecdotes stand for a genuine “dynamism, action and vitality,”⁵⁸ for liveliness (Grothe 1971: 7). Many of the anecdotes that she relates in her journal are neither moral nor didactic – they contain piquant details, have a punch line, and are therefore primarily entertaining. Sophie, who was extremely interested in theological discussions, also enjoyed “ridiculous anecdotes about stupid preachers and superstitious fools”⁵⁹ (RT: 47): Not far from here in a village called Joachimsthal there is a parson of the old kind, who started his sermon on the Epiphany with the question: ‘Who are the three men and where do they come from?’ He repeats this three times. And just then three strangers enter the church. After the third repetition, the good people believe he’s referring to them, and one of them raises his voise and answers: ‘We’re from Averdun and have tallow for sale’.⁶⁰ (47)

She also does not avoid love relationships and intrigues. She gives a very lively account of a love triangle affair: Just yesterday, the three persons concerned were here in the hall. A certain Mr. v. P. has a pretty, young woman with whom the young officer, v. R. has fallen in love. The young woman is not overly virtuous, but the man is extremely jealous. R. takes on the strategy of showing himself indifferent to the woman for some time, and treating the man as his best friend. When the man was not so believing in his friendship, as he would have wished, he pretended to be very ill, so that he makes a last will and testament naming him – oh, such fondness for P.! – as the sole heir to his considerable fortune. P. is moved by this and convinced of his friendship. The illness is so bad in the next few days that the doctors are about to give up; finally, however, it takes a good turn and R. recovers, and because he is young and healthy the good P. does not come to his inheritance. He now lets R. come and

 In the original: “ihre Nähe zur mündlichen Überlieferung sowie ihre Verbreitung in alltäglicher Kommunikation”.  In the original: “Dynamik, Aktion und Vitalität”.  In the original: “lächerliche Anekdötchen von dummen Predigern und Aberglauben”.  In the original: “Hier nicht weit in einem Dorfe mit Namen Joachimsthal ist ein Pfarrer nach altem Geschmacke, der am heil. Dreikönigstage seine Predigt mit der Frage anfängt: ‘Wer sind die drei Männer, wo kommen sie her?’ Dies wiederholt er dreimal. Eben trifft es sich, daß gerade drei fremde Bürger in die Kirche gekommen sind. Bei der dritten Wiederholung der Frage glauben die guten Leute, es betrifft sie, und der eine erhebt seine Stimme und antwortet: ‘Wie sien ut Averdun und hebben Talck tu verkoben bracht’”.

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go in his house as a good friend, and even trusts him with the custody of his wife. R. can enjoy everything he desired and at the same time enjoy a good friendship.⁶¹ (174)

The anecdotes refer partly to anonymous or anonymized persons and partly to well-known persons such as Gottfried August Bürger, Lessing, Moses Mendelssohn, Anna Louisa Karsch or Friedrich II.: “I am never so discontent with my memory,” says Sophie, “than when it does not provide me with the anecdotes of great men that I love to hear”.⁶² (182) Often, these anecdotes center on the weaknesses or the all too human facets of great men or “simple people.” Anecdotal narration often serves a certain interest. Sophie herself claims that anecdotes make “a great contribution to the history of mankind”.⁶³ (188) This minor literary form which focuses on individuals (Grothe 1971: 19), does not only redeem the claim of “prodesse et delectare,” (Hilzinger 1997: 150) but also satisfies the general anthropological interest of the Enlightenment.⁶⁴ In various anecdotes, peculiar human foibles extend our knowledge of mankind.⁶⁵ It is

 In the original: “Gestern noch waren die drei Personen der Geschichte hier im Saale. Ein Herr v. P. hat ein junges hübsches Weib, in welches sich ein junger Offizier v. R. verliebt. Das Weib ist zwar nicht strenge tugendhaft, aber der Mann ist höchst eifersüchtig. R. nimmt die Zuflucht zu der List, sich gegen die Frau einige Zeit ganz gleichgültig zu zeigen, aber den Mann als seinen besten Freund zu behandeln. Als er den Mann aber nicht völlig so gläubig an seine Freundschaft findet, wie er’s wünscht, stellt er sich heftig krank, so daß er sein Testament macht und – o, welche Zärtlichkeit für P.! – ihn zum einzigen Erben seines ansehnlichen Vermögens macht. P. wird dadurch sehr gerührt und von seiner Freundschaft überzeugt. Die Krankheit hält noch einige Tage so schlimm an, daß ihn die Aerzte aufgeben; endlich aber bricht sie sich. R. wird gesund, und weil er jung und gesund ist, wird der gute P. wohl nicht zum Erben kommen. Indessen läßt er nun R. als Freund in seinem Hause aus= und eingehen, ja vertraut ihm noch wohl die Aufsicht über seine Frau an. R. genießt indes alle seine Wünsche und hat noch obendrein einen warmen Freund.”  In the original: “Nie bin ich unzufriedener mit meinem Gedächtnisse, als wenn es mir nicht Anekdoten von großen Männern aufbehält, die ich doch mit so großem Vergnügen höre”.  In the original: “ein großer Beitrag zur Geschichte der Menschheit”.  “The anecdote was the ideal genre to fulfill the growing interest in mankind and everything that has to do with human beings. It was not only able to elucidate a character briefly and precisely, it was also suitable for the self-representation of the Enlighteners in witty remarks and for the transportation of historical and moral educational contents.” In the original: “Dem sich vertiefenden Interesse am Menschen und am Menschlichen entsprach die Gattung Anekdote in geradezu idealer Weise. Sie vermochte es nicht nur, einen Charakter knapp und präzise zu erhellen, sondern sie eignete sich darüber hinaus für die Selbstrepräsentanz der Aufklärer im witzigen Ausspruch sowie für den Transport historischer und moralischer Bildungsinhalte.” (Hilzinger 1997: 13)  “Many anecdotes from Lessing were told. I wish I had such a memory that I could remember them all. In the words and deeds of such an excellent man, no word or move is unimportant.” In

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no coincidence that Sophie, the parson’s daughter, to whose education great importance was attached, visited the Philanthropin in Dessau, an educational institution founded by Johann Bernhard Basedow. The Philanthropin was “dedicated to the welfare and advancement of man,”⁶⁶ (Overhoff 2000: 136) promoted religious tolerance and found an advocate in Immanuel Kant. In spite of her knowledge of the “fragility of human things” (RT: 79), Sophie’s “belief in humanity [becomes] stronger every day”.⁶⁷ (87) Her trust in mankind confirms her optimism in the future and her focus on this world. However, this is not to say that Sophie is completely satisfied with the social situation in Courland and Germany – on the contrary: her interest in people is coupled with harsh social criticism and a desire to bring about change in society. This becomes clear as Sophie not only describes her visits to spas and educational establishments, but also to a “hospital” (163) and a “mad house” (13)⁶⁸ where Sophie realised that “a mad house makes more mad people in the country” (13). In Courland, on the other hand, there was no such house and it was “rare to find such people who belong there” (13).⁶⁹ These reflections show that Sophie’s moral judgements are not just limited to her private life but extend into the public sphere. When she adds, “[…] we had similar thoughts as we saw the high court, the first thing one sees of Königsberg” (13). Sophie exhibits a keen interest in legal problems, and asks how a more just society could be constituted. Alongside “conversational anecdotes” that serve as “material for cultivated social intercourse”⁷⁰ (Schäfer 1985: 192) and are mostly “entertaining” (185) and “amusing” ⁷¹ (53), Sophie also related several anecdotes without a punch line that illustrate social grievances. A long anecdote, which describes the inhuthe original: “Es wurden die Menge Anekdoten von Lessing erzählt. Ich wünschte mir wohl ein Gedächtnis, sie alle zu behalten. In den Reden und Thaten eines ausgezeichneten Mannes ist kein Wort, kein Zug unwichtig.” (RT: 233)  In the original: “[…] das sich der Wohlfahrt und Verbesserung der Menschen feierlich geweiht habe.”  In the original: “die Zerbrechlichkeit der menschlichen Dinge”; “Mein Glaube an die Menschheit wird täglich stärker”.  In the original: “Hospital”; “Tollhaus”.  In the original: “Das Tollhaus ist sehr besetzt und da machte Elise die Bemerkung, daß ein Tollhaus wohl auch mehr Tolle im Lande machte. Wir dachten hier beide an unser Vaterland zurück, wo gar keines ist und man doch so selten Leute findet, welche dahin gehörten. Ein Aenliches dachten wir beim Anblicke der Hochgerichte, welche das erste sind, das man vor Königsberg sieht.”  In the original: “Konversationsanekdote”; “Materialien für den kultivierten geselligen Umgang”.  In the original: […] “lustig” sind und “Wir suchten uns die Zeit durch manche Erzählungen zu verkürzen”.

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manity of the Earl of Zweibrücken toward his hunter, conveys Sophie’s acute awareness of the “atrocities” (115) committed by the aristocracy. Sophie, who openly declares that she is in favor of the abolishment of serfdom, insisted on including this anecdote in her journal even though Göckingk had second “thoughts about printing this in the journal”.⁷² (114) She denounces injustice and abuse of power, evident also in an anecdote in which an officer forces a young person to “cane” his own father (113): When he [the officer; ed.] still insists with a look of malicious glee on his face, the young person jumps up and in desperation throws the cane before the feet of the tyrant. He reports it, and the young and generous man is shot. The officer, however, is only imprisoned for a few weeks, since he had beaten his lower officer because of his refusal more often than the law allows.⁷³ (114)

The anecdote questions the existing laws and the judiciary. When she tells a story of murder (17), she wants to hear judgement passed on the criminal, “to get a sense of the Prussian justice in such cases”.⁷⁴ (17) This not only bears witness to a Christianity-based need for justice, but also a strong interest in sociopolitical issues. The anecdotes Sophie includes in her travel journal can be divided into two categories: some tell cheerful stories that illustrate virtues without being sententious or morally didactic; others bear witness to Sophie’s critical perception of social injustices in her environment. Thus, her desire for “reasonable pleasure” finds expression in the genre of anecdote that allows her to express her “enjoyment and learning” (20).⁷⁵ Her thirst for knowledge, her perfectionism, her mistrust, her memory,⁷⁶ and her appetite for “more” could perhaps explain the hete-

 In the original: “die er Bedenken getragen im Journale drucken zu lassen.”  In the original: “Als der [der Offizier; ed.] noch auf seinem Sinne besteht und zwar mit der Miene der Schadenfreude, springt der junge Mensch voll Verzweiflung auf und wirft seinen Stock unwillig vor die Füße des Tyrannen. Der gibt es an und der junge edle Mann wird erschossen, der Offizier aber nur, und zwar weil er den Unteroffizier seiner Weigerung halber öfter gefuchtelt hatte, als nach den Gesetzen erlaubt ist, der Offizier kommt nur einige Wochen auf die Festung” (114).  In the original: “[…] um einen Begriff von der preußischen Justiz in solchen Fällen zu bekommen.” (17)  In the original: “[G]enießen und [L]ernen” (20).  See also: “Notwithstanding her major disposition to poetry, Sophie was only rarely occupied with it; perhaps because in her hunger for increasing her knowledge, she loved reading, perhaps also because she was almost never satisfied with her ballads. If she had seriously wanted to become one of the major female poets in the country, it was only up to her.” In the original: “Der grossen Anlage zur Poesie ungeachtet, beschäftigte sich Sophie nur selten damit; vielleicht weil

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rogeneous character of the anecdotes, which have different functions and different forms, sometimes brief, sometimes elaborate, and do not conform to the polished character of female travel reports. All in all, the anecdote is a suitable form for Sophie’s inductive method of knowledge acquisition. She starts off with small details (such as cherries and red currants) and then draws general conclusions. Anecdotes illustrate the continual and productive movement between external and self reference: brief but expressive stories about individuals allow conclusions to be drawn about people but also about the author. Through the genre of anecdote with its contrast of simple form and compelling content, Sophie’s own character becomes evident. Underneath an inconspicuous outer shell⁷⁷ (Göckingk 1790: 71) is a strong substance, a determined and self-confident personality, a sensitive but also astute and enthusiastic person, who, inspired by Christian ethos, wants to effect great changes by undertaking small things. Reason tells her: “[…] these are your deeds, certainly small and inperceptible for the human eye, but when it involves the feeling of love that Christ teaches, Sophie, then you have done what is right and you must not be envious of Elisa’s advantage that she was able to give 10 Rth”⁷⁸ (119 – 120).

The Educational Concept of a Neptunist While the travel journal was not published until the end of the nineteenth century, Briefe einer Curländerinn ⁷⁹ appeared only two years after Sophie’s death. In the foreword addressed to Duchess Dorothea of Courland, Schwarz explains the key concern of his deceased wife: “The author, whose favorite idea was to serve her gender by teaching in an educational institute, wanted this idea [her publi-

sie zu sehr nach Vermehrung ihrer Kenntnisse begierig das Lesen liebte, vielleicht auch, weil sie fast nie mit ihren Liedern zufrieden war. Es hing nur von ihr ab, unter den ersten Dichterinnen der Nation sich eine Stelle zu erwerben, wenn es ihr im Ernst darum zu thun gewesen wäre.” (Göckingk 1790: 79)  “[…] her figure had nothing outstanding, and her physiognomy at rest just as little.” In the original: “ihre Figur hatte nichts Ausgezeichnetes, ihre Physiognomie im ruhigen Zustand eben so wenig”.  In the original: “[…] dies sind deine Thaten, freilich klein und unbemerkbar für ein menschliches Auge, aber wenn das Gefühl der Liebe, die Christus lehrt, dich in Bewegung setzte, Sophie, so hast du gethan, was recht war, und darfst Elisen nicht um den Vorzug beneiden, daß sie 10 Rth. geben konnte.” Hier möchten wir auch folgenden Aufsatz verweisen: More about the complex friendship between Elisa von der Recke and Sophie Becker in Leyh 2015.  Hereafter quotations will be noted with the siglum BC.

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cation] as a ‘text book’ for educating the hearts of young women.”⁸⁰ (BC) In line with this intention, Sophie Schwarz smoothed over the narrative heterogeneity of the travel journal and reduced the number of anecdotes. The author then directed her thoughts to a fictional pen friend called Agnes, to whom, in her very first letter, she explains in detail how she sees the role and task of women in society. From these fundamental considerations, it becomes clear that the experience gained on her journey to Germany led to ostensibly modern views of gender relations: “In my opinion, among the two genders, education and morals have played a larger difference than nature itself”.⁸¹ (BC: I, 4) However, this sociological perspective does not call for an appropriation of male privileges. Sophie Schwarz does not believe in the feasibility of abrupt changes; as a matter of fact, she sees the developmental potential for women in creating small arenas of freedom within the existing gender order. Instead of complaining about the ‘burdens’ posed on women by the “present bourgeois constitution,” the reasonable woman should “be able to bear this as best she can,” which ultimately means, “practicing patience”.⁸² (I, 5) Sophie pleads openly for complying with what – at least for the time being – cannot be changed. Since women’s activities are primarily carried out seated, women should familiarize themselves at an early age (I, 6) by working with a needle and distaff. The “truly diligent fulfillment of our female role”⁸³ must have priority over all other ambitions. Nevertheless, in spite of such acquiescence, the idea of a different gender order and a different society is very much alive in Sophie’s thoughts. She warns fellow women not to give up all hope; in truth “we [women], as reasonable human beings, have to also lift our gaze beyond the for us predetermined place in this world”⁸⁴ (I, 6). Wherever a woman can advance the “education of the

 In the original: “Die Verfasserinn, deren Lieblingsidee es war, einst ihrem Geschlechte durch Unterricht in einer Erziehungsanstalt zu nutzen, entwarf sie hauptsächlich, als ein Lesebuch zur Bildung des Herzens für junges Frauenzimmer.”  In the original: “Erziehung und Sitte haben nach meiner Einsicht einen größeren Unterschied unter den beyden Geschlechtern gemacht, als die Natur selbst.”  In the original: “Indeß haben erkünstelte Bedürfnisse und die gegenwärtige Verfassung der bürgerlichen Gesellschaft viele beschwerliche Bürden auf unsern Antheil gebracht. Sollen wir darüber in vergebliche Klagen ausbrechen? nein, meine Liebe! Wir wollen uns dafür lieber in den Stand setzen, sie auf die beste Art zu tragen. […] Wir bedürfen nicht sowohl raschen Muth und herkulische Kraft, der Gewalt und Gefahr die Stirn zu bieten, als stille Duldung, beide zu tragen.”  In the original: “[d]ie getreue sorgfältige Erfüllung unserer Weiberrolle”.  In the original: “Indessen müssen wir [Frauen] als vernünftige Wesen unsern Blick billig auch über den uns angewiesenen Punkt der Erde erheben”.

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spirit,” she must seize this possibility “of climbing the moral ladder”⁸⁵ (I, 6). As far as the emancipation of the female gender is concerned, to use the words of Goethe, Sophie is not a volcanist, but a neptunist. She advises her readers against taking radical women as role models “which through a special fate or intellectual gifts are torn out of the customary determination” of the female sex: “What is a virtue for some, can be a mistake for you!” (I, 7)⁸⁶ We do not know why a young woman, who is interested in male-connoted topics, such as the organisation of the state, the principles of jurisdiction, literature, music and art conceived of such a pragmatic concept of female education. The influence of the male-dominated Halberstadt circle around Gleim, which was not progressive in its thinking about the education of women, may well have played a role. Sophie raised her voice only once when she vehemently demanded that in the future the education of women not be (Becker-Cantarino 1989: 149 – 161) − left to the men: “Only a clever woman will be able to educate her fellow women. […] Perhaps they [the men; ed.] can understand that in intellectual education, only a woman can unlock the heart of a young girl and how important the process of the same is for all of mankind!”⁸⁷ (BC II, 185 ff) However, Sophie’s plans to act as an educator for young girls did not come to fruition in the course of her short life. In the two and a half years that she lived in Halberstadt, she took the first steps toward an occupation as educator and directing her own educational institution. A dedication to her in the Gemeinnützige Blätter suggests that she had already published an “announcement” in this journal on the 22nd of September 1787, half a year after her marriage, and made known her intentions “to help her young female compatriots by imparting to them knowledge that could be useful for their gender.” The author comments: Her knowledge, her character, and especially her manner of dealing with young people would have made her an excellent teacher and warden; and such an institution, once started by her, would have been proven lasting (Fischer 1789: 367).⁸⁸

 In the original: “Die getreue sorfältige Erfüllung unserer Weiberrolle muss nicht so wohl als letzter Zweck unseres Daseyns, sondern als Mittel betrachtet werden, auf der Leiter moralischer Wesen höher hinauf zu steigen. Jede Ausbildung des Geistes […] muß uns daher als vernünftigen, zur Fortdauer bestimmten Wesen wichtig und heilig seyn.”  In the original: “[W]as für jene Tugend ist, kann für euch Fehltritt seyn!”  In the original: “[D]enn nur ein kluges Frauenzimmer wird ihr Geschlecht am besten bilden können. […] Vielleicht können sie [die Männer; ed.] in der wissenschaftlichen Bildung des Geistes gewinnen, allein das Herz eines jungen Mädchens schließt sich nur dem Weibe ganz auf, und wie wichtig bleibt die Bearbeitung desselben dem ganzen menschlichen Geschlecht!”  Karin Sträter points out that Sophie’s plan to dedicate some hours of her day to the education of young girls failed because there were not enough interested parties. (Sträter 1998: 264)

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Works Cited Becher, Ursula A. J. 1988. “Weibliches Selbstverständnis in Selbstzeugnissen des 18. Jahrhunderts.” Weiblichkeit in geschichtlicher Perspektive. Fallstudien und Reflexionen zu Grundproblemen der historischen Frauenforschung. Eds. Ursula A. J. Becher, and Jörn Rüsen. Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp, 217 – 233. Becker-Cantarino, Barbara. 1989. Der lange Weg zur Mündigkeit. Frauen und Literatur in Deutschland von 1500 bis 1800. München: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag. Briefe einer Curländerinn. Auf einer Reise durch Deutschland. Zwei Theile. 1791. Berlin: bei Friedrich Vieweg, dem älteren. Conrad, Anne. 1998. “‘Wir verplauderten die Zeit recht angenehm, sprachen von Geistersehen, Ahnungen und dergleichen’. Religion als Thema aufklärerischer Geselligkeit.” Ordnung, Politik und Geselligkeit der Geschlechter im 18. Jahrhundert. Eds. Ulrike Weckel, and Claudia Opitz, Brigitte Tolkemitt, Olivia Hochstrasser. Göttingen: Wallstein, 203 – 226. [Fischer, Gottlob Nathanael.] 1789. “Zum Andenken von Sophie Schwarz, geb. Becker.” Gemeinnü t zige Blä tter. Eine Wochenschrift zum Besten der Armen von der Litterarischen Gesellschaft zu Halberstadt. Vol. 2. No. 50, 363 – 368. Geistliche Lieder einer vornehmen Churländischen Dame, mit Melodien von Johann Adam Hiller. 1780. Leipzig: bey Johann Friedrich Junius. Gestrich, Andreas. 1984. “Erziehung im Pfarrhaus. Die sozialgeschichtlichen Grundlagen.” Das evangelische Pfarrhaus. Eine Kultur- und Sozialgeschichte. Ed. Martin Greiffenhagen. Stuttgart: Kreuz-Verlag, 63 – 82. Göckingk, [Leopold Friedrich Günther von]. 1790. “Sophiens Charakter.” Deutsche Monatsschrift. Vol. 1 (January – April). Berlin: bei Friedrich Vieweg, dem älteren, 71 – 79. Goodman, Katherine. 1990. “Elisa von der Recke’s Sentimental Autobiography.” Interpreting Women’s Lives: Feminist Theory and Personal Narratives. Ed. Personal Narratives Group. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 118 – 128. von Großmann, Julie. 1843. “Sophie Becker und ihr Verhältniß zu Elisa v. d. Recke, der Herzogin von Kurland, Tiedge, Gleim, Klamer-Schmidt, Bürger, Nicolai, Moses Mendelssohn und mehreren andern ihrer Zeitgenossen.” Penelope. Taschenbuch für das Jahr 1843. Vol. 32 or N.F. 3. Ed. Theodor Hell. Leipzig: Verlag der J. C. Hinrichsschen Buchhandlung, 143 – 222. Grothe, Heinz. Anekdote. Stuttgart: Metzler, 1971. Hilzinger, Sonja. 1997. Anekdotisches Erzählen im Zeitalter der Aufklärung. Zum Struktur- und Funktionswandel der Gattung Anekdote in Historiographie, Publizistik und Literatur des 18. Jahrhunderts. Stuttgart: M & P, Verlag für Wissenschaft und Forschung. – Elisa von der Recke. Aufklärerische Kontexte und lebensweltliche Perspektiven. Ed. Valérie Leyh, Adelheid Müller and Vera Viehöver. Heidelberg: Winter 2018.

In the original: “ihren jungen Landsmänninnen durch Mittheilung einiger für ihr Geschlecht nöthiger Kenntnisse nützlich zu werden”; “Ihre Kenntnisse, ihr Charakter und vorzüglich ihre Art, mit der Jugend umzugehn, würden sie zu einer vortreflichen Lehrerin und Aufseherin gemacht haben; und eine solche Anstalt, einmal von ihr angefangen, würde sicher von Dauer gewesen seyn.”

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– Viehöver, Vera; Leyh, Valérie. 2015. “Ungleiche Schwestern. Die Beziehung zwischen Elisa von der Recke und Dorothea von Kurland vor dem Hintergrund des literarischen Freundschaftskultes im 18. Jahrhundert”. Triangulum 2016, 275 – 286. – Leyh, Valérie. 2016. “Der Standesunterschied als Prüfstein. Zur Frauenfreundschaft zwischen Elisa von der Recke und Sophie Becker”. Recherches Germaniques 45 (2015), 5 – 23. Müller, Adelheid. 2004. “‘Die Frau Kammerherrin von Recke wird Berlin passieren und wünscht Sie zu kennen’ oder: Preußen sind Menschen.” Europäische Ansichten. Brandenburg-Preußen um 1800 in der Wahrnehmung europäischer Reisender und Zuwanderer. Ed. Iwan-Michelangelo D’Aprile. Berlin: Berliner Wissenschafts-Verlag [= Aufklärung und Europa 17], 113 – 140. Overhoff, Jürgen. 2000. “Immanuel Kant, die philanthropische Pädagogik und die Erziehung zur religiösen Toleranz.” Immanuel Kant und die Berliner Aufklärung. Ed. Dina Emundts, Wiesbaden: Reichert, 133 – 147. Renker, Cindy. 2010. “Die Bildung von Pfarrerstöchtern im 18. Jahrhundert.” Internationales Archiv für Sozialgeschichte der deutschen Literatur 35.1, 143 – 176. Schäfer, Walter E. 1985. “Anekdotische Erzählformen und der Begriff Anekdote im Zeitalter der Aufklärung.” Zeitschrift für deutsche Philologie 104 , 185 – 204. Scheitler, Irmgard. 1999. Gattung und Geschlecht. Reisebeschreibungen deutscher Frauen 1780 – 1850. Tübingen: Niemeyer. Schlaffer, Heinz. 2007. “Anekdote.” Reallexikon der deutschen Literaturwissenschaft I, A-G. Eds. Klaus Weimar, and Harald Fricke, Klaus Grubmüller, Jan-Dirk Müller. Berlin: de Gruyter, 87 – 89. Schwarz, Johann Ludwig. 1790. Elisens und Sophiens Gedichte. Ed. Johann Ludwig Schwarz. Berlin: Friedrich Vieweg. Schwarz, Johann Ludwig. 1828. Denkwürdigkeiten aus dem Leben eines Geschäftsmannes, Dichters und Humoristen. Erste Abtheilung. Leipzig: Christian Ernst Kollmann. “Sophiens Denkmal.” Deutsche Monatsschrift. Vol. 1 (January-April). Berlin: Friedrich Vieweg, 1790. 67 – 96. Sträter, Karin. 1998. “‘Es ist doch ein herrlich Ding um Ehrlichkeit und Freundschaft….’ Sophie Becker und Elise Reimarus.” Querelles. Jahrbuch für Frauenforschung 1998. Vol. 3: Freundschaft im Gespräch. Eds. S. Eickenrodt, and C. Rapisarda (in collaboration with U. Pott). 258 – 265. Viehöver, Vera. 2013. “Ein ‘musikalischer Gellert’: Johann Adam Hiller.” Praeceptor Germaniae. Christian Fürchtegott Gellerts 18. Jahrhundert. Eds. Werner Jung, and Sibylle Schönborn. Bielefeld: Aisthesis, 131 – 150. Vor hundert Jahren. Elise von der Reckes Reisen durch Deutschland 1784 – 86, nach dem Tagebuche ihrer Begleiterin Sophie Becker. Eds. G. Karo, and M. Geyer. Stuttgart: Verlag von W. Spemann, n.d. Weber, Volker. 1993. Anekdote. Die andere Geschichte. Erscheinungsformen der Anekdote in der deutschen Literatur, Geschichtsschreibung und Philosophie. Tübingen: Stauffenburg [= Stauffenburg Colloquium 26].

Gudrun Loster-Schneider

Poetics, Politics, Gender and Pedagogics in Friederike Brun’s (1765 – 1835) Autobiography Wahrheit aus Morgenträumen (1824) My essay discusses a text¹ by a contemporary of Goethe. Friederike Brun, née Münter (1765 – 1835), was a German-Danish woman writer who has been unjustly ‘forgotten’ and marginalized for a long time.² Even in German-language feminist literary history, there has hardly been any notice taken of her; however, thanks to a new edition by a British colleague, Brian Keith-Smith (Brun 2000), and thanks to the renewed interest in culturally mediating authors and multicultural, transnational modes of writing, she has come to the attention of German cultural studies (Hoff 2001, Hoff 2003, Müller 2012, Loster-Schneider 2012). Born and reared in a parsonage, Brun was educated by her pastor-father and introduced by him to the great writers, thinkers, and artists of her time. Her upbringing and descriptions of her early learning, education, and relationship with her father are documented in her autobiography. Her adolescent years and first attempts at writing foreshadow her life as a writer. However, the autobiography of her childhood and youth also mounts resistance to gender and national separation, to the bifurcation of poetry and truth, and to myths of authorship. While the text we are dealing with is an autobiography, I do not seek to ground my textual analysis in biography. Rather, I share with Voßkamp (1977: 27, 1989) a historical and functional conception of literature, broadened by cultural studies. Voßkamp understands texts as systematically regulated ‘expessions of’ and as ‘aesthetic answers to’ a sociocultural environment. Authors of all genders represent for me, as they do for Bourdieu (1999) or Luhmann (1981) and others conditionally autonomous ‘interfaces’ of cultural discourses.

 Friederike Brun, geb. Münter, Wahrheit aus Morgenträumen und Idas ästhetische Entwickelung. Aarau: 1824. Lateron cited as WaM.  This essay was composed in 2013 and thus takes into account research up to that year. It is partly based on a former lecture (translated by Paul M. Malone), which I held at the University of Memphis, TN in 2006. For revisions and the translation of new parts I give many thanks to Cindy K. Renker. Some parts of the essay were already published in German; see: (LosterSchneider 2012). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110590364-008

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In its opening section, my essay develops a historical and theoretical framework. I situate Brun’s text in the biographical and historical context of its composition and describe its most important formal characteristics. I then offer some thoughts on genre theory and a comparison of sources that help to position the text in literary history. The following section relates the text to contemporary discourses of poetics, politics, and gender which all are connected with the pedagogical and didactic discourse of the text itself and Brun’s father image.

Wahrheit aus Morgenträumen: Biographical and Historical Contexts At the end of 1812, shortly after the second part of Goethe’s autobiography Aus meinem Leben. Dichtung und Wahrheit (From My Life: Poetry and Truth, ed. Müller: 1986) had appeared,³ the well-known German-Danish poet and salonnière Friederike Brun (1765 – 1835)⁴ wrote from Copenhagen to her friend Caroline von Humboldt (1766 – 1826) – who had been her next-door neighbor in Rome for several years – to describe a private reading, held at Christmas time, of her nearly-completed memoir of her childhood and adolescence, her Kindheitsund Jugenderinnerungen: “Die Leute sind vergafft drin, und lachen und weinen eins ums andern dabei. Es soll bis ins 15. Jahr gehen, und mit dem Morgenroth der ersten Liebe enden” (‘People are much taken with it, and laugh and cry in turns hearing it. It is to proceed into my fifteenth year, and end with the dawn of my first love’) (Foerst-Crato 1975: 91– 92). According to its foreword, Brun had already begun work on the autobiography at Christmas 1810; that is, a year before the publication of the first part of Goethe’s famous autobiography; revisions and publication of Brun’s autobiography, in fact, took place afterwards. Notwithstanding such intertextual antecedents and aftermaths, the genesis of both texts shares the same historical background. Moreover, the biographical context for the composition of Brun’s Wahrheit aus Morgenträumen is, as it was in Goethe’s case (Jeßing 2004), a period of crisis and lack of creativity, (Foerst-Crato 1975: 38, 48) and among other

 Brun’s knowledge of Goethe’s autobiography is not totally sure but highly probable because of some striking analogies.  Several works of Friederike Brun had already been published, for instance Gedichte. Ed. Friedrich Matthisson. Zürich: 1795. – Prosaische Schriften. 4 vol. Zürich: 1799 – 1801. – Tagebuch über Rom. 2 vol. Zürich: 1800 – 1801. – Episoden aus Reisen. 3 vol. Zürich: 1806 – 1809. Neue Gedichte. Darmstadt: 1812.

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things, the result of Brun’s separation from her Roman and Swiss friends. In light of the foreseeably brief political calm after the Treaties of Tilsit (1807: Prussia) and Schönbrunn (1809: Austria), Brun’s husband, an influential ‘global player’, had insisted that his wife and daughters, after several long stays in Switzerland, France and Italy (1806 – 1810), return to a Northern Europe marked by the depredations of war, economic crisis, misery, and growing nationalization. There, further partings ensued, from Brun’s daughter Auguste and from the family of the German-Danish statesman Christian Bernstorff, Brun’s childhood friend who in 1810 resigned as Denmark’s foreign minister and moved to Vienna. In Brun’s words: “Meine ganze heilige Jugend, das Paradies der Erde, versinkt mit ihnen” (‘My entire sacred youth, this paradise on earth, is swallowed up with them’). (Foerst-Crato 1975: 48) More was to come. By the time the memoir of her childhood finally appeared fourteen years later (1824), repeatedly revised and furnished with a critical apparatus of footnotes, Brun had also been separated from her youngest daughter Ida de Bombelles (1792– 1857), singer and artist in her own right who had married in 1816 and moved to Dresden and Vienna, as well as from her famous friend Mme. de Staël (1766 – 1817) who had passed away in 1817. Significantly, in addition to Brun’s autobiography of her childhood, the publication also contains a biographical account of her daughter’s youth and education, dedicated to de Staël, and entitled Idas ästhetische Entwickelung (‘Ida’s Aesthetic Development’). A third addendum to the publication was a small collection of poems called Scherflein für Hellas niedergelegt auf den Altar der Menschlichkeit (A Poor Contribution for Hellas, Laid Upon the Altar of Humanity) that were paeans to the Greek national struggle for liberation from the Turks. This last part is dedicated to Brun’s distant friends, the Swiss poets Bonstetten (1745 – 1832), Matthisson (1761– 1831) and Salis-Seewis (1762– 1834). The first, main, and most extensive part of this publication from 1824, Brun’s childhood autobiography, however, does not address Goethe, the “friend of children and those who are forever young”, as had been anticipated (Foerst-Crato 1975: 209); and this despite the fact that she had enjoyed a personal acquaintance with the great man, underlined by the success of their pair of poems Nähe des Geliebten (“Nearness of the Beloved”, Brun 1792) and Ich denke Dein (“I Think of You”, Goethe 1796). (Schiller 1796: 5) Rather, the 170-page work of Brun’s childhood autobiography, divided into 71 chronological chapters, is dedicated – as an oblique critical reply to Goethe and an indirect tribute to her friend Salis-Seewis and his poems – to an allegoric female figure, to “Erinn’rung, [die,] lächelnd … [m]it rückwärts gewandtem Gesicht [den] Schleier [der] Wehmuth [hebt]” (“Memory, who, smiling … with backwards-turned face, lifts the veil of melancholy”). (Salis-Seewis 1780: 11– 12)

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Wahrheit aus Morgenträumen: Some Methodological Preliminary Notes Regardless of whether one reads Brun’s autobiography together with the added biography of her daughter as a heteronomous text, as Karin Hoff (2003) does, or whether one treats it, as we subsequently will, as a ‘single’ autonomous text – it is impossible to overlook the author’s threefold identity. Brun constructs her publication of 1824 as a triptych: In terms of her childhood memoir, this woman poet is 1) a self-oriented autobiographer; in the account of Ida’s education, Brun is 2) a maternal biographer, oriented toward her child; and with the hymns and odes to freedom, she is 3) a political poet, oriented toward the world and humanity. This triple climax directs our attention to the discursive triangle of poetics, politics and gender – and it does so even before we have the chance – in the words of the famous French theorist of autobiography, Philipp Lejeune (1982) – to enter into an ‘autobiographical pact’ with Brun’s childhood memoir and to ascribe referentiality to them, based on the nominal identity of author, first-person narrator and first-person protagonist. The ‘autobiographical pact’ means that the text we have at hand is not fictive, rather, it is bound to the historical reality of Brun’s life and person. The degree of the text’s ‘truthfulness’ or (rhetoric) ‘fictionalization’ remains, for the time being, undetermined. The referential aspect of the autobiography is reinforced through the two cotexts (the daughter’s biography and the hymns to freedom), which, like the childhood memoir, similarly makes mention of real people, circumstances, and events. All in all, the publication of 1824 thus emphasizes the hybridity of the genre of autobiography, even if modern scholars have been quarrelling over its ‘authenticity’ or ‘textuality’, following, for example, the postmodern positions of Paul de Man (1979). Brun’s publication follows the conventions of autobiographical texts, as Holdenried (2000) or Wagner-Egelhaaf (2005) argue, always refering to an already culturally formed and mediated biographical reality, even while inevitably reshaping and performing this reality. At the same time, as Heuser (1996) points out, a comparison of the respective textual construct with other sources, and with the author’s biographical substrata, helps clarify the construct’s particular textuality – for Women’s Studies, in particular, sometimes generating a methodological dilemma, since autobiographical research of lesser-known or forgotten authors is hampered by a limited corpus of texts. Although there is little recent research into Brun’s biography, Brun’s social proximity to such intensively researched cultural elites as the Copenhagen Circle, the Göttinger Hain, or the famous Roman colony mentioned at the beginning, makes the situation of this forgotten author a relatively happy one. Thus,

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the comparison of the childhood memoir with Brun’s letters to Caroline von Humboldt cited earlier, allows us to formulate two initial theses regarding the ‘fictionality’ of Brun’s concept of her own identity. In particular, the discrepant interpretations of her own body that Brun produces in both texts allow us to infer the conscious shaping of the facts of her world, depending upon the particular addressee and context; that is to say, she exhibits a tendency to fictionalize. Thus, for example, the omnipresent discourse of illness in her ‘private’ letters to her intimate friend Caroline is markedly gendered; it explains Brun’s multifarious nervous complaints in terms of the pathological paradigm of the hystera, that is, the womb, and interprets them in conformity with the discursive model of a passio hysterica as researched by Geitner (1985), among others. Befitting her advanced age, Brun focuses on the ‘grand crisis’ of menopause, which supposedly turns older women into sexless drones (Foerst-Crato 1975: 181). It is a different matter, however, in Brun’s ‘public’ childhood autobiography. The diagnosis of hysteria is here marked as a historically outdated discourse, and moreover, disposed of in a comical fashion. Thus, in the narrative context of linguistic misunderstandings between the little Friederike and the world of adults, the following anecdote about a “gelehrter und verdienstvoller Professor der Historie” (‘learned and venerable professor of history’) will serve as an example: [D]ieser hatte eine schöne und elegante Frau, welche sehr an den Nervenzufällen litt, welche seitdem unter den Frauen so häufig geworden sind, und die man damals mit dem allgemeinen Namen histerischer Beschwerden abfertigte. Da ich nun diese schöne Frau hier und dort, und da, in Gesellschaften übel und ohnmächtig werden sah, Zuckungen kriegen u.s.w. entfuhren mir einmal ganz laut die Worte – “Nun, Gott soll mich bewahren, wenn ich einmal groß werde, einen Professor der Historie zu heirathen!”⁵ (WaM: 19)

To be sure, Friederike’s ‘nervous bouts’ are also amply documented in her autobiography, and commented upon both in her narrative and in the footnotes. In contrast to the letters, however, the elderly first-person narrator here interprets these complaints in gender-neutral terms: they are alleged to be the result of vague ‘inflammations’ (WaM: 100) or – and this is more interesting for our inves-

 “This man had a lovely and elegant wife, who suffered greatly from those nervous bouts which since then have become so frequent among women, and which in those days were dismissed under the general name of hysterical complaints. And as I saw this lovely woman here and there in public, and saw her there become ill and unconscious, fall into fits, etc., it once inadvertently drew from me, quite loudly, the words: “Well, may God keep me, when I’m grown up, from marrying a professor of history!”

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tigation, the autobiographer links them, as we shall examine later in more detail, to melancholy, a topos of genius coded as ‘masculine’. Although her letters and autobiography differ, there are also convergent statements by Brun regarding her own identity and its history. Among the latter belongs the perception of herself as member of a cultural élite who possesses the authority to speak, a notion that is supposed to legitimize her writing. Conversely, however, her life history includes details that we can describe, following Sloterdijk (1979), as ‘Störerfahrungen’ (‘disruptive experiences’) in her elitist selfimage. In his monograph of 1979, which is still important in terms of theorizing the genre, Sloterdijk identifies two functions of autobiographical narrative: social action, in which a backward-gazing autobiographer makes reference to his current social milieu, its values and fantasies, and asserts relevance of the past and present (‘Relevanzproduktion’); and a future-oriented mental blueprint of an ‘I’ rich in life experiences, who – particularly in times of crisis – has to face up not only to successes but also to disruptions in his personal mythology, who must learn ‘lessons’ from them, and who, in accordance with collective patterns and educational concepts, has to employ narrative to set all this in order. The central aspects for Sloterdijk are the presence, nature, and function of such disruptive experiences in the text: are they suppressed or taken up as a theme, do they stand in isolation or do they become part of the self-image, and of a ‘fictive’ biographical coherence? With this in mind, we return to Brun, and we can now formulate our second thesis. It too owes its existence, methodologically speaking, to the comparison with Brun’s letters to Caroline von Humboldt; it refers, however, only to the function of autobiography insofar as it serves the politics of subjectivity. Unlike the letters, the contemporaneous childhood memoir recounts events tragic and triumphant; that is, such events that prompt, in the mixed emotion of “Wehmut” (‘melancholy nostalgia’, ‘joy of grief’), both “lachen und weinen,” (‘tears and laughter’). Thus Brun’s autobiography appears to be a ‘disrupted’ narcissistic fantasy of restoration to health. Before discussing this notion below, I want to draw attention to Sloterdijk’s view of the ‘Relevanzproduktion’ (‘production of relevance’) for literary-historical ‘classification in the field’ – to use Bourdieu’s (1991) term of contemporary autobiographical theory. In light of Brun’s text’s intertextual ‘sisterhood’ with Goethe’s Dichtung und Wahrheit, the ‘famous woman’ Friederike Brun makes an extremely convincing ‘claim to relevance’: This claim is nourished by three facets (corresponding to her triptych) of her social identity. As the quotation in my title of her indicates, it results 1) from Brun’s poetic calling, her lifelong disposition to be a writer; it also results 2) from her ‘womanly’ vocation, her ‘natural destiny as a wife and mother’, according to the contemporary anthropology of gender, and it results 3) from her familial and transnational background. The so-called ‘Nordic Sap-

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pho’⁶ was the beloved daughter of the famous evangelic court chapelist, proponent of the Enlightenment and poet of spiritual poems Balthasar Münter (1735 – 1793), and as a member of the well-known Münter family, belonged to the bicultural, cosmopolitan Copenhagen social élite and to a European network of political and cultural circles of friends in Denmark, Germany, Switzerland, Vienna, France, and Italy. She was a Roman by choice, an enthusiastic fan of Switzerland, and a specialist in classical antiquity, art critic, and cultural mediator, translator, editor, poet, and travel writer. She was the sophisticated spouse of a wealthy citizen of the world, a famous salonnière, and mother-creator of the celebrated gestural artist Ida. This claim to relevance allows Brun to take up the challenge of her father’s friend Herder, who had called on women to provide descriptions of their lives (Herder 1883: 587, Münter 1937, 1793) and which allows her to link back to the very few previously published autobiographies by women writers such as Sophie de La Roche (1783, 1799, 1800, 1806)⁷ or Isabella von Wallenrodt (1796/97). Unlike these women, however, Brun restricts herself to her childhood and youth, a phase highly regarded since Rousseau, Jung-Stilling, Moritz or Goethe. Consequently, Brun is the first woman writer to publish a literary childhood memoir in German – long before Johanna Schopenhauer or Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach – and for a long time she has been insufficiently considered by German autobiographical scholarship (Niggl 1971).

Wahrheit aus Morgenträumen: Textual Analysis (Poetics) In the crisis that forms the context of the work’s composition, as I hinted in my introduction, is the public huge ego of the ‘famous woman’, which I have just sketched, that moves into the center of her autobiographical self-construction. Like Goethe, she attempts to synthesize and bind together the multifarious individual facets of her image and authenticates them by means of an exalted lineage and innermost ‘essence’ (“Wesen”).⁸ Once again, and entirely in Herder’s

 This title Brun shares with Karsch and Rudolphi. See: Loster-Schneider 2003.  See for instance some obvious parallels (the theme of melancholy or the metaphor of the nightingale and of the camera obscura) between Brun’s autobiography and Sophie La Roche‘s Schattenrisse abgeschiedener Stunden in Offenbach, Weimar und Schönebeck im Jahr 1799 (1800), which vice versa mentions Brun. (9)  See for example phrases like WaM, 163: “Blüthenknospe meines innern Wesens” (“flower bud of my inner character”).

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terms, the text thus takes on the function – to our eyes nowadays, of course, a mythic function – of stabilizing the crisis-endangered self-esteem of its aging authoress in the reminiscent contemplation of a youthful and original wholeness now lost. This function dictates the stylistically pleasing, often humorous discourse, the careful selection of biographical data and its skillful ‘emplotment’ – to use Hayden White’s (1978) term – in accordance with contemporary narrative models and ideological concepts; a process that reminds us of the impish little artist Friederike, who manipulates “Thatsachenwahrheit” (WaM: VI) (‘factual truth’) by means of shrewd omissions. Accordingly, it is inevitable that the poetic aspect of her identity moves into the foreground – after all, since Plato, poets have been considered liars and fantasts. And also accordingly, it is inevitable that the elderly Friederike’s text falls under the suspicion of being fictive – and the text, self-consciously, has nothing less in mind from the very beginning. Thus, then, Brun’s Wahrheit aus Morgenträumen is permeated throughout by a metapoetic – and highly ambiguous – discourse on the question of ‘Dichtung und Wahrheit’, be it in the title or in the many critical comments on memory with which the autobiographical narrator accompanies her account. The pattern evident in the work’s reception is already present in the “Vorbericht an den gütigen Leser” (WaM: III-VI). (‘Foreword to the Gentle Reader’) The work’s ‘birth myth’ unfolded here argues away any doubt about its veracity, only to ‘give birth’ to doubt anew. Thus, the first-person narrator metaphorizes her treasury of remembered images, which she shares as a threefold hallucinatory Wesensschau, an intuition of essences – first of all as a puppet theatre, then as the ‘psychological hocus-pocus’ of a camera obscura or laterna magica (Kosenina 2004) – and so refers with great clarity to the stage-managed character of the entire presentation. The two-phase process of production, recounted immediately after this inspirational moment, of course, separates into: the initial, spontaneous and imaginary ‘throng of images’ before the ‘innermost eye of the soul’ that now appears “Thatsachen-wahr” (‘factually true’) and the first transposition of those images into language scribbled on ‘cartons’, the tracing-paper of the camera obscura, by the fevered, ‘half-blind’ and only ‘half-awake’ first-person narrator. ‘Untruth’ emerges only at the end: Der erste Anstoß war nun, und ganz ohne mein Zuthun gegeben. Am nächsten Morgen (ich war noch immer bettlägrig vor Schwäche) war’s wieder dieselbe Geschichte! Frühes Erwachen, Bildergewimmel anfangend, wo ich’s gestern ließ, und keine Ruhe, eh‘ ich aufschrieb, was ich sah. So gieng’s drei Morgen auf einander, bis ich die ganze Bildergallerie ausgeleert hatte, welche plötzlich mit dem Ausgange des 15ten Jahres erlosch – Gestalten und Farben verdämmerten, und ich war herzlich froh, wieder ungestört meinen Morgenschlaf vollenden zu können. Die Cartons dieser innern Camera obscura (Kaum leserlich hingekritzelte Noti-

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zen) wurden zu anderen Papieren geworfen und vergessen: Bis ich eines Tages mit einigen Hausfreunden von diesem sonderbaren psychologischen Hokuspokus redete, und ihre Neugier durch Mittheilung der kaum dechiffrablen Notitzen befriedigte. Sie fanden Stoff zum Leben darin, und ich mußte versprechen, solche wenigstens lesbar auszuschreiben: und that es ihnen zu lieb. Allein nun fingen diese Morgenträume an, mich selbst zu erheitern und zu belustigen; und so ließ ich mich gehen, setzte äußerst wenig hinzu (denn die Thatsachen hatten wahrlich die Marionettengeister treulich geliefert), sondern ordnete und erweiterte durch Umstände berichtigend, nur das Ganze, so gut ich wußte und konnte. Man verzeihe also, wo ich vielleicht in Zeit- und Gedankenfolge geirrt ward, den kleinen kindlichen Wesen, die der Cyklus der Logik nicht einengt, und welche die Zeit nicht berechnen.⁹ (WaM: III – VI)

‘Untruth’ thus emerges not in the first inspirational, really creative moment, but rather only during the alienating process of working out this unchronological, alogical, hardly decipherable material. Translated into modern terms: untruth is the effect of an irreconcilable discrepancy between the psychological substratum and the symbolic order. However, the venerable platonic narrative of inspiration, according to which the first-person narrator textualizes her work’s origin myth and its presentation in the first place also belongs to this symbolic order. The divinely gifted authoress, inspired by the images in her memory and psyche, is evidently also a wellread, classically educated connoisseur of contemporary theories about dreams and the imagination, which the classical mythology of genius (inspiratio, ingenium, melancholia, technica and iudicium) had made generally available to the epistemology of the Enlightenment (Alt 2001). Thus, from the beginning, the first-person narrator designs herself as an extraordinary, culturally competent

 “The first impetus was now given me, and that wholly, without action on my part. The next morning (I was still bedridden with weakness) it was the same story again! Early waking, the throng of images taking up where I had left it yesterday, and no rest until I wrote down what I saw. This lasted three mornings in a row, until I had emptied the entire picture gallery, which suddenly ceased at the end of my fifteenth year – the shapes and colors faded, and I was heartily glad to be able to finish my morning sleep undisturbed. The tracing-papers of this inner camera obscura (barely readable scribbled notes) were tossed in with other papers and forgotten: Until one day I spoke of this peculiar psychological hocus-pocus with a few family friends, and assuaged their curiosity by sharing my barely decipherable notes with them. They found the stuff of life in it, and I was obliged to promise at least to write it out legibly: and I did so for love of them. But now these morning dreams began to delight and amuse even myself; and so I let myself proceed, adding exceedingly little (for the puppet-spirits had truly conveyed the facts faithfully), but rather only ordering and expanding the whole, correcting it by means of details as well as I knew them and could do so. Thus, wherever I may have erred in the matter of chronology or coherence, one must forgive those little childlike creatures who are not hemmed in by the cycle of logic, and who do not reckon the time.”

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personality. She moves this ambitious self-design into the twilight of a regressive presentation, of an autopoietic act (Luhmann) and “Weihnachtsmärchen” (‘christmastale’), of a literary work, a “Dichtung” (‘poetry’). The story of youth that follows this preface, paints – evoking Goethe’s selfimagination in the first parts of Dichtung und Wahrheit – the ‘poet’ in bright colours. There is an image of the storyteller Friederike (WaM: 75, 123, 157– 158, 166), watching over children; other images show her in heartfelt prayer for a ‘divine gift’ which would enable her to write poetry like her favorite and idolized poet Gellert. We see her at her ‘consecration’ as a poet at the bedside of the ill poet Ewald, who recognizes her poetic destiny, and as Ossian-inspired versifying Philomele in a poetic bird’s nest, high in the paternal willow tree (WaM: 166).¹⁰ Friederike’s calling to be a poet thus follows the narrative of teleological development in phases, offering anecdotal evidence from the first secret sign to the point of public acceptance, keeping with the humanistic and unified ideal of subject and environment.¹¹ Above all, however, she is socially licensed in her vocation to poetry through the goodwill of both Danish and German poetic authorities – elder and younger and mostly male, which means, for example, Johannes Ewald (1743 – 1781), Christian zu Stolberg-Stolberg (1748 – 1821), Friedrich Leopold zu Stolberg-Stolberg (1750 – 1819), her brother Friedrich Münter (1761– 1830) and particularly her beloved father, who is said always to have taken ‘great pleasure’ (“herzliche Freude” (WaM: 160)) in young Friederike’s childish early poems. Admittedly, the autobiographic fiction of the adult narrator Friederike does not recognize the clandestine discrimination, inherent in father Münter’s sexual differenciation between the poems of his son Friedrich and his daughter Friederike. The first ones earn his constructive criticism and fair comments, while the poetic efforts of the girl gain only smooth and tender ones (WaM: 163 – 164, 160, 124– 125). This poetic identity of the first-person narrator thus fits harmoniously into the narcissistic construction as beloved ‘sunday’s child’ (WaM: 126), whose ego components are considered to show ‘genius’¹² – and are granted a generous psycho-social moratorium (WaM: 136). Well into the late 1770s, the beloved ‘daddy’s girl’ Friederike – unlike her elder brother, the firstborn ‘mama’s boy’ (WaM: 13)

 In this hidden place, she compiled a translation of Ossian.  Like young Goethe, Friederike Brun shows in her autobiography a natural talent and affinity to poems, fairy tales, translations (Ossian) or to a ‘crossfaded’ reality by imagination. Richardson’s Clarissa (WaM: 83) or Grandisson (WaM: 115 – 116) are examples of the artistic technology of writing, which Brun ascribed to in her later years. (See: Loster-Schneider 2009)  Thus, making poems in the willow-tree or rowing during thunderstorms are considered as the girl’s strokes of genius (WaM: 173).

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Friedrich – is wild, loud, frivolous, courageous and willful, temperamental, full of natural wit and contrariness, hates needlework, plays nothing but deadly games with her dolls, turns her doll’s kitchen into a chemical laboratory, experiments with the electrostatic generator, goes climbing and rowing –preferably à la Klopstock, in stormy weather (WaM: 137). More importantly, only the reading and writing life, the “Leben und Weben” in worlds of fantasy (WaM: 115 – 116), is spared later inevitable frustrations. Dichtung and Dichten, the written word and the act of writing, thus gain a compensatory function, and are passionately cultivated relics of a childish identification with her learned poet-father, with her learned poet-brother Friedrich and family friends, such as the poets Herder, Klopstock, Ewald, Esmarch, Baggesen, and Christian and Friedrich Stolberg. This identification extends into the medical self-diagnoses of the present. Both, the German Klopstock and the Dane Ewald, suffer – like the backward-gazing narrator Friederike Brun (WaM: 123) – from nervous disorders. Brun’s father as well composed his “herz- und geistvolle[n]” Geistlichen Lieder (his ‘heartfelt and witty’ ‘Spiritual Songs’, 1772) (WaM: 24, 70 – 73) in the blackest melancholy hypochondria.

Wahrheit aus Morgenträumen (Politics) Friederike’s father fell into a poetically productive depression after he was separated, for political reasons, from his soulmates. Similarly, Friederike’s fate was both tragic and painful. Brun’s autobiographical life story as the foundation myth of her poetic destiny ends with an unfulfilled first love and with the “Donnerschlag” (‘thunderclap’) of the catastrophic separation from her closest childhood friends, when their father, the German Andreas Peter Bernstorff, is dismissed from the Danish government. To quote Brun: “Wir sollten so recht lebendig auseinander gerissen werden!” (‘We were to be torn apart alive!’) (WaM: 191). This incisive metaphor illustrates the latent political potential of this ‘Schmerz- und Sehnsuchts-Poetik’ (‘poetics of pain and longing’) – beyond its manifest textualization of contemporary discourses of melancholy and friendship (Mauser and Becker Cantario 1991). On the one hand, the daughter repeats the supposed ‘ur-scene’ of all her poet-father’s poetically productive crises of separation, the Münter family trauma; that is, the Struensee affair (WaM: 25 – 29),¹³ which was a cause célèbre throughout Europe. In 1772, Balthasar Mün-

 Even the little girl Friederike was aware of the conspiracy. To the background of the Struensse affair see: Mix 2001, Bohnen 2001.

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ter, an opponent of the ousted German minister and radical reformer Struensee, was involved in a conspirative coup against him. As pastor, he had been obliged to visit him frequently in prison, but eventually befriended him and in the end was forced to attend his new friend’s public torture and execution, which involved cutting off his hands, beheading, quartering and display his limbs which were hoisted on a wheel. He poured his heart out in a contemporary best-seller describing Struensee’s conversion and execution. On the other hand, at the end of her childhood, with Bernstorff’s removal from power in 1781, Friederike also experienced the Danishizing and division of the mixed German-Danish culture, which had begun in 1770 with Struensee’s brief revolution. It continued during the nationalist impulses of the Napoleonic Wars and Restoration, and thus at a time when the autobiography was composed – against all attempts in day-to-day life to restore the old, multinational politics to which Brun programmatically declared her allegiance at the very beginning, when she introduced her parents, and particularly her father’s cosmopolitan political credo. Thus, Brun writes in the first chapter: Zu welchem Volk ich nun eigentlich gehöre, weiß ich wirklich nicht: und daher mag wohl mein gänzlicher Mangel an ausschließender Vaterlandsliebe herrühren, welcher mir Sinn, Herz und Augen offen erhalten hat, für die Vorzüge und Gebrechen der Völker und Länder, so ich gesehn. Auch sagte mein Vater oft: Christus habe gegen nichts früher und anhaltender gearbeitet, als gegen die ausschließende Vaterlandsliebe, und den noch ausschließendern Vaterlandsstolz und nichts eifriger zu befördern gesucht, als offenen Weltbürgersinn. Auch mir scheint dies aus allen Evangelisten klar hervorzugehen. Allein herzlich innig liebte er [mein Vater] das Land seiner Wahl, das liebe Dänemark, herzlich ist er von dem gütigen Volke wieder geliebt worden. Alle meine Erinnerungen, alle Erfahrungen meines Lebens, sind von Seiten der Dänen Liebe – freundliches herzliches Anerkennen des Guten, was an uns war. Vom Vater herab bis auf die Kinder und Enkel, ist Münters Namen in uns geliebt.¹⁴ (WaM: 6 – 7)

 “To which people I now actually belong, I truly do not know: and it may well be that from this stems my utter lack of any exclusionary patriotism, a lack that has kept my mind, heart and eyes open to the merits and failings of the peoples and countries I have seen. My father also often said: There was nothing that Christ worked against earlier and more constantly than against exclusionary patriotism, and even more exclusionary chauvinism; and he sought to promote nothing more zealously than open cosmopolitanism. To me, too, this seems to be clear in all the evangelists. However, he [my father] fervently loved the land he had chosen, dear Denmark, and he was loved wholeheartedly by its good people in return. All my memories, all the experiences of my life, are of love on the part of the Danes – a friendly, heartfelt acknowledgement of the good that was in us. From the father down to the children and grandchildren, in us the name of Münter is beloved.”

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This takes us back to our opening thesis of the text as a fantasy of restoration. Against a historical background of division and war, Brun’s supposedly ‘private’ camera obscura reads as a symbolic restoration of the once omnipotent GermanDanish circle, now destroyed, and the multiethnic Danish conglomerate state, which had since been divided. Moreover, Brun’s textual images of memory also symbolically remake material markers of memory destroyed by war: her parents’ house, her father’s grave and the poetic willow tree. In 1807, the hail of British bombs on Copenhagen had reduced them to ruins. And even the striking cosmopolitan declaration against chauvinistic patriotism that the autobiographer makes in the name of her father in her introduction, (WaM: 6 – 7) reads as part of a historical complex, on both the general and the individual levels, of poetics and politics, which after 1810 gives the current crises of separation – personal as well as political – a new psychic dynamic.

Wahrheit aus Morgenträumen (Gender) Finally, Brun’s Wahrheit aus Morgenträumen is also a narcissistic fantasy of restoration in its gendered plot, which envisions the beloved, impish child before all gender-specific restrictions in her original omnipotence – with library key, quill pen, oar, and key to the larder. And like the discourse of poetological identity, that of gender identity is also politically laden. Unlike the topic of writing, which was never forbidden, the theme of gender confronts the backward-gazing narrator with a via dolorosa of insult and loss: for the drama of Struensee’s dismemberment occurs when the five-year-old “wilde Biene” (‘wild bee’) “den Stachel auf immer verloren hat” (‘lost her sting forever’) (WaM: 21– 25) and was dethroned by a new member of the family. At the cradle of her little brother, christened with their father’s name, Balthasar, Friederike learns how to mother. It is from this very period that her love of reading and of invented worlds results; and it is from this that the retrospectively reflecting first-person narrator first dates the loss of her gaiety and the “Grundaccord meines Wesens” (‘basic chord of my being’), her melancholy (WaM: 24). Mein Witz erstarb im eigentlichen Sinne: die Gutmütigkeit gewann; allein ich versichere heilig, in spätern Jahren der Kindheit, aus Furcht wehe zu thun, so waffenlos geworden zu seyn, daß sehr an intellectuellem Vermögen untergeordnete Gespielen, mich ungestraft neckten und sich über meine Treuherzigkeit lustig machten; die Biene hatte den Stachel auf immer verloren. [….] Wenn die Kinderwärterin ungeduldig ward, das kleine unruhige Kind

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zu wiegen, gab sie mir ein Buch in die Hand, und ich wiegte treulich fort, Himmel und Erde vergessend, in Richardsons Zauberwelt verloren.¹⁵ (WaM: 21, 25)

However, fixated on the ego-ideal of a poet, formed after her father’s image and sentimental poetics, Brun seeks the origin of this melancholy in her being torn away from her loved ones and missing them – and not, for instance, in the gender-specific shrinking of her world. Compared with Brun, the intimate correspondent mentioned at the outset, however, this is now a conspicuously gender-blind view of the autobiographer. In order to understand this striking discrepancy, I would now like to invoke the pedagogical and didactic discourse that permeates Brun’s childhood autobiography and elucidates the theme of gender. This will also now lead us back again to our opening considerations on genre theory.

Wahrheit aus Morgenträumen: Pedagogics or Dialectic Learning? From her adult perspective, Brun portrays the child Friederike in her elitist educational environment who is provided with three goals for her development: 1) morally exemplary social conduct, primarily willingness to take responsibility, ability to empathize and personal moderation, 2) the acquisition of a high degree of literacy appropriate for a privileged social class, and 3) the formation of a sexual identity suitable for her gender. The authorities of this difficult scenario are the two overpowering father-gods, Klopstock and Münter, who impose upon the “Sonntagskind” (‘sunday’s child’) two ‘disruptive experiences’ (Sloterdijk). Father Klopstock is willing to feel affection (“lieb haben”) for the ‘intolerable roaring wind’ (“unausstehlich[er] Brausewind”), once she has turned ‘fifteen years old’ (“15 Jahr alt”) and settled down somewhat (WaM: 105). Father Münter, with an eye to the domestic relationship between his precursor’s erudite daughter, who served as a challenging model for Friederike, refuses to tolerate a Latinand Greek-reading, ‘scholarly fool in the house’ (“gelehrte Närrin im Haus”)

 “My wit quite literally died: good-naturedness won out; I assure you on oath, however, that in the later years of my childhood, out of fear of causing injury, I had become so defenseless that playfellows far inferior in intellectual ability teased me with impunity and made fun of my ingenuousness; the bee had lost its sting forever. [….] Whenever the governess lost patience with rocking the restless little child, she would put a book in my hand, and I would keep faithfully rocking, forgetting heaven and earth, lost in Richardson’s magic world.”

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(WaM: 32). Inspite of his indulgence and liberality, he limits Friederike’s acquisition of literacy and, indirectly, her poetic ambitions as well. For the rest of her life, Friederike, later almost deaf, is forced to learn and reproduce classical meters only by ear, not by instruction and lessons. As part of her identity politics of self-mythologizing, Brun attempts to revalue these deficits to positive effect. Thus, the outward absence of coercion during her educational and formative years, marked by her experience and stimulating to her imagination, corresponds to both recognized pedagogical theories (Fénélon, Basedow) and to the character of the freedom-loving ‘wild tomboy.’ Moreover, this lack of external constraints presents an opportunity for unobserved self-education, that is, her independent construction of her own identity. Furthermore, the methods, media, and instruments through which the girl independently and playfully develops “all her inner senses” (‘alle inneren Sinne’) and claims to have acquired (WaM: 92) the learning she sought, are not infrequent abstract lessons and regulated instruction but, rather, her conversational participation in the domestic culture of story-telling and gregariousness, the grown-up readings that give wings to her fantasy, and the practical experience on her own body. The awkward scenes in which Friederike’s appearance, conduct and level of knowledge are pilloried on the so-called ‘chair of shame’ (“Beschämungs-Catheder”) (WaM: 16) constitute painful ‘disruptive experiences’ in the child’s narcissistic self-esteem. In Brun’s interpretive retrospection, however, they become important catalysts of her development, and thus central components of the autobiographer’s (wishful) elitist self-image. Indeed, these experiences recount the externally imposed civilizing process (Elias 1974) and how they play into ‘feminine’ weakness and shyness (Basedow/Rousseau) as an independent educational achievement produced qua shame and conscience. This shrew has been tamed in exemplary fashion, outwardly ‘zwanglos’, through a synthesis of social and self-control.

Wahrheit aus Morgenträumen: Father Images Despite Brun’s appreciative, loving mentioning of her mother (Magdalena Ernestina Sophia Friederika née von Wangenheim), it is her father Balthasar Münter whom she mentions about 80 times in her autobiography, forming a textual mirror of remembrance, in which the biography and character of her father, as well as the close relationship with him, lead to an indirect and projected self-characterization of a problematic, as ‘masculine’ identified father-daughter. Despite this cross-gendered configuration, the text parallels Goethe’s self-characterization, which also links the coming-of-age plot of the child with that of the father.

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For example, Friederike’s first reading lessons are taught from the ‘beautifully sounding verses’ of her father’s oratorio, and by practicing the musical versions. She learned how to play the organ and how to sing (WaM: 15, 90). In conversation, with ‘many a brilliant word’ (WaM: 90), her father introduces her to scientific, historical, ethical, and religious topics: Wenn dann die Nacht heranzog, dann wandelte ich an der Hand des Vaters, unter dem Sternenhimmel, und lauschte mit leisem Beben auf die hohen Lehren und Offenbarungen der Weisheit und ewigen Güte, im unermesslich Großen, wie bei Tage im unermeßlich Kleinen.¹⁶ (WaM: 109)

In the end, it is her father who impresses on her and steers her literary socialization, who leads her, according to her age, to Goethe’s Werther, Klopstock’s Messias or Wieland’s Oberon. Her father shapes her critical discernment and tenderly praises her for developing the right taste: “Der Vater umarmte mich […] die Messiade ward mir gewährt”¹⁷ (WaM: 106, 134, 159, 149). The above mentioned unsystematic casualness and unconstraint of this educational path, Brun’s shaping of the father-child relationship and the positive father-image, contrasts with Goethe’s Dichtung und Wahrheit. From the beginning, her father appears as an exemplary representative of an honorable intellectual and moral elite, and at the same time as a loving and beloved, yet sensible, mild, and good-willed character, who is both cheerful and melancholic. From the perspective of the young child (except for the Struensee affaire), the influential pastor and theologian appears not as a public but rather as a private person with intellectual and literary interests. He is at the center of a circle of friends with similar interests and affinities, an exemplary family man (Erhart 2001), and represents in many situations the sensible ideal of a strong and tender father – in which he supersedes the difficult ‘private man’ that was Johann Caspar Goethe. In the end, the constructed nature of the father-image becomes apparent when Friederike changes her concept of her father and no longer remembers him in an ideal and sentimental way but, rather, in a ‘classical’ form: Meinen Vater aber erinnere ich selten nur unpäßlich gesehen zu haben. Seine ganze Gestalt und sein heiterer Gleichmuth bei der zartesten Empfänglichkeit des Herzens, sprachen die

 “When night fell, I strolled along on my father’s hand, under the starry sky, and listened with quiet trembling to the elevated teachings and revelations of wisdom: eternal goodwill, in regards to the immeasurable great things, as by day to the immeasurable small things.”  “Father hugged me and the messiade was offered to me”.

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erhörte Bitte der Alten: ‘Gesunden Sinn im gesunden Körper’, und ‘das Schöne zu dem Guten’, aufs vollständigste aus.¹⁸ (WaM: 49 – 50)

The image of the father, confirmed through the explicit and episodically documented similarity by which father and daughter alternately identified over the years, becomes a mirror identity for Brun. This is also true in the physical sense (except for Brun’s connoted ‘motherly-feminine’ weak health): [D]iese Ähnlichkeit aber mit dem geliebten Vater nahm immer zu, (besteht wachsend bis auf diesen Augenblick) und wenn der liebende Vater, mein rundes Gesicht zwischen beide Hände nehmend, mich recht herzlich küßte, sagte er oft lächelnd: ‘Mädchen, du siehst doch deinem Vater schändlich ähnlich!‘ Und ich ließ mir das recht gern gefallen, denn die Eitelkeit war ganz klein in meinem Herzen; die Liebe aber zum Besten der Väter, sehr groß.‘¹⁹ (WaM: 104)

And this mirror image manifests not only in the physical and mental sense but also has consequences for Brun’s concept of self as a sunny, ‘impish’ and highly cultured cosmopolitan and social writer who is predisposed to happiness but suffers from world weariness: “[T]iefer war der Schmerz meines Vaters, und von der Tochter wie innig mitempfunden und getheilt!”²⁰ (WaM: 183) The ‘sympathetic’ becomes the key element in the characters and the father-daughter relationship that reaches into the writing present and the autobiographical texts. Brun mirrors her identity on the imaginary autobiography of her father’s childhood who, like her, “selbst in dem Alter, ein äußerst durchtriebner Schelm gewesen war – wovon, wenn ich wagen dürfte Kindheitsgeschichten in aufsteigender Linie zu schreiben, manche aus seinem Munde geschilderte Kindheitsscene zum Belege anzuführen wäre.”²¹(WaM: 94) Much like the growing purported similarity of father and daughter, the empathetically described constriction (‘like in Elysium’, ‘bliss’ (WaM: 70, 137)) of their relationship also increased from childhood to adolescence, with obvious oedipal connotations in the described walks they  “I remember seeing my father rarely indisposed. His whole stature and his sunny disposition in light of the most tender sensibilities of the heart, expressed wholly the plea of the elders: ‘A healthy mind in a healthy body’ and ‘the beautiful to the good”.  “This likeliness with the beloved father always increased (continues to grow in this very moment) and when the loving father, taking my round face between his hands, kissing me heartily, often said, smiling: ‘Girl, you really shamelessly resemble your father!’ And I let it rightly please me because vanity was very small in my heart; the love for the best of fathers, very great.”  “My father’s pain was deep and was also felt and shared by his daughter.”  “[…] at the same age been an especially mischievous rascal – of which I would dare to write children’s stories in ascending order, some of the articulated childhood scenes could be listed as evidence.”

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took together, in the prayer, music, and reading lessons, boat excursions or time spent together in the garden, at which occasions the little ‘warbler’ increasingly occupied the role of the matron of the house: “Ach wie schmeckte dem zärtlichen Vater, die Lieblingsschüssel von der Hand der Lieblingstochter bereichert [sic!], so wohl!”²² (WaM: 165, 157) From this perspective, Brun’s wistfully autobiographical ‘restorative imagining’ of her ‘childhood paradise’ also includes her in 1773 deceased father and the narcissistic function of his mirror image that helped shape her own identity. As mentioned above, the disruptions and caesuras in this process are being ‘restored,’ too. In this vein, the (rarely enough) ‘disciplining father’ is justified and even during puberty – once more: unlike Goethe! – the relationship between him and the ‘wild child’ Friederike was untarnished by rebellions and open conflicts. At the same time, the relationship harbored a great potential for conflict and disturbances for Friederike’s identity: It is fueled by cross-gender identification and shaped by increasingly conflicted messages the father sent her in regards to ‘femininity’ and his highly contradicting worshipping of educated amazons and domestic women that Friederike, caught between ‘warbler’ and ‘favorite cook,’ had to reckon with.

Wahrheit aus Morgenträumen: Summary or Truth and/or Dream With regard to Sloterdijk and my own interpretation, it needs to be restated that the discourses of gender and educational theory, particularly with Brun’s autobiography in mind, take as their theme numerous disruptions of the narcissistic self-image on the level of the narrated child, and thus they substantiate our opening thesis that the text is a “disrupted fantasy of recreation.” In so far as these disruptive experiences are rewritten on the level of the narration into an exemplary “biography of education and formation history” and myth of the poet, they serve in turn the author’s elitist claim to relevance. However, part of the logic of such a “disrupted fantasy of recreation,” refracted by melancholy, is that it also brings the remains and the traces of the “old identity” to light. And thus the plot of the little bumptious hobbledehoy indeed ends, of course, with a 15-year-old “Klopstock girl” becoming lonely, sensitive and shy, and who has found her way, through a series of refusals, to literature. Her delicate  “Oh how the favorite dish from the hand of his favorite daughter tasted to the tender father, so well!”

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talent for contradiction and rejoinder has certainly not been lost, but rather only displaced from life into art. It returns in the poetological program of papering over reality with poetic reveries – including those of the longed-for object of an undamaged, integrated Goethe-like personality. And so Brun’s fantasies define themselves as the old, aesthetically transformed “Widerspruchsgeist” of the “wildeste kleine Katze,”²³ (WaM: 2, 9, 15) which even in the textual “hocus-pocus” of her childhood autobiography mounts resistance to imposed separations, made in the name of father and the patriarchal, nationalized order: to sexual separation, to national separation, to the separation of Dichtung and Wahrheit, and to the separation of myths of authorship and the critique of those myths.

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Bohnen, Klaus. 2001. “Johann Friedrich Struensee und die Folgen. Aus Anlass von Christine Keitschs ‚Der Fall Struensee‘”. Das achtzehnte Jahrhundert 25.2, 272 – 278. Müller, Adelheid. 2012. Sehnsucht nach Wissen: Friederike Brun, Elisa von der Recke und die Altertumskunde um 1800. Berlin: Reimer. Münter, Balthasar. 1772. Bekehrungsgeschichte des vormaligen Grafen und Königl. Dänischen Geheimen Cabinetsministers Johann Friedrich Struensee […]. 2nd ed. Kopenhagen and Leipzig: Rothens Erben & Proft. Münter, Balthasar. 1772. Geistliche Lieder. Kopenhagen: Rothens Erben & Prost. Münter, Balthasar. 1774. Zwote Sammlung geistlicher Lieder. Leipzig: Dyck. Münter, Friedrich. 1793. Balthasar Münters Leben und Charakter. Kopenhagen: Høecke. Münter, Friedrich. 1937. “Selbstbiographie [1784].” Frederik Münter et Mindeskrift. Vol IV, Kopenhagen: Haase, Leipzig: Harrasowitz. 1 – 22. Niggl, Günther. 1971. “Fontanes ‚Meine Kinderjahre‘ und die Gattungstradition”. Sprache und Bekenntnis. Sonderband des Literaturwissenschaftlichen Jahrbuchs. Ed. Wolfgang Frühwald. Berlin: Duncker & Humbolt, 257 – 279. Salis-Seewis, Johann Gaudenz von. 1780. “An die Erinnerung.” Gedichte. 4th ed. Zürich. vol. 2. Sloterdijk, Peter. 1979. Literatur und Organisation von Lebenserfahrung. Autobiographien der zwanziger Jahre. München, Wien: Carl Hanser. Voßkamp, Wilhelm. 1977. “Gattungen als literarisch-soziale Institutionen.” Textsortenlehre – Gattungsgeschichte. Ed. Walter Hinck. Heidelberg: Quelle & Meyer, 27 – 42. Voßkamp, Wilhelm. 1989. “Der Bildungsroman als literarische-soziale Institution. Begriffsund funktionsgeschichtliche Überlegungen zum Deutschen Bildungsroman am Ende des 18. und Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts.” Zur Terminologie der Literaturwissenschaft. Akten des IX. Germanistischen Symposions der Deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft. Ed. Christian Wagenknecht. Stuttgart: Metzler, 337 – 352. Wagner-Egelhaaf, Martina. 2005. Autobiographie. 2nd ed. Stuttgart, Weimar: Metzler. Wallenrodt, Isabella von. 1797. Das Leben der Frau von Wallenrodt in Briefen an einen Freund. Leipzig: Stillerische Buchhandlung. White, Hayden. 1978. “The Historical Text as Literary Artifact.” The Writing of History. Literary Form and Historical Understanding. Madison: Penn State University Press,41 – 52.

Irene Collins (†)

Jane Austen (1775 – 1817): A Novelist from the Parsonage

On January 21 of 1805, Jane Austen’s father, the Reverend George Austen, died from a stroke, which had been thought to be a fever from which he was recovering. Jane had the difficult task of writing to tell the sad news to Frank, the elder of her two sailor brothers, who was in charge of coastal defense at Portsmouth. The anguish of her grief is apparent in every line. Perhaps she realized for the first time that her father had been her guide in all the important phases of her life. Yet he had never given her any formal teaching, except for a few lessons in writing when she was very young (reading was usually taught by the mother, and writing, which may in the future have legal implication, was taught by the father or a paid scrivener) (Le Faye 1995: 95 – 98). It gradually became clear that what Jane admired most about her father was the way in which, by adopting an elegant style of living, along with gracious manners and an unpretentious piety, he had managed to commend himself to the gentry of his small country parish. After devoting the first thirty years of his life to the pursuit of an academic career, he had given up his Fellowship at St. John’s College, Oxford, to become Rector of Steventon in Hampshire. His motives were not entirely religious. He wanted to marry the stylish and witty Cassandra Leigh, and university teaching was a celibate profession. The fact that he later became a devoted father to his children: James (February 1765), George (August 1766), Edward (October 1767), Henry (June 1771), Cassandra (January 1773), Francis ‘Frank’ (April 1774), Jane (December 1775), and Charles (June 1779), suggests that the desire to have a family was also among his motives (Collins 1993: 21, 86, 282). His arrival in Hampshire in 1761 came at a time when middle class tradesmen and professional men had begun to think that the church offered suitable career prospects for their sons. Tithes levied on the gross agricultural product of the cultivated land in the parish were a clergyman’s main source of income, and these had risen in value as a result of the agricultural revolution. In the early half of the eighteenth century, the clergy had come from a lower order of society. Their fathers were small tradesmen and manual workers; their sons,

The editors are grieved about Irene Collins’ death whose enthusiasm for this project resulted in her essay on Jane Austen and whose daughter we thank for her help and support since Irene’s passing. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110590364-009

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when they became clergy, were content to live in the sort of cottage their parents had known, which consisted basically of one room with a mud floor and perhaps a couple of sheds built outside to serve as kitchen and wash-house. George Austen’s forebears had known something better. Starting out as clothiers in Kent, they had prospered sufficiently to buy small plots of land and become lords of the manor. George Austen was not going to be content with a cottage. He was determined to have a residence, in which he could lead the life of a scholar and a gentleman (Le Faye 1989: 1). He owed his benefice and his right to a rent-free parsonage not to his academic achievements – B.A. 1751, M.A. 1754, B.D. 1760 – but to a system of patronage which dated from the Middle Ages and pervaded every form of employment from Prime Minister to village inn-keeper. Every parish in England and Wales had a patron whose sole right was to nominate an ordained clergyman to the benefice and whose sole duty thereafter was to provide the latter with a parsonage house. Of the 11,600 parishes in England and Wales, some 4,400 were ‘in the gift’ of private landowners, one of whom was Thomas Knight, George Austen’s second cousin by marriage. Like many another type of patron, they were reluctant to lay out the money necessary to provide their incumbents with accommodation. In 1704, they were allowed to apply to Queen Anne’s Bounty for help, and a great many seized the opportunity. Earthen floors were hastily boarded over, with the result that the ceilings were so low that a tall man could not stand upright under them. Rooms were divided to make a study for the parson and a small extension was added. This was the result of the ‘improvements’ at Deane, the neighbouring parish to Steventon. Jane Austen once likened it to a carriage with a basket and dickey. (Collins 1993: 61) However, when George Austen and his wife saw the parsonage at Steventon, they found it in an equally parlous state and not at all the kind of house George had hoped would enhance his standing as a scholar and a gentleman. To allow time for greater improvements to be made, they decided to move into the ramshackle parsonage at Deane, empty because the incumbent Revd William Hillman preferred to live in greater style in Ashe Park, a Georgian bow-windowed house nearby. In 1733, the Act of Mortmain put an end to the availability of the Bounty for improvements, but Thomas Knight realized that he would have to carry on with the alterations he had begun at Steventon if he was to retain the services of George Austen and subsequently attract any candidate of the same class. He was not going to be at hand to supervise the work: The Austen grandchildren were probably right to attribute the role to their grandfather. There is no documentary account of what he had in mind and the finished house was pulled down shortly after the Austens left, but it seems to have kept the rectangular shape mentioned in a diocesan report of 1686, along with the Georgian front which gave it an air

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of gentility. Two projecting bays at the back provided a study for the Rector, and a passage leading to it meant that visitors on parish business did not have to interrupt servants and family in the kitchen, as they had to do in most parsonages. All the rooms were small, 12 to 15 square yards being the usual dimensions in eighteenth century houses. This enabled George Austen to have seven bedrooms on the first floor and three other rooms in the attic, which was more than could be found in most newly built parsonages at the time (Squibb 1972: 1– 3, 74, 486). Like all university graduates of the period, George Austen was an admirer of John Locke and regarded education as much a matter of upbringing as of formal teaching. The Austens led a relaxed form of lifestyle at Steventon; addressing their children by pet names, taking them on visits with them to relatives and friends, and eating meals at the same table. The effect on Jane was to impress her with the importance of family as a group of friends, an aid to fulfilling one’s potential, and a safeguard against destitution. Jane’s dearest friend throughout life was her sister Cassandra. She greatly admired Cassandra’s practical knowledge and skills, smoothness of temper and unquestioning Christian faith. Cassandra spent long periods of time at Godmersham, tending her wealthy sister-in-law in her eleven confinements, and Jane’s letters to her on these occasions are the chief source of information for Jane’s biographers. The family member with whom Jane felt least empathy was her mother. The latter was impatient with Jane’s lack of interest in the farm and the dairy, regarding her as too much of a dreamer. Some of Jane’s biographers have blamed Mrs Austen’s habit of putting her children out to nurse until they could walk and talk; but whatever the reason, the lack of warmth between the two should not be exaggerated (Tomalin 1997: 6 – 8, Le Faye 1987: 15 – 20). At some unknown point in her life, Jane realized that she had a brother George who did not live with the family but was none-the-less part of it. George Austen’s second son was subject to epileptic fits from infancy, and in accordance with custom at the time, he was put in the care of a labourer’s family in the village of Deane. His parents and his brother James visited him regularly and Jane may have accompanied them occasionally. He was probably deaf and dumb, and it is thought that she learnt sign-language in order to be able to communicate with him, but there is no direct evidence for this (Tomalin 1997: 7– 8, AustenLeigh 2002: 204– 206, Buchan 1772). It was to the family circle that Jane read her juvenile stories, which begun when she was twelve. The earliest stories show every sign of the young Jane trying to impress her older brothers: Several of the characters get drunk and fall into vice and crime, others behave in a wild and incomprehensible fashion. The stories could best be described as rather silly versions of the topics the boys discussed with each other after reading the newspaper which Mr Holder sent

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round each morning from Ashe Park. For all their nonsense, they were written in sophisticated language, which is no doubt why her father gave her a notebook in which to write them out. Many years later, Jane said that when she was young she would have done better to read more and write less, but her father had thought differently. He eventually gave her three notebooks. In the last of them, given to her when she was about 15, she wrote what was virtually a novel, Love and Freindship (sic). In it, she showed herself to be very much her father’s daughter by rejecting sentimentality in favour of reason. Jane also received fatherly guidance in personal matters when appropriate. It was her father who made her realize that Tom Lefroy, a young man she thought was paying her serious attentions whilst staying with his aunt and uncle at Ashe Rectory in 1796, had in fact been merely flirting with her. He wholeheartedly supported Jane’s writing of novels and did his best to get them published. It was he who in 1797 sent First Impressions (the original title of Pride and Prejudice) to Cadell, who returned it ‘sight unseen.’ Sadly, George Austen did not live to see the outcome (Beer 1986: 1– 7, 15). Sadly, too, the fertile imagination which had enabled her to produce drafts of two great novels, Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice whilst living in her father’s Rectory at Steventon faltered when in 1801 she learnt that he had retired from active ministry and they were moving to Bath. It was a considerable shock as her father had shown no signs of a need to retire. There were material losses, too. As it would take some time to find settled accommodation in Bath, he sold the collection of 500 books Jane had relied upon. She, too, sold a small collection of books of which she was so proud. It seems to have been Mrs Austen who decided they must move to Bath, where they would no longer have to produce all their own food, and servants would be easier to find. But after George Austen’s death, the three ladies were obliged to move into cheaper and cheaper lodgings. The one novel, which Jane had started, The Watsons, was now abandoned (Austen 1974). It was not until 1809, when Edward settled them in a cottage at Chawton, that Jane began to write again. She began almost at once on the arduous task of adapting Elinor and Marianne to become Sense and Sensibility, re-writing the whole novel by hand with a quill pen dipped in ink, possibly ground from a solid block. Her brother Henry used his influence as a banker to persuade Egerton to publish the novel in 1811, with a print of the usual 750 copies. It was a modest success; the Prince Regent’s impulsive daughter, Princess Charlotte, was pleased to liken herself to Marianne, but few of Jane’s own reactions are recorded. She expressed much more excitement when First Impressions, now Pride and Prejudice and expedited by Henry, was published by Egerton in 1813. Knowing that the brothers were as devoted to the family as she was, he sent copies not only to Jane but also to James, Edward and Frank. Like all of

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Jane’s novels, Pride and Prejudice was published anonymously, since it was thought degrading for a woman to write novels for money. Yet, she was so excited that she could not resist asking her mother to read the novel out aloud with herself and a neighbor, Miss Benn, as audience. She criticized it as being ‘too light and bright and sparkling,’ and thought it should have a long, serious passage (about something completely irrelevant!) by way of ballast. Happily, the suggestion was not carried out, and the novel has become increasingly popular as more and more affordable editions and stage and television versions have appeared. Jane Austen has long been classed along with Shakespeare as the greatest of English writers (Collins 1998: 201– 205). Emma was published by John Murray in 1815, and Henry also succeeded in buying back the copy of Susan, a mock-gothic novel which was bought and advertised by Crosby & Co. in 1802– 3 but never published. Jane now went through the laborious task of writing out a fair copy of the novel, changing the heroine’s name from Susan, which had been used by another author, to Catherine, but she never offered it again to any other publisher – perhaps because, now that her father was dead, she lacked the money that would be involved. With a new name, Northanger Abbey, it was published by Henry after Jane’s death, along with her last novel, Persuasion. Meanwhile, Mansfield Park had been published by John Murray in 1815. Although the public had become more religious during the war against Napoleon, Jane was afraid that the novel was too serious. It sold slowly and, to Jane’s bitter disappointment, the publisher could not be persuaded to produce a second edition (Le Faye 1995: 297– 298, 293 – 294, 175). Thanks to her father’s profession, the six complete novels Jane Austen had produced contain valuable information about the clergy in small country parishes. They feature nine clergymen, three of them the heroes of the novel in which they occur. By producing worthy characters such as Edmund Bertram in Mansfield Park, Jane was hoping to inspire as much respect for the clergy as her father had achieved at Steventon. The only fictional characters that despise them are selfish women such as Mrs Ferrars and her prize ass of a son, Robert (Manfield Park: ch. 9, Sense and Sensibility: chs. 3, 17, 33). The novels illustrate vividly the problems the clergy faced at the beginning of their career, when they needed to find a benefice. With the increasing value of tithes, the profession had become vastly overcrowded. Some sixty percent of all undergraduates at Oxford and Cambridge were seeking ordination. Yet, the majority of the 11,600 benefices that existed in England and Wales were barred to them by the gift of patrons, either ‘institutional’ (Bishops, Cathedral Chapters, the Crown, the colleges of Oxford and Cambridge, some grammar schools such as George Austen’s old school at Tonbridge) or individuals such as landowners and ‘Founder’s Kin.’ Almost all had their own clientele: Jane Austen’s brothers, James and Henry, were given

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scholarships to St John’s College, Oxford, by virtue of their mother’s descent from the sixteenth century founder of the college, Sir Thomas White. Some ten to fifteen percent of ordinands failed to find a benefice, or even a curacy, and were obliged to leave the profession (Virgin 1989: 141, 220). Jane’s novels also give valuable information about the gentry in their country manor houses, where, as ‘the parson’s daughter,’ Jane Austen was always a welcome guest. In most of the novels, she stresses the pressure put on grownup daughters to find husbands. The account in Pride and Prejudice of Charlotte Lucas’s reasons for marrying Mr Collins must be one of the most poignant passages in English literature. Jane herself never married, though she had two opportunities of doing so. On December 22, 1802, when she was staying with her friends Catherine and Alethea Bigg at Marydown Park, she received a proposal of marriage from their brother Harris. She accepted it from a sudden fear that her parents had moved to Bath to give her a chance of marriage, but withdrew her promise the following morning. A few years later, when she was staying with her brother at Godmersham, she sensed that she was about to receive a proposal from one of his wealthy relatives. She discouraged him because it would have been a marriage of convenience (Le Faye 1989: 121– 122, 257, Collins 1998: 170, Tucker 1994: 51). As soon as it was known that George had left the university and was now married to Cassandra Leigh, Warren Hastings sent his four-year old son from India to be cared for and taught by the Austens. The Leighs had been the Hastings’ neighbors in Gloucestershire. Sadly, the Hasting’s boy died in the Austens’ care of a ‘putrid sore throat’ (diphtheria) when he was seven, and Mrs Austen, who had become fond of him, was said to have grieved for him as much as if he had been her own child. His father never assigned any blame to the Austens; on the contrary, he became a firm friend of George Austen, with whom he shared a love of Latin poetry. In future years, Warren Hastings’ skill at translation was to be held up as a model to teenage pupils at the boarding school, which George Austen set up at Steventon Parsonage (Collins 1998: 218). When the house was at last ready for occupation, it provided enough rooms for George Austen to start on his plan of taking four or five teenage boys (hopefully sons of the gentry) as boarding pupils; but he was delayed yet again, this time by the arrival of Lord Portsmouth’s little son, not yet six years old, to be coached and cared for by the Austens. Mrs Austen pronounced the little Lord Lymington young for his age, but thought that two of her older boys, Jemmy (James) and Neddy (Edward) would be able to accept him as a playmate. However, they had scarcely got to know him when his mother whisked him off to London to receive treatment for a bad stammer. He became more and more mentally impaired, but he nevertheless welcomed Jane warmly and spoke with gratitude

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of his time at Steventon Parsonage when, on October 31 in 1800, he was hosting one of the grand balls given annually at Hurstbourne for the clergy and gentry of the neighborhood (Collins 1998: 15 – 16, Le Faye 1995: 53, 564– 565). The term ‘neighborhood’ features prominently in Jane Austen’s novels. In the parish of Steventon, the adults among its population of 153 souls, were agricultural laborers and household servants. The only ‘family’ with which the Austens could consort on social terms was the Digweeds who leased the manor house and its estate on 170 acres from Thomas Knight. Jane seems to have been none too pleased with the familiar way in which the Digweed brothers paid frequent calls at the parsonage, but she amused herself by pretending that James Digweed was in love with Cassandra. Understandably, there emerged a circle of ‘families’ in the surrounding countryside – the Chutes of the Vyne, William Portal of Laverstock, Lord Bolton of Hackwood Park, Lord Portsmouth of Hurstbourne, William Branston of Oakley Hall – whose members met occasionally to pursue their common interest in politics and agriculture, and regularly for companionship. George Austen realized that as a parish priest it was in his interest to support the Tory cause in Hampshire, and attending agricultural shows put him on terms of mutual respect with local farmers. Jane was far more interested in the social gatherings, whose elaborate ritual of morning calls, dinner parties and balls revealed class distinctions, which she used to great effect in her novels. In Emma, they occupy almost the whole of the plot. Unfortunately, only a clergyman with a ‘very sufficient income’ like Mr Collins in Pride and Prejudice could afford to do much socializing in the neighborhood. There was considerable expense involved in acquiring suitable dress, and the necessary travel arrangements, and especially in returning the hospitality enjoyed (Le Faye 1995: 31, 62, 78, Tucker 1994: 34, Pride and Prejudice, ch. 15). Clergymen who, like George Austen, were lucky enough to have been presented with a benefice, did not have to face the problem of poverty. During a debate in Parliament in 1802, it was ascertained that of the 11,600 benefices in England and Wales, 1,000 were worth less than £100 annually while another 3,000 or so ranged between £100 and £150. Norman barons had swarmed over the fertile southern counties and could only be given small plots of land, which yielded only a small amount of tithes. Others were offered larger tracts to entice them to the turbulent north, but the land was mostly moorland, unsuitable for growing corn, and it was on corn that the ‘great tithe’ was levied. A clergyman worth £150 could afford to buy only the barest necessities, especially since most of them had large families. It was for this reason that Henry VIII at the Reformation had wanted the clergy to remain celibate. A poor clergyman was hampered in his ministry by being unable to buy books, associate with educated society, or give help to the sick and needy. Some tried to supplement their income by teaching, or by renting

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more farmland to add to the glebe or acquiring extra parishes to be held in plurality. George Austen did all three. It could be argued that he was hampered in his ministry by all this extra work, but his farming was sufficiently profitable to enable him to pay a steward, and for his extra parish he was able to employ his son James as curate and house him in the vacant parsonage. When it came to teaching, it could be argued that this was not a hindrance but an enhancement of his ministry. It was clear from the willingness of the gentry to offer hospitality to the Pretender during the Jacobite invasion of 1745 that they needed instruction in the Protestant nature of the Church of England. By taking in five or six of their teenage sons as boarding pupils, he would be giving them the experience of life in a Protestant household, which would be a start; hopefully they would convey its principles to their parents (Collins 1993: 28 – 30, Virgin 1989: 259). In 1783 – 4, George Austen finally felt himself to be in a position to set up his boarding school. His reason all along for wanting to establish such a school had been in order to educate his sons and meet the expense by taking in four or five fee-paying pupils each year, hopefully from among the sons of the gentry. Since all undergraduates at Oxford followed the same syllabus, sons of the gentry would give George Austen’s offspring some useful contacts, for whatever career they chose to follow. In order to see all the Austen boys educated and settled in life, their father had to keep on with his school until 1796, the fees rising from £35 a year to £65. Three of the Austen brothers were eventually considered suitable for Oxford. James, the eldest, was a studious youth and had expressed an interest in being ordained. Edward was not at all studious. He was gracious and conversable and had already attracted the attention of the second Thomas Knight and his wife Catherine, who were shortly to adopt him and endow him with their vast estates in Hampshire and Kent. He was ideally suited to be the perfect country gentleman. Henry’s initial intention of taking Holy Orders was abandoned when the outbreak of war made other careers, first the Militia and then Army Commissioning, seem more attractive; but he had a lively mind and his father forecast rightly that he may yet become a scholarly clergyman. Frank was courageous and practical and his father planned to prepare him for entry to the Royal Naval Academy at Portsmouth (Le Faye 1995: 4b1, 3, 4, 486 – 488, 488, Sullivan). Neither Jane nor Cassandra could join the classes in their father’s schoolroom, not because it was thought improper for girls to be with boys, but because two thirds of the syllabus, like the Oxford syllabus itself, consisted of classical studies, including classical literature and culture, which was considered inappropriate for girls. Females were said to have no use for Latin and Greek, and the study of pagan gods and goddesses was thought to be inappropriate; the role of women being to marry and create Christian homes. Interestingly, howev-

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er, George Austen found time to teach a certain amount of modern history, perhaps because it cast light on human behaviour in all ages. Frank, who was less than two years older than Jane, had long been her playmate, and it is not surprising to learn that they discussed the history he had had to read in class and she in her father’s library. The effect of this exclusion from classes is that there are no letters from Jane to Cassandra during the latter’s lengthy visits to Godmersham. Hence, we have no knowledge of George Austen’s teaching methods, other than that his pupils found them sufficiently palatable to remember him with affection. In 1813, when Frank was in Sweden preparing to convoy Bernadotte’s troops to Germany for the final assault on Napoleon, she wrote to remind him of the history they had read, he in class and she in her father’s library: “Gustavus Vasa and Charles 12th, and Christina, and Linnaeus – do their ghosts rise up before you? I have a great respect for former Sweden so zealous as she was for Protestanism” [sic] (Collins 1993: 42). One of the subjects recommended as likely to be ‘useful’ for entry to the Royal Naval Academy, though not actually required, was French. This played no part in the Oxford undergraduate syllabus, so George Austen could find no reason for teaching it to his classes. Instead, he devised a course of study to be followed by Frank after school hours under the supervision of Mrs Austen. The latter had played an important part in the running of her husband’s school from the start, by supervising the pupils’ health, diet, clothes and discipline; making sure that there was no rowdy behaviour and also that they handed in their Latin homework on time. She was now called in to supervise a part of their study. As the daughter of the Revd. Dr. Theophilus Leigh, who for many years had been Master of Balliol College, Oxford, and renowned for his wit, she was well qualified to do so. It was no doubt she who decided that Jane Austen should join Frank in studying French, which was regarded as one of the accomplishments a mother should instill in her daughters. Jane’s Aunt Philadelphia, who spent most of her time in France, had recently given her as a Christmas present a book of fables for French children. She now recommended it to Jane as a French primer, but neither Jane nor Frank found it helpful. Jane confessed to being bored by scribbling notes on the last page of the book before passing it to Frank (Collins 1998: 77– 78). George Austen’s success in achieving his pupils’ entry to Oxford University is a testimony to his knowledge of the classics. Jane Austen acknowledged this when, many years later (in 1813), she reported to Cassandra that she had heard a young relative described as “the best classick (sic) in the University,” adding proudly: “How such a report would have interested my Father.” (Collins 1993: 44) Jane’s father also taught Astronomy, which passed for science in the University and formed one third of the syllabus. At neither Oxford nor Cambridge was natural science taught as a specific subject, since the great discoveries of the

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age were regarded as general knowledge. At the end of the list of Sweden’s rulers, which Jane Austen saw fit to bring to her brother Frank’s mind in 1813, the mention of Linnaeus is a particular tribute to the way science was taught by George Austen in his boarding school at Steventon parsonage. On the continent of Europe, the philosophes regarded science as destroying the credibility of Christianity and the Catholic Church thereupon banned all study of the new learning. In England, philosophers at Oxford regarded Linnaeus (1707– 1778) as a key figure in their attempts not only to reconcile science with religion but enhance it. Linnaeus himself believed that his intricate classification of species, both plant and animal, showed that the world had been created by an all-powerful, all-seeing, and beneficent God, who had made an environment fit for human beings to live in. Others found that the instruments used in empirical research, the telescope and microscope, brought the Heavens nearer. George Austen could not afford to follow his gentry neighbors in having an observatory built on top of his house, but when he died, Jane found among his possessions a small astronomical instrument which she called ‘a Compass & Sun-Dial.’ (Collins 1998: 65) He is also thought to have had a microscope and a terrestrial globe. Archdeacons recommended astronomy to clergy as a suitable occupation for their leisure hours, but George Austen may have used his astronomical instruments for teaching purposes since a number of his pupils were hoping to be ordained. The story of Newton watching apples falling from a tree and deducing from his observations the intricate workings of gravity seemed to make science everybody’s subject, women as well as men. Jane knew enough about ‘natural religion’ for Fanny Price in Mansfield Park to rhapsodise on the view from the window of her uncle’s sitting room: “Here’s harmony! Here’s repose! When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world.” (Le Faye 1995: 96, 199, 215 – 215, Austen 1985: 139) Compared with the excellent teaching Jane’s brothers received at George Austen’s parsonage school, such formal teaching as Jane received was meagre, desultory and unrewarding. As the Austen boys grew up, shortage of space at the parsonage became acute. In term time, the house had to accommodate seven members of the family, four or five boarding pupils and three domestic servants. In theory, the boarding pupils could have been sent home, but in practice George Austen needed the money they brought in. The only solution seemed to be to send Jane and Cassandra away to school. The first episode, in 1783, was disastrous. Mrs Austen heard that her elder sister, Jane Cooper, was sending her daughter (also called Jane) to Oxford where an old school friend, the widow Ann Cawley, was taking in a few girls as fee-paying pupils and arranging for them to have tutors. When Jane Cooper wanted her cousin Cassandra to go with her, Jane insisted on going too. George Austen was loth to lose ‘his girls,’ but was won over

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by memories of his alma mater and also by knowing that James would be there to see his young sisters settled in. James’s idea of seeing them settled in, however, was to impress them with a tour of ‘dismal chapels, dusty libraries and greasy halls’ so formidable that Jane swore she never wanted to go there again. They had been in Oxford for a few months when Mrs Cawley moved to Southampton, taking the girls with her. After a few weeks there, the town was swept by one of its periodic bouts of typhus fever brought by troops arriving from Gibraltar in crowded, insanitary ships. Mrs Cawley kept quiet about the danger, but Jane Cooper wrote home with the alarming news that both her Austen cousins were seriously ill. The two mothers promptly set off for Southampton and took their daughters home. Mrs Cooper, however, had already caught the fever and died on reaching home. The whole unfortunate episode had lasted a mere five months (Collins 1993: 35, Le Faye 1989: 44– 45). Jane made a slow recovery. During this period, her mother supervised her education. A mother’s traditional role with regard to her daughters was to fit them to compete in the marriage market. It was assumed that Jane would in all probability marry a clergyman: clergymen usually sought a clergyman’s daughter as a bride on the assumption that she would be better educated than most young women at the time. To prepare them for their coming role, their mothers instructed them in the management of a household which had to be run as economically as possible since their husbands would not be rich. Their mothers would equip them with a few accomplishments such as needlework and piano playing. The Austens, however, looked further. Jane and Cassandra were to occupy their leisure time with reading the books in their father’s library. These, in accordance with the ‘charge’ delivered to the clergy of the Hampshire diocese in 1761, included works of general interest such as History and English Literature (Collins 2001: 75, Collins 2012: 4– 6, Austen 1982: 39). In 1785, Dr Cooper, Jane’s uncle decided to send his daughter off to school again, to the Abbey School, a girls’ boarding school at Reading. The nearby boys’ boarding school was run to grammar school standard by Dr Richard Valpy, who sent his teachers to help with the more academic lessons at the girls’ school. Again, both Austen girls had had to be allowed to go with their cousin although Jane, who was not quite ten, was obliged to attend classes with the junior girls. Hence, like Harriet Smith who had attended Mrs Goddard’s school in Emma, she received some very poor lessons from totally untrained teachers. However, the girls were well cared for. A comment Jane made afterwards on a letter from Cassandra suggests that both of them had enjoyed themselves: “I could die of laughter at it as they used to say at school.” (Collins 1993: 134) There were no lessons in the afternoons, and the pair could have enjoyed themselves exploring the gateway of the ruined abbey in which the school

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was situated, or puzzling how the Headmistress, Mrs La Tournelle, came to have a French name when she could not speak a word of French. They were not supposed to go outside the school grounds, but supervision was lax and it is possible that they wandered on occasion into the forecourt of the abbey (now a public square) where fairs were held. There are no reports of the elopements, which Jane Austen suggests in her novels were a discreditable feature of most girls boarding schools. However, George Austen withdrew his two girls from the school at the end of 1786, possibly because the fees, which were twice as high even as those he received for his teenage pupils. The income from his farming had fallen when the severe winter of 1785 – 6 caused crops to die. In any case, it was not unusual for girls boarding schools to be used simply as ‘finishing schools,’ and Cassandra at the age of thirteen was thought to have acquired enough social graces to equip her for polite society, whilst Jane, not yet eleven, was too young to need finishing. After little more than twelve months at school, the girls accepted cheerfully their return home to educate themselves by reading. In Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth Bennet takes great delight in telling Lady Catherine de Bourgh that this is the best form of education for girls (Le Faye 1988: 421, Le Faye 1995: 5, Austen 1972: 199). Successful as most of her novels had been, Jane Austen had felt for some time that she might have ‘over-written’ herself on the topic of the clergy and their relationship with the gentry in their country manor houses. At the beginning of 1817, she began hopefully on a new novel. Sanditon is set in the seaside resort, which the lively Mr Parker is trying to promote on the south coast. It has no clergymen other than visitors. Jane Austen uses her literary skill to satirize the hypochondria displayed by Mr Parker’s siblings, and their dependence on patent medicines and tonics for their imaginary illnesses. In doing so, she makes them into a crazy group of characters the like of which can be found only in the earliest of her juvenile stories. The fragment is thus, at the same time, both a new beginning and a return to the past. Sadly, the work had to be set aside in March when only twelve short chapters had been written, as Jane was already suffering from Addison’s disease leading to pneumonia from which it is thought she died. In December 1788, when Frank Austen set sail for the East Indies as a volunteer midshipman, his father wrote him a letter of advice reminding him that “the first and most important of all considerations to a human being is Religion.” (Collins 1998: 45) He was to say his prayers morning and night and make sure that he followed the rules laid down in the Church’s Catechism. If further help was needed, he should give serious attention to that part of Elegant Extracts in Prose, which contained passages from ‘approved authors on religious beliefs.’ George Austen presumably brought up all his children and even his boarding

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pupils on similar lines, since he bought three copies of the latest edition as soon as it appeared in 1788. Jane Austen conscientiously attended morning and evening prayer every Sunday, first at her father’s church in Steventon and later at St Nicholas’ Chawton. In spite of George Austen’s acquaintance with the ‘new learning,’ his services were thoroughly orthodox: the phraseology and rhythms of the Book of Common Prayer (1661 edition) became so familiar to Jane Austen that they have been detected in her novels. None of George Austen’s sermons have survived, but he probably followed the usual practice of reading from a book of sermons. On occasions, when no evening prayer was said in church, the service was conducted at home. At Chawton, the duty fell to one of the ladies. On several such occasions, a sermon was read and intercessions composed. Three of Jane’s prayers have survived, their unusual theme being the importance of self-examination. At the end of the third prayer she asks for reunion with the family in the heavenly kingdom. Jane Austen was reticent about her religious beliefs, which she regarded as a matter for the individual. This has led some biographers to argue that she was critical of the Church, but there is no evidence for this in her letters (Chapman 1954: 453 – 457, Collins 2012: 4– 5). After her father’s death she became increasingly worried about being the only one of the three Austen ladies without a legacy. Her mother had a small sum left from her marriage settlement; Cassandra’s fiancé, the Revd Tom Fowle, had left her £1000 when he died of fever whilst serving as domestic chaplain to his benefactor Lord Craven on an expedition to the West Indies. Jane became obsessed with the idea that their ‘sovereign cure’ would be a legacy from her mother’s wealthy brother, James Leigh-Perrot (Le Faye 1995: 133). When she learnt that he had died in March 1817, leaving his entire fortune to his wife, the shock made her seriously ill. She gradually recovered sufficiently to be ashamed of her lack of Christian fortitude and trust. The care she received from her sister Cassandra, the concern shown by ‘every dear brother,’ and by her mother, too, made her realize how much she had to be thankful for. Writing to a friend, Anne Sharp, on May 22 of 1817, she expressed her remorse and ended with the words “but the Providence of God has restored me – and may I be more worthy to appear before Him when I am summoned than I should have been now.” (Le Faye 1995: 357) Arrangements were made for Jane to be taken to Winchester to be treated by Mr Lyford, a surgeon of repute. Cassandra accompanied her, and Jane’s friend Mrs Heathcote, who lived in a house in the Cathedral Close, found lodgings for them at No. 8 College Street. But it was to no avail: Addison’s disease was, at that time, incurable. Jane died peacefully in her sister’s arms on July 18, 1817. She was buried under the north choir aisle of the cathedral and a memorial tablet, with an epitaph composed by her brother Henry, was placed on the floor to mark the

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spot. The epitaph makes no mention of the novels, which were relatively unknown at the time. Admirers of the novels raised questions as to why she was buried in Winchester Cathedral, which she can hardly have known, instead of Chawton or Steventon. Transport would not have been a problem. The answer can only have been that her brother Henry wanted her to be buried among the great, and had appealed to the dean on the matter. At Winchester, the ground under and around the cathedral was part of the dean’s freehold, and Dean Rendell’s criteria for deciding who qualified for burial in cathedral soil were unashamedly based on social class. The fact that Jane Austen was the daughter of a clergyman and a lifelong friend of Mrs Heathcote guaranteed that she was a gentlewoman. Cassandra was gratified by the decision, which consoled her in her loss (Le Faye 1995: 340 – 341, 345, Proudman 2013: 4– 6).

Works Cited Austen, Jane. 1954. Prayers. In: Jane Austen, Minor Works, ed. R.W. Chapman. Oxford: Clarendon Press. 453 – 457. Austen, Jane. 1972. Pride and Prejudice. Ed. with an introduction by Tony Tanner. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Austen, Jane. 1974. Lady Susan, The Watsons, Sanditon, ed. Margaret Drabble. Harmondsworth, Middlesex: Penguin Books Ltd. Austen, Jane. 1982. Northanger Abbey. Ed. with an introduction by Anne Henry Ehrenpreis. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Austen, Jane. 1985. Mansfield Park. Ed. with an introduction by Tony Tanner. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Austen, Jane. 1988. Sense and Sensibility. Ed. with an introduction by Tony Tanner. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Austen, Jane. 1995. Jane Austen’s Letters, collected and edited by Deirdre Le Faye, 3rd ed. Oxford University Press. Austen, George, 1788. ‘Memorandum for the Use [of] Mr F. W. Austen on his Going to the East Indies Midshipman on Board His Majesty’s ship Perseverance Cap: Smith Decr 1788 (http://www.mollands.net/etexts/jasb/jasb2.html). Austen-Leigh, James Edward. 2002. A Memoir of Jane Austen: And Other Family Recollections, ed. with an Introduction and Notes by Kathryn Sunderland. Oxford: Oxford UP. Beer, Frances, ed. 1986. The Juvenilia of Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë, Harmondsworth, Middlesex: Penguin Books Ltd. Buchan, William. 1772. Domestic Medicine: or the Family Physician, 2nd ed., London: John Dunlap. Collins, Irene. 1993. Jane Austen and the Clergy, London: Hambledon Press. Collins, Irene. 1998. Jane Austen, the Parson’s Daughter, London: Hambledon Press. Le Faye, Deidre. 1988. ‘The Austens and the Littleworths’. Jane Austen Society Report for the Year 1987. Overton: Jane Austen Society. 14 – 21.

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Le Faye, Deidre. 1988. ‘Anna Lefroy’s Original Memories of Jane Austen’, Review of English Studies NS 39: 155. 417 – 21. Le Faye, Deidre. 1989. Jane Austen, a Family Record, London: British Library. Proudman, Elizabeth. 2013. ‘Jane Austen and Winchester Cathedral’, Impressions No 46, Jane Austen Society Northern Branch. Squibb, G.D. 1972. Founder’s Kin: Priviledge and Pedigree, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Sullivan, F.B. 1977. “The Royal Academy at Portsmouth, 1729 – 1806,” Mariner’s Mirror, 63 (No. 4) November. 311 – 26. Tomalin, Claire. 1997. Jane Austen, a Life, London: Viking. Tucker, George. 1994. Jane Austen, the Woman: some biographical insights. London: Hale. Virgin, Peter. 1989. The Church of England in an Age of Negligence: ecclesiastical structure and problems of church reform 1700 – 1840, Cambridge: Clarke.

Renata Fuchs

Louise Aston (1814 – 1871): A Liberal Author and Feminist

Louise Aston, an outspoken liberal author and feminist, was the offspring of a pastor and a countess who had married for love, a circumstance which unquestionably left a mark on her work. Aston’s privileged education and upbringing in her father’s parsonage are manifest in her autobiographical novel titled Aus dem Leben einer Frau ¹ (1847). The novel questions the established patriarchal political and socio-economic structures of society. Louise Aston’s political rebellion against patriarchy reveals itself in the aesthetic defiance of the conventional patriarchal form of autobiography. Aston sought out connections to the tradition of women’s writing as she realized the literary aspirations Romantic women writers had helped her pursue. Her novel begins in medias res and includes fragmentary forms such as letters and diary entries while relying on dialogue. In raising her private and public concerns in such a forum, Aston, much like Rahel Levin Varnhagen and Bettina Brentano von Arnim, was able to deliver a critique of society and encourage dialogue about women’s rights. Aston’s novel reflects her views on emancipation and social justice. The author rejects the belief that men are superior to women and that married women must always be sexually available. In an unprecedented manner, she connects sexual and political power by addressing not only women’s rights but also class conflict, exploitation, and human dignity.

Biography Louise Aston’s companions warmly described her as “an irrepressible bar-room genius” (Kontje 1998: 10) who usually dressed as a young man. When escorted by other writers, literary critics, musicians, artists, and officers, Aston would fly into a rage if anyone addressed her as “Louise” rather than “Louis.”² She was often portrayed as a German George Sand or as a femme fatale wearing a provocatively

 A Woman’s Life.  Carlos von Gagern reports that Aston was accompanied by the feuilletonist and critic Ernst Kossak, the musician and componist Kriegar, the poet Rudolf Löwenstein, the painter Ulke, and officers Caspari and Szczepanski, as well as the literary critic and writer Rudolf Gotttschall. (Goetzinger 1983: 50 – 51, 50) https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110590364-010

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low-cut dress and gazing sensuously at the observer.³ Aston’s precocious image encapsulates the dangerous life of this socio-politically engaged woman who not only promulgated but also put into practice new democratic ideas. She promoted equality and emancipation for all and declared that all relationships should be based on love (Schultz 1981: 93). Louise Aston was born on November 26, 1814 near Magdeburg into a large family with at least five children (Goetzinger 1983: 23). As the youngest daughter of Luise Charlotte Bering and Johann Gottfried Hoche, an adviser to the church and senior Protestant pastor in Gröningen, Saxony-Anhalt, Aston received a superb education from her father and from a private teacher, especially in music and literature (Naffin 1998: 26). According to Franz Brümmer’s notes accompanying his Writer’s Almanac, Louise Aston was “a pretty and highly gifted child” raised in a family where “a sophisticated tone ruled” and where, because of her mother’s influence, poetry and music had a secure place in the curriculum (Goetzinger: 23). Alfred Hoche, Louise Aston’s nephew, mentioned in his memoirs the literary tradition of the family; Louise Aston’s father and her sister Eulalie Merx left extensive literary works (Goetzinger 1983: 23). Being brought up by parents who married for love and suffered economic hardships, had a profound influence on Louise Aston’s personal and public life (Schultz 1981: 90). Aston’s mother, a countess, was disinherited because she married below her social station and against the desires and aspirations of her relatives. It appears that Louise’s parents overcame many obstacles to remain united, and hence wanted to protect their daughter against the same hardship and disillusionment (Whittle and Pinfold 2005: 131– 132). Aston married in her early twenties in 1835 and then again in 1841 and got divorced twice (1838 and 1844) from the same husband, the English industrialist Samuel Aston of Magdeburg (Peterson 1998: 40). Aston perceived her arranged marriage based on financial security as a humiliation, “disgrace,” and “soul trade” (Schultz 1981: 96). A poem from Aston’s anthology entitled “Wilde Rosen” (1846) offers us a glimpse of her attitude: “Nicht ahnt’s der Kranz in meinen Locken, daß ich dem Tode angetraut; Nicht ahnen es die Kirchenglocken, zu läuten einer Grabesbraut.”⁴ (Aston 1983: 21) For her, a loveless marriage was equal to death. After her second divorce, thirty-year-old Louise Aston moved to Berlin with a small alimony and a young child in order to further her writing career and to make a living for herself and her daughter (Peterson: 40). In Berlin, she asso A journal presented one of the few surviving drawings of Aston attired provocatively and looking fixedly at the observer, with a stimulating and sensuous stare (Boetcher Joeres 1998: 112).  “The wreath in my hair suspects nothing that I am to be wed to death; the church bells don’t supect that they will toll for a doomed bride.”

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ciated with a revolutionary group of anarchistic intellectuals, the Free Berliners, and soon became one of the most charismatic and hotly debated personalities in the social and literary scene of Vormärz Germany (40). The members of the group met at the wine tavern Hippel, where they discussed their works and ideas (Schultz 1981: 91). Liberated from her stifling married life and motivated by George Sand, Aston outraged Berlin by wearing men’s garments, smoking cigars, drinking beer and, most of all, by living her principles of free love while promoting emancipation and equal rights for women (91). Gossip about her never ceased as she enjoyed life in Berlin to the fullest and refused to conform to middle class standards (Hülsbergen 1997: 27). She changed lovers according to her mood and need; however, the remained faithful to the one she had chosen or who had chosen her for the length of time they were together (Gagern: 51). Rudolf Gottschall, one of her partners,⁵ introduced Aston to the Berlin intellectual and literary scene because she exhibited a keen interest in artistic and radical political efforts (Hülsbergen 1997: 27). Every Saturday, a group of philosophers, medical doctors, lawyers, writers, businessmen, aristocrats, and poets met to engage in lively discussions (27). In 1845, Gottschall dedicated to Aston a small volume of poetry including the love poem “Madonna und Magdalena,” which caused a public scandal (27). This poem first brought Aston’s name to public attention in the world of letters since she was the addressee of this sacrilegious paean to free sensual love: Die freie Liebe wird die Welt befrein. Ihr sollt dem alten Schreckgespenst der Schande Nicht länger der Entsagung Tränen weihn. Die Kinder dieser Welt, nicht spröde Nonnen, Sind unsre neuen, heiligen Madonnen (Goetzinger 1983: 29).⁶

Aston’s own literary debut, a collection of poems entitled “Wilde Rosen”⁷, was hardly less provocative. It echoed Gottschall’s sentiments and entered into a poetic dialogue with him. In a paen to her idol George Sand, Aston depicts marriage as a curse and celebrates the liberated woman subjected only to her own

 Rudolf Gottschall (1823 – 1909) was initially a writer for the Young Germany and composed poems and dramas. Later he became an influential conservative storyteller, playwright, critic, and literary historian. (Goetzinger 1983: 25)  “Free love will free the world. You should not dedicate abstinence’s tears to the Old spectre of shame. This world’s children, not brittle nuns, Are our new, holy Madonnas.”  “Wild Roses”.

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spirit (Aston 1983: 43). Aston was quite blunt and consistent in her firm commitment to invent herself anew. In the title poem of “Wilde Rosen,” she describes her female role model. Her nonpareil is a wild rose on a mountain top whose beauty hunters cannot resist. The pretty young maiden does not welcome admirers who come to pluck the rose but, rather, ‘kisses’ them as their bodies fall to the bottom of the abyss (Whittle and Pinfold 2005: 133 – 134). By publicly propagating free physical love and total independence from patriarchy, Aston broke all taboos and rules for a modest woman in the nineteenth century. Many of Aston’s critics did not consider emancipation a political topic and accused her of an exhibitionist addiction to lust, thus transforming her into a caricature of the women’s rights movement (Warnecke 2001: 17). Moreover, anonymous patriots felt obliged to inform the police about a plot against the state, the king, and religion that Aston, the infamous femme fatale, was supposedly organizing together with her male companions (Kontje 1998: 171). Even though reports of Aston’s political activities were grossly exaggerated, her beliefs were radical enough to provoke the wrath of the Prussian authorities. The cultural consensus demanded a wife’s full subordination to her husband, including her integration in his social and professional status.⁸ Because a breach of convention had grave consequences, Aston must have been aware that her provokingly self-confident behavior and her ideas would be considered dangerous to middle-class peace and order. However, ever since her divorce, itself an unconventional if not scandalous act, Aston learned to fight for her rights (Schultz 1981: 92). In March 1846, she was sentenced to leave Berlin within eight days but did not accept defeat without a fight. In the end, the authorities found her guilty not on political or criminal grounds, but rather because of personal issues (Hülsbergen 1979: 30). Her way of life made her a threat to society and she was eventually expelled to Köpenick; yet, during her two-year banishment, she managed to visit Berlin daily (31). Moreover, her exile in Köpenick turned out to be the most productive time of her life since three of her works appeared one shortly after the other: Meine Emanzipation, Verweisung und Rechtfertigung (1846), Aus dem Leben einer Frau (1847), and Lydia (1848).⁹

 The political public sphere was reserved for men exclusively. Men could satisfy their need for intellectual exchange in many new institutions within the bourgeois public sphere, coffee houses, clubs, round tables, or masonic lodges. Women were not allowedin any of these spaces. Only some reading societies tolerated them. Even in the Berlin pastry shops where the Berliner Linken met, the appearance of an unescorted respectable woman would cause a scandal. An independent appearance in public places without an escort was not suitable (Hülsbergen 1979: 29).  My Emancipation, Referral and Justification, A Woman’s Life, and Lydia.

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Louise Aston’s childhood as well as her adolescent years spent with her family had a far-reaching impact on her life. The example of her parents who married for love and disregarded the supposed advantages of an arranged marriage affected her to the core of her being. She put into practice her philosophy of life based on free and unbounded love and sought to communicate it on a larger scale; endeavors which assured her place in history as the most progressive feminist of the era. Louise Aston’s education and upbringing in her father’s parsonage influenced her way of life and her creative work as a writer. Aston incorporates into her novel Aus dem Leben einer Frau her modern unorthodox thoughts rooted in her formal and informal education: Mein Vater war Prediger auf dem Lande; ich sein einziges Kind! Aus den engen Lebensverhältnissen sehnte ich mich hinaus und vor meiner Seele stand, als einzig erstrebenswerth, ein bewegtes Leben mit allen Freuden der Welt: Ich war bis zu meinem sechzehnten Jahre fast nie über die Gränzen unseres Dorfes hinausgekommen; nur meine Phantasie, deren angeborene Glut durch mannigfache Lektüre genährt war, schuf mir, jenseits des Bereichs ein Eldorado voll unbestimmten Glückes (Aston 1982: 80).¹⁰

Her instruction and guidance encouraged free development of the imagination and enabled Aston to leave the parsonage and live according to her ideals. Her novel traces the personal emancipation of a young woman who becomes aware of social problems. Johanna, the daughter of a pastor, is intimidated by her father into marrying an older insensitive and unattractive but affluent man by the name of Oburn. She marries him reluctantly and even though she has given her love and word to another man. The husband perceives the marriage to be a business transaction and treats his wife as if he bought her, owned her, and could trade her. Apart from the main theme concerning the institution of marriage and Johanna’s emancipation, the novel addresses social difficulties, thus disclosing the author’s growing political consciousness.

Romantic Form Aus dem Leben einer Frau is the first of Aston’s three autobiographical novels. Unlike many of her equally engaged contemporaries, Aston appears to have  “My father was a country preacher, and I his only child! I yearned to leave behind these narrow circumstances, and my soul longed for, as the only desirable aim, an eventful life with all the joys that the world has to offer: I had almost never ventured beyond the borders of our village before the age of 16; only my imagination whose native blaze had been nourished by manifold reading, created an Eldorado full of indefinite luck beyond these confines.”

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never considered a pseudonym. Considering Aston’s reputation, the act of signing her own name to the work is a statement of courage and of her determination to be publicly visible. In the preface, the author remarks that her work is as “fragmentary as this whole modern world” (Aston 1982: VI). Katherine Goodman suggests that Aston’s autobiographical novel shows “no traces of having been affected by either Rahel Varnhagen or Bettine von Arnim” (Goodman 1986: 127). In contrast, I argue that Aston’s heavy reliance on dialogue, which propels the plot, points to an intentional dependence on female predecessors and connects her to a newer form of dialogue. It would appear that Aston was fascinated with the dialogical aspects of Romantic sociability in the context of ego documents and salon conversations.¹¹ By raising their private and public concerns in a forum that readily synthesized these two spheres, Varnhagen and Arnim were able to influence their surroundings through dialogue. Similarly, both the topos of the fragmented world and the fact that Aston’s critique of society is voiced through dialogue evoke the Romantic era (Joeres and Maynes 1986: 201). The novel Aus dem Leben einer Frau is influenced by three genres: the trivial novel, the political Enlightenment novel, and the autobiographical confession novel (Fingerhut 1983: 157). The fragmentary confession novel is a form of popular literature the Young German poets were fond of. Its most important feature is that of being a “mirror of itself” (159). The clear opposition between the purity of the heart and the corruption of the world, sentimental scenes of renunciation, heroism, and restrained passion, intrigues and interpolated authorial comments all help paint a vivid picture of contemporary social reality. Kathrin Goodman asserts that Aston had her book published during a time of political and aesthetic rebellion against Goethe and classical ideals of noble simplicity and quiet grandeur (1986: 123). The fact that Aston mentions Dichtung und Wahrheit ¹² in her preface as a contrast to her own work, which is fragmentary and therefore more appropriate to modern life, confirms this assertion: “Diese Blätter … Darum sind sie fragmentarisch, wie diese ganze moderne Welt, aus deren gärenden Elementen sie hervorgegangen, ein Beitrag zur Charakteristik unseres Lebens!”¹³ (Aston 1982: V – VI) Aston places value on her work’s proximity to and involvement in contemporary life. Her autobiography begins in

 “Dialog und Bewegung. Bettina von Arnim als Kommunikationsexpertin,” a symposium in Bettina und Achim von Arnim Museum Künstlerhaus Schloss Wiepersdorf, October 23 and 24, 2010.  Poetry and Truth  “These sheets… This is why they are fragmentary, as this whole modern world, from whose fermenting elements they emerged, a contribution to the characteristic of our life!”

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medias res and incorporates fragmentary forms, a letter and diary entries, while manifesting dependence on dialogue. The Romantics had a great appreciation for the genres of letter and dialogue; friendships within Romantic circles often found expression in correspondence (Nickisch 1991: 55). Romantic letters in particular reflect the idea of sociability and the dialogical space of the salon; at the same time, they attest to the attempts of educated women to bridge the growing gap between private and public spheres around 1800. Women, who wished to establish themselves in the emergent bourgeois public sphere, were instrumental in the creation of new conversational models.¹⁴ The Jena Romantics regarded the exchange of letters as a prolongation of conversations carried out in the group as a whole, a form of symphilosophizing, and as an authentic and therefore preferable form of literary expression (Blackwell and Zantop 1990: 283). Already in the first biography of Rahel Levin Varnhagen, Eduard Schmidt-Weissenfels established a connection between the salon and the letter, which he called the “Kind des Salons”¹⁵ (Schmidt-Weissenfels 1857: 45). Louise Aston herself entertained a salon of young literati who gathered every Wednesday in her Berlin house, among them Gustav von Szepansky, a Prussian officer, writer and co-founder of Rütli¹⁶ as well as Titus Ullrich, and Rudolf Loewensteis (Hülsbergen 1997: 28). Salons became the heart and soul of intellectual and social life, and women

 I rely on Jürgen Habermas’s definition of the bourgeois public sphere, as laid out in Strukturwandel der Öffentlichkeit. Untersuchungen zu einer Katgorie der bürgerlichen Gesellschaft (1971): “Bürgerliche Öffentlichkeit läßt sich vorerst als die Sphäre der zum Publikum versammelten Privatleute begreifen; diese beanspruchen die obrigkeitlich reglementierte Öffentlichkeit alsbald gegen die öffentliche Gewalt selbst, um sich mit dieser über die allgemeinen Regeln des Verkehrs in der grundsätzlich privatisierten, aber öffentlich relevanten Sphäre des Warenverkehrs und der gesellschaftlichen Arbeit auseinanderzusetzen” (42). The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere. An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society: “The bourgeois public sphere may be conceived above all as the sphere of private people come together as a public, they soon claimed the public sphere regulated from above against the public authorities themselves, to engage them in a debate over the general rules concerning relations in the basically privatized but publically relevant sphere of commodity exchange and social labor.” (Jürgen Habermas, Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere – an Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society: Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society, transl. Thomas Burger and Frederick Lawrence Cambridge: Polity Press, 2011, 27).  “child of the salon”.  Rütli was a local pub where revolutionaries and others politically inclined men would meet. Rudolf Gottschall introduced her to the circle (Warnecke 2001: 17).

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not only organized these get-togethers, but played a leading role in these erudite conversations.¹⁷ Salon circles often motivated continued epistolary exchanges, as women frequently encountered their correspondents in the salons, and conversations in the salons determined the subject matter of the letters. Unlike the Classical authors, the Romantics valorized subjective, dazzling, ambiguous intellectuality and irony (Nickisch 1991: 55). Bettina Brentano von Arnim and Rahel Levin Varnhagen are acclaimed examples of a “female life in letters” (Nickisch 1991: 214). In its close coupling of life and writing, quotidian and poetic, the creation of and reflection upon art, which then potentializes life and work, women letter writing can be considered uniquely Romantic. Although Aston’s work is a novel, she employs the form of the letter as well as dialogical structures. The author’s self-representation enlists dialogue and fragmentary forms as it captures everyday moments as well as a myriad of concerns. The heroine of Aus dem Leben einer Frau experiences much that Aston herself experienced. In this sense, the novel does indeed have the character of a confession, as the author highlights in the foreword. She aims to make her social drama authentic and topical. Aston prefers a direct portrayal over artistic detachment and spirituality. Nevertheless, the topos of love, evoking Romanticism, informs all other concerns, as noted by Aston in the preface: Wir schreiben flüchtige Zeilen; aber wir schreiben sie mit unserem Herzblut! Findet dies Fragment Anklang, hat der Kern dieses Lebens und sein Schicksal eine allgemeine Bedeutung, so schließt sich vielleicht ein zweites Fragment daran, das manche Entwicklungen weiter führt, und manche “confessions” vollendet. Hamburg, im März 1847.¹⁸ (Aston 1982: VI)

Aston employs the term “heart’s blood” in the preface and ends the novel with the word “love,” thus, framing her work within the discourse of love. Undoubt-

 There is an abundance of historical debate surrounding the extent to which women played a role in salons. In particular, it was Dena Goodman’s The Republic of Letters that ignited a debate surrounding the role of women within the salons and in the Enlightenment. Jolanta T. Pekacz criticized Goodman‘s explicit intention of supporting Habermas’ thesis rather than verifying it (See: Pekacz 1999: 3). The salonnières and the integral role they had within the salons have received attention from a distinctly feminist historiography. The salons, according to Caroyln Lougee, were identified with women. She also emphasizes a positive public role those women played in French society (See: Lougee 1976: 3 – 7).  “We are writing elusive lines, but we are writing them with our hearts’s blood! Should this fragment find favor, the core of this life and its fate have a general relevance, then perhaps a second fragment will be added, which will elaborate on some developments, and complete some ‘confessions’. Hamburg, March 1847.”

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edly, Aston intended to depict contemporary social life, not visions or idylls. To her, love referred to sentiments between men and women, not to a passion for all of nature’s creation, as in Bettina Brentano von Arnim’s work (Goodman 1986: 129). Aston does not define passion more narrowly than the Romantics, but rather approaches the subject of love from a different angle (1982: 110 – 111). In the diary-section of her novel, Aston has one of the characters, Baron Stein, describe the main figure, Johanna, whom he admires: Dies Weib ist Poesie; ihr ganzes Wesen ein Gedicht! Ich habe nie geliebt! Auch das ist nicht Liebe! Liebe ist unruhig und voller Wünsche; stets unzufrieden mit dem Nächsten, stets hinauslangend in die Ferne! Von einer Stufe der Seligkeit strebt sie nach der höhern hinan; und ihre Himmelsleiter ist unendlich! Ich bin ruhig und zufrieden (1982: 110 – 111).¹⁹

The words of Baron Stein echo Romantic ideas as per Novalis’s dictum: “Der wahre Brief ist, seiner Natur nach poetisch”²⁰ (Nickisch 1991: 96). The Baron calls Johanna poetic and a poem turns her into both art and a commodity with its own inherent aesthetic value.²¹ She embodies a creation with which he should fall in love, but refuses to do so. Because the Baron is immune to passion, he is able to interact with Johanna on the level of true friendship, a different kind of love. Aston’s closing statement: “[…] die das Gesetz und die Sitte der Menschen geheiligt – die Liebe”²² is powerful and revolutionary (1982: VI). Virgil’s “love conquers all” is transposed here, but no longer has an all-encompassing quality since Aston talks specifically about romantic love, which for her means a woman’s role is that of being a soul mate and intellectual companion. The Romantics celebrated symbiotic intensive feelings and rejected the dichotomy of love and

 “Woman is poetry, her whole being a poem! I have never loved! This, too, is not love! Love is fretful and full of desires, ever unsatisfied with the next and nearest, ever yearning for the remote! From one stage of bliss it pursues a higher, and its Jacob’s ladder is infinite! I am calm and satisfied.”  “A true letter’s nature is poetic.”  At the end of the century, letters passed the practical test as literary structure. Letters, as long as they feature elements and moments of aesthetically effective formulation, belong to literature even though they were used primarily for a real occasional purpose. Bilke assigns them a literary functional form. Hess speaks about a mixed form stemming from the functional form and from the literary art letter. Füger calls them simply art letters. He, however, does not consider letters to occupy mariginal place within literary genres (Nickisch 1991: 97).  “[…] having hallowed man’s law and custom: a soul mate”.

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fellowship, of lovers and spouses.²³ Love, including sensual love, for Aston as for Arnim or Varnhagen, can and will prevail against established social customs.

Religion Louise Aston’s upbringing in her father’s parsonage had a reverse effect on her views about religion. When summoned to the police station to give testimony, Aston was asked to delineate her views on society, morals, and religion (Schultz 1986: 92). She did so in an essay called “Das ist das Glaubensbekenntnis der Madam Aston.”²⁴ Louise Aston had not been expelled from Berlin because she had taken part in the events of March 1848, but rather because she embodied a hedonistic and atheistic notion of emancipation and was considered a heretic (Joeres and Maynes 1986: 197). The statement from Aston’s interrogation in March of 1846 provides a succinct summary of her convictions: her lack of faith, her smoking habits, her intention to emancipate women at all cost, her perception of marriage as an immoral institution that causes disappointment and unhappiness because enduring love cannot be sustained (Joeres and Maynes 1986: 199). It can be assumed that religion played a decisive role in the authorities’ decision to expel Aston. Her religious views are reflected in her work. The author begins Aus dem Leben einer Frau with the description of peaceful country life: Eine alterthümliche Pfarrerwohnung gilt von jeher für das heimathliche Reich der Idylle. Hier quartiert, seit Vossens Louise, die gemüthliche Phantasie der Dichter ihre behaglichen Gestalten ein, welche in dem Comfort eines stillen, in sich befriedigten Lebens das letzte Ziel und den ganzen Wert der Existenz zu erschöpfen wähnen. Etwas Lindenschatten und Abendroth, Mittagessen und Gebet, eine Promenade durch die Kornfelder, die Bereitung des Kaffees und, wenn es hoch kommt, eines Hochzeitbettes – das genügt dieser friedlichen Poesie, welche die breite Prosa des Lebens in ihre langathmigen Verse übersetzt (1982: 2– 3).²⁵

 A.W. Schlegel and Schelling’s life partner Caroline Böhmer are a good example of when employing private conversation in a letter borders on public sphere which was accessible to both men and women equally (Segeberg 2003: 41).  This is Madame Aston’s Credo.  “An old-fashioned clergyman’s abode has long been considered as the homely realm of the idyllic. Here the poets’ homey imagination accommodates ever since Vossens’ Louise, its cozy characters, who in the comfort of a quiet, self-satisfied life imagined the completion of the last goal and the whole value of existence. A little shade from the linden and the evening glow, lunch and prayer, a promenade through a cornfield, the preparing of coffee, and at best, a wedding bed – this is enough for a peaceful poetry which translated the broad prose of life into its long-winded verses.”

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The carefully-designed bucolic setting, which evokes a cosy, placid, and contented life, is embued with irony as the author presents this idyll as the ultimate goal of existence. It is the very idyll and its life guided by tradition that culminates in a marriage against which the female protagonist will rebel. The quiet provincial life requires no change, but rather encourages a conventional lifestyle. Prayer belongs to the daily routine just like meals or walks. Aston uses ecclesiastical language and imagery to undermine those conservative values. For her, “ein Evangelium des Herzens,” that is the heart’s feelings, are more important than the institution of the church and dogma (1982: 73). Because Johanna refuses to marry without love, her father curses her: “Ungerathene! Ich fluche Dir!”²⁶ (14) He cannot take the curse back since he becomes speechless and also shows no sign of willingness to do so: “Da hob der Greis matt die Augenlieder auf; die Lippen regten sich; er versuchte zu sprechen; – doch die Zunge war auf immer gelähmt!”²⁷ (18) A heart attack left him with a paralyzed tongue. Even though Johanna later changed her decision and obeyed him, he still cannot speak: “Der Vater lag, zwar lebend, doch für immer der Sprache beraubt, ermattet auf seinem Bette. Bei dem Eintritt der Tochter erhob er mit großer Anstrengung seine Hände und legte sie auf ihr Haupt das noch immer mit dem bräutlichen Kranze geschmückt war; doch die Lippen bewegten sich nicht und konnten den Fluch nicht zurücknehmen.”²⁸ (28) Ultimately, the curse remains. However, it does not prevent Johanna from making important decisions. She leaves her husband and becomes independent. Aston frames Johanna’s crisis of faith within the context of her marriage vows: Als endlich die Zeremonie zu Ende war, und der Prediger nach christlichem Gebrauch die Worte der Bibel vorlas: ‘und er soll dein Herr sein,’ da zuckte es schmerzhaft um die Lippen der Braut; und als sie das ewigbindende Ja! aussprach, da richtete sie die Augen gegen den Himmel, ein Blick, aus dem das verzweiflungsvolle Bewußtsein sprach, daß sie mit diesem Wort ihr Leben zu einem ununterbrochenen Opferfeste machte.²⁹ (23)

 “Miscreant! I curse you!”  “The old man weakly lifted his eyelids, the lips moved, he tried to speak; – but the tongue was paralyzed forever.”  “The father lay, alive but robbed of speech forever, exhausted in his bed. On his daughter’s entering the room he lifted his hands with great effort and put them on her head, which still was adorned with the bridal wreath, but the lips did not move and could not retract the curse.”  “When finally the ceremony ended, and the preacher following Christian custom read from the Bible the words: ‘and he shall be thy Lord’, the bride’s lips twitched painfully, and when she pronounced the ever binding Yes!, she directed her eyes towards heaven, one look, which bespoke the desperate knowledge that with this word, she turned her life into a ceaseless feast of sacrifice.”

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The vows cause her not only spiritual but also physical pain. Instantly, she resorts to prayer: “Noch einmal faltet sie ihre Hände zum Gebet – dann springt sie unheimlich rasch auf, und ruft: ‘Beten kann ich nicht – wohlan so will ich fluchen. Es giebt keinen Gott der Liebe; warum leide ich sonst.’”³⁰ (26) Her pain is the underlying cause for her lack of faith in a loving God; she relinquishes hope of life eternal and devotes herself to an energetic improvement of this earthly life. She leaves the church, and liberates herself from her parents’ authority, even though according to Luther’s teaching, children should regard their parents as God’s representatives on earth. Any imbalance in the social, political, and divine orders, based on the patriarchal system, could cause serious problems in the establishment (Joeres and Maynes 1986: 201). Even so, Johanna decides to fight against the status quo. When speaking to the man she loves, she formulates her forward-thinking convictions: Seit ich Dich kenne – weiß ich wohl, daß ich früher nie geliebt. Und die Seligkeit zu lieben, so mit aller Kraft lieben zu können, hat mir nie Zeit gelassen zur Reue. Und ich werde es nie bereuen, Dir die ganze Stärke meiner Leidenschaft offen gezeigt zu haben. Ich bin keine von den christlichen Hausfrauen, welche die heißen Wünsche ihres Herzens, aus Furcht vor moralischer Abkanzelung oder ewiger Strafe, … Ich bin nichts weiter – als Stolz – ich will keine Seligkeit, die ich mir stehlen, über die ich vor der Welt erröthen müßte.³¹ (Aston 1982: 37)

Aston’s opinions on female sexuality stand in stark contrast to conventions and expectations of the time. She claims for herself the option to love freely without regard for the moral principles of the time. To appreciate, enjoy, and show passion, Johanna needs to break away from religious beliefs and social norms. It was outrageous even for a man of the Biedermeier era to disseminate atheistic ideas. But a woman who did not accept God as supreme master of her destiny threatened the social order, since her rejection of divine authority implies a rejection of worldly patriarchal authority: The fundamental rejection of the patriarchal trinity of God, king, and husband upsets not only the institution of family, but every system that rests on male dominance (Schultz 1981: 94). This is in a

 “Once more does she fold her hands in prayer – then she jumps up incredibly fast, and cries: I cannot pray – therefore let me curse! There is no God of love, why else would I suffer?”  “Since I have known you – I know that I have never loved before. And the bliss of loving, to be able to love with all my might, has never left me any time for remorse. And I will never regret having openly shown you the whole strength of my passion. I am not one of those Christian housewives, who for the hot desires of their hearts, for fear of a moral dressing-down or eternal punishment … . I am nothing more – than pride – I do not want any bliss, which I would have to steal, for which I would have to blush before the world.”

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nutshell the core of Louise Aston’s thinking who in her thirties was prepared to put her progressive philosophy into practice.

Emancipation A German woman who wore pants and smoked cigars was publicly condemned and punished for her candid remarks on religion and politics, wrote rebellious novels and poetry, and edited a socially critical journal. Her appropriation of male accoutrements, including sexual freedom, differs from the model which Bettina Brentano von Arnim and Rahel Levin Varnhagen adopted. Brentano von Arnim rejected the female role models found in bourgeois genre paintings as well as the model of the male-identified Madame de Gachet. Both Brentano von Arnim and Levin Varnhagen were partial to fundamentally non-gendered images of themselves, and Brentano von Arnim in particular preferred non-conforming gender roles. According to Goodman, Aston challenged stereotypical views about women, but not the concept of gender itself.³² Aston simply worked with the existing gender model but sought greater sexual freedom for both sexes. In that respect, Aston differed in her public image from many of the other women’s rights advocates of that period. Louise Aston was not excluded from the Louise Otto group because she was against Die Frauen-Zeitung ³³ nor because she enraged the public by wearing pants and smoking cigars, nor because she had been banned from Berlin, nor because she had participated in the events of 1848. The reason for that particular exclusion was Aston’s atheism. She believed that only separating oneself from one’s religious background could ensure the success of emancipation. For Louise Otto, religion was an essential aspect of humankind. Among writers of Young Germany, Heinrich Heine conveyed the image of femme libre among men (Naffin 1998: 25). For Louise Aston, this became a maxim, but she was the only feminist fighting for this cause since other women in Germany perceived the idea as a threat because of the danger that men would take advantage of and not provide for women. At that time, middle-class women had virtually no career prospects. Aston was the first woman who took her private matters into the public forum (26). Her emancipated novel, which appeared in March of 1847, sold 1900 copies. It reached 9500 read-

 Goodman claims that Aston adopts a less complex and rich idea of her own identity as compared with that of von Arnim (1986: 128).  The Women’s Journal.

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ers – a number that the readership of Young Germans in the 30s could barely obtain (27). In 1847, Aus dem Leben einer Frau caused a sensation and became a bestseller (28). Louise Aston also published the cultural and socio-political periodical Freischärler. Für Kunst und soziales Leben ³⁴ in early November 1848. It was the only revolutionary newspaper in Berlin edited by a woman (Schultz 1981: 97). It questioned the dominating circumstances as well as the endeavors and hopes of many democrats (97). Eventually Freischärler was banned because it featured the most caustic satirical critique. In her farewell article “Auszuweisende Gedanken,”³⁵ Aston made cynical comments about the fundamental right of freedom to travel: “Offenbar ist die deutsche Frezügigkeit blos darin zu suchen, daß man überall hingehen, aber nicht bleiben darf, wo man will! Auch gut! Ich bin an diese Freizügigkeit gewöhnt.”³⁶ (Warnecke 2001: 19) Varnhagen von Ense was Aston’s most famous advocate and took her banishment as an indication for undemocratic condition. On December 11, 1848 he made a note in his diary: “Louise Aston ist aufs neue verwiesen, kurz es geht nach dem alten Schlag!”³⁷ After her banishment from Berlin on December 23, 1848, Aston’s life became involuntarily restless. She lived first in the Alster Hotel in Hamburg, where her behavior made more headlines (Warnecke 2001: 19). George Sand’s life and works inspired Louise Aston and gave her courage in her isolation from other women writers like Fanny Lewald and her adversary Louise Otto, who thought that Aston’s immoral way of life was harmful for the cause of women and their fight for participation in public life (Naffin 1998: 24– 50). Being radical did not fit into the middle-class reality even though both activists were for better education for women (30). Only the journalist Mathilda Franziska Anneke who later became the most active champion for female voting rights in America, defended Aston as she asked in her pamphlet: “Was hat denn dieses Weib verbrochen?”³⁸ (30) Aston herself epitomized a hedonistic and atheistic notion of emancipation (Joeres and Maynes 1986: 197). She expressed this new spirit of emancipation in Das Leben einer Frau. The main character Johanna is first and foremost victimized because of her gender. In the beginning, she succumbs to the oppressive

 Freischärler. For Art and Social Living.  Disclosed Thoughts.  Apparently, the German freedom of movement can only be found in being able to go anywhere but not in being able to stay wherever one wants to. Oh, well! I am used to this freedom of movement.  “Louise Aston banished again, in short, it’s always the same old story.”  “What was this woman’s crime?”

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power of her father and is thus subjected to the power of her husband who belittles her, mistreats her, and tries to rent her body out to a prince. She survives a near rape and escapes from her married life. Ruth-Ellen Boetcher Joeres notes that the novel nevertheless concludes somewhat illogically, because “love will now rule her (Johanna’s) life” (Joeres 1998: 115). She offers a possible feminist interpretation namely “that men have been the cause of Johanna’s sufferings is eclipsed by an allegiance to noble femininity as the saving grace in her life” (115). To my mind, it is not Johanna’s noble femininity, but rather her vision and confidence that she will be able to live the life she desires according to her progressive beliefs. Aston constructs the following situation: Johanna’s husband, Oburn, asks her to spend a night with another man in order to settle his debts. Under these circumstances, the husband becomes a procurer that perverts the marriage, and the termination of matrimony is then the preservation of marriage as a loving relationship: “Sie rettete die Heiligkeit der Ehe, indem sie dieselbe zerriß.”³⁹ (1982: 154) Female sexuality in the bourgeois society was for Aston a subject with which she grappled intensively in her novel. She presents a classical situation in which a young woman is fully unprepared for her first and imminent sexual contact. The act of the sexual handing over of Johanna to an unwanted and involuntary marriage is constructed as a curse, and as such Johanna experiences it. Aston’s argument is that the marriage is only a type of change or transfer of submission from father to husband. Initially Johanna breaks the will of her father who claims: “Ist nicht mein Wille Dir Gesetz? Du mußt ihm gehorchen; denn ich bin Herr über Dich!”⁴⁰ (13) Later she complies with his command and marries Oburn in a church ceremony according to the solemn words: “Und er soll dein Herr sein.”⁴¹ (23) Her reaction to this order is the rejection of God in prospect of the upcoming defloration which is signaled through the avarice and corporal acquisition of Johanna by “the man of fifty, short and fat, with a dignified hanging belly, with a full bloated dark red face, with a ceremonious, big nose,” (20) who can hardly wait till she “becomes his wife fully” (20). If love were the base of this relationship, she could expect intellectual and emotional equality, instead she feels alienated: “- o mein Mann – das ist ja gerade mein Elend! Denn in meiner Ehe fühle ich mich am einsamsten, weil ich nie verstanden werde”⁴² (61). Not only does her husband not attempt to understand her, but he does not care for her well-being at all.  “She saved marriage’s sanctity by tearing it apart.”  “Is not my will a law unto you? You have to obey, because I am thy Lord!”  “And he shall be thy Lord.”  “[…] – oh my husband – in fact, this exactly is my misery! Because in my marriage, I feel the loneliest, because I am never understood!”

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Johanna is at first used and abused but she never loses her strength and convictions. She does not act on the grounds of being noble but rather from the certainty that what she feels inside is right, and that society must change not she her views. In the first paragraph of the novel, Aston signals how the social change will take place. She describes the parsonage as an” antiquated apartment” and “local idyll,” where everything happens according to an established routine including the ceremony of a “nuptial bed” (1). In this manner, the narrator explains, true life is ignored and gives free reign to some sort of philistine phantasy, even though “life with its connections and oppositions with its troubles and important forces itself into the locked up parsonage” (2). Only from the outside the view remains as if time stood still because inside “das moderne Leben seine sozialen Schlachten schlägt”⁴³ (2). The modern life demanded the politicization of public sphere, which began around 1840 and brought in the subject of professional work for middle-class women, who were stigmatized when working because of the negative impact on the creditworthiness of their fathers or husbands (Warnecke 2001: 42). The women of Vormärz were the first generation of professionally working writers and journalists (43). Aston elevates personal experiences and suffering of the protagonist to a professional level and with that she transforms the private dimension into a political one. Violence in marriage was already known and made into a taboo subject in Aston’s era. She addresses the issue in her novel and writes about it in her work Meine Emancipation, Verweisung und Rechtfertigung: “Ich weiß es, welcher Entwürdigung eine Frau unter dem heiligen Schutze des Gesetzes und der Sitte ausgesetzt ist; wie sich diese hülfreichen Penaten des Hauses in nutzlose Vogelscheuchen verwandeln, und das Recht zum Adjudanten brutaler Gewalt wird!”⁴⁴ (Aston in: Warnecke 2001: 114) Married women were defenseless against husbands’ violence because of the chastisement right which gave power to fathers, husbands, or authorities; the only exception was pregnancy when men might have been fined or imprisoned; thus, defenselessness of women was anchored in law (Warnecke 2001: 114). Under these circumstances, Aston still demanded for women much more, namely, a commitment to free sensual love for their emotional and physical emancipation as well as complete equality as far as the desires of the flesh were concerned. Having been influenced in that respect by George Sand, Aston includes a reference to her paragon in the novel: “Ich las eben in der Indiana, und bin von der lebenswahren Schil “[…] modern life fights its social battles.”  “I do know which degradation a women is exposed to under the holy protection of the law and morality; how these serviceable penates of the house turn into useless scarecrows, and how the law turns into an adjutant of brutal violence!”

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derung der Leidenschaft und des Schmerzes so ergriffen, daß ich heute nicht weiter lesen kann”⁴⁵ (Aston 1982: 73). For Aston emotion and passion take a prominent place within the context of love. Still one needs to bear in mind that the practice of free love did not mean for her having multiple partners at the same time. The author clearly delineated Johanna’s loyalty and faithfulness to her husband: “Sie war immer wahr gewesen. Ohne daß sie ihren Mann liebte, hielt sie die Ehe doch für so heilig, daß sie aus ihren Erlebnissen ihm nie ein Geheimniß machte.”⁴⁶ (96) At the same time, Aston always underlines what is important for women to get full benefits of emancipation: “Doch die Zeit der alten, germanischen Frauen ist vorübergegangen, wie die Zeit der Madonnen. Jede Zeit hat ihr eigenes Recht. Nicht in der Entsagung, sondern in der liebenden Hingabe finden wir die edle Weiblichkeit.”⁴⁷ (107) Once again, the author frames the progressive thought of losing oneself in loving abandonment and dedication within a religious context. Women need to abandon the pious model of Madonna and devote themselves fully to all-encompassing love. Therein lies the idea of noble womanhood. Aston felt very strongly that if the element of love was lacking, the marriage would be considered prostitution. The most blunt and unambiguous commentary on the subject she has written is to be found in her treatise Meine Emancipation: Ich glaube allerdings nicht an die Nothwendigkeit und Heiligkeit der Ehe, weil ich weiß, daß ihr Glück meinstens ein erlogenes und erheucheltes ist; daß sie in ihrem Schoße alle Verwerflichkeit und Entartung verbirgt. Ich kann ein Institut nicht billigen, das mit der Anmaßung auftritt, das freie Recht der Persönlichkeit zu heiligen, ihm eine unendliche Weihe zu erteilen, während nirgends grade das Recht mehr mit Füßen getreten und im Innersten verlezt wird; ein Institut, das der höchsten Sittlichkeit prahlt, während es jeder Unsittlichkeit Thor und Thür öffnet; das eine Seelenbund sanktioniren will, während es meistens nur den Seelenhandel sanktionirt. Ich verwerfe die Ehe, weil sie zum Eigenthume macht, was nimmer Eigenthum sein kann: die freie Persönlichkeit; weil sie ein Recht giebt auf Liebe, auf die es kein Recht geben kann; bei der jedes Recht zum brutalen Unrecht wird. In den Instituten liegt die Unsittlichkeit, nicht in den Menschen; in den Menschen nur in sofern, als ihnen Einsicht und Kraft fehlt, um bessere Verhältnisse zu schaffen. Doch in uns’rem Jahrhundert liegt diese Sehnsucht, dieser hoffnugsreiche Drang und Trieb nach freieren Gestaltungen, welche endlich das rein Menschliche zu seinem Rechte kommen las-

 “I just read the Indiana, and I am so moved by its true-to-life rendering of passion and pain that for today, I cannot read on.”  “She had always been true. Without loving her husband, she held marriage sacred, so that she never kept her experiences secret from him.”  “The age of the old, Germanic women has passed, as has the age of the Madonnas. Every age has its own justice. Not in renunciation but in the loving dedication do we find noble womanhood.”

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sen. George Sand tritt uns als die Prophetin dieser freien schönen Zukunft entgegen, indem sie die Zerrissenheit und Nichtigkeit der jetzigen Verhältnisse mit unendlicher Wahrheit schildert. Durch die ganze neuere französische Literatur geht dieser Zug des Schmerzes und der Sehnsucht, der heiligen oft entweihten Liebe einen Tempel zu bauen. Dies ist die einzige Frauen-Emanzipation, an der auch meine Sehnsucht hängt, das recht und die Würde der Frauen in freieren Verhältnissen, in einem edleren Cultus der Liebe wieder herzustellen. Sich selbst wegzuwerfen ist die höchste Schande, und grade diese Schande wird durch die Ehe vor aller Welt zur Ehre gestempelt. Doch zu diesem neuen Cultus der Frauenwürde und Frauenliebe gehört vor allen Dingen eine tiefere Bildung und ein höheres Bewußtsein der Frauen selbst. Das ist die andere Seite einer vernünftigen Frauen-Emancipation, wie sie meiner Seele als Ideal vorschwebt.⁴⁸ (Aston in: Warnecke 2001: 120 – 121)

Louise Aston’s declaration begins, once more, as if it were a religious statement, specifically a profession of faith. She replaces the positive sentence with the negative statement and proclaims that she believes neither in the necessity nor the holiness of marriage. She calls the institution of marriage immoral and a soul trade which turns women into men’s possessions. In the second part of the declaration, Aston delineates her vision for the future of the feminist movement based on the tenets already modeled by George Sand. Freedom will only be possible when the pure human love will be able to manifest itself. In order to describe the envisioned free partnerships, Aston uses one of the most characteristic words from the Romantic register, namely, Sehnsucht. She feels inexplicable  “However, I do not believe in the necessity and sanctity of marriage, because I know that its happiness most of the time is a lie and hypocrisy, hiding in its womb everything that is reprehensible and degenerate. I cannot condone an institution that appears with the presumption of hallowing personal rights, supplying it with an unending consecration, while nowhere else the law is more spurned and hurt in its innermost being; an institution, that boasts of the highest morality, while it opens the floodgates to every indecency; that wants to sanction a union of souls while it mostly sanctions a bargaining of souls. I reject marriage because it turns something into a property that can never be a property: the free personality; because it grants a right to love, which cannot be granted; in which every right is turned into a gross injustice. It is in the institution, in which the immorality is located, not in the humans; in humans only so far as insight and power are lacking in order to create better conditions. But it is our century, in which this longing, this promising push and drive towards freer designs, which grants rights to sheer humanity. George Sand, the prophetess, approaches us with this free and beautiful future, by portraying in infinite truth the upheaval and the nothingness of the present conditions. This feature of pain and longing permeates all of modern French literature, in order to build a temple to holy and often desecrated love. This is the only women’s liberation I long for, the law and the dignity of women in freer circumstances, recreated in a more noble cult of love. To throw away oneself, this is the worst shame, and exactly this shame is flagged as a public honor by marriage. A better education and a higher self-awareness of women are the cornerstones of this new cult of women’s dignity and women’s love. This is the other side of a reasonable women’s liberation, which my soul envisions as ideal.”

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yearning, desire, longing to establish the noble cult of love where the dignity of women will be restored. Here again she ties her plans to the sensual Romanticism. Sehnsucht in the sense of intensely missing something would imply that that very component must be naturally present but is just contemporarily missing and waiting to be restored to its previous place. That is to say, the natural and intended state of being should be that of emotional and physical equality between a woman and a man. According to Aston, this is the only way to heal disgraced women and build a cult of women’s dignity and love. Interestingly enough only at the end, Aston mentions more thorough education and higher consciousness which she calls the other side of her emancipation plan. Aston’s treatise gave the impression of being quite threatening to the authorities because she spoke the truth. Her gesture of speaking up or engaging in dialogue with the wider audience was considered to be open and daring and, most importantly, it was perceived as something women had not been expected to be able to do. Thus, she was materializing a tangible threat to the patriarchal state whose relevance for the future was already met with objections (Whittle and Pinfold 2005: 137). Substantially differently from other feminists, Aston did not think education to be more important than love. Love propels every other feeling and emotion and most importantly gives the feeling of freedom. The model of love marriage which developed only in the nineteenth century was difficult to implement because daughters were still dependent on their parents as far as the choice of a husband was concerned which perverted the program of love marriage. As a result, in the early 1840 many radical female critics began to pressure middle-class women into a marriage for maintenance and thus refusing them any opportunity for professional development (Warnecke 2001: 121). In the course of Aston’s novel, Johanna Oburn barely escapes being raped twice by aristocratic admirers. It is only through her acquaintance with Baron von Stein and her partnership and platonic friendship with him that she is able to find that a man can empathize with her. He is the one who in his diary decries her oppression. It is important to note that Aston chooses a male character to formulate and voice her most important thought about marriage without mutual love, namely, that such marriage is prostitution. Clearly, she desires to underline the fact that in order to achieve their goal, women need the understanding and cooperation of men: Prostitution aber ist die Hingabe der Liebe, in oder außer der Ehe, ist das Wegwerfen der eigenen Persönlichkeit! Diese hoch zu halten, dies nur gegen den Preis der Liebe hinzuge-

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ben, dies schöne Maß zu bewahren – das ist in unserer Zeit des Weibes einzige Unschuld und Sittlichkeit.⁴⁹ (Aston 1982: 108)

For Aston it is important to keep balance between giving of self and protecting individuality. Only this kind of freedom will guarantee women innocence and morality. Without love, Johanna feels as if she had no “Heimat”⁵⁰ and knew no “family life” (76). Aston unambiguously demanded for women the right to an undisturbed development of free personality, and thus questioned the institution of marriage and of family. Her own upbringing, which influenced her life philosophy profoundly, emerges here. On the one hand, her parents’ example of a marriage for love provides a positive theoretical and practical model for her future. On the other hand, their patriarchal stance demanding their daughter’s submission into a loveless marriage just to uphold the status quo prompts her into rejecting the institution of family all together. With Aston’s demand for the development of personality, women’s ultimate raison d’être within marriage was rejected. The Romantic concept of individualistic love connected to freedom as well as to the appeal for sexual freedom provided a basis for Louise Aston’s criticism of matrimony. Without doubt, her own forced and failed marriage comes into play here. The partnership based on love where the individuals decide on their own – not necessarily with the consent of their parents – to spend their life together became her ideal model. With this idealistic concept of relationship based on love, Aston contrasts the inferior aspirations of Johanna’s husband, Oburn, who is depicted as a typical oppressor with the focus only on himself: Ich erwarte von Dir, Johanna, daß Du Dich vernünftig beträgst, und Deine ganze Beredungskunst und Liebenswürdigkeit aufbietest, um den Prinzen willfährig zu stimmen; denn von der Herbeischaffung dieser Summe hängt nicht allein unser eigenes Glück und das Wohl unserer Arbeiter ab; sondern meine Ehre, – merke Dir, Johanna, meine Ehre!⁵¹ (1982: 146)

 “Prostitution, however, is the giving away of love, in or out of wedlock, it is the discarding of one’s own personality! To hold the latter high, to only abandon it for the sake of love, to keep this beautiful proportion – that is in our day and age the woman’s only innocence and morality.”  “home”.  “I expect of you, Johanna, that you behave reasonably, and call upon your entire powers of persuasion and charm, in order to put the Prince into a compliant mood, because on the procuring of this sum relies not only my own happiness and the welfare of our workers, but also my honor, – keep in mind, Johanna, my honor!”

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The honor of the man is more important than that of a woman. For Oburn, his wife does not exist as an individual or a sovereign human being. She is his possession and is expected to sacrifice herself for him. At the moment where the aspect of prostitution is pronounced to the fullest, Johanna articulates her frustration: “’Oburn, schrie die Frau ihm entgegen,” Du willst mich verkaufen, wie eine Sache, wie Dein Eigenthum verhandeln! Fühlst Du nicht die namenlose Beschimpfung und Entwürdigung, die Dich trifft, wie mich!’“⁵² (151) She fights her degradation by ending the marriage by literally “ripping it apart” (154). Aston linked her criticism of marriage for maintenance to the demand for economic, that is, professional independence of women and extended access to education which she considered a universal right to which the woman based on the nature qualifies on the same level as the man. She refused to subscribe to the restrictive and oppressive gender ideology which was vehemently discussed at the time and based on definitions of women’s destiny by emphasizing biological, rather than social factors. Aston did not believe in the codification of the two sexes by attributing to them diametrically opposite, mutually complementary sexual characteristics as according to nature, that is, ascribing to women the category of feeling and subjectivity and then categorizing men as those being able to reason and be objective (Fronius 2007: 18). She fundamentally rejected the idea that sex defined the nature of woman and consequently fought the subordination of women, which effectively precluded them from a productive participation in state and society.

Socio-Political Engagement Apart from the main theme relating to marriage and its criticism, Aus dem Leben einer Frau portrays Johanna’s personal emancipation and her growing political consciousness. Aston connects the taboo subject of love and prostitution within marriage to the criticism about the exploitation of proletariat by the factory owner, thus linking political power with sexual violence. In contrast with some sociocritical women authors during the Vormärz period, she combined the analysis of the degrading situation of a woman to be sold as a property with the denunciation of the working class in economic misery. Aston pays particular attention to the workers who are desperately dependent on the work so

 “Oburn, the woman cried in his direction, you want to sell me like an object, treat me like your property! Don’t you feel the nameless revilement and debasement, that hurts you as well as me!”

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that they humbly accept exploitation and cuts in wages. Unlike Fanny Lewald’s opinion, Aston’s assessment of the situation regarding the beginning of class struggle led to the conclusion that this conflict was no longer to be defused with the help of patriarchal humanitarian concepts (Schultz 1981: 90 – 91). Regardless of her criticism, Aston recognizes that progressing industrialization is future-oriented and rejects all projects suggesting the return to the idyllic countryside in the sense of Rousseau. Aston creates a character whose circumstances mirror the situation from her own life when her parents wanted her to marry a factory owner, rather than follow into their footsteps and marry out of love. Johanna as the wife of a factory owner is confronted with the disparity between the social classes, the existence of the fourth estate, and the moral corruption of the representatives of the dominating classes. She witnesses the inhumane treatment and exploitation of the destitute workers in early capitalism and starts to comprehend that charitable actions and aid even if motivated by Christian love are not the answer. The narrator ponders the necessity for redistribution of wealth and for implementation of exhaustive social reforms. In this manner, Aston extends her ideas of emancipation to include liberation of all human beings from any kind of imposed dependence. Johanna’s husband Oburn is involved in a class conflict between middle-class and working class. He places a lot of emphasis on showing off his wealth, which includes not only his living quarters and horses but also his wife. He acts as if he bought her and wishes to put her on display for all to admire: “Meine Frau muß bemerkt werden; das verlange ich – denn ich bin ein reicher Mann.”⁵³ (Aston 1982: 42) Aston portrays Oburn’s lifestyle in detail; for instance, she contrasts extravagant every-day meals with the life of the poor working class. The author criticizes Oburn who represents a typical factory owner at that time, that is, someone who adores splendor and displays a malicious way of thinking. The workers ask Oburn for a raise of their wages in order to be able to lead life worthy of human beings. Oburn’s answer: “Grade ihre Armuth fesselt sie an mich!”⁵⁴ (62) robs the workers of their dignity. Aston juxtaposes his inhumanity, cruelty, and conspicuous consumption with his workers’ faithfulness, modesty, and submissiveness, attributes which bring out even more the fact how despicable he is. In contrast, Johanna is presented as a compassionate and modest wife. Judging solely from her appearance, she differs from aristocratic as well as from typical middle-class women: “Ihr Anzug war einfach, aber schön.” (32) Her attire is

 “My wife has to be noticed, I demand that – because I am a rich man!”  “It is precisely their poverty that ties them to me!”

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carefully chosen and not pretentious, thus symbolically placing her beyond any demarcated social status. She does not consider money a priority in her life, does not strive for power, and leads a moral life according to what is expected of a married woman of her stage. Still, society does not expect that she, who is not welcome in high society and is there only because of the prince’s wish and invitation, would dare to refuse to be his “Maitresse” (59). The experience of Johanna’s stay in Carlsbard confirms her approach to wealth; luxury does not bring happiness, and greed might encompass sexual appetites. For the prince’s love is interchangeable with lust and since he is in a power position, he cannot imagine foregoing a single desire. That is why he reveals to Johanna: “‘Ich liebe Sie, liebe Sie wahnsinnig, will Sie besitzen um jeden Preis! Wohin Du auch gehst, süßes Weib, ich werde Dir folgen ich werde nicht eher ruhn, bis ich Deine Liebe errungen! Das schwöre ich Dir bei meiner fürstlichen Ehre!’”⁵⁵ (56) The prince’s attempt to rape her marks the factual powerlessness of aristocracy. The last resort of the prince to get his pleasure and amusement, and to demonstrate his power is compared to political despotism and oppression exactly like that of the last recourse to the restoration of power, censorship, and the dissolution of student fraternities through the Carlsbad Decrees of 1819 (Wimmer: 30). Aston’s voice can be clearly recognized in Johanna’s anguished cry: “ Wie habe ich mich während der ganzen Zeit meines hiesigen Aufenthalts nach einem echten, wahren Menschen gesehnt! Diese Puppen und Zerrbilder, dies ganze Marionettspiel einer innerlich hohlen Gesellschaft, diese platten, indifferenten Gesichter.”⁵⁶ Her yearning for a genuine human being signifies ultimately being able to give and receive love while having a sense of greater personal freedom from constricting societal rules.

Conclusion Louise Aston, a convinced Republican, erotic rebel, and a symbol of social disorder, led a determined life deviating from valid norms and standards, thus, quite independent from the prevailing opinion and dedicated to her ideals. In Aus dem Leben einer Frau, Aston linked political power with sexual violence

 “I love you, Iove you madly, I want to own you, at any price! Wherever you’ll go, sweet woman, I will follow you and will not rest until I have won your love! This I swear by my princely honor!”  “How did I long for a true, honest human being during the whole time of my stay here! These dolls and caricatures, this string puppet performance of an empty society, these plain, indifferent faces!”

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in an era of capitalist growth and financial speculation. With her novel, the author made her readership aware of a common pattern of exploitation and abuse which was prevalent in diverse realms of Vormärz society, starting with the family continuing with the factory and ending with the state. Aston arranged the text into three sections: the first unmasks patriarchal abuse, the second discloses aristocratic abuse in the state, and the third exposes the depraved coalition between the industrialists and the aristocracy. In each section of the novel, the woman is used as the medium through which men secure their power relationships; hence, Johanna is the puppet in her father’s marital tactics, the object of irrepressible desire and a near-rape victim of the prince, as well as the pawn in her husband’s financial deal (Aston 1982: 75). With her writing, Aston encouraged women to emancipate themselves by means of either mentally or physically escaping their new societal role of a married woman trapped within a domestic space. As a woman and an author, Louise Aston moved outside of the patriarchal order. In her writing and with her life, she professed and demonstrated that only where harmony of views and attitudes are to be found, love will grow. She also encouraged the belief that mutual love and passion belong to a union between a man and a woman not necessarily united in a bond of formal marriage. In both her life and works, Louise Aston demanded unceasingly her portion of freedom.

Works Cited Aston, Louise. 1982. Aus dem Leben einer Frau. Stuttgart: Akademischer Verlag. Aston, Louise. 1983. “Wilde Rosen,” Ein Lesebuch. Gedichte Romane Schriften in Auswahl (1846 – 1849) Ed. Karlheinz Fingerhut. Stuttgart: Hans-Dieter Heinz Akademischer Verlag. Blackwell, Janine and Susanne Zantop, eds. 1990. Bitter Healing: German Women Writers from 1700 to 1830: an Anthology. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. “Dialog und Bewegung. Bettina von Arnim als Kommunikationsexpertin.” A Symposium in Bettina und Achim von Arnim Museum Künstlerhaus Schloss Wiepersdorf. October 23 and 24, 2010. Fronius, Helen. 2007. ’Weiber=Apologeten’ and ’Mode-Misogyne’: Ideologies of Gender. Introduction, Women and Literature in the Goethe Era 1770 – 1820. Determined Dilettantes. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Fingerhut, Karlheinz ed. 1983. Louise Aston. Ein Lesebuch. Gedichte, Romane, Schriften in Auswahl (1846 – 1849). Stuttgart: Hans-Dieter Heinz. Gagern, Carlos von. 1983. “Erinnerung an Louise Aston.” Germaine Goetzinger. Für die Selbstverwirklichung der Frau: Louise Aston. Frankfurt am Main: Taschenbuch Verlag. Goodman, Katherine. 1986. Dis/closures: Women’s Autobiography in Germany between 1790 and 1914. New York: P. Lang. Goetzinger, Germaine. 1983. Für die Selbstverwirklichung der Frau: Louise Aston. Frankfurt am Main: Taschenbuch Verlag.

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Habermas, Jürgen. 1971. Strukturwandel der Öffentlichkeit. Untersuchungen zu einer Katgorie der bürgerlichen Gesellschaft. Neuwied and Berlin: Luchterhand. Hülsbergen, Henrike (ed.). 1997. Stadtbild und Frauenleben. Berlin im Spiegel von 16 Frauenporträts. Berlin: Stapp. Joeres, Ruth-Ellen B. 1998. Respectability and Deviance. Nineteenth-Century German Women Writers and the Ambiguity of Representation. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Joeres, Ruth Ellen B. and Maynes, Mary Jo. 1986. German Women in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries. A Social and Literary History, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Kontje, Todd. 1998. Women, the Novel, and the German Nation 1771 – 1871. Domestic Ficiton in the Fatherland. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lougee, Caroly C. 1976. Le Paradis des Femmes: Women, Salons and Social Stratification in Seventeenth Century France. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Naffin, Beate. 1998. “Louise Aston.” Mit den Muthigen will ich’s halten. Autorinnen Autoren des Vormärz. Ed. Roland Schurig. Aalen: Aalener Museum, 24 – 50. Nickisch, Reinhard M.G. 1991. Brief. Stuttgart: Metzler. Peterson, Uta. 1998. “Louise Aston (1814 – 1871).” Women Writers in German-Speaking Countries. A Bio-Bibliographical Critical Sourcebook. Eds. Elke P. Frederiksen and Elizabeth G. Ametsbichler. Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press. Schmidt-Weissenfels, Eduard. 1857. Rahel und ihre Zeit. Leipzig: Brockhaus. Schultz, Hans Jürgen. 1981. Frauen. Porträts aus zwei Jahrhunderten. Stuttgart: Kreuz-Verlag. Warnecke, Jenny. 2001. Frauen im Strudel. Louise Astons “Revolution und Counterrevolution.” Sulzbach-Taunus: Ulrike Helmer Verlag. Whittle, Ruth and Debbie Pinfold. 2005. Voices of Rebellion: Political Writing by Malwida von Meysenbug, Fanny Lewald, Johanna Kinkel and Louise Aston. Bern: Peter Lang.

Susanne Bach

“I will never have another man in this house”. The Perpetual Curate Patrick Brontë and His Perpetual Daughter Charlotte (1816 – 1855) ‘Never another man,’ – this verdict was penned by Patrick Brontë, father of the world famous authors Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Brontë. Since he was “the cornerstone of [Charlotte Brontë’s] emotional life” (Wyatt 1985: 216), one has to take a closer look at him to gain a better understanding of his daughter’s life and work. Therefore, this study investigates Patrick Brontë first, and then focuses on father-images, father-substitutes, and father-ideals in Charlotte’s own life and in her novel Jane Eyre. I am not suggesting that readers will find a portrait of her ‘real’ father in her work; however, I am convinced that the intense and ambiguous father-daughter relationship and the internal image¹ of him would have shaped Charlotte’s general idea of fatherhood. The early death of her mother and her siblings, together with the looming threat of her father’s death from a disease – not to mention the danger to their economic survival – would have bred a substantial fear of loss, thus intensifying the bond between father and daughter. Using a psychoanalytic reading of Charlotte Brontë’s life and her novel Jane Eyre on the one hand, I will show where (paternal) presence and absence, desire and rejection meet, and in how far God the Father plays a role.² Working with ideas from cultural studies on the other hand, I intend to delineate the climate in which Charlotte grew up and which can be held responsible for the fashioning of her inner world. First of all, this inner world was shaped without lasting maternal influence, and in turn, “their father was the great dominating influence in their lives” (JC 2000: 4– 5).³

 In their encompassing study The Importance of Fathers, the authors differentiate between fathers and ‘internal father,’ the latter leaving an “innate imprint [that] operates like a basic structure, a preconception that will be filled in and shaped by actual relationships.” (Etchegoyen 2002: 34)  There is “no comprehensive and cohesive body of theory about fatherhood in the psychoanalytic literature” (Etchegoyen 2002: 33). For a good survey of psychoanalytical approaches to Charlotte Brontë, see Miller 2001.  From the ample choice of biographies available, I chose the two most fitting for the purposes of my study: Elizabeth Gaskell’s and John Cannon’s. They are abbreviated with EG and JC respectively. Some critics would certainly disagree with my choice. For further information in general https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110590364-011

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Patrick Brontë, born 1777, “was the first born [sic] of a family of ten children, in impoverished circumstances” (JC 2000: 6). He truly was a self-made man who continued renaming, and thus re-inventing, himself: The old family name was Ó Pronntaigh, but Patrick used variations such as Brunty, Branty, Bronte, Brontè, and finally Brontë (cf. “Brontë [Ó Pronntaigh]” 2013; Green 2008: 171; JC 2000: 20). His life had been shaped by change. Consecutively, he became a blacksmith-, linen draper-, and weaver-apprentice before working as a teacher, studying at Cambridge, drilling with the volunteer military corps, and finally being ordained as an Anglican clergyman and appointed Perpetual Curate.⁴ In 1812, Patrick married Maria Branwell and in 1816, Charlotte, the third of their six children, was born.⁵ The death of his wife in 1821 left the children under the care of their father. An aunt, Elizabeth Branwell, rushed to help, and ‘Tabby’ (Tabitha) Ackroyd, a servant, was employed. After her two elder sisters’ death in 1825, it became Charlotte’s role to play substitute mother to Branwell, Emily, and Anne. The siblings collaborated on the “Angria” and “Gondal” tales, before starting to write and publish their own works. After the death of their aunt in 1842 and of her three siblings (1848/49), Charlotte remained alone with her ailing, and at the same time dominant father, who was used “to being in charge and knowing best” (Thormählen 2007: 15). Patrick Brontë was bold and courageous as tales, which tell of his saving children from danger prove (cf. JC 2000: 81, JC 2000: 100 – 102; Barker 1994: 35). This “serious, strong-minded” man was “not easily dissuaded from his beliefs” (JC 2000: 94). He would rise to perpetual curatorship and soon forget – or try to forget – his own humble origins. He seemed to have completely suppressed the memory that when courting Mary Burder between 1806 and 1808, he had encountered hostile rejection by her family who saw him “as an upstart Irishman with no money behind him” (JC 2000: 94). When his daughter Charlotte approached him many years later with the news that Patrick’s own curate, “who happened also to be an impecunious Irishman” (JC 2000: 95), had proposed to

and on the biography controversy in particular, see Green 2008, Jenkins 1998, Adams 1978, Showalter 1988, Thormählen 1999, Peterson 2007 and Peterson 2009. Many events in the lives of the Brontës are contested. I will not point out alternative versions of events.  “[…] once appointed, the incumbent retained it for life” (JC 2000: 127).  Family relations are difficult to follow. There are two Marias (mother and daughter), Branwell occurs three times (Maria Branwell, Patrick Branwell Brontë, and Aunt Branwell) – therefore a look at their family tree is quite helpful: cf. “A Detailed Genealogy of the Brontë Family” wuthering-heights.co.uk.

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her, he objected as strongly to his daughter’s suitor as Mary Burder’s family had objected to him. After he married Maria Branwell and lived in Haworth, Patrick Brontë had a separate study, which was off-limits to his children (JC 2000: 14). In some biographies, the ambiguous relationship to his six children is pointed out, claiming that he perceived his offspring as a “hindrance to his personal ambitions” (JC 2000: 15). According to other sources, he dedicated himself to their intellectual and moral development, “providing them with books, art and music lessons” (JC 2000: 16). Charlotte’s first biographer, Elizabeth Gaskell, puts this in candid words: “[…] Mr Brontë was, of course, much engaged in his study; and besides, he was not naturally fond of children, and felt their frequent appearance on the scene as a drag both on his wife’s strength, and as an interruption to the comfort of the household” (EG 1996: 41).⁶ True to the spirit of the times, Patrick Brontë was partial to his son Branwell, as Charlotte confides in a letter: “My poor father naturally thought more of his only son than of his daughters” (qtd. in Green 2008: 234, author’s emphasis) and paid more attention to his education than to that of his daughters.⁷ On the “flyleaf of his concordance to the Bible,” the following contract was found: “I agreed with Branwell, that under Providence, we should thoroughly read together, the following classics, in the following order […]. The progress of the reading is to be regularly set down in this and the following pages” (Green 2008: 132). Branwell “studied regularly with his father” (Nussey, qtd. in Green 2008: 135) his daughters, even though they did show “knowledge of the classical world” (Green 2008: 132), “had never learnt grammar at all, and very little geography” (Menon 2003: 18). At this stage of their development, they could be called mainly self-taught because, as Newman explains, Patrick Brontë “gave them the run of his library and of the local lending library. The children read avidly whatever appealed to them” (4). In 1824, Mr. Brontë sent Charlotte, together with her sisters Emily, Maria, and Elizabeth, to the Clergy Daughters’ School at Cowan Bridge (Lancashire). In every respect, this school’s performance can be called incredibly neglectful in most respects; readers of her novel Jane Eyre will recognize the Clergy Daughters’ School in the fictional Lowood School, in which the protagonist undergoes humiliation, trauma, fear, cold, poverty, hunger, punishment, and even encounters disease and death. Soon, Charlotte’s sisters Maria and Elizabeth contracted tuberculosis,  He would pass on this notion to Charlotte and her siblings because they in turn were not “naturally fond of children” (EG 1996: 134). For a very positive, optimistic reading of his character and influence, see Menon 2003.  For a different reading cf. Newman 1996.

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and died in June 1825. As a consequence, Charlotte and Emily were removed from the school, which has somewhat mollifyingly been labeled as “hostile to physical comfort and ignorant of hygiene” (Newman 1996: 5). As late as 1831, Patrick Brontë decided that Charlotte needed a “formal education” and sent her to Roe Head School (Green 2008: 138 – 139). Allegedly, he never expected much of her (cf. Gordon 1994: 165). She stayed at Roe Head only from 1831 to 1832. Between 1839 and 1841, Charlotte lived the difficult life of a governess, “a low-paid drudge (…) subjected to various indignities” (Newman 1996: 5), in rank below her employers but above the servants; and often ridiculed or disregarded by the children; another topic that found its way into the pages of Jane Eyre. In order to escape the dire fate of governesses, she thought of opening a school at the parsonage. Wanting to prime herself for this resulted only in another in-between position when she was admitted to Héger’s boarding school in Brussels in 1842. Charlotte and her sister Emily taught music, and in exchange, received room, board, and tuition. In 1842, she returned to Haworth after their aunt’s death and went back to Brussels in 1843, only to leave it again a year later, after an unhappy attachment to Monsieur Héger. Charlotte “abhorred teaching” (Adams 1978: 153). This (to the best of knowledge correct) statement is open to all sorts of readings. One could assume that her own experience of schooling was so bad that she feared its continuation, no matter in what disguise. One could guess that being taught by her pastor-father-super-ego already was too much of a good thing for her. One could surmise that teaching for her simply was a despised way to earn money, and that it was only writing that carried the emotional excitement she longed for, the exertion of her mind’s freedom, and the flight from and the shaping of reality. However, Patrick Brontë not only stood in for their formal education but also for an informal one. His talent for telling tales seems to have been running in the Brontë family; his own father Hugh was renowned for the captivating way he would tell stories (JC 2000: 15). He had passed this on to his son Patrick, for whom it would later come in handy when preaching: “The moment he climbed into the pulpit, a spell was cast over the whole congregation, and no-one moved” (qtd. in JC 2000: 15 – 16). In addition to being a talented preacher, Patrick was also a poet and writer. In the preface to one of his books, he emphasizes the “indescribable pleasure” of being able to write “from morning till noon, and from noon till night” (qtd. in JC 2000: 103). His missionary and / or didactic zeal surfaces frequently, admonishing his readers to think of their own mortality. Like many Evangelicals, he was “strongly aware of the sinfulness of man and the sole hope of redemption through Christ” (Thormählen 1999: 15). A Christmas hymn which he wrote – as Green politely understates – “does not reflect

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much of the joy of the Christmas season” (246); and in his “Verses sent to a Lady on her Birthday” (my emphasis), he writes hardly cheerful: […] your eyes of sparkling blue, And velvet lips of scarlet hue, Discoloured, may decay. […] You’re but a breathing mass of clay, Fast ripening for the grave.

His wife Maria Branwell seems to have been well-matched to Patrick. In one of her letters to him, she wrote: “[W]e will … embrace every opportunity to prove […] sincerity and strength by acting, in every respect, as friends and fellow-pilgrims travelling the same road, actuated by the same motives and having in view the same end” (qtd. in JC 2000: 111). Patrick entered her name together with his in the baptismal register – the first time that a mother’s name was recorded at all in Hartshead’s register (JC 2000: 123). The marriage was happy, and they had many friends (JC 2000: 125, Barker 1994: 58). However, Maria died young, a process “which she tried to hide from the children” (Adams 1978: 149). After her death, Patrick “missed her at every corner” (qtd. in Sadoff 1982: 139). The move to Haworth, in hindsight, had been an additional health risk, to say the least: the average age of death was 25 (Gordon 1994: 312) and approximately 50 % of the children died before their sixth birthday (cf. Cannon 2000: 13; Green 2008: 223). Gaskell elaborated frankly: “Haworth is built with an utter disregard of all sanitary conditions: the great old churchyard lies above all the houses, and it is terrible to think how the very water-springs of the pumps below must be poisoned” (EG 1996: 99). The only two public wells were “tainted by the outflow of privies” (Green 2008: 222). Disease and death were ever present. While their mother was ill, the children were often sent to walk through the moors; Maria Brontë rarely asked to see her children (JC 2000: 128). Patrick describes this trying time in one of his letters: “[…] I was at Haworth, a stranger in a strange land. It was under these circumstances, after every earthly prop was removed, that I was called on to bear the weight of the greatest load of sorrows that ever pressed upon me” (qtd. in JC 2000: 130). Both of Patrick’s dreams – to have a wife to love and to enjoy a literary career – in the end came to naught. His strong influence within the family can hardly be overstated. Most biographies foreground the closely knit Brontë family circle in the wake of Maria’s death – they were a “little society amongst themselves” (P. Brontë 1811, qtd. in Menon 2003: 17). This seclusion had consequences for everyday life, as Charlotte wrote to a friend: “I know my own sentiments, I can read my own mind, but the minds of the rest of man and woman kind are

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to me sealed volumes, hieroglyphical scrolls, which I cannot easily either unseal or decipher” (qtd. in EG 1996: 101). Charlotte was the eldest daughter and nine years old when her mother died: “Her childhood was no childhood” (EG 1996: 41). If one assumes that every form of education in the nineteenth century was gendered (cf. Thormählen 2007: 121– 123), questions arise not only pertaining to the influences of Charlotte’s upbringing but also in how far she underwent a female socialization process. Theoretically, there were women around who could count as potential identification models (Tabby, Aunt Branwell), but at the center of a typical female gender identification process, there was a huge gap: an absent mother.⁸ In a different context, namely with reference to Shakespeare’s King Lear (notably the story of a widower left with three daughters), Coppélia Kahn writes that the omission of a mother “articulates a patriarchal conception of the family in which children owe their existence to their fathers alone; the mother’s role in procreation is eclipsed by the father’s, which is used to affirm male prerogative and male power. […] [A] girl’s sense of femaleness arises through her infantile union with the mother and later identification with her […].” (1993: 95 – 96; author’s emphasis) This holds true for the Brontë-daughters as well. What quickly became clear to the children, too, was that patriarchy/maleness did not exist simply as a complementary ‘Other’ to matriarchy/femaleness but rather formed encompassing networks of heteronormative power, stressing principles of patrilineage. One telling example can be found in the letter to Patrick Brontë from the adored head of a Brussels boarding school, Constantin Héger, praising the curate’s intelligent and eager daughters as a mere reflection of their father: “I have not the honour of knowing you personally, and yet I feel for you yourself a sentiment of sincere veneration, for in judging the father of a family by his children there is no risk of being mistaken; and in this respect the education and opinions we have found in your daughters could only give us a very high idea of your worth and your character” (qtd. in Green 2008: 155). If I were to assume that Charlotte’s attitude towards her mother was not completely untainted and simple (but rather ambiguous as in: ‘she loved me / she left me’; maybe even: ‘I drove her away / I killed her’, which according to

 Very similarly, the orphan Jane Eyre later on will desperately look for female role models, ranging from Helen Burns, Miss Taylor, and the Rivers-sisters to Bertha Mason. She herself will remain a stranger: Whenever Jane looks into a mirror, she sees a stranger; in the red room, she is a “strange little figure” (46); as a bride, she sees herself as “the image of a stranger” (315). Opposed to this single orphan girl, the readers of Jane Eyre can find “complete triads of mothers with two favoured daughters” in the Reeds of Gateshead, the Brocklehurst women of Lowood and the Ingrams and Eshtons who visit Thornfield (cf. Adams 1978: 161).

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psychoanalysis is a frequent notion of orphans; cf. Isaac 2008),⁹ then experiencing her father – a patriarch with many character facets – must have been even more ambiguous. First, he had – in all senses of the word – replaced her mother, irrespective of the real causes. The mother’s female influence was supplanted or even annihilated. “One black day”, as we learn from Charlotte, he burned his dead wife’s copies of Ladies’ Magazine because “they contained foolish love stories” (Ch. Brontë 1829 – 1847: 240).¹⁰ This information is highly relevant on several levels: Patrick destroys something having belonged to her mother, he burns something written for females, and he ridicules love stories. The magazines were highly charged with meaning: “I shall never see anything which will interest me so much again” (Ch. Brontë 1829 – 1847: 240). Second, he was the unmitigated focus of the Oedipal situation, in which the little girl “turns to the father as her love object.” It is the father then who fractures “the illusory link between mother and child” (Etchegoyen 2002: 23, 29). Since Charlotte’s “sense of self-importance” derived from her being “forever father’s daughter,” this set-up served as an “obstacle” to her fulfillment as a woman (Britton 2002: 107). Third, there was no maternal corrective element;¹¹ a child growing up with both parents perceives the father “directly, but also through the eyes of the mother. The mother’s conscious and unconscious expectations and fantasies about the role of the father will shape the father’s representation” (Etchegoyen 2002: 34). Thus, an absent mother also means the absence of the maternal mirror: she is “the second object, who perceives the child’s experience of the relationship with father, represents it in her own mind and offers it to the child” (Target/Fonagy 2002: 60). In addition, the father is the head of the family, in accordance with the Biblical teaching that “[…] wives should submit to their husbands in everything”

 In general, relations between mothers and daughters in Jane Eyre are “fraught” (Boumelha 1997: 136). Other women plainly reject and rebuff Jane Eyre: “the baker, the woman who does not want a servant, and finally Hannah” (Boumelha 1997: 137). (Added to this list should be Blanche Ingram.) Almost all women who come into contact with Jane are “burned, singed, seared” (Boumelha 1997: 142).  She could not quite remember whether they belonged to her mother or her aunt (cf. Ch. Brontë 1829 – 1847: 240). My guess is that Patrick would not burn something belonging to his sister-in-law who lived with them, and who was a tremendous help.  Aunt Branwell with her “stern practical religious nature” was no substitute “for a loving mother” (Menon 2003: 17). This “outsider” (Adams 1978: 150) had favorites: Anne and Branwell. Moreover, the “kindred spirit” (Menon 2003: 30) Emily was her father’s favorite. For a different reading, see Barker (1994: 104). Cf. “Family and Friends”.

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(Ephesians 5:24) The authority of domestic fathers had been effectively propped up by such absolute faith in God the father, writes McKnight, and evangelical Christianity’s “emphasis on a stern, judgmental God had led to similar expectations of the male head of the household” (2011: 4). Moreover, as a priest, Patrick was a representative of God acting out his elevated social position within a patriarchal religion.¹² Not only was Charlotte the daughter of a minister, she also grew up surrounded by clergymen: Most of their father’s friends were colleagues of his, and there was a strong clerical presence in the schools they attended as well as in the families of their own friends and pupils. Their father’s profession was the very basis of their household, the factor that determined their social position and their daily occupation as well as, of course, their accommodation (Thormählen 1999: 174).

Most importantly, Patrick Brontë was the children’s teacher (cf. JC 2000: 103; EG 1996: 50). Lastly, he liked to control the private sphere. In order to gain access to their innermost thoughts, Patrick had told his young children to don a mask and speak their true minds from underneath (EG 1996: 48).¹³ He influenced his children’s choice of friends: “Papa says he highly approves of my friendship with you, and he wishes me to continue it through life” (Ch. Brontë, qtd. in EG 1996: 129 – 130). In 1853, he opened a letter from Elizabeth Gaskell to (the absent) Charlotte and took the liberty to reply on her behalf: “I deem’d it best to open it, lest it should have required an immediate answer. […] I think that you, and she are congenial spirits, and that a little intercourse between You, might […] be productive of pleasure and profit to you both” (qtd. in Green 2008: 275).¹⁴ Charlotte, one needs to add, by then was 37 years old. These aspects help explain Charlotte’s lifelong unquestioning obedience to her father, which produced phrases like the following: “My husband and I live at home with my father, of course, I could not leave him” (qtd. in EG 1996: 455; author’s emphasis).¹⁵ What kind of educational atmosphere (in the sense of socialization and enculturation) could produce such a statement? Some representative examples shall serve as answers.

 Concerning Patrick Brontë’s religious beliefs, cf. Winnifrith 2012.  In a letter, he wrote: “[…] they knew more than I had yet discovered” (EG 1996: 48). Judging from their answers, they knew exactly what he was expecting of them.  Original spelling and punctuation.  “Sadoff argues convincingly that Brontë’s relationship with her father was the cornerstone of her emotional life: ‘She remained emotionally tied to him – dependent upon him even when he was dependent upon her – for life’” (Wyatt 1985: 216).

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Patrick proudly boasted in a revelatory manner that he could “converse with [seven-year-old Maria] on any of the leading topics of the day with as much freedom and pleasure as with any grown-up person” (EG 1996: 48). Furthermore, the highly structured timetable of Curate Brontë seems to have shaped his daughters as well. At the age of sixteen, Charlotte wrote that an […] account of one day is an account of all. In the morning, from nine o’clock till half past twelve, I instruct my sisters, and draw; then we walk till dinner-time. After dinner I sew till tea-time, and after tea I either write, read, or do a little fancy-work, or draw, as I please. This, in one delightful, though somewhat monotonous course, my life is passed (qtd. in EG 1996: 95).

Everything is dedicated to higher, intellectual purposes – so Charlotte and a friend even agree to corresponding in French “for the sake of improvement in the language” (EG 1996: 96), and her sister Emily could be found kneading dough while studying German (EG 1996: 110). The only time free from physical and mental restraint, control, duty, and other demands began after their father and their aunt had retired for the night. The children “put away their work, and began to pace the room backwards and forwards, up and down, […] they talked over past cares, and troubles; they planned for the future, and consulted each other as to their plans” (EG 1996: 117; my emphasis) In their daytime world, duty was “paramount to pleasure” (EG 1996: 131). Gaskell states that Charlotte “seemed to have no interest or pleasure beyond the feeling of duty” (EG 1996: 111). In a letter, Charlotte confessed: “It is natural to me to submit, and very unnatural to command” (qtd. in EG 1996: 178).¹⁶ After her father’s beginning blindness, she considered it her duty to stay at home: “I have felt for some months that I ought not to be away from him – and I feel now that it would be too selfish to leave him […] in order to pursue selfish interests of my own – with the help of God – I will try to deny myself in this matter and to wait” (EG 1996: 212, my emphases). She was able to be critical of the situation, however: “I feel as if we were all buried here. I long to travel; to work; to live a life of action” (EG 1996: 221). Ex negativo, she tried to convey her desires: In criticizing Austen’s Pride and Prejudice (1813), she complained that there was “no glance of a bright vivid physiognomy, no open country, no fresh air, no blue hill, no bonny beck. I should hardly

 Jane Eyre will cry: “… grant me at least a new servitude!” (117)

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like to live with her ladies and gentlemen, in their elegant but confined houses” (qtd. in EG 1996: 274; my emphases).¹⁷ After having been proposed to by a young man at a friend’s house, she wrote: “I was aware that he knew so little of me he could hardly be conscious to whom he was writing. Why! it would startle him to see me in my natural home character; he would think I was a wild, romantic enthusiast indeed.” (qtd. in EG 1996: 133, my emphases). She realized not only that role playing in society is a necessity (cf. Miller 2001: 27) but also that adherence to moral and intellectual premises takes a heavy toll on the body: “Il n’y a rien que je crains comme le désœuvrement, l’inertie, la léthargie des facultés. Quand le corps est paresseux l’esprit souffre cruellement” (qtd. in EG 1996: 221).¹⁸ Coventry Patmore’s often quoted 1854 “angel in the house” was first and foremost an angel defined by a disembodied “ethic of purity” (Houghton 1957: 356). By referring to her own body, Charlotte Brontë slightly trespassed the borders of the correct and permissible. It might have helped to be writing about it in a foreign language, French. Paradoxically, in the nineteenth century, the female body was not a topic to bring up in polite conversation because women were “persuaded that nature clearly intended them for a spiritual role in social organization.” On the other hand, many Victorians “fixed women’s social, moral, and emotional lives in biology” (Wood 2001: 11).¹⁹

 Cf. Woolf: “She remembered that she had been starved of her proper due of experience–she had been made to stagnate in a parsonage mending stockings when she wanted to wander free over the world” (1929: n. pag.).  Engl. trans.: “There is nothing I fear as much as unemployment, inertia, lethargy of the faculties. When the body is idle, the spirit suffers cruelly […].” (EG 1996: 521– 522) Cf. Jane Eyre: “Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags” (141).  In Jane Eyre, it is the body, too, which is the place in which female madness may be acted out and it thus functions as a text in which things that cannot or must not be said are legible: “A weakness, beginning inwardly, extending to the limbs, seized me, and I fell: I lay on the ground some minutes, pressing my face to the wet turf. I had some fear–or hope–that here I should die: but I was soon up; crawling forwards on my hands and knees […].” (348) Jane cannot press her face and her body against the body of her beloved; she therefore inverts the image and presses her fragile frame against the body of her cold and rejecting mother(‐substitute): nature. In Brontë’s novel, mind and body can only be perceived split, and in an externalized manner: represented by Helen Burns and Bertha Mason respectively. Both die in the end – do the superego Helen and the id Bertha make way for ego-representative Jane?

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Charlotte Brontë was aware, as she wrote to a friend, that she had to hide her innermost (unruly? libidinous?) self: If you knew my thoughts; the dreams that absorb me; and the fiery imagination that at times eats me up and makes me feel Society, as it is, wretchedly insipid you would pity and I dare say despise me. But Ellen, I know the treasures of the Bible. I love and adore them. I can see the well of life in all its clearness and brightness; but when I stoop down to drink of the pure waters they fly from my lips as if I were Tantalus (qtd. in Penner 2008: 16).

Even her publications had to be kept a secret; possibly for fear that her father might disapprove of them. “The sisters had kept the knowledge of their literary ventures from their father…,” writes Gaskell, and when the postman wanted to deliver a letter to ‘Currer Bell,’ Mr. Brontë “replied that there was no such person in the parish” (EG 1996: 262). Gaskell also renders the heart-wrenching scene of Charlotte finally trying to surprise her father with the success of Jane Eyre and his inadequate response “quite accurate[ly]” and in painful detail: ‘Papa, I’ve been writing a book.’ ‘Have you, my dear?’ ‘Yes, and I want you to read it.’ ‘I am afraid it will try my eyes too much.’ ‘But it is not in manuscript; it is printed.’ ‘My dear! you’ve never thought of the expense it will be! It will be almost sure to be a loss, for how can you get a book sold?’ (EG 1996: 263)

After having read it, together with reviews, his only praise consists of a weak “much better than likely” (EG 1996: 263). Summing up the above, a psychoanalytic reading of Charlotte’s childhood and young womanhood, shaped by a present father and an absent mother, has to focus on the following aspects: first, it looks as if Charlotte – like her siblings – was initially not really wanted by her father, who apparently was intent on enjoying matrimonial bliss but not the demands of a growing number of children (cf. Sadoff 1982: 139). He accepted their presence dutifully, with their “innocent yet distressing prattle.” They “added to rather than healed the void” (Sadoff 1982: 139). Maybe Mr. Brontë even explicitly or implicitly blamed his children with their demands on their mother for the waning strength of his wife? In this context, one could ask why the sick and later dying mother hardly wanted to see her children and, first and foremost, what kind of message did that send to

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her children?²⁰ Second, Charlotte Brontë must have felt her father’s rejection, his perception of his children as nuisances and the driving forces behind his faltering career. It comes as no surprise that this understanding would have fostered the idealization of an infallible father: God. Third, as the oldest daughter, she had to grow up very fast; she was, as Gaskell points out, “grave and silent beyond [her] years” (EG 1996: 43). In addition, Charlotte possibly felt that she had to be her father’s sexless, intellectual equal. After the only son had miserably failed to live up to Patrick’s many expectations (cf. Green 2008: 230 – 231), Charlotte suppressed her female identity in order to be on an equal footing with her father. He wanted his children to be “hardy” (EG 1996: 44). In later years, Charlotte felt “underdeveloped” (qtd. in Green 2008: 252) and “almost repulsive” (EG, qtd. in Ch. Brontë 1852– 1855: 160), possibly mirroring the adult Jane Eyre who was afraid that she was “not yet a complete adult but rather an incomplete child” (Adams 1978: 169). Moreover, in a sense, Charlotte was an extension of her father – writing the successful novel he did not or could not write – and the replacement for his deeply disappointing son, Branwell.²¹ In this, she would be in the psychoanalytic ‘Athene’ position: Her “importance is derived from being the incarnation of her father’s ideas” (Britton 2002: 107). In juxtaposition, Charlotte clung to her father, fearing to lose another family member (cf. EG 1996: 420). Patrick made the most of this fear by infantilizing her. As late as 1853 – Charlotte was 37 years old – he “never seemed quite to have lost the feeling that Charlotte was a child to be guided and ruled, when she was present; and she herself submitted to this with a quiet docility”(EG 1996: 440). Even one month before her death, by then a pregnant, married woman, she wrote: “[…] of course, I could not leave him” (EG 1996: 455; author’s emphasis). Thus, she confirmed the notion that Victorian women were “relative” creatures (cf. Basch 1974). Additionally, she married a younger version of her father, another ‘extension’ of him: his Irish, penniless curate. This put her in a very late Oedipal situation: “In der Ödipussituation ist aber für das Mädchen der Vater das Liebesobjekt geworden, und wir erwarten, daß sie bei normalem Ablauf der Entwicklung vom Vaterobjekt aus den Weg zur endgültigen Objektwahl finden wird” (Freud 1985:

 How easily children can be disposed of can be seen in Adèle’s case: “I meant to become her governess once more, but I soon found this impracticable; my time and cares were now required by another–my husband needed them all” (475, my emphasis).  On the role of Branwell, see Adams’ lucid remarks (1978: 151– 153).

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97).²² Structural features of romantic love are, according to Wyatt, “grounded in traditional patterns of relationships between fathers and daughters” (1985: 200). Accordingly, Charlotte feared to risk the precious love of her father. Her father in turn would not tolerate an opponent and fell into a “violent rage” and was “on the verge of suffering a […] stroke” (Green 2008: 262). As stated in one of his letters: “Never. I will never have another man in this house” (qtd. in Adams 1978: 54). Later, the proximity of clerical father and clerical husband is manifest in Charlotte’s perception: “[…] each time I see Mr Nicholls [her husband] put on gown or surplice; I feel comforted to think that this marriage has secured papa good aid in his old age” (qtd. in EG 1996: 452). Furthermore, she married – for nineteenth century standards – relatively late in life, maybe also for fear of forming an attachment to a man who might endanger her life with pregnancies (cf. Chamberlain 2006). As early as the onset of puberty, Charlotte was convinced to be “certainly doomed to be an old maid” (EG 1996: 141).²³ Instead of looking forward to getting married, Charlotte confessed in a letter: “[…] he urges the month of July, but that seems very soon” (EG 1996: 447; my emphases).²⁴ She was aware that her mother died at 38, “weak with childbearing” (Menon 2003: 16) Additionally, “[…] for Jane and for Brontë, sexual relations … contribute to a relationship of dominance and submission” (Menon 2003: 102), meaning that in marrying, Charlotte knew she might just pass from the hands of one ‘master’ into the hands of another. Charlotte feared to trust the future, to risk hoping, or to love “too much” (EG 1996: 94, 104) Her life taught her to “school herself against ever anticipating any pleasure; that it was better to be brave and submit faithfully” (EG 1996: 442). Her attachment to Arthur Bell Nicholls was thus ambiguous. Initially, she was disconcerted by his behavior. One who was so “statue-like” ordinarily, in the act of proposing to her “[was] trembling, stirred, and overcome.” He showed emotions – she called this a “spectacle!” – while she could only ‘re/act’ and did not understand her own feelings. All of this gave her “a strange shock.”²⁵ She

 Engl. transl.: “But in the Oedipus situation the girl’s father has become her love-object, and we expect that in the normal course of development she will find her way from this paternal object to her final choice of an object” (Freud 2016).  Sexuality is a dangerous ground. In Jane Eyre, “the lawful sexuality of the marriage bed” is in itself “imaged in Bertha as monstrous” (Boumelha 1997: 136).  In Bertha Mason, Jane (and Charlotte?) tries to come to terms with (maternal) female mortality: Bertha “articulates Jane’s fears and desires about her own mortality” (Bronfen 1997: 200). In a nightmare, a small child almost kills Jane (Jane Eyre 310).  He was not the first man to elicit an emotional response. M. Héger, James Taylor, and George Smith were others (cf. Adamson 2008: 33, 51).

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first wanted him to leave the room, then inquired whether he had talked about this with “Papa”, and then, in her own words, she “half led him, half put him out of the room” – as if he were a dog that had misbehaved.²⁶ She immediately consulted her father about this matter, knowing already that he “always disapproved of marriages, and constantly talked against them” (my emphasis). This time, he was even more than disapproving. According to Gaskell, he “could not bear the idea of this attachment of Mr Nicholls to his daughter.” It looks very much as if Mr. Brontë used his infirm state of health to blackmail his daughter emotionally and control her according to his needs and wishes (EG 1996: 420). In one of his poems, “The Happy Cottagers,” only death is allowed to separate father and daughter – until she, of course, follows him: He prayed long for all, And for his daughter dear; That she, preserved from ill, Might lead for many a year A spotless life When he’s no more; Then follow him To Canaan’s shore.²⁷

Patrick Brontë, for his own (selfish) reasons, in fact nearly marred one of Charlotte’s last chances to achieve happiness for herself by initially objecting to her engagement. Writing a frustrated letter to her friend Elizabeth Gaskell, Charlotte compared Haworth to the “back woods of America” and warned: “Leaving behind your husband, children and civilisation, you must come out to barbarism, loneliness and liberty” (EG 1996: 435). “Barbarism” could be read as the subconsciously suppressed interpretation of her father’s behavior towards her; “loneliness” is her reaction to it, and “liberty” the ensuing attempt at sugarcoating this emotionally intolerable state of affairs. There were psychosomatic responses in Charlotte Brontë, too; she could not continue a conversation when a chair was not in its usual place. At night, she paced the room for an hour or more (cf. EG 1996: 439 – 440) and Gordon mentions a “breakdown which left its mark” (1994: 277). Only after her father had “gradually come round” (EG 1996: 447) to assenting to an engagement and only after it was made clear that the young couple would live in his house, did Charlotte dare to announce her engagement. The old patriarch would remain at the center of attention where

 A little later, Patrick will call him an “unmanly driveller” (Green 2008: 272).  Cf. also Barker 1994: 504.

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now two people instead of one would attend to him. For Charlotte, he was still her main priority: In all arrangements, his convenience and seclusion will be scrupulously respected. Mr Nicholls seems deeply to feel the wish to comfort and sustain his declining years. I think from Mr Nicholl’s character I may depend on this not being a mere transitory impulsive feeling, but rather that it will be accepted steadily as a duty, and discharged tenderly as an office of affection (EG 1996: 446).

What a strange act of transference! After all, one would expect the words ‘tenderly’ and ‘affection’ to be used referring to herself rather than to her father. However, Patrick Brontë did not attend the wedding. Charlotte was given away by a woman friend (EG 1996: 450), maybe a testimony to the “war of wills” (40) that Adamson sees at work, with “a strong attack of jealousy” (63) on the part of Patrick Brontë. All of this would put Charlotte in the ‘Antigone’ position: with “altruistic surrender” playing her father’s “indispensable handmaid and guardian” (Britton 2002: 113, 107). Mary Taylor, Charlotte’s lifelong friend, would write in 1856, that she could “never think without gloomy anger of Charlotte’s sacrifices to the selfish old man” (qtd. in Gordon 1994: 295). One can speak of Charlotte’s life mainly as a life in the mind. Her father was, as Ellen Nussey puts it quite nicely, “remarkably independent of the luxuries and comforts of life” (qtd. in Green 2008: 134). He thought the world to be “bustling, vain, selfish” (qtd. in Green 2008: 155). The interior of the house was “scant and bare,” most rooms contained no carpets, and none had curtains (cf. Green 2008: 135 – 136). Charlotte said about her “Papa” that he “habitually prefer[ed] solitude to society” (qtd. in Green 2008: 244). She must have felt “physically isolated and intensely lonely” (Adams 1978: 33). All excitements, all transgressions, all desires were only possible in the realm of fantasy: in the mind, performed or written down. One of these written stories was Jane Eyre – for Q.D. Leavis an “artless concoction […] of uncontrolled daydreams” (1986: 11); for Glen a clear “wish fulfilment fantasy” (1997: 5). Written in a “trance-like” state (Gérin, qtd. in Sadoff 1982: 120) at the bedside of her sick father, and published in 1847, the novel contains a lot of the ‘real’ life experiences of the Brontës in veiled, altered, or allegorized form, and possibly even more of its author’s subconscious.²⁸ Writers “reveal instinctual or repressed selves in their books, often without realizing that they have done so” (Peterson 1992: 308). Writing can be “therapeutic” and

 Cf. Machuca (2007).

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grant “emotional release.” Thus Jane Eyre, for some, is “deeply rooted in Charlotte’s family experience” (Adams 1978: 157, 161, 148). Writers do not exist in isolation, they are “inevitably influenced by the circumstances in which they live and the literature they encounter” (Menon 2003: 3) and, clearly, “[…] the Brontës had their material to hand” (Thormählen 1999: 174). Secondary literature has pointed out many similarities between Charlotte Brontë’s life and work. Charlotte, like Jane Eyre, is said to have been “poor, obscure, plain, and little” (281).²⁹ Jane Eyre “offers a world, too, of physical restriction against which [Jane] chafes, continually searching for prospects through windows” (Boumelha 1997: 141). The lack of (good) mothers and the strong presence of patriarchal figures is obvious, both in Jane Eyre and Charlotte Brontë’s life. A lack of the novel’s defining genre attribution – Bildungsroman, gothic novel, ballad, folk-tale, fairy-tale, romantic fiction, governess novel, children’s fiction, spiritual autobiography, heroic narrative, anti-romance, foundling story, Cinderella myth, etc. (cf. Boumelha 1997: 133, 142; Adams 1978: 160; Mitchell/Osland 2005: 178) – might additionally point to the attempt at covering up the dreariness and flatness of the real life at home with a fireworks of forms and genres. By adopting a new name like her father before, and writing under the pseudonym Currer Bell,³⁰ Charlotte was able to hide her true identity for quite some time: “The name Currer Bell enabled Brontë to materialize her professional self in abstract form, to put herself forward while simultaneously receding from view, a paradoxical strategy of self-promotion through self-effacement […].” (Marcus 2003: 160) Hidden under that cover, she was able to show more of herself than would have been possible otherwise.³¹ Jane Eyre is the story of a “governess-heroine” who “narrowly escapes marriage to her cousin-instructor but marries her ‘Master’” (Menon 2003: 80). Parallels between novel and life are manifold and have often been discussed by literary scholars. A few telling examples are: The Ingham family who dismissed Anne Brontë becomes the Ingrams (cf. Adams 1978: 159); Thornton turns into Thornfield Manor in Jane Eyre, and its Lowood is a “virtual carbon-copy” of Cowan Bridge School. (Adams 1978: 150) On the character level, Charlotte Brontë opposes the stern and “cold as an iceberg” (468) St. John Rivers and the wouldbe-bigamist Byronic rake Edward Rochester by presenting them both as possible

 Unmarked page references to Jane Eyre always pertain to the edition given in the bibliography.  In 1845, Arthur Bell Nicholls became Patrick Brontë’s vicar; and in 1846, Charlotte and her two sisters assumed the pen name Currer, Acton and Ellis Bell. Previous pen names had been male, too: ‘Lord Charles Albert’ and ‘Florian Wellesley’.  Cf. also Peterson (1992) and Sadoff ( 1982: 139 – 141).

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husbands of the first person narrator Jane Eyre. Both men can be read as possessing traits of Charlotte’s father and of Arthur Bell Nicholls;³² they cannot be cleanly translated into the one or the other. Charlotte’s perception of the role multiplicity at home translates into a multitude of roles assigned to her principal characters. The proximity of father and husband was tangible for her. On the one hand, St. John Rivers is a ‘cold’ character, likened to the Greek and Roman God of light, Apollo (466). He stands for an asexual marriage to Jane as he needs a helpmate in India. This mirrors Charlotte’s sexless relationship as substitute wife and helpmate to Patrick Brontë. Charlotte finds strong words for this situation in Jane Eyre: “Oh, St. John!” I cried, “have some mercy!” I appealed to one who, in the discharge of what he believed his duty, knew neither mercy nor remorse. He continued – “God and nature intended you for a missionary’s wife. It is not personal, but mental endowments they have given you: you are formed for labour, not for love. A missionary’s wife you must– shall be. You shall be mine: I claim you–not for my pleasure, but for my Sovereign’s service” (427– 428).

On the other hand, St. John Rivers can stand in for Arthur Bell Nicholls, too. He, like Nicholls, is a young clergyman. In Jane Eyre, Rivers had been called away “by the sudden death of his father” (354) – could that be wish-fulfillment? The narrator caringly makes sure the father’s death is quick and painless: “[…] he was gone in a minute” (360).³³ His death is nothing but “the removal of an impediment” (Thormählen 1999: 207). Thus in the long run, and in the wake of it, the young priest is able to get married. Could that be a hidden fantasy in which clergyman Mr. Nicholls may finally marry Charlotte against the wishes of her father? In yet another reading, if we understand Jane Eyre’s replacing of Bertha Mason from a psychoanalytical-cum-feminist perspective, then Jane is the Electra complex-daughter who manages to get rid of the mother in order to marry the idealized father.³⁴ Rochester himself advocates this reading: “I am old enough

 For further information on Nicholls, see Cochrane/Cochrane 2011.  In other respects, their story is similar, too – Jane asks the Rivers’ servant: “Their father is dead?” “Dead three weeks sin’ of a stroke.” “They have no mother?” “The mistress has been dead this many a year.” “Have you lived with the family long?” “I’ve lived here thirty year. I nursed them all three” (368).  Cf. Baym: “Who, after all, might Bertha Mason be – she to whom Rochester is already married? Jane Eyre is replete with images of ferocious female power and Jane turns to Rochester, at first, as to a refuge. That refuge is sullied by the presence in the nest of another woman, who is made repulsive and ridiculous so that the reader must reject her; and is killed before the narra-

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to be your father […]” (165), he says bluntly, early on in the novel, calling her his “girl-bride” (287), and in the very end, again, he feels that he “should now entertain none but fatherly feelings” for the 20 years younger Jane (469). Other characters support that reading as well, for instance, Mrs. Fairfax “nettles” Jane by deeming Rochester too old for her; he might “almost be [her] father” (293). David Smith calls this relationship straightforward “incest” (1965: 135). Absent mothers and very present patriarchs dominate Charlotte’s and Jane’s situations. St. John Rivers, Mr. Rochester, and Patrick Brontë alike are patres familias among their respective families / households, which in turn consist only of females. Charlotte, even when married, pregnant, and ill, always thought first of her father, just like Jane Eyre, who lonely, destitute, and near-starving only prays for the well-being of her Mr. Rochester (cf. 351). Jane Eyre obediently closes her narrative not with the tale of her personal happiness – the ultimate Victorian dream of a good husband and a firstborn son – but with a reference to clergyman St. John Rivers quoting from the Bible.³⁵ Jesus speaks to him, thus closing the patriarchal text with the words of a – if not the – master: “‘My Master,’ he says, ‘has forewarned me. Daily He announces more distinctly,–‘Surely I come quickly!’ and hourly I more eagerly respond,–‘Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus!’” (477) The “autobiography” of Jane Eyre ends with the quotation of a quotation of a quotation: Jane quotes St. John facing his end, who quotes Jesus (from the very end of the New Testament).³⁶ The assertive female ‘I’ of the opening section (“I was glad of it, I never liked long walks” (39)) dissolves into an intertextual universe governed by the patriarchal principle of God the Father, His chosen ‘sons’, and the representation of what Lacan termed the Nom du père within the symbolic order. As much as this is true, there is, however, a counter-truth present at the same time, as Beaty proposes: The ending enforces a conservative, conformist, providential reading but it cannot erase the experience of the reading, which has involved the projection of alternative configurations over long stretches of the plot and subsumed innumerable details (qtd. in Boumelha 1997: 140; author’s emphasis).

tive is out, so that the daughter can replace her” (1993: 165, author’s emphasis). See also (Wyatt 1985: 200) and (Sadoff 1982: 130).  For Boumelha, this is a case of Jane having her cake and eating it too: Jane pursues a course “which leads her quite flagrantly into the best of two worlds, into material wealth and spiritual capital, into the satisfaction of appetite and the self-satisfaction of sacrifice” (1997: 130).  On the topic of Jane Eyre’s intertextuality, see Williams 1997.

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Even though patriarchal domination is a given, this does not mean that it can completely erase female experience and female voice. They remain in the ‘wild zone’ (sensu Showalter 1988), which can be accessed by readers who know where to look for it. Jane Eyre and Charlotte Brontë, as woman writers, had to suffer from, and to exist within, a paradox: “To the extent that a woman writes within what we have retrospectively described as the symbolic order, she accepts cultural definitions of femininity, yet those definitions situate her as a woman outside the symbolic” (Homans 1997: 149). This essay cannot provide an in-depth-analysis of Jane Eyre. However, Charlotte Brontë’s novel latently speaks of real life; it speaks of all the distressing paradoxes, emotional ambivalences, and atmospheric ambiguities its author had to endure during her lifetime. She might have feared, loved, and hated³⁷ her father – his “paradoxical absence and hovering presence” (Sadoff 1982: 139), similar to the strong emotions which Jane Eyre displays towards St. John Rivers and Edward Rochester. Charlotte played the roles of daughter, half-orphan, mother substitute, wife substitute, nurse, and governess in her father’s house – like Jane Eyre who plays many different roles in her life according to force, necessity, or desire. Charlotte was a professional writer and the angel in the house for her ailing and nearly blind father, similar to Jane Eyre who writes her autobiography in bold letters but also plays loving and helping wife to sickly and nearly blind Mr. Rochester. Charlotte is Charlotte Brontë and Currer Bell, just as Jane Eyre is Jane Eyre and “Miss Elliott” (374). Charlotte is visible and wants to be invisible: “If I could […] I would always work in silence and obscurity […]” (qtd. in Marcus 2003: 160). Jane Eyre thinks in a similar vein; on the arrival of Ms. Ingram and her party, she hides in “[her] sanctum of the schoolroom; […] a very pleasant refuge” (195). Instead of being invisible, Charlotte and Patrick Brontë are model cases for any prosopographic study. The data available is of an extremely broad range, their letters and other relevant documents are published, tiny details of their lives as well as broad overviews are well-researched, and the journal Brontë Studies, continuously published ever since 1895, has been dedicated to their study. The Daphne Carrick Memorial Scholarship awards a grant to finance original research in the field of Brontë Studies. There is national and international interest in keeping their heritage alive (cf. The Brontë Parsonage Museum; national societies in several countries). Charlotte Brontë’s oeuvre and life has also inspired the present: apart from romanticizing re-enactments,³⁸ the most re-

 She excluded him from her will; cf. Barker 1994: 770.  Haworth News. “Charlotte Brontë – Wedding Re-enactment.”

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cent Jane Eyre film adaptation aired in 2011, and Jasper Fforde’s 2001 The Eyre Affair even fulfills readers’ most secret dreams by having book tourists literally travel into the novel. Jane Eyre has been rewritten several times, including, alas, as a space odyssey (Shinn 2002); and finally, contemporary fan fiction authors add chapters on, for instance, Jane Eyre’s wedding night (cf. WessexGirl 2011). All of this, and much more – no matter how weird, illuminating, or illfitting – goes back to the influence of one man, the perpetual curate Patrick Brontë, who consciously, subconsciously, deliberately, accidentally, and most of all intricately was – along, of course, with other forces – responsible for shaping his daughter Charlotte.

Works Cited Adams, Maurianne. 1978. “Family Disintegration and Creative Reintegration: The Case of Charlotte Brontë and Jane Eyre”. In: Anthony S. Wohl (ed.). The Victorian Family. Structure and Stresses. New York: St Martin’s Press. 148 – 179. Adamson, Alan H. 2008. Mr Charlotte Brontë. The Life of Arthur Bell Nicholls. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s UP. “A Detailed Genealogy of the Brontë Family”. Issued by wuthering-heights.co.uk. [accessed 16 January 2016]. Alexander, Christine. 2011. “Father of the Brontës: Romantic or Victorian?”. In: Natalie McKnight (ed.). Fathers in Victorian Fiction. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. 13 – 33. Barker, Juliet. 1994. The Brontës. London: Weidenfels and Nicolson. Basch, Françoise. 1974. Relative Creatures. Victorian Women in Society and the Novel 1837 – 1867. Trans. Anthony Rudolf. New York: Schocken Books. Baym, Nina. 1993. “The Madwoman and her Languages. Why I Don’t Do Feminist Literary Theory”. In: Robyn R. Warhol and Diane Price Herndl (eds.). Feminisms. An Anthology of Literary Theory and Criticism. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. 154 – 167. Bock, Carol A. “Charlotte Brontë. 1816 – 1855”. Issued by Poetry Foundation. [accessed 16 January 2016]. Boumelha, Penny. 1997. “Jane Eyre”. In: Heather Glen (ed.). Jane Eyre – Contemporary Critical Essays. Houndmills: Macmillan Press. 130 – 146. Britton, Ronald. 2002. “Forever Father’s Daughter. The Athene-Antigone Complex”. In: Judith Trowell and Alicia Etchegoyen (eds.). The Importance of Fathers. A Psychoanalytic Re-evaluation. New York: Routledge. 107 – 118. Bronfen, Elisabeth. 1997. “Feminity – Missing in Action”. In: Heather Glen (ed.). Jane Eyre – Contemporary Critical Essays. Houndmills: Macmillan Press. 196 – 204. Brontë, Charlotte. 1986. Jane Eyre. 1847. Q.D. Leavis (ed.). Harmondsworth: Penguin. Brontë, Charlotte. 1995. The Letters of Charlotte Brontë; with a Selection of Letters by Family and Friends. Vol. I: 1829 – 1847. Margaret Smith (ed.). Oxford: Clarendon Press. Brontë, Charlotte. 2004. The Letters of Charlotte Brontë; with a Selection of Letters by Family and Friends. Vol. III: 1852 – 1855. Margaret Smith (ed.). Oxford: Clarendon Press.

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“Brontë [Ó Pronntaigh], Revd Patrick”. Issued by oxfordreference.com. [accessed 9 November 2013]. Brontë, Patrick. “Verses sent to a Lady on her Birth-day”. In: Cottage Poems. 1811. Issued by Project Gutenberg. [accessed 16 January 2016]. Brontë, Patrick. “The Happy Cottagers”. In: Cottage Poems. 1811. Issued by Project Gutenberg. [accessed 16 January 2016]. Brontë Places. “Brontë Parsonage, Haworth.” Issued by Haworth Village. [accessed 16 January 2016]. Cannon, John. 2000. The History of the Brontë Family From Ireland to Wuthering Heights. Stroud: Sutton Publishing. Chamberlain, Geoffrey. 2006. “British maternal mortality in the 19th and early 20th centuries”. Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine 99.11: 559 – 563. [accessed 16 January 2016]. Cochrane, Margaret and Robert Cochrane. 2011. “The Real Arthur Bell Nicholls, Charlotte Brontë’s Husband”. Brontë Studies 36.1: 104 – 110. Davids, M. Fakhry. 2002. “Fathers in the Internal World. From Boy to man to Father”. In: Judith Trowell and Alicia Etchegoyen (ed.). The Importance of Fathers. A Psychoanalytic Re-evaluation. New York: Routledge. 67 – 92. Etchegoyen, Alicia. 2002. “Psychoanalytic Ideas about Fathers”. In: Judith Trowell and Alicia Etchegoyen (eds.). The Importance of Fathers. A Psychoanalytic Re-evaluation. New York: Routledge. 20 – 41. “Family and Friends – Aunt Branwell.” Issued by The Brontë Society and Brontë Parsonage Museum. [accessed 16 January 2016]. Fforde, Jasper. 2001. The Eyre Affair. London: Hodder & Staughton. Freud, Sigmund. 1985. Neue Folge der Vorlesungen zur Einführung in die Psychoanalyse. 1932. Frankfurt: Fischer. Freud, Sigmund. “Freud on Femininity.” Issued by West Valley College. [accessed 16 January 2016]. Gaskell, Elizabeth. 1996. The Life of Charlotte Brontë. 1857. Angus Easson (ed.). Oxford: Oxford UP. Gilbert, Sandra M., and Susan Gubar. 1979. The Madwoman in the Attic. The Woman Writer and the Nineteenth-Century Literary Imagination.1979. London: Yale UP. Glen, Heather. 1997. “Introduction”. Heather Glen (ed.). Jane Eyre. Contemporary Critical Essays. Houndmills: Macmillan Press. 1 – 33. Gordon, Lyndall. 1994. Charlotte Brontë. A Passionate Life. London: Chatto & Windus. Green, Dudley. 2008. Patrick Brontë. Father of Genius. Stroud: Nonsuch. Haworth News. “Charlotte Brontë – Wedding Re-enactment.” Issued by Haworth Village. [accessed 16 January 2016].. Homans, Margaret. 1997. “Dreaming of Children: Literalisation in Jane Eyre”. Heather Glen (ed.). Jane Eyre – Contemporary Critical Essays. Houndmills: Macmillan Press. 147 – 167. Houghton, Walter E. 1957. The Victorian Frame of Mind 1830 – 1870. New Haven: Yale UP.

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About the Authors Susanne Bach is professor of English Literature at the University of Kassel, Germany. Her research interests include 19th century novels, gender studies, psychoanalysis, 20th and 21st century drama and theatre. She is Research Fellow of the Institute for Advanced Studies in the Humanities at Edinburgh University, and has several times been Visiting Professor at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. Irene Collins was a historian and renowned scholar whose research focused, among many other topics, on Jane Austen and Napoleon. She was appointed to a lectureship at the University of Liverpool in 1947, where she remained until her retirement, serving as a reader in History and the first female Dean of the Faculty of Arts. She also served as vice president of the Jane Austen Society. The University of Winchester conferred on her the title of Honorary Fellow. She sadly passed away before the publication of this book. Peter Damrau is a lecturer in German Studies at Birkbeck College / University of London. His main research areas are devotional literature of the 17th century and women’s writing of the 18th century. He is the author of the book The Reception of English Puritan Literature in Germany and he has published on other female writers such as Charlotte Lennox, Mary Collyer, Eliza Haywood and Sarah Fielding. Renata Fuchs is a lecturer of German in the Department of Germanic Languages at UCLA. Her research areas include the Romantic era, contemporary German literature, German-Jewish literature, Holocaust studies, women’s studies, translation studies, and minority literatures. Her current project is of interdisciplinary nature and involves the fields of art, history, and literature and results in a collaborative effort of the UCLA Confucius Institute, Fowler Museum, Department of Germanic Languages, and Alan D. Leve Center for Jewish Studies, as she prepares a conceptual framework for the exhibit of Sandberg Siao’s (German-Jewish photographer) work at the Fowler and other museums. At present she is translating memoirs and a diary by Leon Najberg who survived the uprising in the Warsaw ghetto. Pia K. Jakobsson is a clinical assistant professor of history at the University of Texas at Dallas. Her research interests are early modern British and European cultural and intellectual history, the public sphere, print culture, and gender studies. She is currently serving as Assistant Dean of Graduate Studies in the School of Arts & Humanities at UTD. Valérie Leyh is associate professor for German Literature at the University of Namur, Belgium. Her research interests include 18th century literature, 19th and 20th century prose (especially Th. Storm and A. Schnitzler), literary networks and rumors as narrative strategy. She collaborated on an editing project from the University of Göttingen and was a visiting lecturer at the TU Dresden in 2016. Gudrun Loster-Schneider is professor of German Literature with engagements at the Universities of Mannheim, Karlsruhe and Dresden. Her research and teaching interests include German Literatures from 18th to 20th centuries, gender studies and intersectional cultural studies.

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She is Founder Member and Fellow of the GenderConceptGroup at the TU Dresden and was Visiting Professor at the University of Virginia at Charlottesville, the University of Waterloo in Canada and the University of Santiago de Compostela in Spain. Cornelia Niekus Moore is an Emeritus Dean of the University of Hawaii’s College of Languages, Linguistics and Literature, where she was also a longtime faculty member. Her research has concentrated on the reading and writing practices of women in Early Modern Germany, especially concerning devotional literature (The Maiden’s Mirror 1986) and the genre of the Lutheran funeral book as part of the development of biography in Early Modern Germany (Patterned Lives 2006). She has recently changed her focus from the devotional texts to the accompanying illustrations and the interaction between word and pictures. Cindy K. Renker is a senior lecturer in German in the Department of World Languages, Literatures, and Cultures, and a faculty fellow for the Jewish and Israeli Studies Program at the University of North Texas. She is also the German Program Coordinator. Her research interests are women’s writing of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, particularly the lives and writings of pastors’ daughters. Her other research areas are Holocaust poetry and memory studies. Vera Viehöver is professor of German Literature at the University of Liège, Belgium. Her research interests include 18th and 19th century life writing, in particular autobiographical writing by women and literary self-portraits of musicians, as well as theories of literary translation and contemporary German poetry. Heide Wunder is a Professor Emeritus of the University of Kassel and a renowned historian of the history of rural society and gender history. Her research on women and gender, and historical anthropology, often involving sociological and cultural sciences and methods, thereby opening up new perspectives. In particular her monograph He is the Sun, she is the Moon: Women in Early Modern Germany (Munich, 1992, published in English translation in 1998) has been widely considered beyond the German-speaking world (including an English translation) and is regarded as a fundamental work on early-modern gender history.