SPELL Swiss Papers in English Language and Literature 27 English on the Move: Mobilities in Literature and Language Edited by Annette Kern-Stähler and David Britain English on the Move: Mobilities in Literature and Language Edited by Annette Kern-Stähler and David Britain 066112 SPELL 27 - Britain_Kern_Stähler_066112 SPELL 27 - Britain_Kern_Stähler Titelei 28.09.12 08: 18 Seite 1 SPELL Swiss Papers in English Language and Literature Edited by The Swiss Association of University Teachers of English (SAUTE) General Editor: Lukas Erne Volume 27 066112 SPELL 27 - Britain_Kern_Stähler_066112 SPELL 27 - Britain_Kern_Stähler Titelei 28.09.12 08: 18 Seite 2 English on the Move: Mobilities in Literature and Language Edited by Annette Kern-Stähler and David Britain 066112 SPELL 27 - Britain_Kern_Stähler_066112 SPELL 27 - Britain_Kern_Stähler Titelei 28.09.12 08: 18 Seite 3 Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http: / / dnb.dnb.de abrufbar. Publiziert mit Unterstützung der Schweizerischen Akademie der Geistes- und Sozialwissenschaften. © 2012 · Narr Francke Attempto Verlag GmbH + Co. KG Dischingerweg 5 · D-72070 Tübingen Das Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist ohne Zustimmung des Verlages unzulässig und strafbar. Das gilt insbesondere für Vervielfältigungen, Übersetzungen, Mikroverfilmungen und die Einspeicherung und Verarbeitung in elektronischen Systemen. Gedruckt auf säurefreiem und alterungsbeständigem Werkdruckpapier. Internet: http: / / www.narr.de E-Mail: info@narr.de Einbandgestaltung: Martin Heusser, Zürich Fotografie: Annette Kern-Stähler Druck und Bindung: Laupp & Göbel, Nehren Printed in Germany ISSN 0940-0478 ISBN 978-3-8233-6739-0 066112 SPELL 27 - Britain_Kern_Stähler_066112 SPELL 27 - Britain_Kern_Stähler Titelei 28.09.12 08: 18 Seite 4 Table of Contents Introduction 11 Elleke Boehmer (Oxford) The Worlding of the Jingo Poem 17 Simon Swift (Leeds) New Mass Movements: Hannah Arendt, Literature and Politics 39 Barbara Buchenau (Bern) The Goods of Bad Mobility: Pierre-Esprit Radisson’s The Relation of my Voyage, being in Bondage in the Lands of the Irokoits, 1669/ 1885 53 Martin Heusser (Zurich) “Why I Write about Mexico”: Mexicanness in Katherine Anne Porter’s “Flowering Judas” and “María Concepción” 69 Margaret Tudeau-Clayton (Neuchâtel) Shakespeare and Immigration 81 Sarah Chevalier (Zurich) Mobile Parents, Multilingual Children: Children’s Production of Their Paternal Language in Trilingual Families 99 Simone E. Pfenninger (Zurich) Moving Towards an Earlier Age of Onset of L2 Learning: A Comparative Analysis of Motivation in Swiss Classrooms 117 Patricia Ronan (Lausanne) Mobilizing Linguistic Concepts: Support Verb Structures in Early English 145 Notes on Contributors 163 Index of Names 167 General Editor’s Preface SPELL (Swiss Papers in English Language and Literature) is a publication of SAUTE , the Swiss Association of University Teachers of English. Established in 1984, it first appeared every second year, was published annually from 1994 to 2008, and now appears three times every two years. Every second year, SPELL publishes a selection of papers given at the biennial symposia organized by SAUTE . Nonsymposium volumes are usually collections of papers given at other conferences organized by members of SAUTE , in particular conferences of SANAS , the Swiss Association for North American Studies and, more recently, of SAMEMES , the Swiss Association of Medieval and Early Modern English Studies. However, other proposals are also welcome. Decisions concerning topics and editors are made by the Annual General Meeting of SAUTE two years before the year of publication. Volumes of SPELL contain carefully selected and edited papers devoted to a topic of literary, linguistic and - broadly - cultural interest. All contributions are original and are subjected to external evaluation by means of a full peer review process. Contributions are usually by participants at the conferences mentioned, but volume editors are free to solicit further contributions. Papers published in SPELL are documented in the MLA International Bibliography. SPELL is published with the financial support of the Swiss Academy of Humanities and Social Sciences. Information on all aspects of SPELL , including volumes planned for the future, is available from the General Editor, Prof. Lukas Erne, Département de langue et littérature anglaises, Faculté des Lettres, Université de Genève, CH-1211 Genève 4, Switzerland, e-mail: lukas.erne@unige.ch. Information about past volumes of SPELL and about SAUTE , in particular about how to become a member of the association, can be obtained from the SAUTE website at http: / / www.saute.ch. Lukas Erne Acknowledgements The papers in this volume were contributed following the University of Bern’s hosting of the SAUTE meeting in May 2011. We are grateful to all the speakers who made the conference such a memorable and stimulating event, and would like to especially thank our international invited speakers, Professor Elleke Boehmer and Professor Crispin Thurlow, who gave extremely thought-provoking and lively presentations. We would very much like to thank the following people for their very significant contribution both to the production of this volume, and to the organisation of the conference: Dr Kellie Gonçalves, Dr Nicole Nyffenegger, Kathrin Reist, Eva Grädel and Bettina Müller from Bern all helped in numerous ways in the editorial production of the volume, and we thank them sincerely for their work. In addition to Kellie, Nicole, Kathrin, Eva and Bettina, we were helped at the conference by Elisa Marenzi and Monika Iseli. We’d like to thank our international panel of reviewers who performed the task of reading and commenting on submitted papers with great professionalism, dedication and velocity! We are especially honoured to be able to publish Professor Boehmer’s paper here alongside those of the SAUTE members. We are also very grateful to Keith Hewlett for his careful copy-editing work on the final volume. Without the amazing support of SAUTE , this volume simply would not have been possible. SAUTE helped to finance the conference that led to this volume, and we have received especially great assistance from Professor Dr Lukas Erne and Professor Dr David Spurr, who provided us with clear and precise guidelines for the conference and the volume. And finally we would like to acknowledge our families - Axel, Sue, Timon, Molly, Ella and Mael - who cheerfully and patiently tolerated our absences as we devoted ourselves to this volume. Introduction All the world seems to be on the move. Asylum seekers, international students, terrorists, members of diasporas, holidaymakers, business people, sports stars, refugees, backpackers, commuters, the early retired, young mobile professionals, prostitutes, armed forces - these and many others fill the world’s airports, buses, ships, and trains. The scale of this travelling is immense. Internationally there are over 700 million legal passenger arrivals each year (compared with 25 million in 1950) [. . .] there are 4 million air passengers each day; 31 million refugees are displaced from their homes; and there is one car for every 8.6 people. These diverse yet intersecting mobilities have many consequences for different peoples and places that are located in the fast and slow lanes across the globe. (Sheller and Urry 207) So began Sheller and Urry’s (207) declaration of a “new mobilities paradigm,” a critique of what they called the sedentarism of contemporary social theory. In linguistic, literary and cultural studies, however, mobility and movement have been receiving critical attention for at least two decades. On the Move: Mobilities in English Language and Literature seeks to harness some of this critique to explore how mobilities, both mundane and dramatic, are represented, narrated, performed and negotiated in literature and discourse, as well as the repercussions and consequences of mobility on language and dialect. Across the volume, the individual chapters examine some of the diverse manifestations of mobility, such as colonialism (Boehmer), tourism and travel (Heusser) and globalisation (Chevalier, Pfenninger). The On the Move: Mobilities in English Language and Literature. SPELL: Swiss Papers in English Language and Literature 27. Ed. Annette Kern-Stähler and David Britain. Tübingen: Narr, 2012. 11-15. 12 Introduction volume also explores literary and cultural consequences of these different forms of mobility, for example language and cultural contact (Ronan, Tudeau-Clayton, Chevalier, Heusser), the diffusion of genres, words and ideas (Boehmer, Ronan) and displacement (Tudeau-Clayton, Buchenau, Heusser, Swift). Just as mobility transports literatures and language, so language and literature also function as carriers of mobility (Boehmer, Ronan, Swift). The papers in this volume usefully remind us that the “dialectic of cultural persistence and change” (Greenblatt 2) and the juxtaposition of sedentarism and nomadism (see Cresswell 26) are key dimensions in the study of mobilities. Elleke Boehmer, in her contribution “The Worlding of the Jingo Poem,” discusses the jingo poem as catalyst and conduit for imperialist attitudes in the British Empire. The jingo poem traverses colonial borderlines and oceans and migrates between different ways of presentation. Boehmer argues that, until the appearance of the 1950s pop song, jingoist verse was one of the most culturally migrated or “worlded” of literary genres, transporting imperial convictions and British nationalist feelings. She discusses the jingo poem both as carrier of meanings (bearing imperial messages) and a mode of carrying meaning (being an imperialist message itself) and she exemplifies this with a discussion of the operation and reception of two iconic jingo poems, namely Newbolt’s “Vitae Lampada” and Kipling’s “A Song of the English.” Simon Swift, in his study of political mass movements in Hannah Arendt’s work, argues that the political philosopher resorted to literature to describe mass movements for which she felt Marxist political theory lacked the adequate vocabulary. Working with literary metaphors of stability and fluidity, Arendt claimed that mass movements depend on being perpetually on the move and setting everything (e.g. settled political doctrines) and everyone (e.g. Nazi victims transported across Europe) in motion. In this way the Nazi movement was able to distract from the fact that it was not a fixed political entity respecting the nation state but instead wanted to abolish it. In the second part of his contribution, Swift turns to Arendt’s discussions of later mass movements, including the student movement and Black Power, and focuses on the creative power of violent political emotions (i.e. “being moved politically”), such as rage, hatred and disgust. Barbara Buchenau addresses “The Goods of Bad Mobility” in her discussion of Pierre-Esprit Radisson’s The Relation of my Voyage: Being in Bondage in the Lands of the Irokoits. Against the background of mobility theories, most prominently those of Sheller/ Urry and Greenblatt, she argues that the idea of “bad mobility” as defined as too much or too little movement comes alive only in discourse. In a narrative such as Radisson’s, she goes on to argue, the concept of bad movement be- Introduction 13 comes mobile itself; the protagonist’s repeated movements in and out of Mohawk captivity undergo several re-conceptualisations. Captivity is first positively re-interpreted in terms of family membership, then, through the eyes of another adoptee, re-interpreted as loss of economic and cultural value and finally transformed yet again into a moment of enlightenment and empowerment when the bad movement of captivity becomes a central asset in the author’s commercially motivated selfpresentation to the English King Charles II. Martin Heusser discusses two Mexican short stories by Katherine Porter against the background of her conceptions of Mexico and of her biography. At a time when many American artists were drawn to Mexico as a locus of difference yet strange familiarity, he argues, Porter perceived and literarily constructed the country as a space to explore the missing links of her own life. The construction of an identity-forming past was at the centre of her project, Heusser claims, which is why she both manipulated her own biography and provided her characters with the powerful past of Aztec culture. The murderess María Concepción, as well as the idealised community which protects her, preserve archaic instincts which inform the essentialist version of selfhood that the author craved but ultimately failed to attain in Mexico. Margaret Tudeau-Clayton discusses Shakespeare’s contribution to The Book of Sir Thomas More as a propagation of “non-sectarian Christian humanist internationalism.” Against the backdrop of a parliamentary debate concerning “aliens” of 1593, Shakespeare’s More, echoing both Henry Finch’s parliamentary intervention and the historical More’s Utopia, makes a case on behalf of strangers and thus discontinues the line of argument in favour of citizens presented by Shakespeare’s “fellow authorial hands.” While this discontinuity with the rest of the play-text has repeatedly been attributed to material conditions of production, Tudeau-Clayton argues that Shakespeare’s contribution presents “an ethically and politically charged intervention.” Where George Abbot’s echo of Finch’s parliamentary intervention makes reference to a collective memory of persecuted English protestants under Queen Mary, Shakespeare’s More focuses on “English victims of enclosure,” drawing on the historical More’s Utopia, and thus speaks up in defence of strangers “across religious divides and across the century.” Like Finch, he urges the citizens to “imagine themselves in the strangers’ case,” demonstrating its contingency and denouncing exclusionary violence “as a denial of a shared human condition.” Sarah Chevalier’s paper looks into language production of two children who have been exposed to three languages from birth, namely Swiss German, French and English. This study focuses on the production of the paternal language for both children, in this case Swiss Ger- 14 Introduction man and French, where both languages are considered to be “minority” languages within the respective language regions, where the families reside. Chevalier’s study investigates language choice among these children and the underlying factors that contribute to such choices. She employs a social interactionist framework that stresses child-directed speech (Barnes) concerning language development. The data stems from longitudinal case studies of two children, in which recordings were done over a period of twelve months. Chevalier’s findings indicate that the most salient factors have to do with the fathers’ conversational styles, input from the paternal language from other family members and friends, particular exposure patterns to the languages in question and the extent of the community language presence. Simone Pfenninger’s study looks at the motivation level of Swiss elementary school children with regards to learning English. She considers students’ age and onset of learning as well as the different amount of L2 input students received. Employing Dörnyei’s L2 Motivational Self- System, Pfenninger’s findings reveal that the major discrepancy found had to do with the motivational area known as the Ideal L2 Self. In other words, regardless of students’ age or amount of actual input received, students were motivated to learn English due to its status and popularity; however, Pfenninger is cautious and argues that such reasons could “wane” in the future and states that the type of motivation concerning SLA is indeed a salient factor for young learners. Patricia Ronan’s study compares the use of support verb constructions with loan derived predicate nouns in OE. She does this by looking at a sample corpus from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales from the 14th century and contrasting these constructions with an Old English corpus. Her findings indicate a higher use of foreign derived predicate nouns in support verb constructions rather than in non-support verb constructions within the Canterbury Tales corpus. Apart from poetic and stylistic reasons for these constructions, Ronan claims that a further factor contributing to the high frequency of support verb constructions with loan derived predicate nouns within Chaucer’s writing stems from the increased amount of language contact contexts in ME as opposed to OE. Annette Kern-Stähler and David Britain Introduction 15 References Cresswell, Tim. On the move: Mobility in the modern western world. Abingdon: Routledge, 2006. Greenblatt, Stephen, with Ines Županov et al. Cultural Mobility. A Manifesto. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Mimi Sheller and John Urry. “The new mobilities paradigm.” Environment and Planning A 38 (2006), 207-226. The Worlding of the Jingo Poem Elleke Boehmer This essay looks critically at the circulation of the jingo poem as cultural artifact and imperial message through the networked domain of the British empire. Though the jingo poem has never drawn the same critical attention as an ideological vehicle of empire as has the imperial adventure story, verse acclaiming British values and exhorting Britons to follow the flag, the essay submits, acted as both a powerful catalyst and a conduit for imperialist attitudes. Indeed, within the increasingly more complicated global webs and circuits of the expanding empire, the jingo poem - tub-thumping and also anthemic, exhortatory but at times elegiac - provided sources of inspiration and sustaining intimations of fellow feeling, strongly and evocatively expressed. Whereas the novel provided a symbolic cartography, however incomplete, of that expanding world, the jingo poem, never so spatialized or so nuanced, offered incentives on an emotional level. Traversing colonial borderlines and ocean spaces, migrating, as refrain, from music hall to newspaper page, and, as exhortatory rhetoric, from the oeuvre of one colonial versifier to that of another (Henley, Kipling, Newbolt) - the poem carried not only British imperial convictions but also British nationalist feelings, projected on to a global stage. The poets, that so often seem So wretched, touching mournful strings, They likewise are a kind of kings, Nor is their empire all a dream. Their words fly over land and main, Their warblings make the distance glad, Their voices heard hereafter add A glory to a glorious reign. Alfred, Lord Tennyson, from “To the Queen” (1851; Ricks 986-7) On the Move: Mobilities in English Language and Literature. SPELL: Swiss Papers in English Language and Literature 27. Ed. Annette Kern-Stähler and David Britain. Tübingen: Narr, 2012. 17-37. 18 Elleke Boehmer To begin, imagine yourself travelling the widely separated yet curiously intertwined city streets of what was once the world-enveloping British Empire circa 1899, or 1914, or 1919. You are walking along Pulteney Street in Adelaide, say, or Adderley Street in Cape Town, or Park Street, Calcutta, or down Yonge Street towards the waterfront in downtown Toronto. What do you see around you? In all cases, you find the expansive pavements or sidewalks, the generously proportioned streets, the ample shop awnings, the painted wrought-iron pilasters - the commercial street furniture of an empire of shop-keepers. But now look more closely: glance, and glance again, to overcome the geographical vertigo you suddenly feel, this overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Where was it again you said I was, you ask, Is this Sydney or Victoria, Wellington or Kingston, Harare or Kolkata? I could be in the one, you say, I could be in the other. Not only the architectural motifs and the street names, but also the urban layout and the statuary, the sandstone or bluestone World War memorials, the societies, banks and other institutions that stand squat and large on Main Street or High Street, all are repeated or find their resonance in urban centres thousands of miles apart. Squint slightly and it seems that these different names and designs are on the move, imperceptibly changing place, circulating from one context to another. Here is the Temperance Society hall, Adelaide, with its Roman temple frontage and ionic columns; there is the Egyptian Building in the Gardens, Cape Town, decorated in sphinx and compass motifs, long the meeting house of the Freemasons of the city. But Cape Town too has its Temperance Society, and Adelaide its Freemasons’ building, its local headquarters or meeting hall of the Legion of Frontiersmen or of the British Legion - as do Montreal, Harare, Auckland, Melbourne, Nairobi. And many if not all share similar architectural motifs, the Roman references, the Victorian wrought-iron curlicues, or the characteristic insignia of Freemasonry. And many if not all of these cities, too, will have their Anglican cathedral, their Society of Friends meeting hall, their branch of the Theosophical Society, as well as their great dockyards and river fronts, railway stations and colonial exhibition halls, and their vast municipal graveyard full of standard-issue white marble crosses on staggered pedestals, now yellowing and rainstained, marked with Old and New Testament and Anglo-Saxon names. On or around 1914, the Empire at its height - powered by what Andrew Thompson calls “the British World economy,” animated by the ceaseless mass migration of British peoples across the nineteenth century - the “new” Empire resembled nothing so much as a great circumlocution both of ideas and of things; a vast intercontinental flow-chart of trade, commodities, money, technologies, or what Rudyard Kipling The Worlding of the Jingo Poem 19 designated the “stimulants of the West” (From Sea to Sea, p. i). Sharing features with what we term globalization today (despite the intensification of present-day circuitry), this Victorian world-interchange was convoluted and deeply embedded, emerging out of a complicated history of “transoceanic and transcontinental trade, travel and conquest,” as well as the new “communications revolution” brought by steam locomotion and the telegraph (Loomba 10; Bell, “Dissolving Distance” 523-62). 1 Therefore, despite the fact that metropolitan art forms at the time registered a spatial disjunction between the European imperial centre and its peripheries, as Fredric Jameson famously traces in “Modernism and Imperialism,” yet travelling and trading things, both raw materials and commodities, bore with them the traces of their distant places of making, and, if even these were disguised, then the marks of wear and tear of their transoceanic shifting. Along the great routes of trans-colonial exchange and trade, institutions, organizations and societies branched and ramified, and with them moved travelling individuals and migrating families, social mores and ways of cultural doing, fads, fashions, urban designs, Manchester goods and dress patterns, books, rifles, foodstuffs, print technologies, playground games, and also, as this essay will explore, literary genres and poetic forms, in particular the arch-poem of empire, the jingoist verse or what I will more inclusively call the jingo poem. 2 Though the jingo poem has never drawn the same critical attention as an ideological vehicle of empire as has the more generically varied imperial adventure story, verse acclaiming British values and exhorting Britons to follow the flag, this essay submits, acted as both a powerful catalyst and a conduit for imperialist attitudes. Indeed, within the increasingly more complicated global webs and circuits of the expanding empire, the jingo poem - tub-thumping and also anthemic, exhortatory but at times elegiac - provided sources of inspiration and sustaining intimations of fellow feeling, strongly and evocatively expressed. Whereas the novel provided a symbolic cartography, however incomplete, of that expanding world, the jingo poem, never so spatialized or so nuanced, offered incentives on an emotional level. Its structures of sentiment in- 1 See also Duncan Bell, The Idea of Greater Britain; Elleke Boehmer, “Global Nets; or what isn’t new about Empire? ”. I am indebted at this point in the essay to discussions with Konstantin Sofianos on the Victorian novel in the context of imperial globalization. 2 Jingoism and poetry are often deemed antonymic terms, with jingoist verse being the term in widespread general use. Though it lacks historical currency, the resonantly assonantal phrase “jingo poem” permits reference to the more strident imperialist work of Rudyard Kipling and W. E. Henley, amongst other canonical names, though does not exclude the rabid jingoist verse with which their work existed in dialogue. 20 Elleke Boehmer voked a connection with the wider world. Whenever the imperial going got tough, or imperial conviction quailed, the poem acted as a morale booster, a sharp verbal shot in the arm. Moreover, from its inception, the jingo poem with its often idealized and emblematized subject matter (lauding British Strength, Honour, Endurance), and its strong mnemonic features, its tuneful repetitions and infectious balladic and hymnlike resonances, was a portable form, that unfixed easily from wherever it was first heard, proclaimed or published. Traversing colonial borderlines and ocean spaces, migrating, as refrain, from music hall to newspaper page, and, as exhortatory rhetoric, from the oeuvre of one colonial versifier to that of another - the poem carried not only British imperial convictions but also British nationalist feelings, projected on to a global stage. In his account of the accelerated formation of “inter-national networks” at the end of the nineteenth century, C. A. Bayly complicates the received historical picture of an unprecedentedly interconnected imperial world by proposing that the speeded-up empire building of this period, in fact animated and extended already existing global networks (The Birth of the Modern World 2004). He also adds, importantly, that this internationalized system was fuelled by the expansionist ambitions of nationstates, including Britain; that high imperialism in other words has always been at base a nationalist formation. At the same time, nationalist ambition, his analysis recognizes, is not a lone vehicle of empire. For Bayly, the development of these at once imperialist yet “inter-national” networks is expressed through three dominant registers: ideology (such as in the spread of nationalist and liberal ideas); human diaspora; and forms of bodily practice. His analysis however misses a crucial fourth category, that of aesthetic form. The operations of the popular jingo poem amongst other imperial genres, this essay contends, can be seen to demonstrate persuasively the functioning of Bayly’s “inter-national” networks; to reveal both what moves through these networks, and how it moves. If, as Bayly, Colin Graham, Robert MacDonald and others suggest, imperialism as a political idea is typically coterminous with national, racial and masculinist thinking, then the jingo poem in the time of high imperialism worked as an important reagent in forging that mix. In other words, it was addressed at once to “home” and to the world. Travelling widely and well along the Empire’s circuitry, it served as a truly “international” and global formation, at one and the same time celebrating national strengths, such as British courage and invincibility, and expounding imperial virtues - brotherhood, white solidarity (see Kitzan 43). To Lord Milner, for example, empire involved a sense of national mission which would allow the British to preserve “the unity of The Worlding of the Jingo Poem 21 [their] great race.” Pressing the same chord, Rudyard Kipling’s characteristically declamatory “A Song of the English” (1896) sees British imperialism as founded upon a national and racial imperative whereby the expansion of empire is framed as the fulfilment of the moral destiny of the British people to rule the world (Kipling, The Definitive Edition 170- 71; MacDonald 4, 11, 55). Other cultures, the poem’s belief is, are better off under British rule, and the manly British nation is strengthened and consolidated by imperial expansion. Conventionally, jingoism as a mode of thinking or feeling is understood as nation-obsessed, closed-minded, xenophobic and inwardlooking. The OED definition of the jingo, which emerges in this period, denotes a “blustering patriot” and is associated with war-mongering rhetoric. Yet, no matter how strident and single-minded or indeed how aggressive and nation-obsessed jingoistic verse was at this time, it nonetheless bore the unmistakable marks of an expansive imperial ideology, and also of the increasing networking and capitalization of the world under empire. Its terms of address were at once to the British Nation and to the wider British Empire - to Britons around the globe - and its operations took as read a global map. Following on from Colin Graham’s suggestion in his discussion of Victorian epic that “from the middle to the end of the nineteenth century the ‘nation’ is the conceptual force which pushes, justifies and underlies imperialism,” the jingo poem at the century’s end provided a key medium through which that force was expressed (2). Like the imperial adventure story, the jingo poem was predicated on the “worlding” both of British society and of its national literature, in precisely the opposite way to how the etiolated decadent poetry which equally defined the fin de siècle was a poetry of interiors and introversion, of little magazines rather than popular newspapers, of night not day, of a little England shrunk down to the dimensions of a drawing room. If the world reached the mauve poem of the 1890s mainly through the highly mediated form of its orientalized decorative effects, the jingo poem by contrast was actively directed to that wider world. It was fully aware of taking a British national message to the globe, and, simultaneously, of communicating an imperial world-view to the British public. Not unexpectedly, the peak time of the jingo poem coincided with the popularity of music hall, to whose refrain-based song structures it was formally indebted (see Falk). Kipling’s first place of residence after his arrival in London from India in 1889 was, as if by special appointment, in Embankment Chambers, just opposite Gatti’s Musical Hall, where he became a regular (Allen 297-98). Media of imperial propaganda both, the jingo poem, like music hall verse was imbued with the certainty that 22 Elleke Boehmer the spread of British power and values around the world was a powerful good, and that the verse itself had a part to play in that dissemination. Empire “really was,” observes Andrew Thompson, referencing John Darwin and Alan Lester, “an interconnected zone constituted by multiple points of contact and complex circuits of exchange . . . a field of enterprise for the whole of British society” (16-17; see also Hopkins; Lambert and Lester; Lester). A clear instance of this interconnection is how the jingo poem circulated through the ramifying new networks provided by steam-ship transport, the cable-based communications media, such as the telegraph, and also the popular press, which immeasurably speeded up its movement and its reception. So a jingo poem that might be generated in Sydney or Sioux-Ste Marie, could within weeks be taken up, copied, set to music, reworked, in Vancouver or the Virgin Islands. If British empire at its height thus effectively represented the “first wave” of modern globalization, within that globalized world, I suggest, jingoist verse in English was, before the 1950s pop-song, probably one of the most culturally migrated or “worlded” of literary genres. On one level it addressed the British world as something akin to a united nation, and yet, on another, it itself carried few locatable geographical markers, as stood to reason in a “Greater Britain” interpenetrated and homogenized by English or British cultural meanings (certainly from the vantage point of the white Greater Britain audiences for whom the poem was intended). Moreover, in tandem with this process whereby the jingo poem established itself as a worlded cultural form, it also contributed via its dissemination throughout the networked zone of the Empire, to the further worlding of British culture. Represented by such names as Alfred Austin (the Poet Laureate after Tennyson), W. E. Henley, Henry Newbolt and, above all, the “Laureate of Empire” Rudyard Kipling, the heyday of the jingo poem embraces the two closing decades of the nineteenth and the early years of the twentieth century. 3 It was in this period that Kipling not only became the “supreme exponent of his age,” but was also deemed, especially in his poetry, to “[express] the imperial idea in its simplest and most powerful form” (MacDonald 145-73, and in particular p. 149). Tennyson, though an important influence on these later poets, and though he took the national “addressivity” of his role as Laureate seriously, falls outside 3 “Laureate of Empire” is W. T. Stead’s name for Kipling (see Stead 553). It should be noted however that Kipling’s poetry is often more conflicted and ambivalent, and certainly more metrically complicated, than the term jingo poem might at first suggest. The Worlding of the Jingo Poem 23 this period of high imperialism and massive global expansion. 4 Moreover, he rarely espoused overt imperialist sentiments even in his later work, though poems like “Locksley Hall Sixty Years After,” following on from the already pessimistic “Locksley Hall” of the 1840s, are inseamed with anxiety at the decline of empire. 5 The inaugural moment, if such it can be called, of the jingo poem, as of jingoism, came with the so-called British “Great Awakening” to a sense of imperial destiny that was sparked by the aftermath of the death of the national hero General Gordon at Khartoum in 1885. Gordon, a one-time Governor-General of the Sudan, had been overwhelmed by the Mahdi in an attempt to withdraw the British garrison from Khartoum, and was widely perceived to have been let down by the British government who had delayed in dispatching a relief force to his aid. In 1898, to wide popular enthusiasm, Kitchener’s Omdurman campaign took revenge for the death of Gordon. That one-and-a-half decade interim saw the first publication of imperialist verse by Henley and by Newbolt, and the meteoric arrival of the “Indian” Kipling on the London literary stage. The closing episodes of the jingo poem as worldpenetrating form came with the humiliating defeats of the Anglo-Boer War (1899-1902), and then with the Liberal landslide of 1906 - though these dark days for Tory imperialism were to some extent counterbalanced by the charged “jingo” election of 1900, and the eventual successful suppression of Swadeshi resistance in Bengal from 1905. From the 1870s, and markedly from around 1890, British society became increasingly saturated with militaristic and imperial ideas, a development that was driven by the newly global communications media already cited, by the technology of high-speed presses and the cheap “New Journalism” it made possible, and by mass education. Between 1870 and 1908, for example, the global total of submarine cables increased nineteen fold, from 24,793 to 473,108 (Headrick 25). The private telegraph companies operating these cable networks, and the international news agencies that depended on them, became “among the first transnational corporations” (Potter 622). These different worldembracing and speeded-up media were conjoined in the conviction, held both by their owners and their consumers, that the English-speaking colonies (eventually together with the United States) might unite to form a vast “Greater Britain”. This planet-spanning, “railway-girt” entity, first conjured in Charles Dilke’s travelogue Greater Britain of 1868, 4 It was in the final three decades of the 1800s that, with the acquisition or consolidation of territories in Africa and South-East Asia, the British Empire came to cover a fifth of the world’s land surface (see MacDonald 2, 5). 5 See Graham 38-46. See also Hill 94-101, 467-76. 24 Elleke Boehmer was further propagated in the writing of imperial raconteurs and historians both Liberal and Tory, including J. A. Froude and J. R. Seeley, and not omitting Rudyard Kipling, a life-long enthusiast of the idea of an expanded England linking together the homebound English and the frontiersmen of the world. 6 Significantly for its worldwide circulation and spread, the growing popularity of the jingo poem in these years coincided not only with the rise of Greater Britain ideas, but also with the shift from what Anne McClintock calls “scientific racism” to “commodity racism” (33). Towards the end of the nineteenth century, she argues, in the phase of high imperialism, ideas of imperial progress via the struggle of the fittest, gave way to mass-produced spectacles of racialized ideas, reflected in “advertising and photography, the imperial Expositions and the museum movement,” and also, I would add, in the popular imperialist and racialized posturing of the jingo poem, as, most notoriously, in Kipling’s “The White Man’s Burden” (1899) (Kipling, The Definitive Edition 323). Imperial exhibitions in the period, for instance, broadened their primary objective of imparting a scientific education to the masses, and became additionally concerned with commercial entertainment. But so, too, the songlike jingo poem bent itself to the edification and entertainment of the masses through its propagation of imperialist ideas. Though not perhaps an instantly recognizable commodity, unlike soap, cigarettes or Manchester goods, the jingo poem was in this period of shift both widely printed in popular magazines and newspapers, and also reproduced in a variety of commercialized forms. In some cases it acted in effect as a kind of imprimatur or official stamp of empire. The jingo poem printed on a teacup or tea-towel hypostatized that commodity of the British Empire as an Imperial commodity, in much the same way as logos such as the Nike swoosh “tag” Nike products as global commodities today. Working through these channels, the jingo poem, probably above most other literary genres, assisted in the process of, as Joseph McLaughlin writes, moving “Victorian imperialist discourse out of the realm of the scientific societies and clubs,” and “[resituating] it in the commercial and domestic spheres.” As a circulating form the poem joined in with the remarkable new fluidity of things, styles and designs as well as people in the expanding global marketplace of late nineteenthcentury commercial capitalism (17-18). Bard of empire Kipling’s massively popular, music-hall style “Tommy song,” “The Absent-Minded Beggar” (1899), captures pre- 6 Charles Dilke’s Greater Britain, which ran into many editions, looks forward to a unified network of English-speaking peoples that would bring together Britain, Canada and the United States under one great government (see vol. 2, p. 400). The Worlding of the Jingo Poem 25 cisely this transnational and transcultural circulation of the jingo poem, in so far as its catchy exhortation to “pay-pay-pay” into the Soldiers Families Fund of the Anglo-Boer War was widely hummed and sung by soldiers and civilians in Britain and South Africa alike, and also disseminated around the settler colonies on handkerchiefs, mugs, tea-towels, jugs, coasters (Kipling, The Definitive Edition 459). “Cook’s home - Duke’s home - home of a millionaire” (as a line from the poem has it) - the different contexts were bound together in their imperialist solidarity by way of the circulation of the poem, and of the movement of monies inspired by the poem, which in turn confirmed that solidarity. Other of Kipling’s poetic hits such as “If” and “Bobs,” too, were massively anthologized, reprinted and reproduced on commodities like handkerchiefs and tea-sets, and as texts for framing. As the poet recognized in Something of Myself, late in his career, the “mechanism of the age” had succeeded in marketing his work across the world (111). As a consequence of this dissemination, not only individual poems by Kipling, but also his image and voice as imperial laureate and singer of a Greater Britain were elevated in the public mind, becoming global icons of a bullish and pushful empire, as well as the objects of admiring imitation (by Edgar Wallace and “Banjo” Paterson, amongst others). A selfconsciously modern poet who also celebrated the railways and cable technologies, Kipling perhaps even more than Dickens was the first writer of whom it might be said that he was fully worlded. For Elaine Freedgood in The Ideas in Things, a cultural archive is embedded in the represented things of Victorian literature. Commodities in particular, goods manufactured and traded, the mahogany furniture in Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, for example, are loaded with a world history of trade and exchange, a history marked by imperial force fields of ownership and power. Drawing together several of the threads outlined above, the jingo poem, by contrast with the thing in the Victorian novel, was in its massive popularity at once a circulating form (like the thing), and a form of circulation (less like it), to adapt also from Arjun Appadurai’s analysis of the complexities of present-day globalization (see Appadurai: Modernity at Large; Globalization; “Circulation Forms”). Appadurai notes that in a globalizing modern world, the circulation of forms is especially intensified by heightened and accelerated forms of circulation. By these lights, the jingo poem can be seen as at once a carrier of meanings, yet also a means and a mode of carrying meaning; both a channel of transference, bearing imperial messages from one colonial site to another, like a telegraph cable, say, and itself the imperial message. So the jingo poem could also be described as at one and the same time dense with meaning and yet, in its function as channel, strangely empty of meaning, an unclogged conduit. Much like the commodity 26 Elleke Boehmer within world capitalism, the jingo poem sought out colonial contexts (markets, audiences) that already shared cultural features through being networked by empire, and then, by way of its own networking operations, confirmed, embedded and further homogenized those common features. The characteristic apostrophic and exhortatory mode of the jingo poem is marked by, and in turn marks, this worlding - the same applies to its broadly disseminated yet highly standardized generic patterns (the ballad stanza especially). The poem invokes the moral values of the British - chivalry, military honour and courage, good governance, paternalism towards other racesand via this invocation urges British colonials at all social levels to spread these virtues around the world. Yet, at the same time, the poem assumes that these national values are already widely accepted as global goods; that its desideratum is an accomplished fact. The poem’s imperial advocacy, therefore, which in Kipling at times takes the shape of global warning or admonishment, as in “Recessional” (1897) or “The Lesson” (1901), is also a form of national reinforcement or repeat recognition. Empire is, again and again, seen for what it is (or ought) to be, the British nation writ large upon the English-speaking world (Kipling, The Definitive Edition 328, 299). 7 The jingo poem’s worldwide seeding in this most malleable and popular of its guises, of nationalist song or patriotic tune, is persuasively demonstrated wherever colonial poets of the empire with nationalist leanings, most notably the so-called “Australian Kipling,” “Banjo” (A. B.) Paterson, enter into a dialogue with Kipling’s imperialist yet English “songs”; where they adapt his language and forms in order to catalyze nationalist sentiment within their own colonial locales. It was a seeming paradox only that the jingo poem’s appeal to the stout heart or the pioneering spirit of the home country could be enthusiastically embraced in the white English-speaking colonies where the precise same characteristics transmuted into signifiers of national spirit. This ready take-up of the form again reflects how imperialist genres might speak powerfully both to home audiences and to the world, moving fluidly along the spectrum linking imperial and nationalist values. 8 Whereas, for the Britain-based imperialist, the jingo poem addressed the expansive ambitions of the nation in so far as its rhetoric at the same time reached out to the world, for the colonial nationalist the reverse situation obtained: the jingo poem, by invoking “home” values, spoke the more dynamically to the world, or to that part of it he might designate as his new home. 7 Both poems, like “The White Man’s Burden,” were first published in The Times. 8 For further discussion of the segue between imperial and nationalist values in the Victorian writing of empire, see Kitzan. The Worlding of the Jingo Poem 27 The nationalist-imperialist interchange that marks jingoism is palpable in many of the poems of “Banjo” Paterson (such as “Clancy of the Overflow” or “The Bushman’s Song” from The Man from Snowy River), and also in the Canadian Confederation poets Bliss Carman or Charles G. D. Roberts (“A Vagabond Song,” “The Pea-fields,” respectively) - in poems that borrow the recognizable shapes of English popular verse, as propagated by Kipling, amongst others, to applaud new, fledgling nationalities (Paterson 13, 66; Boehmer, Empire Writing 162-171). As this implies, the jingo poem when speaking to the world, spoke particularly strongly and plainly to the outer, male-dominated edges of that world, to its borderlines and frontiers, its growing mine-towns and expanding civil lines. As suited its origins in traditional ballad and campfire song, this was verse that belonged out in the open, and that, when traded and passed on in these far-flung contexts, not only broadcast imperialist and masculine values, but also, from the vantage point of the singers and readers of the songs, helped in some measure to make these places more endurable (see Ackland). It was in respect of its operation as a circulating form of high imperialism that the jingo poem with its musical, refrain-based structures and sometimes strenuous mode of address played a key role as a valueconveying and -embedding imperial genre. No mere celebratory jingle, the jingo poem drove empire home in memorable phrases. It both echoed and generated imperial structures of feeling. Its power lay in how it worked, simultaneously, at different ideological, emotional and visceral levels. Pressing upon its audience popular sentiments in entertaining yet also emotionally charged ways, it invited repetition, citation, reiteration; it ceaselessly flowed and circulated; it itinerated. Its performative features added to its impact: its declamatory public style; the combinatory, collective effects of its choric forms, embodied ideas of race loyalty and solidarity as if they were part of the natural order of things. Like epic, and unlike the lyric, the jingo poem explicitly directed itself to the political sphere; it did not signify a private, non-social mode of address. Yet, unlike the ode or epic fragment, say, it did not seek to expound a position within any particular political framework; it was a declarative and not a discursive form, and hence was the more memorable, the more repeatable. 9 In some rare cases, a widely reproduced work like “The Absent-Minded Beggar” might become so elevated by the effects of enthusiastic reiteration as to come to stand as a cipher for a particular political attitude or approach - most usually, a fervent pro-imperialism. 9 On the role of Victorian epic in propagating ideas of nationality and national cohesion within the nation-state, yet more widely also, see Graham. 28 Elleke Boehmer In his discussion in Poetry of the Period (1870), the (later) Poet Laureate Alfred Austin, lamented the bifurcation within contemporary British poetry between “great poetry” and “beautiful poetry,” in which the former was addressed to the world of action, conflict and public statement (123-4). Though questions may be asked of its “greatness” as well as of its seriousness, the jingo poem that openly conveyed an imperial message or set out to rouse an imperial response, related to that outer world. While not seeking to embody the complex geography of the globalizing Empire, it did take as read an imperial stage, which is to say, an imperialist speaker, a ready-made imperial myth, and a quantity of imperialist enthusiasm in its audience or readership. In the Victorian novel, the global nexuses of capital, finance, and communications might be figured, say, in terms of a hero’s arduous and truncated journey to a distant land (H. Rider Haggard’s She), or of the abstraction of social space such as was as produced within the growing and speeded-up world system (Olive Schreiner’s The Story of an African Farm) (see Bell). As against these constructs, the jingo poem appealed to the heart, and did so in part by insisting upon group bonds and group identity (as in “A Song of the English”). One important quality it shared with the adventure tale, therefore, was in its emphasis on doing, on an ethic of action over an ethic of contemplation. In the adventure, this was embodied in dering-do, bush-whacking and other vigorous activity; in the jingo poem, in its characteristic imperative mode - “Play Up, Play Up and Play the Game! ”; “Take up the White Man’s Burden.” The jingo poem, as this suggests, is a poem that implies a crowd. It also implies a vertical social structure. By and large, it is directed from a leader-figure towards a group. The group could comprise a group of likeminded if more junior imperialists, drawn from the same social class as the speaker, or it might entail the greater British public. As stands to reason, high-minded ideals with respect to extending the Pax Britannica tended to be directed at the upper classes, the colonial officers, while notions about mucking in and making do as Greater Britons selfevidently interpellated a wider audience. It is part of Kipling’s power as Empire Laureate that, most successfully of the jingo poets, his terms of address glide smoothly between and across social levels, and are consequently the more prominently worlded both in reaching out to a diversified “England,” and in terms of their potential influence. As Malvern van Wyk Smith shows in his study of the poetry of the Anglo-Boer War, the pages of Cape and Boer republic papers of the period were bestrewn with verse, not all of it pro-British or pro-imperial, written in imitation of Kipling’s infectious plain-speaking balladic stanza. In respect of its second operation, as a form of circulation, the circulating and globalized jingo poem could also work in a more obvious way as The Worlding of the Jingo Poem 29 a channel for the transmission of imperial meanings. The shift of emphasis here is fairly subtle, in so far as the one form is predicated upon the other; the widely circulating jingo poem could, as a reifying structure, in itself, also become a conduit for circulation. In some cases, for example, imperial values were in embedded within its form, such as in its capitalized abstracts, which features then came to act as circuits for these values, especially where, say, the style of capitalization was copied from one poet’s work to another. Other formal features such as the imperative mode, the ballad stanza and other choric effects, widely repeated and rehearsed, were conventionalized as embodying certain British colonial values - moral endurance, no-nonsense robustness, masculine steadfastness. In a word, the jingo poem emolliated imperial and national values across the world, even as itself operated as an emollient form. The mobility of “things” and forms, including poems, and the enhanced openness of the channels through which these things moved, which the jingo poem’s worldwide dissemination illustrates, can now be pinpointed by looking at the operation and reception of two iconic jingo poems of high imperialism, both already cited. Newbolt’s “Vitae Lampada” (The Lamp of Life) and Kipling’s hymn-like “A Song of the English,” a poem sequence celebrating the worldwide spread of English “Sons of the Blood,” can be read as exemplifying, respectively, a circulating imperial form, and a form of imperial circulation (that itself acknowledges the global dissemination of English “forms”). “Vitae Lampada” (The Lamp of Life, 1897), the earliest written of Henry Newbolt’s patriotic turn-of-the century poems, is based on an ethic fundamental to Britain’s imperial endeavours, namely, that war is like sport and, therefore, that war is the more successful the more it is played out as a game on a public school playing field (Boehmer, Empire Writing 287-8). Differently put, learning selflessness on the playing field produces honourable conduct in imperial battle. In the poem, the beleaguered cricket scene galvanized by the captain’s call to go on playing the game that is evoked in the first stanza fades into the classic scene of late nineteenth-century imperial warfare in the second, with the broken square in the desert reminiscent of the fateful January 1885 battle to relieve Gordon. In the third and final stanza, the historically stirring poem gathers itself to deliver once more the motto that by now is well established though clearly worth repeating. Life is a tireless relay in which the ethic of playing the game against the odds is passed on like a torch from one generation to the next in order that, the assumption is, the people sustained by precisely that chivalric ethic may propagate themselves into the future. 30 Elleke Boehmer So familiar and emollient was its ethic to the poem’s audiences, and so effective the poem in conveying it, that it was widely anthologized within years of its first being published, and taken up as a school song by public schools across Britain. It remains the poem for which Newbolt is best known as a poet today, despite the fact that his reputation in the period was founded on his work as a Liberal balladeer of British maritime history. With its memorable four-square double-quatrain stanzaic structure tightly rhyming abab, “Vitae Lampada” was quickly loosened from its origins in Newbolt’s oeuvre to become quite obviously a circulating form disseminating an object lesson in imperial circulation. This is nowhere more convincingly illustrated than in its adaptation under the more straightforward, or less pretentious, title “Play the Game! ” as a tableau-and-recitation exercise in “patriotism” in Robert Baden-Powell’s first edition of Scouting for Boys (1908). As the dates suggest, this was a mere eleven years after the poem’s first publication. Himself convinced by the idea that boys never learn so well as when they are at play, Baden-Powell included the “Play the Game” playlet in “Scouting Games, Practices and Displays,” the filler section to the final Part VI of his Scouting primer, where it comes complete with stagedirections unabashed as to their literal reading of the poem (336-7). Before the last refrain-like direct-speech line at the end of the second stanza, Baden-Powell inserts: Action: The younger officer stands forward pointing his sword to the enemy, and the retreating soldiers turn ready to charge with him as he cries - “Play up! Play up! And play the game! ” It would be difficult to think of a more explicit rendition than this of the soon-to-be Chief Scout’s belief that, as in his own Matabele campaign, officers support their leaders to the hilt not for rewards but “because it is the game” (MacDonald 66-7, 21). In the playlet, as in the poem, the ethic that “[war is] the only game worth playing,” to quote the Pall Mall Gazette at the start of the Boer War, is so unquestioningly accepted that the pivot on which the poem turns, the shift from playing field to real-life battle, requires little to no special explanation, not even from Baden- Powell. As “Vitae Lampada” clearly shows, a circulating form of empire, the jingo poem, could further corroborate its function by becoming also a form of circulation; in this particular case, a channel for imperial morale. Rudyard Kipling first published his collection of verses hymning the English-speaking colonies and their interconnection under the title “A Song of the English” in 1893, and then as The Seven Seas in 1896, with the inclusion of “Hymn Before Action,” in the lead-up to Queen Victo- The Worlding of the Jingo Poem 31 ria’s Diamond Jubilee. 10 In the poem sequence, the five recognizably hymn-like stanzas of “A Song of the English” introduce the “broken interludes” of the six further “songs,” which take the form of rhyming couplets, the lines as long as or longer than the alexandrine, but with metrical digressions into balladic and other stanzaic forms: “The Coastwise Lights,” “The Song of the Dead,” “The Deep-Sea Cables,” “The Song of the Sons,” “The Song of the Cities,” and “England’s Answer.” In each one of the poems, even as the empire is successively represented as woven, “strawed,” threaded, seeded, linked, and knotted by, respectively, coast-light beams, English bones, under-sea cables, fraternal and family connections, harbour cities, and “The Blood,” the stern injunction throughout is for the British to rise to the God-given mission of imperial expansion and strive to “be one.” From 1909, towards the end of the high imperial Edwardian decade, the “Song of the English” poem sequence was printed separately in an expensive though popular velum format. This is further evidence, reinforcing that which emerges from the sequence as a formal structure, that even as the poems intoned the importance of imperial interconnection and solidarity, their physical manifestation, here in book-form, handed down this lesson also (Mac- Donald 147). Throughout the poems comprising “A Song of the English,” the empire is cast as a natural birthright of the English and yet also as a duty to which they should proudly rise. “[Serving] the Lord” is equated with imperial service; and to “smite” a “pathway to the ends of all the Earth” means “[Holding] the ‘Faith’”. As regards this essay’s particular focus on the world circulation of jingoist feelings and jingo forms, what is of particular interest is the poem sequence’s repeated recognition of the interpenetration of the world, its seas, sea-beds, cities, and frontiers, by the English, and by English meanings. Formally, this interpenetration is underscored through the use of the same or related poetic devices across the different constituent poems, not only in the adaptation of the would-be grand alexandrine that recurs in all but “The Song of the Cities,” but also in the high-flown biblical idiom, disseminated across the poems, and the anthropomorphism of lights, bones, cables, and cities that is in each case voiced in the first-person. As “The Deep-Sea Cables” has it, the world that is reflected in this poem is “joined” by the “words of [English] men” that “flicker and flutter and beat” across the “deserts of the deep.” Although “A Song of the English” in its vellum covers may have played its part as a circulating imperial form, it is most resonant for the purposes of my argument for the attention it pays to forms of circula- 10 For the entire sequence, see Kipling, The Definitive Edition, pp. 170-8. 32 Elleke Boehmer tion, on two separate levels. First, there is its acknowledgement of the many interwoven forms of circulation that make empire possible (cable networks, “[shuttling]” steamships), and second, even more presciently, the sequence itself can be seen to operate as network of circulating forms, threading different imperial registers (the hymn-like cadences, the first-person monologues) through the different poems. While Kipling allows the outer world to interpenetrate the sequence in the form of its images of networks and intercontinental conversation, these various poetic devices also interpenetrate the expanded and expanding British world such as the sequence represents it. *** Fredric Jameson in “Modernism and Imperialism” controversially observes that though the imperial metropolis was interpenetrated by colonial capital, empire itself remained to modern writing almost inconceivable, beyond representation, unless of course writers had travelled out to meet that blankness, as did Joseph Conrad, or, as in the case of Joyce’s Ulysses, the work rose out of a “First World” social reality locked within “Third World” economic structures. In his words: “[T]he mapping of the imperial world system becomes impossible, since the colonized other who is its essential other component or opposite number has become invisible.” The high level of aestheticization that is associated with modernism, he therefore proposes, emerged as a type of compensation for the “unrepresentable totality” of empire (Jameson 60-64). Refining the terms of Jameson’s thesis, this essay has submitted that empire, the world interconnected by British nationalist ideologies and technologies, can be read as fully present within, and present to, the jingo poem, though in rhetorical, technical and emotional more than in spatial ways. At the time of high imperialism, the jingo poem as at once a rallying cry to an invisible world-wide constituency and a boom of patriotic sentiment, as an anthem to imperial power and a self-glorifying national chorus - felt even more than it imagined the colonial system “as a whole.” It emerged from the belief that the British Nation had become a global force, that its imperial values carried significance, in various registers, for peoples around the world, and that it served as an important conduit for those values. Different from the early twentieth-century novel, which sought, though in vain, to grasp a social reality in its totality, the jingo poem implied rather than directly referenced transnational space and a global audience. Even so, its terms of address assumed a world reality; it did not recognize that occlusion of a full existential experience embracing The Worlding of the Jingo Poem 33 both metropolis and margins that Jameson sees as endemic to modern writing. As a product of trans-empire movement (a circulating form), and through its sheer reproducibility (as a form of circulation), the poem bore the traces of the broader social realities, both global and national, through which it had moved and through which it might once again flow. Far from excluding “an external or colonized people” as Jameson’s Edwardian novel might, the jingo poem therefore roused feelings that potentially appealed to settler and colonized nationalists and to metropolitan xenophobes alike (Jameson 60-64). Simply put, no world space was ec-centric to the jingo poem. Closing evidence for the world-wide propulsion yet also local tethering of the jingo poem comes from an unexpected but compelling quarter, which can be explained by that slide between imperialist and nationalist values which the poem characteristically accomplishes. Across the twentieth century and beyond, it is curious to see, imperialist sentiments, devices and phrases that had been trademarked for and by the late nineteenth-century jingo poem and its settler counterparts, migrated without obstacle into both the public rhetoric and private structures of feeling of anti-colonial nationalist leaders. These leaders, like postcolonial writers, took the appropriative, transverse approach that Edward Said amongst others has powerfully analyzed as “contrapuntal,” cleaving both to and from inherited colonial traditions, in that they adapted the anthem-like sentiments of imperialist verse to fit their own particular structures of nationalist feeling (See Said 230-340; Boehmer, Colonial and Postcolonial Literature 100-6, 161, 164). Nationalist energies, as Said recognizes, can at once undo and reify inherited frameworks of authority. M. K. Gandhi, for example, invoked Tennyson’s “Do or Die” from “The Charge of the Light Brigade” as a motto for his Quit India campaign in 1942 (Young 324-5). And Nelson Mandela openly turned to lines of seeming imperialist verse for moral support at times of emotional stress. On 11 June 2010, the opening day of the international World Cup tournament in South Africa, while himself experiencing intense personal grief at the loss of a great-grand-daughter in a car accident the night before, Mandela in absentia urged audiences around the globe, and especially in South Africa, that “the game must start and we must enjoy the game” (Williams 1, 3). His line bears unmistakable echoes of Newbolt’s refrain to “Play the Game” against all odds. Earlier than this, on Robben Island, Mandela turned for comfort and inspiration to a work by the hysterically jingoist Scottish amputee poet W. E. Henley, author of such poems as “The Choice of the Will” and “Pro Rege Nostro,” as laden as Kipling’s Songs with elevated abstract nouns like “Will,” “Law,” and “Word” signifying the imperial (yet also implicitly national) mission (Boehmer, Empire Writing 283-6; Boehmer, 34 Elleke Boehmer Nelson Mandela 84, 87). As dramatized in the Clint Eastwood directed 2010 film Invictus, Mandela in extremis valued the bold (but not particularly imperial) defiance of lines from Henley like: “Under the bludgeonings of chance/ My head is bloody but unbowed.” “Invictus,” or undefeated, which was first published by Henley in 1875 as “I.M. R.T. Hamilton Bruce,” and later in his 1889 collection Echoes, probably only acquired its Latinate title once it entered colonial school anthologies, alongside poems like “Vitae Lampada” (125). Yet it was in this already widely circulated and de-contextualized form that young readers like Mandela and also the Caribbean Pan-Africanist Marcus Garvey would have encountered the poem and felt profoundly drawn by it, discovering in the evocation of the beleaguered individual asserting his mastery over fate a subtly postcolonial image of the emergent nation resisting the “fell clutch of [imperial] circumstance.” Distinguishing within the imperial cadence of the jingo poem the bass-note of nationalist sentiment, or the co-ordinates of home within the world, Mandela, Gandhi and Garvey felt validated in adapting a colonialist rhetoric to suit the immediate demands of national liberation. The Worlding of the Jingo Poem 35 References Ackland, Michael. That Shining Band: A Study of the Australian Colonial Verse Tradition. Brisbane: University of Queensland Press, 1994. Allen, Charles. Kipling Sahib: India and the Making of Rudyard Kipling. London: Little, Brown, 2007. 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New Mass Movements: Hannah Arendt, Literature and Politics Simon Swift This essay considers the prominence of the word “movement,” and of ideas of fluidity, displacement and mobility in different forms across Hannah Arendt’s writings of the 1950s and 1960s. I argue that Arendt made significant use of literature in order to make sense of a range of political movements, including Nazism, the student protest movement of the 1960s, and Black Power. She did so because she found political theory - and especially Marxist ideas of the state and of class interest - to be singularly incapable of making sense of the phenomenon of a political movement. Nazism was characterized, for Arendt, by an abandonment of any settled political ideology, as well as by a need to be perpetually on the move, and to move and displace those who were subject to its power. I argue that in the 1960s, Arendt drew attention to a different form of political movement - the motion that is accorded to political subjects by their emotions. I claim that this later argument prefigures more recent work in the field of emotion studies, while providing a model for a different understanding of an inter-disciplinary English studies, which is itself on the move. This essay is concerned with the connections between writing about literature and writing about politics in the mid-twentieth century. I will approach this relation from the point of view of political writing. In particular, I will describe the ways in which the political writer Hannah Arendt supplemented and elucidated her political understanding with a highly original use of literary examples, while highlighting the dependence of her argument on metaphor at several key points. I will briefly examine Arendt’s theory of the mass movement, which she developed in her post-war book The Origins of Totalitarianism (1951), while drawing attention to the surprising prominence of the word “movement,” and of On the Move: Mobilities in English Language and Literature. SPELL: Swiss Papers in English Language and Literature 27. Ed. Annette Kern-Stähler and David Britain. Tübingen: Narr, 2012. 39-52. 40 Simon Swift ideas of fluidity, displacement and mobility in different forms across her work. The prominence of these ideas in her writing accounts, in part, for Arendt’s repeated recourse to literature. As she tried to make sense of what a political movement is, and of the ways in which modern political experience involves the mass movement and liquidation of human beings, Arendt needed to make this move in her mode of argument, because the concept of a political movement seemed to her to resist explanation in the terms of classical political theory as well as of modern critical theory. Arendt often turned to literary examples in her work - repeatedly, for example, she invoked Herman Melville’s story Billy Budd in order to think about the role of violence in contemporary politics. She thought that literature offers scope for a more attentive engagement with the problems of modern politics than political theory itself can offer. In Arendt’s view, political theories, including Marxism, struggled to account for the emergence of radically new political phenomena, such as mass movements, in the course of the twentieth century. One of the most oft-quoted, and poetic moments in Marx and Engels’s writings occurs in The Communist Manifesto (1848) where, in describing the bourgeoisie’s destruction of older, paternalistic and relatively stable forms of social allegiance, the authors lament, not without both awe and irony, that “[a]ll that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses, his real conditions of life, and his relations with his kind” (Marx and Engels 659). For Arendt, a major political experience of the twentieth century - the experience of totalitarian rule - went beyond even the breathtaking ambition of the nineteenth-century bourgeoisie, and any Marxist vocabulary (such as that evolved by Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer in The Dialectic of Enlightenment [1949]) was incapable of matching the new phenomenon of totalitarian rule with an adequate description of it. The central political experience of totalitarianism was, for Arendt, movement, and literature was best capable of capturing the meaning of this political experience. Having described the novel political form of the mass movement in the early 1950s, Arendt returned, I want to argue, to her earlier definition in the late 1960s, especially in her late essay On Violence (1969). I want to focus in the second half of my essay on a different type of political mobility that Arendt discerned in the late 1960s, but that had already been present in embryonic form in her earlier analysis of totalitarianism, that is the mobility accorded to political subjects by their emotions. Arendt thought that the political activism of the 1960s, especially in Europe and North America, was characterized by a strong display of affect. The question of the political meaning of affective states such as New Mass Movements 41 anger, rage and guilt is also, I would argue, one that impinges on literary studies. Arendt took rage, in the sphere of politics, to constitute a form of judgement, and especially as the place where a rational understanding of the world and a feeling of injustice meet. Arendt’s work then anticipates later scholarship in the field of “emotion studies,” and especially Martha Nussbaum’s argument in her book Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions (2001) which also uses literary examples in order to explore the ways in which emotions offer cognitive judgements about the world. So too, the political meaning of affective states such as rage, anger and guilt can be tracked, Arendt argued, most effectively in the work of literary writers like Melville. To the extent that my argument is then interdisciplinary, my essay, like Arendt’s own work, will itself be in motion, crossing and re-crossing the boundary between literature and politics. 1 In his book Liquid Modernity published in 2000, the sociologist Zygmunt Bauman argues that: The era of unconditional superiority of sedentarism over nomadism and the dominance of the settled over the mobile is on the whole grinding to a halt. We are witnessing the revenge of nomadism over the principle of territoriality. In the fluid stage of modernity, the settled majority is ruled by the nomadic and extraterritorial elite. (Bauman 13) The breathtaking spectacle of protest, civil unrest and revolution both in the Arab world and in Europe in 2011 might be taken to challenge Bauman’s assertion, since these events undoubtedly signify a changing tide of public opinion in relation to nomadic, extra-territorial elites, and the fluid movement of capital between nation states that supports them. But there is also already something of a contradiction in the way that Bauman seeks to describe this shift back, as it were, to nomadism. Bauman describes the new era of nomadism in deceptively motionless terms: the dominance of the settled over the mobile is grinding to a halt, as if something stops moving just at the moment when nomadism becomes important once again; almost as if what Bauman calls sedentarism, itself, were a movement which is slowing down. One of the most influential and perceptive accounts of the place of movement in modernity, an account that has been hugely influential on Bauman, not least, is that posed by Hannah Arendt across her work. Arendt’s various accounts of movement show that we have trouble 42 Simon Swift making sense of what movement means for politics and for political representation, and how movements - as opposed to parties - have exploited our tendency to misrecognize them. Movement, under various guises, is everywhere in Arendt’s work - most obviously in her account of the mass movements of the early twentieth century in her book The Origins of Totalitarianism. There, Arendt also paid attention to the figure of the displaced person, the refugee, as a key example of the predicament of representative politics in the totalitarian era and beyond. So too, her most controversial book, Eichmann in Jerusalem (1963), was a study of the man whose job it was to organize the mass transportation of millions of human beings to Nazi death and concentration camps during the Second World War. I want to begin with Arendt’s analyses of mobility, and its relation to the Nazi genocide, in each of these texts. Right at the beginning of the third volume of The Origins of Totalitarianism, Arendt describes “the perpetual-motion mania of totalitarian movements which can remain in power only so long as they keep moving and set everything around them in motion” (Origins 3, 4). The key point about totalitarian movements (Arendt’s main example is Nazi Germany, although she also thinks her analysis holds for the Soviet Union under Stalin) is that they are movements, that they are governed by no fixed political ideology but rather exist in so far as they have to keep moving, and also that they have to set everything else into motion, through war, the productive activity that goes with it, and the displacement of populations that it causes. In this movements differ, Arendt says, from political parties, which represent, she argues, particular class interests within a nation-state, but which disguise those interests with more expansive ideologies. It has been a matter of course, Arendt writes in Volume 2 of Origins, “to identify parties with particular interests” (133). Arendt also describes the development, in the course of the nineteenth century, of political ideologies in continental Europe that sought to camouflage the identification of parties and interests behind fictions of wider forms of belonging: The trouble with the Continental parties [. . .] was not so much that they were trapped in the narrowness of particular interests as that they were ashamed of these interests and therefore developed those justifications which led each one into an ideology claiming that its particular interests coincided with the most general interests of humanity. (Origins 2, 134) I cannot hope to do justice, for reasons of space, to the complexity of Arendt’s argument about the party system here, which argues for the importance of European imperialism in aiding the transition “From party to movement,” as she titles the section of volume 2 of Origins New Mass Movements 43 from which the above quotations are drawn, and which pays close attention to the different constitutional position of political parties in Britain and continental Europe, a difference that Arendt takes to explain the failure of totalitarian systems to take hold in the former. In short, Arendt argues that mass movements, in the inter-war years in Europe, expressed a widespread loss of faith, following the horrors of the First World War, in the claim of the institutions of the nation state, political parties among them, to be truly representative. The brutality of trench warfare, in her argument, disabused European populations of any faith in democracy’s claims to be truly representative. In other words, the First World War had made clear to the masses that the party system only ever represents the interests of particular groups, and had exposed the claims of political parties to be interested in all of humanity as a hypocritical lie. How to make sense, though, of this new political phenomenon of the mass movement, that is defined, according to Arendt, not by an ideology, but rather by the principle of movement, a being perpetually on the move? It would be wrong to suggest that their abandonment of class interest meant that the mass movements were free of any form of ideological mystification. Arendt suggests that many early supporters of the mass movements underestimated precisely the newness of those movements, the radicalism of their abandonment of any settled political doctrine or defence of a particular class interest. Rather, it is the nation state itself, rather than any particular group interest, that became the subject of mystification in the era of the mass movements. So, in volume 2 of The Origins of Totalitarianism, Arendt writes of businessmen, early supporters of the Nazi party who “mistook the Nazis for the older groups they had themselves frequently instituted” and of pan-Germanists, those who in the 1920s wanted to create a greater Germany and who: . . . clung to an outdated nontotalitarian state worship and could not understand that the masses’ furious interest in the so-called “suprastate powers” [. . .] ie, the Jesuits, the Jews, and the Freemasons, - did not spring from nation or state worship but, on the contrary, from envy and from the desire also to become a “suprastate power.” (Origins 2, 138) What Arendt denominates “state worship” here has been replaced by a “furious interest” in suprastate powers on the part of the masses. So too, this interest was motivated by envy of those suprastate powers. Arendt always describes the mass movements in these passionate, dynamic terms, as motivated by envy and furious interest, sometimes too by hatred of and disgust for representative bourgeois politics, whereas liberal democracy had sought to disguise its “shame” at representing partial 44 Simon Swift interests behind a rhetoric of universal brotherhood. It is this dynamic passion which, for Arendt, defines the new phenomenon of movement in politics. The passions indicate a relation to what is outside of the movement - whether that relation be one of envy, furious interest or hatred. These emotions propel the movement towards that outside, whereas the concept of class interest, and the shameful hiding of it behind ideology, perhaps suggests a more static model of a political party’s (mis)representation of its own interior, its own inside. Our political vocabulary is organized not, however, around the description of passions, but around the idea of the state. Consequently, metaphor becomes important to making sense of what a political movement might be. Like Bauman after her, in volume 3 of The Origins of Totalitarianism Arendt invokes metaphors of solidity in order to describe movement: One should not forget that only a building can have a structure, but that a movement - if the word is to be taken as seriously as the Nazis meant it - can have only a direction, and that any form of legal or governmental structure can be only a handicap to a movement which is being propelled with increasing speed in a certain direction. Even in the prepower stage the totalitarian movements represented those masses that were no longer willing to live in any kind of structure, regardless of its nature; masses that had started to move in order to flood the legal and geographical borders securely determined by the government. (Origins 3, 96) There is a powerful metaphorical description of movement at play here. Arendt needs to use the metaphor of a building, a structure, in order to help us think of what a movement is not (a political institution which has a fixed structure), as well as to understand what it is (a kind of flood that drowns the public world). But building and flood are not the only metaphors in this passage; so too, in a sense, is “representation.” Since the totalitarian movements cannot be said to “represent” anyone, having no meaningful structures, there is an important sense in which this completely new, unprecedented political entity, the movement, gets under the radar of our political categories, founded as they are in a discourse of representation. Even Arendt, undoubtedly a hugely perceptive analyst of totalitarianism, still inhabits those categories, but signals to her readers, through her use of metaphor, that they have become outmoded. Mass movements never did, in other words, represent the masses; the word “representation” might instead be understood, following Arendt’s old teacher Martin Heidegger, as “under erasure” in this passage. There simply is no established political language to talk about a New Mass Movements 45 mass movement on its own terms; Arendt is, arguably, on the way to inventing one. 1 But so too, this metaphor works in the other direction. Arendt’s account suggests that, while the movement may have no fixed political purpose or representative structure, the Nazis meant it seriously, that there is an intention in their movement. Arendt also seems to suggest that we need to take the word “movement” as seriously as the Nazis meant it, rather than complacently to assume that we have understood what it means and to move on. The Nazis, Arendt argues, were clever enough to exploit the ways in which their movement tended to be misrecognized by fellow travellers, businessmen and pan-Germanists alike, who assumed that Nazism was a fixed political entity that respected the institution of the nation state. Nazism maintained, then, a kind of façade of the state, so that fellow-travellers, - the majority of the population of Germany - could remain within the bounds of the fiction that there was something like a Nazi party ruling a German nation in the interests of its people. As Giorgio Agamben points out in Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life (1995), Hitler never revoked the Weimar constitution. The state as a law-giving institution was maintained as a fiction in order to disguise the real intentions of the Nazi movement, which were in fact, Arendt argues, to destroy the nation state and its political institutions. This use of fictionality meant, Arendt suggests, that the political functionary in Nazi Germany had to develop what she describes as a “sixth sense” in order to distinguish the authentic pronouncements of the movement from its statist propaganda. Thus, as she writes in volume 3 of Origins, those who “were to execute orders which the leadership, in the interests of the movement, regarded as genuinely necessary” received orders that were “intentionally vague, and given in the expectation that their recipient would recognize the intent of the given order, and act accordingly” (97). Such, most famously, were the orders around the Final Solution - itself a kind of fictional term, or euphemism - and the true “interest” of the movement, in Arendt’s terms. I am suggesting that where the Nazis built up a world of illusion, an illusion that those 1 For “sous rature” in Heidegger, see The Question of Being. “Sous rature” is Jacques Derrida’s term for Heidegger’s technique of crossing out but maintaining terms from the history of philosophy. The argument about representation that I am teasing out of Arendt here bears more than a passing resemblance to Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak’s analysis of the subaltern. In the opening pages of her seminal essay “Can the Subaltern Speak? ,” Spivak reads Marx’s The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte (1851). She focuses especially on Marx’s analysis of Louis Napoleon’s claim to “represent” the peasant smallholders of rural France, a group that could not be represented since they did not, Marx argued, constitute a class with an interest of its own that was capable of political representation. 46 Simon Swift initiates into the movement had to know how to read through and to disregard while recognizing the true meaning of vague but important messages, Arendt writes back against such fictionalizing processes. She seeks to capture the real meaning of movement in an act of political storytelling that is dependent on metaphor in order to cope with the difficult task of describing the reality of a political movement which departs from, while disguising itself behind, the fundamental tenets of democratic politics. The Final Solution brings me to a different dimension of movement in this period - the actual transportation of the victims of Nazi totalitarianism by rail across Europe. The man in charge of this process was Adolf Eichmann, the subject of another Arendt study, her report of his trial and execution in Israel in 1963, Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil. What is especially fascinating, for Arendt, about Eichmann’s defence of himself in Jerusalem is that it actually reveals the disjunction between the reality of the movement, which, as Arendt was one of the first to note, was absolute flux and chaos, and its appearance of stability. Eichmann’s job, as he remembers it in Jerusalem, was to rationalize the process of deportation: . . . to bring some order out of what he described as “complete chaos,” in which “everyone issued his own orders” and “did as he pleased.” And indeed he succeeded, though never completely, in acquiring a key position in the whole process, because his office organized the means of transportation [. . .] his general description - “everything was always in a state of continuous flux, a steady stream” - sounded plausible to the student of totalitarianism, who knows that the monolithic quality of this form of government is a myth. (Eichmann in Jerusalem 152) In his account of the deportations, Eichmann presents us with a picture of the dark heart of totalitarianism - the movement within the movement, the mass transportation of human beings to their deaths which Arendt perpetually describes, in The Origins of Totalitarianism, as the “centre” of the Nazi movement. The court in Jerusalem, or so Arendt claimed, refused to believe Eichmann’s account of the chaos of the deportations, having bought into the myth of totalitarian government as a monolithic, efficient machine. It could not recognize the reality of the chaotic administrative circumstances that determined this mass movement of people, because it failed to understand the fluid nature of the movement itself - a steady stream, a continuous flux. New Mass Movements 47 2 In the second section of this essay, I turn to Arendt’s account of another, later set of political movements, that is the protest and civil disobedience movements of the 1960s that she, along with others, grouped together under the category of the “new left.” In her discussion of these movements in her essay On Violence, first published in 1969, Arendt focuses on the student movement, and pays particular attention to its campus relations with another political movement, Black Power. Again, it is the notion of interest which drives Arendt’s account of this relation. Arendt is struck by a particular disinterest in the rhetoric of the students, or what she describes as “the disinterested and usually highly moral claims of the white rebels” (Crises of the Republic 161) as opposed to their black counterparts who, in Arendt’s view, as I’ll discuss in what follows, think of themselves as representing a specific interest group, the black community. Arendt noticed in The Origins of Totalitarianism that totalitarian movements occurred both on the left and the right, as Stalinism and Nazism. Indeed, the fact that movement cut across left-right ideological distinctions showed, in Arendt’s earlier argument, that such distinctions could no longer aid in the effort to understand politics in the totalitarian era and beyond. Later in the 1960s, Arendt revisited such claims, this time by arguing that the growing commitment of the new left to violence challenged its leftist credentials. She claims in On Violence that Marx had sought to downplay the agency of political violence in history, in that he had described the violent events that accompany a revolution as the “labor pangs” of a new society (Crises of the Republic 113) rather than its cause. Ideological arguments for the importance of violence as a transformative political act had, Arendt argues, instead been more typically the prerogative of the right. Arendt argues, further, that the new left demonstrated a growing faith in the creative power of violence, a sense that violence is actually productive of new selves, new allegiances and new communities, such that the “strong fraternal sentiments collective violence engenders” will enable “a new community together with a ‘new man’ [to] arise out of it” (Crises of the Republic 166). She finds the source for this commitment to the creative power of violence in the students’ reading of Frantz Fanon’s call to violent anti-colonial struggle, The Wretched of the Earth, first published in 1961. This idea of the creativity of violence, Arendt suggests, is very far from Marx, who certainly understood man as a self-creating being, but who thought of him as a being who creates himself through labour rather than through violence. 48 Simon Swift While Arendt is then troubled by the movement-character of the politics of the new left, it becomes clear in her essay that she is drawn to and in some ways impressed by the disinterested, moral character of the student movement. She writes that “[t]o be sure, every revolutionary movement has been led by the disinterested, who were motivated by compassion or by a passion for justice, and this, of course, is also true for Marx and Lenin. But Marx, as we know, had quite effectively tabooed these ‘emotions’” (Crises of the Republic 126). Disinterest, Arendt implies, is founded in emotion, in a passion for justice that typifies the (usually quite privileged) leaders of modern revolutions, from Robespierre onwards. Marx had sought, again, to downplay the significance of this passion for justice among the leaders in favour of a claim that the class interest of the proletariat is the true engine of historical change. Arendt, on the other hand, seems disappointed that the student movement had failed to link up with any existing interest groups - “[t]he hostility of the workers in all countries is a matter of record, and in the United States the complete collapse of any co-operation with the Black Power movement, whose students are more firmly rooted in their own community [. . .] was the bitterest disappointment for the white rebels” (Crises of the Republic 126). For its part, Black Power seems to figure in Arendt’s imagination as something quite terrifying: a movement that is thoroughly wedded to violence, but that thinks of itself as representing a specific group interest, and that claims to speak for a community. Discussing campus sit-ins in the late sixties, Arendt writes that Serious violence entered the scene only with the appearance of the Black Power movement on the campuses. Negro students, the majority of them admitted without academic qualification, regarded and organized themselves as an interest group, the representatives of the black community. Their interest was to lower academic standards. (Crises of the Republic 120) This claim - and especially its play with the word “interest” - undoubtedly makes for disturbing reading, as does much of Arendt’s writing about civil rights and its radicalization in the late sixties. Arendt in fact seems to suggest that under cover of its claim to be representative of a specific community, and to defend its interests, the real interest of Black Power was to destroy established institutions (such as universities). There is a strong echo here with Arendt’s earlier claims about the way that totalitarian movements had disguised their fundamentally destructive impulses behind a claim to represent the masses. So too, Arendt thought that Black Power, like the earlier mass movements, was motivated by rage against the hypocrisy of a liberal society, and in the case of Black Power, by the hypocrisy of white liberal guilt. Yet unlike Marx, New Mass Movements 49 Arendt valued and took seriously the efficacy of all revolutionary emotions, black rage as well as the white middle class “passion for justice.” Even in The Origins of Totalitarianism, she had at times sympathized with the revolutionary hatred of bourgeois society that she had described as characteristic of the mass movements, and had written of “how justified disgust can be in a society wholly permeated with the ideological outlook and moral standards of the bourgeoisie” (Origins 3, 26). As she had once endorsed disgust, so she endorses political rage and the passion for justice in the late 1960s as legitimate political sentiments; and indeed, she explores the links between them. Later in On Violence, Arendt writes that “[o]nly where there is reason to suspect that conditions could be changed and are not does rage arise. Only when our sense of justice is offended do we react with rage” (Crises of the Republic 160). Rage is, in Arendt’s terms, an expression of a sense of injustice - it is, in fact, a judgement about the world which says: this is how I apprehend the world and my sense of justice tells me that things could and should be otherwise. Black Power’s rage and the “white rebels’” sense of injustice, in fact, coincide. This is one of the moments in her writing in which Arendt invokes the example of Melville’s Billy Budd to talk about the political importance of rage and violence. In certain situations, she says, as Melville’s story shows, “violence - acting without argument or speech and without counting the consequences - is the only way to set the scales of justice right again” (Crises of the Republic 161). Emotions, and especially powerful, violent emotions such as rage are importantly keyed in to our sense of justice, and need to be taken seriously as sources of political agency. Indeed, interweaving quotations from Noam Chomsky, Arendt reads claims to rational detachment and dispassionate objectivity in the established political class in the 1960s, particularly in light of the Vietnam War, as evidence of a loss of contact with reality: Absence of emotions neither causes nor promotes rationality. “Detachment and equanimity” in view of “unbearable tragedy” can indeed be “terrifying,” namely, when they are not the result of control but an evident manifestation of incomprehension. In order to respond reasonably one must first of all be “moved,” and the opposite of emotional is not “rational,” whatever that may mean, but either the inability to be moved, usually a pathological phenomenon, or sentimentality, which is a perversion of feeling. (Crises of the Republic 161) Here, then, is a final sense of movement in politics that I want to explore in this essay: the political importance of being moved, of emotion, and the powerful connection to comprehension that Arendt stakes out 50 Simon Swift for it. Chomsky, in American Power and the New Mandarins from which Arendt borrows here, is discussing the relation between a “façade of toughmindedness and pseudoscience” and “intellectual vacuity” in debates about the Vietnam War. Arendt’s point is to take the critique of objectivity and detachment into an endorsement of rage as a political sentiment, and to link it to a rational apprehension of injustice. Being moved - feeling passion or rage - is not the opposite of reason, but the first step towards a rational engagement with the world, “whatever that may mean.” The real opposite of reason is emotionless detachment, which appears here as a rearguard attempt to give the appearance of being in control in situations of terror. Rage, instead, is a healthy symptom of the political self’s desire to push beyond any complacent sense that things are, fundamentally, as they should be. But the question remains: how is rage to be converted into a rational judgement of the world, or how is it to contribute to a transformation of the world in line with the sense of justice that it anticipates? Arendt claims to take the rage of Black Power seriously as a political sentiment, but this manifests itself in her argument as an excessive bluntness, a deliberate tactlessness even, that wants to undermine the claim of Black Power to speak for the black community by pointing out that what it is really interested in is destroying civil society. Yet we are asked to think that pointing this out will offer a contribution to the rationalization of black rage. Hannah Arendt’s response to the Black Power movement in On Violence suggests that, at the close of the 1960s, she could scent identity politics on the wind; clearly, too, she did not like it. Yet Arendt’s endorsement of rage also suggests that she recognized the way that political subjectivity is founded in racial and class identities, and that this founding determines the kinds of political judgements that it becomes possible to make. Undoubtedly Arendt still hankered after an enlightenment political discourse of cosmopolitan, free, disinterested judgements, but she also knew that any possible political judgement in the modern world is arrived at through the prism of identity and the emotions that make it up. Sometimes, under duress (and especially when writing about racial segregation), she even invoked her own Jewishness and her (brief) first-hand experience of Nazi rule, to show her sympathy with black Americans. Identity, for Arendt, is not a-political but on the way to politics. Arendt also thought that Marxist ideas of ideology and class interest, which were being revived at the same time as she worked on On Violence by Louis Althusser in his influential essay on ideological state apparatuses, could not account for the central political experience of the twentieth century, which was movement. Movement, in Hannah Arendt, roams beyond the bounds of the state since it abandons any particular, New Mass Movements 51 worldly interest, and blurs the boundaries between different selves and identities, since it connects up political subjects with others by way of political emotion. It is literary writing, I have been arguing, and the power of storytelling, which can describe these movements to us. So too, it is the failure of the political tradition to account for the politics of emotions - a failure that Arendt overcomes through recourse to literary examples - that has served poorly our effort to understand the meaning of political movement, and the place of passion within it. 52 Simon Swift References Adorno, Theodor and Max Horkheimer. Dialectic of Enlightenment: Philosophical Fragments. Ed. Gunzelin Schmid Noerr. Trans. Edmund Jephcott. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 2002. Agamben, Giorgio. Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life. Trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1998. Althusser, Louis. “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses (Notes Towards an Investigation).” Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays. Trans. Ben Brewster. New York: Monthly Review Press, 2001. 85- 126 Arendt, Hannah. Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1994. . On Violence. In Crises of the Republic. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1972. . The Origins of Totalitarianism. 3 volumes. San Diego, California and New York: Harcourt Brace, 1985. Bauman, Zygmunt. Liquid Modernity. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2000. Chomsky, Noam. American Power and the New Mandarins. New York: Pantheon Books, 1969. Heidegger, Martin. The Question of Being. Trans. Jean T. Wilde and William Kluback. NCUP (Open Library), 1958. Marx, Karl. The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte. New York: International Publishers, 1963. and Friedrich Engels. The Communist Manifesto. The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism. 2nd edition. Ed. Vincent B. Leitch et. al. New York, London: Norton, 2010. Melville, Herman. Billy Budd and Other Stories. Ed. Robert Lee. London: Everyman, 1993. Nussbaum, Martha. Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. “Can the Subaltern Speak? ” Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture. Ed. Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg. Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1988. The Goods of Bad Mobility: Pierre-Esprit Radisson’s The Relation of my Voyage, being in Bondage in the Lands of the Irokoits, 1669/ 1885 Barbara Buchenau This paper addresses an early modern form of undesirable mobility, Indian captivity and enslavement, on the basis of the theorizations of cultural and social mobility set forth by Mimi Sheller and John Urry in the social sciences and Stephen Greenblatt in the humanities. Investigating the seventeenth-century report of the French Canadian coureur de bois Pierre-Esprit Radisson, the paper shows how the loss of liberty and the enforcement of spatial and cultural mobility produce a textual sense of masculine subjectivity that thrives on an economy of disenfranchisement. This non-canonical, but nonetheless influential text recasts the movements into and out of captivity and human bondage as personal assets and marketable goods. Captivity and bondage, in this scenario, are not bad after all, because they offer economic and social mobility in the borderlands of competing anglophone, francophone and indigenous communities. Stories such as Radisson’s foster faith in good mobility and fear of bad mobility simultaneously. And captivity emerges as a good of western modernity, marketable especially, if the male subject can claim to have mastered its experience of subjection. As Mimi Sheller and John Urry have pointed out, “[a]ll the world seems to be on the move” today (207). When people travel, commute or migrate for economic, political and personal reasons, when they make full use of the new channels of transportation and communication, their actions suggest that mobility is not only a marketable good (a commodity worth its price), but also a human good of great value. In Cultural Mobility: A Manifesto Stephen Greenblatt and his co-authors underscore this general assessment of mobility as a potential good when they call for On the Move: Mobilities in English Language and Literature. SPELL: Swiss Papers in English Language and Literature 27. Ed. Annette Kern-Stähler and David Britain. Tübingen: Narr, 2012. 53-68. 54 Barbara Buchenau a reappraisal of the multiple forms of movement and flux that animate human interactions across time and space. Following their lead, yet asking for the value judgments that are associated with mobility, I want to investigate how the embrace of mobility might well be a phenomenon that resonates in strange, oppositional ways with captivity - one of the most spectacular historical forms of enforced mobility and its many artifacts. Unlike the most common Western forms of mobility at the beginning of the twenty-first century, captivity as a widespread early modern form of spatial and cultural movement and transitoriness was undesirable and widely feared. But captivity had an afterlife in texts that reframed its core experiences, turning the mobility of captivity into a central asset, a commodity and a good, of western modernity. Extensive, violent, mostly hurried movement is a central topic in early modern tales of captivity and enslavement. Describing the loss of freedom, whether through capture or enslavement, these tales emphasize that movement is usually good and bad at the same time. This mobility appears to be simultaneously voluntary and involuntary; it nearly always involves the massive exchange of goods and values that accompany early colonial encounters. While we would expect that the narratives ensuing from these experiences reprobate forced movement rather straightforwardly and unequivocally, a clear stance on the ethics of human mobility is rarely found in these texts. Instead, they offer an interesting commentary on Sheller and Urry’s “new mobilities paradigm” and its rather straightforward celebration of contemporary voluntary mobility. While the new mobilities paradigm provides a mode of analysis and a model of thinking about recent phenomena of globalization, it also throws a fresh light on a narrative mode that sought to represent the drastic changes in the conceptualization of place, space and belonging in the age of European discoveries and exploration, thus raising more general questions about the ways in which mobilities are discursively framed, evaluated and controlled. Sheller and Urry’s argument for a new paradigm obviously reflects Thomas S. Kuhn’s definition of paradigms as “some accepted examples of actual scientific practice - examples which include law, theory, application, and instrumentation together - provid[ing] models from which spring particular coherent traditions of scientific research” (The Structure of Scientific Revolutions 10). This understanding of paradigms and paradigm shifts has fostered extensive debates about the nature of innovation and change in literary and cultural scholarship that do not need to be rehearsed here. Instead, I would like to follow the lead of the editors of this volume, adopting Stephen Greenblatt’s stance on cultural mobility as a necessary critique of theories which favor sedentary patterns, amobility, locatedness and stasis over movement, nomadic patterns, flux and The Goods of Bad Mobility 55 travel (Cultural Mobility 1-7; see Sheller and Urry 207). Surmising that movement and stasis, nomadism and sedentarism function no longer as oppositional poles for the field of literary and cultural studies, I address the new mobilities paradigm as an incentive to ask how intersecting forms and functions of mobility in colonial America have shaped (the study of) literary texts and their negotiation of culture as something that, as Stephen Greenblatt has noted, paradigmatically thrives on both, “constraint” as well as “mobility” (“Culture” 226). Quite a few early colonial texts are generically located at the intersection between different cultures and different genres. These texts grate against static, regionally and nationally confined definitions of culture, of anglophone and francophone Northern America, of travel narrative and captivity tale, of public and private lives, the home and the not-home, the states of disenfranchisement and freedom. Sheller and Urry’s paradigm is concerned primarily with the phenomena of migration and globalization as they are familiar for the turn of the twenty-first century. The narrative of captivity and enslavement under consideration here, however, came into existence in an era far removed from today’s world of airborne travel and wireless communication. But early modern times saw a comparable increase in the mobility of people, goods and texts. Pierre Esprit Radisson’s manuscript of 1665 dramatizes this steeply increased mobility and the concomitant sense of starkly reduced individual control in its very title: The Relation of my Voyage being in Bondage in the Lands of the Irokoits, w ch was the next yeare after my coming into Canada, in the yeare 1651, the 24 th day of May (4). A manuscript only to be published in the late nineteenth century during another era of travel and migration Radisson’s Relation throws new light on the first century of the European colonization of Northern America and its manifold examples of voluntary and involuntary displacement. Radisson’s seventeenth-century text depicts Indian captivity and life among the Mohawks, and it negotiates the potential of the land for further exploration. At the same time, it reports on indigenous forms of enslavement and forced labor, conceptualizing either as training grounds for modern male subjectivity. Radisson’s times and socio-cultural contexts differ quite radically from the phenomena of global migration addressed by Sheller and Urry, and yet his text can draw attention to the ethical implications of presentday challenges of globalization and mobilization even as the text itself acquires new meanings if read in the light of theoretical reassessments of human mobility. This piece of writing has never been canonized as a central text of either the genre of the captivity tale or the slave narrative, anglophone or francophone Canadian writing, the British literature of colonization or colonial American literature, though it does contribute 56 Barbara Buchenau to all of these literary traditions. In fact, Radisson’s text literally travels between emerging traditions, encompassing moments and movements that literary scholarship has learned to treat as signature pieces of the respective mode of writing. Bringing the theorizing on social and cultural mobility to bear on the study of this text, we should first of all rethink the general associations of captivity and enslavement as ethically wrong movements, since movement now becomes a foundational vehicle for the constitution of male subjectivity. But we can also ask how the mobilities of authorial lives and authoritative texts intersect and mingle themselves, thus foregrounding the flexibility of generic conscriptions which only came to be streamlined with the rise of the novel. Research aligned with the new mobility paradigm aims at “transcending the dichotomy between transport research and social research, putting social relations into travel and connecting different forms of transport with complex patterns of social experience conducted through communications at-a-distance” (Sheller and Urry 208). As such, it seems to be very much a social science phenomenon that is of limited value for the study of literary texts. However, Sheller and Urry’s by and large celebratory stance towards mobility as a human achievement and their implicit distinction of good and bad forms of mobility encourage a closer scrutiny of gestures of celebration and dismissal in the five areas of mobilities research that Greenblatt has identified in his “Mobility Studies Manifesto”: • “literal” movements across space (250) • mobility that is made invisible (250/ 51) • encounters in cultural “‘contact zones’” (251) • collisions of “individual agency and structural constraint” (251) • the various cultural activities that prioritize “rootedness,” recasting mobility “as a threat” (252) Research in these fields can easily contribute to Mimi Sheller and John Urry’s new mobilities paradigm and its interest in “the power of discourses and practices of mobility” to “[create] both movement and stasis” (211). At the same time, Sheller and Urry’s paradigm draws attention to the ethic and economic values accompanying forms of transgression and flux. Sheller and Urry encourage a reconceptualization of travel as something other than a “black box” containing the “technologies” that permit specific “forms of economic, social, and political life” (213). Instead, it is understood as an activity that “is necessary for social life, enabling complex connections to be made, often as a matter of social (or political) obligation” (Sheller and Urry 213). This redefinition of travel reso- The Goods of Bad Mobility 57 nates particularly well with four fields of literary studies research that have shaped the way in which literary scholars address early modern texts describing captivity and enslavement among North American Indians. First of all, Sheller and Urry’s redefinition of travel as a mode of existence resonates rather well with the cultural mobility manifesto of Stephen Greenblatt and his colleagues at the Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin, providing data to underscore their interest in literal movement and the exchanges, interactions and the flux that are at the core of literature and culture (Cultural Mobility: A Manifesto). Secondly, Sheller and Urry’s redefinition of travel can also enhance the cultural theorizing of Mary Louise Pratt, inviting a broader social study of the transgressiveness that Pratt had found to be at the core of colonial intercultural contact and its dependence on various forms of encounters in and movements through space (see 6-7). Thirdly, Sheller and Urry’s interest in travel deserves to be rethought in the light of scholarship on the large-scale circulation of travel narratives in early modern times. As Ralph Bauer has shown, these multi-functional texts did not only reflect early modern lives in motion. They also helped to craft entire new cultural geographies (3-5). In the field of literature proper they additionally prefigured the rise of the novel in the eighteenth century (Adams, chap. 2). Recent scholarship on captivity narratives, finally, offers significant expansions of this argument about the significance of mobility for human life and cultural production. As Lisa Voigt has shown in her study of captivity narratives in the early modern Atlantic, this particular, involuntary form of travel did not so much “[foment] oppositions” as shape and spread the “knowledge and authority” of those undergoing captivity, thus contributing to the “sharing of knowledge - whether through coercion or cooperation - across national, religious, and linguistic boundaries” (25). And in Captives: Britain, Empire and the World, 1600-1850 Linda Colley elaborates that this kind of involuntarily gained and spread knowledge reflects on the larger contexts of political and demographic expansion. “Captives and captivities were the underbelly of British empire” (4), Colley notes, and she suggests that we explore the new, politically significant subjectivities and cultural affiliations produced by this particular form of travel. If these different brands of scholarship are read in conjunction, they underscore the extent to which a captive’s movement through space fosters new ways of knowing only through its narrative transmission and generic crafting. 58 Barbara Buchenau Pierre-Esprit Radisson’s Relation and the Limits of Textual Mobility The Frenchman Pierre-Esprit Radisson (1636-1710? ) had a rough start into his life as a mobile and mobilizing seventeenth-century colonial: having barely settled in Canada and battling with the uncertainties of adolescence, he was captured by Mohawk forces twice, once to be adopted into a family and a second time, after having committed murder, to experience a period of enslavement. But these dramatic experiences did not spark the narrative. In fact, Radisson turned his captivity into a piece of (scribal) literature for rather pragmatic reasons, only writing up his tale of youthful adventure in benign retrospect when he realized he needed an entertaining support for his commercial negotiations with the English king, Charles II. Much of its textual history, including the language in which the text was initially written, is subject to speculations. According to Grace Lee Nute, it was at the king’s request that Radisson wrote the manuscript in winter 1668-69 (“Radisson”). One consequence of this manuscript ostensibly was the founding of the Hudson Bay Company in 1670, hence trade and traffic were the most important measurable outcomes of Radisson’s narrative of Mohawk bondage. Seeking to sell his captivity-won intercultural knowledge to the highest bidder, Radisson became a paradigmatic “‘mobilizer’” as Stephen Greenblatt would call it, an intermediary between indigenous, francophone and anglophone communities, who is cautiously negotiating his affiliations to multiple cultural contexts (“Manifesto” 251). Radisson had initially offered his services in the fields of commerce and trade to the officials in New and Old France. After these had shown little interest in Radisson’s intercultural knowledge and even less enthusiasm for his unauthorized travels into western and northern territories hitherto little known by Europeans, Radisson turned to the English king rather than the French to obtain financial backing for a commercial venture into northern regions (Nute, Caesars of the Wilderness 29-30, 105-66). Radisson’s text - densely autobiographical and yet imaginative - is an unusual promotional tract for Hudson Bay traffic and trading. It advertises the flexibility, versatility, hardihood, and knowledge of its speaker, showcasing as well the difficulties the continent holds in store for Europeans bent on commerce and faith alone. Generically, formally, aesthetically and linguistically speaking the ensuing text is a slippery affair, challenging its major critics to adapt their terminology to accommodate this constitutive fluidity. According to Martin Fournier, Radisson uses the manuscript, written for a specific, personalized audience of potential investors in a Hudson Bay commercial venture, to “tell his own story [histoire]” rejoicing in “a great liberty, occasionally [expressing] his opin- The Goods of Bad Mobility 59 ion directly, [affirming] [. . .] his individuality with his commentaries, his observations, and by the very personal fabric of his text” (Fournier, Pierre-Esprit Radisson 9; my translation). And Grace Lee Nute assumes that Radisson wrote the travel narrative with a clear sense of genre expectations and that he did so in French, arguing that the existent Englishlanguage versions of his texts are translations (Nute, Caesars of the Wilderness 29-30). As these comments suggest, Radisson’s text might be a particularly radical example of the kind of cultural mobility produced by migration, colonization, greed and restlessness that, according to Stephen Greenblatt and his co-editors, should become the new focus of literary and cultural studies. In this text attention to textual mobility rather than to a clear location in established literary, cultural and linguistic traditions might be one key to an understanding of this text and its embrace of “bad” mobility. Written in the mode of an unusual, cultural conversion narrative, Radisson’s manuscript The Relation of my Voyage, being in Bondage in the Lands of the Irokoits is the first in a set of six travel narratives not to be published until 1885 (see Gideon D. Scull’s Introduction to Radisson’s narratives, 1-23). Radisson’s Relation picks up the format of the exploratory travel narratives, but it combines this generic mode with the captivity narrative, thus producing a rare tale of cultural conversion. Its long existence in manuscript form might be explained in various ways. One possibility is that its coterie of royal and wealthy readers had used it primarily and even solely as a textual basis for economic and diplomatic deliberations. However, it is just as likely that the text itself did not facilitate publication since it lacks verbal and illustrative polish. Finally, the text does not contribute straightforwardly either to the cross-cultural Catholic mode of French Canadian writings or to the anti-assimilationist Protestant mode of British American writings. Hence it continued to move between francophone, anglophone and possibly even indigenous “power-geometries” as Doreen Massey would call it. Relation of my Voyage recounts the capture of the sixteen-year old Radisson near Trois Rivières, New France, by a group of Mohawk men, his quick and friendly adoption by an older Mohawk woman and her family, his instruction in crucial social and cultural skills and, eventually, his attempt to break free by committing murder. Recaptured just before returning to his home in New France, Radisson is brought back into Iroquoia, tortured considerably, but once again accepted into his former Mohawk family. Eighteen months after his initial capture Radisson runs away to the Dutch at Fort Orange (today’s Albany), New York, returning to Trois Rivières via France. Radisson drafted his report only after many years of unauthorized explorations into the areas of today’s Wisconsin, Minnesota and the upper Mississippi region. The report accord- 60 Barbara Buchenau ingly lacks immediacy, producing its adolescent speaker rather selfreflexively. The 1885 title of the collection of Radisson’s finally published narratives - Voyages of Peter Esprit Radisson. Being an Account of His Travels and Experiences Among the North American Indians, from 1652 to 1684 - illustrates the extent to which both Radisson and his texts serve as “‘mobilizers’” in debates about nationhood and belonging (Greenblatt, “Manifesto” 251), even as they are forced into comparable stasis. The new title anglicizes Radisson’s name and cultural identity, it drops the idea of bondage altogether, homogenizing the narrator’s experiences with various, usually specified North American Indian communities into a binary intercultural exploration. But the printed version of the travel report also centers on the conversions of the traveling subject; it complicates the familiar narrative of a slow transition from the predominance of the othered ignoble savage in colonial English-language texts to the rise of the foundational noble savage in nineteenth-century texts bent on cultural nationalism. Here, a young man going native, yet coming back is passing through removal, crime, pain, isolation, and acculturation to a state of permanent transition. This stance of undecidability, accompanied as it is by a lack of moral judgments and a failure to place trust in Europeans alone, has inspired later critics to address Radisson as either the quintessential traitor, an image most common in nineteenth-century historiography, or the paradigmatic white Indian or coureur de bois, fostered by twentieth-century scholarship (Fournier 10; Warkentin 67-68), thus indicating that the discourse on mobility does indeed produce both, stasis and movement (Sheller and Urry 211). The static image of the coureur de bois is important in comparativist frameworks that explore the distinctions between competing concepts of colonization and settlement. It is a stereotype claiming a French Canadian version of the North American pioneer, a culturally distinctive, because less supremacist, more accommodationist alternative to the potentially racist U.S. backwoodsman (see Podruchny 1-17). As Sven Kuttner emphasizes, acculturations such as Radisson’s were neither irreversible nor driven by the emotional ties offered in North American Indian communities. Instead, cultural and social border crossers had strong economic and social incentives to go native even if their inbetween status made them easy victims of changing colonial and indigenous policies and interests (Kuttner 86-97). Since their status as European Indians did not foreclose an allegiance to eurocentricism and a French or English cultural identity, go-betweens or mobilizers such as Radisson often produced narrative works that underscore and enhance the contradictoriness of belonging and identification in thoroughly mobile lives. The Goods of Bad Mobility 61 Life inside the Black Box; Or, towards a Mobile Male Identity The speaker in Radisson’s narrative of captivity and conversion provides his readers with the possibility to live a temporary life inside the “black box” of constant travel (Sheller and Urry 213). Entering this life, Radisson’s reader can seize and explore these tentative identifications in bad as well as good luck, testing the implications of being charged with mobilizing ideas of belonging and rootedness in “‘contact zones’” (Greenblatt 251). The narrator begins his tale in the voice of an adolescent whose blend of independence, curiosity, and fear offers a home to his presumably male and leisurely royal implicit readers: [b]eing persuaded in the morning by two of my comrades to go and recreat ourselves in fowling, I disposed myselfe to keepe them Company; wherefor I cloathed myselfe the lightest way I could possible, y t I might be the nimbler and not stay behinde, as much for the prey that I hoped for, as for to escape y e danger into w ch wee have ventered ourselves of an enemy the cruelest that ever was uppon the face of y e Earth. (Radisson, Voyages 4) The tone here is set for imaginatively reconstructing a real life of heartily embraced mobility in which work, recreation, and radical danger are intricately interlinked, each element being useless without the other. By page four of the narrative, the speaker’s companions are found “murthered” and mutilated, and the cultural removal of the autobiographical persona is sealed (Radisson, Voyages 28). This removal soon evolves into an exchange that pits an individualized European against a uniform North American indigenous “enemy” in rather stereotypical ways: Seeing myselfe compassed round about by a multitude of dogges, or rather devils, that rose from the grasse, rushesse and bushesse, I shott my gunne, whether un warrs or purposely I know not, but I shott w th a pistolle confidently, but was seised on all sids by a great number that threw me downe, taking away my arme without giving mee one blowe . . . (Radisson, Voyages 28-29) Radisson’s Mohawk opponents here seem to be proto-typological animal-men, unmitigated enemies with little trace of humanity about them. But they do not remain “dogges, or rather devils” for long (Radisson, Voyages 28). As the narrative proceeds, the Mohawk characters become as humane and inhumane as the narrator himself. They apparently never abandon their companions, whereas the narrator had carelessly taunted his hunter friends for their timidity, leaving them to their much dreaded fate in order to continue the successful hunt alone (Voyages 27). Like the narrator, Radisson’s Mohawks slay for rather unspectacular, pragmatic 62 Barbara Buchenau reasons - their killings seem to be as contextually embedded as his, similarly lacking a simplistic logic of retaliation and revenge. Within this setting of contextualized violence and kindness, the speaker himself leaves little doubt that this representation is part and parcel of Radisson’s autobiographical self-stylization as both intimidated and confident, struck with terror and nonetheless trusting (see Combet 331-32). This coexistence of fear and faith, as they apply to both, the speaker and his Mohawk captors, informs the narrative at large. It is an early example of the ethically and culturally self-contradictory stance that characterizes the more traditional forms of the captivity tale (Strong 7-9). This self-contradictory stance is promoted in a spelling and diction that indicate limited formal education and a location at the intersection of two languages and a complex set of distinctive cultural codes and modes (Fournier 145-76). Accordingly, identifications and identities are blurry and evasive affairs already at the very beginning of the narrative. Once the reader is thus prepared to follow the speaker into a truly transformative adventure in which mobility, both voluntary and enforced, becomes something like a “fetish” of male subjectivity (Ahmed 152), sympathy with the persona Radisson is not paramount, since his experience of removal and forced cultural as well as social conversion does not exact the reader’s emotional contribution. Instead, we are asked to come along. “Priming our pistols” like the narrator and his short-lived companions, we feel encouraged to follow the lead of the speaker to narratively travel “where our fancy first lead us” (Radisson, Voyages 26). This non-fictional narrative, then, employs a number of rhetorical devices (personal pronouns, verbal conjunctions of action and deliberation) that encourage the reader to identify with the speaker’s quite pragmatic negotiation of the liminal space into which he moves after his capture - a space of slow, yet persistent forced adoption and willing, yet strategic adaptation. Initially traveling alongside Huron captives identified as “slaves” (Radisson, Voyages 38), the narrator watches uneasily as preparations are made for the gantlet through which the captured people had to pass at the entrance into the Mohawk settlement. A “good old woman and a boy w th a hatchet in his hand” save the narrator from the usual beatings and harassments occurring at this transitional stage (Radisson, Voyages 38), and he soon learns to conceptualize his protectors along family lines. After the old woman calls Radisson “by the name of the son who was killed before, Orinha,” the autobiographical narrator in his turn begins to speak of his “brother,” “sisters,” “father” and “mother” (Radisson, Voyages 40). As scholarship on colonial cultural mobility has pointed out, this family language and its subtext of acculturation and adoption would The Goods of Bad Mobility 63 become absolutely central to intercultural diplomacy and treaty making, with the stylization of the French, Dutch, and English as brothers slowly drifting toward increasing efforts of late-eighteenth-century and earlynineteenth-century British and U.S. American diplomats who sought to become fathers of their North American allies rather than brothers. Whereas an emphasis of fraternal interlinkages reflected the spirit of “experimentation” pervading early colonial interactions (Van Zandt 7), the shift toward increasing references to paternal linkages emphasized late colonial and early national questions of “possession” and inheritance (Rogin 5). In the context of these questions North American Indians oddly became both, dead fathers and mothers who conveniently pass their possessions on to a new settler population and eternal young children to be guided, educated, and punished by these same settlers - in words Mary Nyquist adopted from a number of early modern English texts, North American Indians became “contemporary ancestors.” But the linguistic transition from colonial brother to national father remained strategically incomplete. Throughout the eighteenth and early nineteenth century it helped erase North America’s middle ground, this interculturally constructed space of colonial mediation emerging in the area between the Mississippi River and the Appalachian mountains (White). Arguably, this change in language even ushered in the disappearance of what Richard White has described as an underdetermined geographical and cultural space that permitted questions of power, authority, and legality to be left unanswered. The Goods of Murderous Movement In Radisson’s text family bonds are frail in the biological and the adopted family alike, irrespective of the strategic use of family language. As soon as a public celebration had indicated the acceptance of Radisson’s autobiographical persona into the Iroquoian community, the narrating subject ruptures these ties by killing his fellow hunters and running away. In the narrative order, this murderous escape replicates the introductory adolescent hunting scene, relocating it to the domain of Iroquoia. This time it is “3 of [his] acquaintance,” who ask Radisson to join them on an extensive hunting trip (Voyages 41). Receiving the permission of his Iroquoian “mother,” the narrator soon regrets his decision to come along because food is scarce and the journey is arduous (Voyages 41). These circumstances encourage the narrator to conceptualize his hunting voyage along the lines of a form of deprivation and want that appear to be adequate to the native population alone. A Huron adoptee encountered en route entices the speaker to attempt an escape 64 Barbara Buchenau to his former home at Trois Rivières. Importantly, family language once again produces the atmosphere of trust and confidentiality that will allow the speaker to set himself apart from his captors-“comrades”: “Brother” replied the “wild man” to the speaker’s assertion that he “loved the french,” cheare up, let us escape, the 3 rivers are not a farre off. I tould him my 3 comrades would not permitt me, and that they promised my mother to bring me back againe. Then he inquired whether I would live like the Hurrons, who weare in bondage, or have my own liberty w th the ffrench, where there was good bread to be eaten. (Voyages 42-43) This question of the metaphorical brother redefines Radisson’s adoption into the Mohawk family, sketching it as a bad form of cultural mobility in which the mobile subject loses the “liberty” to choose the direction and the purpose of his movements. But apart from the loss of liberty Radisson now must also confront his life among the Mohawks in terms of a loss of economic and cultural value. The “wild man” reads Iroquoian adoption as a form of slavery and biblical bondage. Radisson initially refuses this interpretation of his status, but the provocation sinks in and he soon agrees to a murderous plan promising escape and cultural rather than religious redemption. Because bondage, in the words of the “wild man,” becomes wedded to poor food, and cultural as well as racial disappearance, a return to the colonial community becomes desirable again, triggering a stock response to forced cultural removal: “Att last I consented, considering they weare mortall enemys to my country, that had cut the throats of so many of my relations, burned and murdered them” (Voyages 43). But when the autobiographical speaker thus identifies rather unexpectedly with his “country,” his motives for doing so are rather unspectacular. Family, nation and relation now become crude economic terms in a social landscape that is first and foremost able to offer the “good bread” so dearly missed in Iroquoia. As the narrative trajectory after this conversation suggests, it is neither productive, nor correct to read Radisson’s mobility as a form of bondage by mortal enemies. In fact, this understanding of forced mobility as a form of enslavement will lead to crime and punishment. After the conversation with the Huron captive Radisson’s autobiographical speaker kills in cold blood members of his new home in order to be able to return to his old home, but he is soon recaptured, returned to Iroquoia and tortured extensively. It is at this moment that Radisson’s narrative diverges most strikingly from the patterns employed by later, far more popular captivity narratives by Puritan authors such as Mary Rowlandson and John Williams, because Radisson does not see his captors The Goods of Bad Mobility 65 as instruments of a Christian god. He also does not follow a pattern established in the Jesuit Relations where the indigenous captors appeared as biblical enemies of a faith understood as the only true one. Instead, the narrator explains torture in terms of an individual painful and fearful, yet understandable punishment for his own capital crime. In Radisson’s narrative this punishment does not preclude another loving and caring adoption into the Mohawk family and the larger community. After the torture Radisson again becomes a member of the cultural community of his captors, and he experiences once again the constraints and the mobility upon which this cultural membership is grounded (see Greenblatt, “Culture”). But because this communal punishment is likely to be repeated whenever the speaker violently transgresses social norms or whenever he must be accommodated into an antagonistic social context, the speaker eventually uses an opportunity to take refuge with the Dutch. Lamenting the departure from an otherwise cherished life as an Iroquoian, the speaker does not seek better and better valued cultural and religious contexts. Instead, he simply decides in favor of “good bread” and better safety. In sum, the enforced mobility of Iroquoian captivity most obviously and straightforwardly leads to a loss of economic and social standing, since it initially removes the speaker from the comparable ease and the dietary pleasures of colonial life. At the same token, however, the narrative itself turns captivity into an economically rewarding enterprise. Having survived capture, removal and enslavement the narrating subject can advertise the skills earned during the ordeal as assets in the marketplace of Northern American exploration and colonization. In this advertisement, the involuntarily mobilized subject emphasizes the goods to be found in the stores of bad mobility. To conclude, Radisson’s text offers a surprising addition to Sheller and Urry’s critique of so-called “sedentarist” theoretical approaches to social interactions, since it seconds scholarly attempts to replace these approaches by “nomadic” ones which “[celebrate] the opposite of sedentarism, namely, metaphors of travel and flight” (210). When Sheller and Urry note that “[t]hese metaphors celebrate mobilities that progressively move beyond both geographical borders and also beyond disciplinary boundaries” (210), they certainly do not include present-day forms of captivity and enslavement into these celebratory metaphors. Instead, they reference feminist theorists such as Caren Kaplan and Sara Ahmed to note that movement can become a masculinist “fetish” (Ahmed 152), which thrives on exclusion to produce gendered identities and subjectivities (see Skeggs 48). But while scholarship on mobility tends to maintain a rather straightforward opposition between good and bad forms of mobility, this opposition is not to be found in a text such as Radisson’s. 66 Barbara Buchenau Here, mobility itself, whether good or bad, is turned into the heart of modern life, thus drawing attention to the fact that mobility is always simultaneously an ethical and an economic enterprise. Looking at the varied history of Radisson’s text, its protagonist and its author we might wonder whether they resemble the mobile places that play such a significant role in the new mobilities paradigm. “Places are like ships, moving around, not necessarily staying in one location,” Sheller and Urry have noted (214). As Radisson’s Relation illustrates, it is the intricate contact and collaboration between texts, materialities, locales, people and performances, which mobilizes places, turning them into containers full of goods, which can assume value only if they travel. But this movement is anything but a straightforwardly appreciated activity. Often enough it belongs to the kind of “hidden” mobility that operates under “regimes of censorship and repression” (Greenblatt, “Manifesto” 251). These regimes turn mobility into something to be feared rather than cherished. According to Sheller and Urry “[i]ssues of movement, of too little movement or too much or of the wrong sort or at the wrong time, are central to many lives and many organizations” (208). Generally speaking mobility is not a desired activity, postmodern celebrations of motorways, airports and the world wide web notwithstanding. Movement does not only challenge “sedentarist theories” which value “stability, meaning, and place” and stigmatize “distance, change, and placelessness” (Sheller and Urry 208). There is also a good amount of movement that seems to be ethically, morally wrong, because it hurts those engaged in it. As Radisson’s text suggests only partially, human captivity and bondage do count as primary forms of this ethically wrong, “bad” mobility. Too little movement apparently is bad and so is too much movement (Sheller and Urry 208). But this idea of a bad movement, produced by a lack or an excess of mobility, becomes alive in discourse alone (Greenblatt, “Manifesto” 251). And it is in discourse as well that bad mobility can become a good, to be traded at a profit. In Radisson’s narrative we can observe how the potentially catastrophic and annihilating experience of too much movement is narratively transformed into a moment of enlightenment and even empowerment showcased by the experiencing subject to demand social, cultural and especially economic mobility. The Goods of Bad Mobility 67 References Adams, Percy G. Travel Literature and the Evolution of the Novel. Lexington: The University of Kentucky Press, 1983. Ahmed, Sara. The Cultural Politics of Emotion. London: Routledge, 2004. Bauer, Ralph. The Cultural Geography of Colonial American Literatures. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Colley, Linda. Captives: Britain, Empire, and the World, 1600-1850. New York: Random House, 2002. Combet, Denis. “Images de la peur et maîtrise de l’Autre dans les quatre premiers Voyages de Pierre-Esprit Radisson.” Travaux de Littérature 17 (2004): 331-43. 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Warkentin, Germaine. “Discovering Radisson: A Renaissance Adventurer between Two Worlds.” Reading Beyond Words: Contexts for Native History. Eds. Jennifer S. H. Brown and Elizabeth Vibert. Peterborough, Ontario: Broadview, 2003. 75-104. White, Richard. The Middle Ground: Indians, Empires, and Republics in the Great Lakes Region, 1650-1815. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991. “Why I Write about Mexico”: Mexicanness in Katherine Anne Porter’s “Flowering Judas” and “María Concepción” Martin Heusser In 1931, Waldo Frank, a renowned specialist in Latin American studies, observed in the New Republic that “for intelligent North Americans to visit Mexico begins to be a custom.” He explained this trend by adding that “Mexico vaguely seems to offer from afar something which he lacks and craves” (quoted in Delpar, The Enormous Vogue of Things Mexican 197). One of the authors who was most strongly drawn to and who felt an inexplicable kinship with Mexico in this period was Katherine Anne Porter. She traveled to Mexico repeatedly and spent almost three years of her life south of the border. This experience, she explains, satisfied her ill-defined but extremely powerful desire for “a straight, undeviating purpose” - and it had a decisive influence on her writing. The main function of Porter’s journeys to Mexico is both the literary construction and the actual experience of a space where she could explore the missing links of her own life. Powerful fictional characters, such as María Concepción, who murders her faithless lover, or the transcendentally sensual Laura, whose very existence is alienation, become reflections of the author herself, who felt deeply rifted, torn between what she perceived to be her own, fragmented identity and an essentialist, ultimately Romantic version of selfhood that she craved. Mexico as a location and even more so as a concept has for a long time played a crucial role in the American imagination. From the early nineteenth century on, “Mexico, its culture and its people . . . has been an unavoidable presence in westward-moving America” (Robinson ix). Subject to extreme prejudice as much as na ïve veneration, the country On the Move: Mobilities in English Language and Literature. SPELL: Swiss Papers in English Language and Literature 27. Ed. Annette Kern-Stähler and David Britain. Tübingen: Narr, 2012. 69-80. 70 Martin Heusser south of the border was (and still is) perceived as the essence of contradictoriness, associated with romantic myth, on the one hand (Robinson “Prologue”), and with backwardness and banditry, on the other (Berger 14). For Americans, Mexico is primarily a Mexico of the mind. It is constructed as a locus of difference - as a home to the wholly “other.” As such, it is perceived as mysterious and inscrutable - arousing wonder and inquisitiveness but ultimately eluding explanation or comprehension. At the same time, Mexico is also uncanny - representing the strangely familiar - ranging from the feared to the repressed and the secretly desired. Most importantly, Mexico offers to the American imagination a chance for a temporary and (more or less) controlled consumption of “otherness.” As Nicolas Bloom puts it, “Americans, even deep within Mexico, are primarily tourists or temporary expatriates” (2). Historically, the American fascination with Mexico had a first, intense phase in the twentieth century that lasted from the early twenties to the late forties. In his recent study of the public intellectual exchange across the U.S.-Mexican border, José Antonio Aguilar Rivera describes the situation as follows: In the first decades of the twentieth century droves of American intellectuals visited and explored Mexico - not only radicals like Frank Tannenbaum but writers like Hart Crane and Katherine Anne Porter, photographers like Edward Weston as well as philosophers like John Dewey. (xi) 1 In 1931, Waldo Frank, a renowned specialist in the field of Latin American literature, observed in the New Republic that “[f]or intelligent North Americans to visit Mexico begins to be a custom” (quoted in Delpar 197). He describes the appeal that Mexico has for the American intellectual as a promise to satisfy deeper needs: “Mexico vaguely seems to offer from afar something which he lacks and craves. And still more vaguely and deeply, Mexico seems to be his” (quoted in Delpar 197). An American author who claimed Mexico for her own like no other is Katherine Anne Porter. She traveled to Mexico on four separate occasions early in her career, between 1920 and 1931, and spent altogether almost three years of her life in Mexico. Both the author herself and her critics agree that Mexico played a crucial role for Porter and her development as a writer. As Porter asserted in a talk entitled “The Mexico I Knew”: “I am perfectly certain that my time in Mexico was one of the very important times of my life. It influenced everything I did after- 1 For an overview of the long-term presence of prominent American (and British) writers in Mexico, see Drewey. Henry C. Schmidt also offers a detailed account of American intellectual presence there in the 1920s. Mexicanness in Katherine Anne Porter 71 ward” (Uncollected Early Prose vii). Thomas Walsh, a critic thoroughly familiar with the details of Porter’s Mexican experience, explains: “Porter’s journal and letters give evidence that she viewed Mexico as a continual source for her creative writing. Seemingly nothing occurred that she did not weigh for its literary potential” (Unrue, Critical Essays 126). But while the connection between Porter’s biography and her Mexican stories has been explored in great detail, little attention has been paid to the relationship between the ethnographical pieces she wrote during her Mexican period and her Mexican stories. As becomes evident from biographical sources and a number of texts she wrote in the early 1920s, Porter was passionately interested in ethnographic aspects of Mexican culture. 2 Apart from personal observations in locations she considered particularly authentic - Teotihuacán or Xochimilco - she drew from the vast knowledge of Mexican Indian culture of one of the most important experts in the field, the Mexican anthropologist Manuel Gamio, with whose work she was closely acquainted (cf. Walsh 49). In what follows, I will argue that short stories like “María Concepción” and “Flowering Judas” profit particularly from being read against Porter’s ethnographic texts - not so much to trace the sources of her realistic depiction of indigenous life, which has already been done (cf. Walsh 73), but to arrive at a renewed understanding of the principal female protagonists of her Mexican stories. Porter’s use of ethnographic detail is not merely meant to provide local color - “Mexicanness” as oriental flavoring - the superimposition of such discourse onto her narrative is also supposed to create an arena for the presentation of character: unadulterated, primeval instinct vs. civilisatory diffidence and disorientation. Moreover, Porter uses the overlap between ethnography and story-telling in her own writing to construct fictional identities that would both describe and complement aspects of her own personality which she felt she was lacking. Such an assumption seems particularly justified when one considers how readily Porter replaced undesirable parts of her biography with inventions of her own - a strategy that has been observed by various critics (e.g., Givner, Walsh and Nance - see below). In many respects, Porter’s writing serves as a substitute for essential aspects of her life. As she explained in an interview late in life: “. . . this thing between me and my writing is the strongest bond I have ever had - stronger than any bond or any engagement with any human being or any other work I’ve ever done” (Thompson 89). 2 The most important of these texts, among them “Xochimilco,” “Notes on Teotihuacán,” Outline of Mexican Arts and Crafts and “Two Ancient Pyramids - the Core of a City Unknown until a Few Years Ago” are reprinted in The Uncollected Early Prose. 72 Martin Heusser Porter was keenly aware of the close ties between ethnography and story-telling - a link that would later be explored by Roland Barthes in a section entitled “The Ethnological Temptation” of his autobiographical Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes. There he describes the allure and the authority of ethnography: the ethnological book has all the powers of the beloved book: it is an encyclopedia, noting and classifying all of reality, even the most trivial, the most sensual aspects. . . . of all learned discourse, the ethnological seems to come closest to a Fiction. (84-5) Based on Barthes, arguing that “stories make meaning” (140), Edward Bruner points out that the anthropologist is likely to approach the object of study with a “story” in mind which determines not only the way he perceives and represents his findings but already influences the choice of his informants: “We choose those informants whose narratives are most compatible with our own” (151). Porter, I would argue, does precisely that: she picks anthropological models that fit her own needs, tells the alleged story of their lives and then inserts these “authentic” figures into her own stories. The “Mexicanness” that results from this procedure suggests supreme authority - descriptive of reality with the supposed authority of an encyclopedia complemented with the incontrovertibleness of myth, such as Porter’s favorite, the Golden Age of Aztec rule. “Mexicanness” as a concept in Porter’s narratives - a personal obsession with all things Mexican - is a complex formula consisting of four main components of very different natures: the Mexican version of Catholicism - in particular the omnipresent Marianismo, the American view of Mexico as a heterotopia - specifically of transgression and excess, the (also very American) perception of Mexico as a space that allows or even invites the temporary assumption of a different identity, and, finally, Porter’s fascination with what she considered an overwhelming presence of the past. It is the last point - the role of the past - that needs to be given special consideration in the present context. A text that is particularly suitable as a starting point for a discussion of Porter’s Mexican experience is a short, strangely apologetic piece she published in 1923 entitled “Why I Write About Mexico” (Collected Essays 355-6). In one of the crucial passages, Porter describes what she considers the key component of Mexicanness: she admires the political development as a “straight, undeviating purpose” (Collected Essays 355) - a kind of immanent driving force or principle in other words that pursues its goals with unerring precision. The roots of this self-willed, selfdetermined purpose are formed by the past, as Porter explains: “It was as if an old field had been watered, and all the long-buried seeds flour- Mexicanness in Katherine Anne Porter 73 ished” (Collected Essays 355). The present is, Porter believes, a result of the seeds of the past - in other words, the past determines the makeup of the present. If we carefully re-read “Why I Write About Mexico” with this in mind, and with an eye on Porter’s references to her own past, the text yields up a number of surprising inconsistencies. Indeed, as closer inspection reveals, essential claims that the author makes about her Mexican experience are simply not true. To begin with, her assertion to have “returned to Mexico” in 1920 after a long “absence” is false - Porter had never been to Mexico before November 1920. Thus her second claim - that she witnessed a street battle between Maderistas and federal troops - is equally fabricated. These fights occurred in 1911 when Porter was in the USA, possibly in Chicago, according to Willene and George Hendrick, two of her early biographers. Furthermore, the story of her encounter with the old Indian woman (Collected Essays 355) is also an invention as the author herself later admitted (cf. Walsh 5). What we are facing here is indeed “an extreme instance of the inseparability of the writer’s life and work” (vii), as William Nance puts it in Katherine Porter and the Art of Rejection. This notion is echoed by Joan Givner, one of Porter’s chief biographers, in the preface to the second edition of her Life: “She edited the story of her life as she might have shaped one of her short stories, rejecting certain experiences which she felt should not have happened and did not really belong to her and substituting others which seemed more appropriate” (20). However, it is not only the representation of her own past life but also that of her family and its history that show signs of considerable manipulation. When asked in an interview about the role of history in her writing, Porter did not address the issue of the function but instead skirted that part of the question by answering with a barrage of apparently factual information about her family history - details of which, as the editors observed in a footnote included in a later version of the interview, were largely “incorrect.” 3 Obviously, personal identity and its continual construction and reconstruction are major issues in Porter’s life and work. What is more, the past, as an important constituent of personal identity, has a special function for her. That is one of the principal reasons for Porter’s fascination with Mexico. She perceived the past as a pervasive presence - particularly in the country’s cultural heritage, which held her spellbound. To what extent this is true can be seen 3 The full text of the editorial comment - which was not included in the original version of the interview, and which has been removed from its first online version - runs as follows: “Much of what follows is factually incorrect. But as Porter was renown [sic] for glamorizing and embellishing her past, the editors have decided to leave fake enough alone.” 74 Martin Heusser in several early sketches and essays. In 1922, she wrote a substantial piece entitled “Outline of Mexican Popular Arts and Crafts,” which accompanied a traveling exhibition to be shown in the United States that she had helped organize. “In this country,” she explains in the opening paragraph of the essay, “the past is interwoven visibly with the present, living and potent” (Uncollected Early Prose 140). To be sure, the past she refers to here is the ancient past - Porter was strongly attracted to the theories of Manuel Gamio and embraced his notion that “the glory of Mexico’s indigenous cultures lay entirely in the precolonial past” (Hewitt de Alcántara 10). By and large, Porter subscribed to a sort of chronological / cultural primitivism. In an early sketch on two recently discovered ancient pyramids, she concluded admiringly: “Beauty was there [in Teotihuacán], and a magnificent concept of life. . . . A superb race flourished there, and a wise one” (“Two Ancient Mexican Pyramids,” Uncollected Early Prose 193). What she thought of as one of the most salient characteristics of modern Mexico was the continued existence in parts of the population of “a very old race, surviving and persisting in its devotion to ancient laws with a steadfastness that is anachronism in this fluctuating age” (“Outline,” Uncollected Early Prose 187). It is due to this functional link with a past of glorious achievements that the “authentic” Mexican was able to preserve a connectedness with their own existence and the world around them that was about to be lost as a result of the advent of Modernity in Mexico and which had certainly been lost to a far greater extent in Porter’s own native country. To Porter, the authentic Mexican was typical of “a people simple as nature is simple: that is to say, direct and savage, beautiful and terrible, full of harshness and love, divinely gentle, appallingly honest” (“Outline,” Uncollected Early Prose 165). The image that Porter draws in “Xochimilco” (May 1921) is that of a perfect pastoral - both the setting and its inhabitants are remainders of the Golden Age of Aztec culture: “These . . . Indians are a splendid remnant of the Aztec race; they . . . live their lives in a voluntary detachment from the ruling race of their country. They build their own homes with maize stalks grown in their own fields. . . . They grow their own food” (Uncollected Early Prose 75). Living in close communion with their natural environment, the Xochimilco Indians seem to Porter like a natural extension of the world they live in “entirely removed from contact with the artificial world” (Uncollected Early Prose 75). Porter’s preoccupation with the past during her first visits to Mexico is not as purely scientific or aesthetic as it may seem but also, perhaps even more so, psychological - and it holds the key to the answer she never gave her interviewer. Painting a very bright and positive picture of her stay abroad in the letters to her family, describing her new environ- Mexicanness in Katherine Anne Porter 75 ment as a big, fascinating adventure, “a continual marvel to the eye and the emotions” and adding details about “a thousand delicious things” to them (Letter of December 1920, quoted in Walsh 21), she was in reality continually trying to escape periods of depression that haunted her with frightening intensity. Significantly, very little written material survives from this time and what is preserved suggests that Porter lived through a severe personal crisis. As Walsh points out, “[t]he tattered, fragmentary notes that do survive are in such a jumbled state that their significance and precise date of composition are often a puzzle” (xv). Similarly, in a diary entry she made shortly after her arrival in Mexico, she wrote “[i]t may be five years before I write about Mexico . . . The thing is too complex and scattered and tremendous” (Unrue 76). Now, the past, the personal past as well as that of a community, has a decisive function in the formation and the maintenance of personal identity. As Erik Erikson has argued (quoted in Woodward 39), identity is characterized by “a conscious striving for continuity.” To be able to tell the story of one’s past - both that of one’s ancestry and one’s personal past - allows the subject to reify continuity and to insert itself into that continuity. From this gesture results a sense of belongingness, a feeling of being “at home” in time. Command and control of the past is - in other words - a way of strongly empowering personal identity. Because Porter felt that she did not have the right kind of past, such a past needed to be constructed: this was achieved by manipulating her biography and by giving the strong characters in her fiction a powerful past. This becomes particularly evident in her two most important Mexican stories, “María Concepción” and “Flowering Judas.” In these two narratives, Porter writes two versions of herself. In “Flowering Judas,” this is Laura, an American living in Mexico and working as a go-between for an ageing revolutionary, Braggioni. Laura, namesake of Petrarca’s idealized woman, his madonna angelicata, is outwardly a model of femininity, and well-liked or desired by everyone. Her personality, however, is extremely problematic, as Laura is incapable of any genuine commitment, devotion or, indeed, love. Deeply torn, she lives in total denial of herself and her femininity. Completely out of touch with her own existence, “not at home in the world” (Collected Stories 97), she considers her own fate “nothing, except as the testimony of a mental attitude” (Collected Stories 93). Laura has no past, the story insists. For her, there is nothing but the present and “no pleasure in remembering her life before she came here” (Collected Stories 93). In sharp contrast, her adversary, the corrupt and excessively egotistic Braggioni, is outwardly self-assured and powerful - all of which he owes to his own past. A “skilled revolutionist” who had “his skin punctured in honest warfare” (Collected Stories 91), 76 Martin Heusser he now wields the power of a local potentate whom nobody dares to oppose. Despite her protestations to the contrary, Laura admires Braggioni. He represents everything she denies herself: independence, determination, a clear vision - however flawed - of his goals in life. He stands for that other life she wishes she could lead, feeling betrayed “irreparably by the disunion between her way of living and her feeling of what life should be” (Collected Stories 91). “What life should be” is obviously also the dark underside - or what she perceives as such - which she wishes to live and is afraid to admit and even think. In this respect, Laura is a female version of Joseph Conrad’s Marlowe - like him, she is both utterly disgusted by and yet strangely attracted to the ruthless exercise of power. The one character who embodies this capacity of instinctively using uncivilized violence in a crucial moment instead of letting herself be paralyzed by scruples and indecision is María Concepción, the eponymous heroine of Porter’s first published short story. It is the story of a Mexican woman who kills her husband’s mistress, is protected by the community from being found out and persecuted by the authorities, adopts the new-born child of her dead rival and then lives again with her husband. In “María Concepción,” the empowering function of the past is foregrounded even more so than in “Flowering Judas.” The most powerful figure of the narrative - socially, economically and psychologically - is the American archeologist Givens, whose name stands for what he represents to the couple - the known facts, as it were, the stable reference point in their lives. Givens is not only María’s husband’s employer but also his patient and benevolent acting father who has saved his irresponsible head digger several times from going to jail and from being shot. Read against the background of Porter’s “Outline of Mexican Popular Arts and Crafts” and her “Xochimilco” essay, Givens’ function is to reconnect the past with the present. In the larger context of Porter’s views, this gesture is authoritative, redemptive and empowering. In contrast to Givens, whose relationship to the past is conscious and intentional and therefore, again in Porter’s eyes, remains a potentiality in many respects, María Concepción’s connection with the past is instinctive and therefore immediately operational - with a direct bearing on her life. Here is how she is described at the outset of the story: Her straight back outlined itself strongly under her clean bright blue cotton rebozo. Instinctive serenity softened her black eyes, shaped like almonds . . . She walked with the free, natural guarded ease of the primitive woman carrying an unborn child . . . She was entirely contented. (Collected Stories 3) Mexicanness in Katherine Anne Porter 77 Clearly, María Concepción, the “primitive woman” commands archaic instincts which provide her with a natural fitness for life. She is the exact counterpoint to Laura in “Flowering Judas” who, too, wears a blue dress but covers up her body completely and who is not pregnant - although her body suggests potential pregnancy - and so emphasizes the absence of motherhood as a fundamental lack or want: … this simple girl who covers her great round breasts with thick dark cloth, and who hides her beautiful legs under a heavy skirt. She is almost thin except for the incomprehensible fullness of her breasts, like a nursing mother’s. (Collected Stories 97) Like Braggioni, María Concepción is empowered by the past - in her case the past of her “superb race” (“Two Ancient Mexican Pyramids,” Uncollected Early Prose 193) - and this allows her to act on instinct and to take (cruel) initiative in the decisive moments of her life. The narrator carefully documents María Concepción’s transition from instinctual notion to conscious decision and back to instinctual action: Now and then she would stop and look about her, trying to place herself, then go on a few steps, until she realized that she was not going towards the market. At once she came to her senses completely, recognized the thing that troubled her so terribly, was certain of what she wanted. … The thing which had for so long squeezed her whole body into a tight dumb knot of suffering suddenly broke with shocking violence. She jerked with the involuntary violence of someone who receives a blow . . . (Collected Stories 13) Instead of going to the market, as she had originally intended, María Concepción walks to the jacal of her rival, stabs her to death, and returns to her own hut where she confesses the murder to her husband. Later, when the community is interrogated by two mixed blood gendarmes “with Indian sympathies” (Collected Stories 16), she is cleared of any guilt - on the testimony of old Lupe and the other villagers who take sides with her. What saves her is an all-powerful sense of community rooted in the shared past of a generation growing up together and sharing an instinctive, old-testamentarian notion of justice. It is a simple understanding of right and wrong that does not qualify her deed as murder - as does the enlightened legal system - but as an act of just retribution and self-defense, an enactment of the “straight, undeviating purpose” (Collected Essays 355). As Porter explains in her “Outline of Mexican Popular Arts and Crafts,” the members of such an ideal(ized) community “share ideas, intuitions and human habits; they understand each other. There is no groping for motives, no divided faith: they love their 78 Martin Heusser past with that uncritical, unquestioning devotion which is beyond logic and above reason” (Uncollected Early Prose 170). For Porter, Mexico is a space in which the unlived sides of her life can come to the fore. That is how texts like “María Concepción” and “Flowering Judas” can be re-read. The character of María Concepción is doubtless constructed in a gesture of true admiration, that is, in awe and veneration of human qualities that Porter felt were still present South of the border and were worthy of being preserved in the teeth of the advent of modern civilization. However, María Concepción is at least as much an attempt to reify in a literary form a desirable version of the author herself, one that has the courage to take control of her own life - even at the cost of murder. And thus Laura’s symbolically overcharged nightmare at the end of “Flowering Judas” in which Eugenio calls her “Murderer” (Collected Stories 102) should not only be read as a result of her feelings of guilt about the prisoner’s suicide. It stands at least as much for Laura’s shame about her paralyzing infatuation with Braggioni and for Porter’s own fascination with a figure she constructs as utterly despicable but to whose vileness she nonetheless devotes long passages of detailed and incisive description. By the same token, “Murderer” represents Porter’s own sense of transgression, namely, to be so much in love with a murderess in that other story, “María Concepción,” to be so thoroughly rapt by the relentlessness of her main character’s “straight, undeviating purpose” (Collected Essays 355). Porter’s notions of personal identity are deeply rifted, torn between what she perceived to be her own fragmented identity and an essentialist, ultimately Romantic version of selfhood that she craved. That is why the author’s fictional and ethnographic accounts of her Mexican experience are also a trope for her own life. They are an expression of a fundamental dissatisfaction with her own mode of existence as well as an overwhelming desire for personal wholeness and existential rootedness. However, in the end, Mexico is yet another place, which, for Porter, is not home: an interstice of a fundamental kind, a condition of existential in-between-ness, a state of interminable alienation. Crossing over into Mexico, into her “familiar country” (Collected Essays 355), was supposed to heal that condition - but it didn’t. And so her Mexican stories are an account of how the experiment went and how the subject felt. That is the answer to the question “Why I Write About Mexico.” Mexicanness in Katherine Anne Porter 79 References Aguilar Rivera, José Antonio. The Shadow of Ulysses: Public Intellectual Exchange across the U.S.-Mexican Border. Lanham, Maryland: Lexington Books, 2000. Barthes, Roland. Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes. New York: Hill and Wang, 1977. Berger, Dina. “A Drink between Friends: Mexican and American Pleasure Seekers in 1940s Mexico City.” Adventures into Mexico: American Tourism Beyond the Border. Ed. Nicholas Dagen Bloom. Lanham, Maryland: Rowman and Littlefield, 2006. 13-34. Bloom, Nicholas Dagen. Adventures into Mexico: American Tourism Beyond the Border. Jaguar Books on Latin America Series. Lanham, Maryland: Rowman and Littlefield, 2006. Bruner, Edward M. “Ethnography as Narrative.” The Anthropology of Experience. Eds. Victor W. Turner and Edward M. Bruner. Urbana: University of Illinois, 1986. 139-58. Delpar, Helen. The Enormous Vogue of Things Mexican: Cultural Relations between the United States and Mexico, 1920-1935. Tuscaloosa, Alabama: University of Alabama Press, 1992. Givner, Joan. Katherine Anne Porter: A Life. Revised edition. Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1991. Gunn, Drewey Wayne. American and British Writers in Mexico, 1556-1973. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1974. Hendrick, Willene and George Hendrick. Katherine Anne Porter. Twayne’s United States Authors Series. Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1988. Hewitt de Alcántara, Cynthia. Anthropological Perspectives on Rural Mexico. International Library of Anthropology. London and Boston: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1984. Nance, William L. Katherine Anne Porter and the Art of Rejection. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1964. Oles, James and Marta Ferragut. South of the Border: Mexico in the American Imagination, 1917-1947. Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1993. Porter, Katherine Anne. Uncollected Early Prose of Katherine Anne Porter. Ed. Ruth M. Alvarez and Thomas F. Walsh. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1993. . The Collected Essays and Occasional Writings of Katherine Anne Porter. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1990. . The Collected Stories of Katherine Anne Porter. Orlando: Harcourt Inc., 1979. Robinson, Cecil. Mexico and the Hispanic Southwest in American Literature. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1977. 80 Martin Heusser Schmidt, Henry C. “The American Intellectual Discovery of Mexico in the 1920s.” South Atlantic Quarterly 77.3 (1978): 335-51. Thompson, Barbara. “Katherine Anne Porter: An Interview.” The Paris Review 29 (1963): 87-114. Unrue, Darlene Harbour. Critical Essays on Katherine Anne Porter. Critical Essays on American Literature. New York: G.K. Hall and Co., 1997. . Katherine Anne Porter: The Life of an Artist. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2005. Walsh, Thomas F. Katherine Anne Porter and Mexico: The Illusion of Eden. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1992. Woodward, Kath. Understanding Identity. London: Arnold, 2002. Shakespeare and Immigration 1 Margaret Tudeau-Clayton This paper proposes a new argument about the contribution by Hand D, widely agreed to be Shakespeare’s, to the perilously topical reprise of the 1517 “Ill May Day” anti-alien riots in The Book of Sir Thomas More (? 1593/ 1604). The contribution’s discontinuity with the rest of the playtext is claimed to be a function less of the material conditions of production usually evoked by scholars than of an impasse between “arguments on both sides,” like that in a leaked parliamentary debate about “aliens” which took place in March 1593. Combining a specific echo of this debate with an echo from a description of English victims of enclosure in the historical More’s Utopia Shakespeare makes a case, through the eponymous protagonist, on behalf of strangers against the case made by fellow authorial hands on behalf of citizens. If this aligns him politically with the court, Shakespeare does not simply toe a court line. Rather he takes an ethical stand, summoning an alliance across the religious divide and across the century between those who speak on behalf of the dispossessed - whether European “aliens” or “Englishmen foreign,” internal immigrants who are likewise victims of exclusionary violence, as Shakespeare invites his hearers, including fellow authorial hands, to recognise. The sixteenth century saw the population of London increase fourfold. This increase was largely due to a massive influx, especially in the last 1 This is a companion piece which develops fresh lines of argument as well as introducing new material to a forthcoming essay in Shakespeare Survey (Tudeau-Clayton). On the Move: Mobilities in English Language and Literature. SPELL: Swiss Papers in English Language and Literature 27. Ed. Annette Kern-Stähler and David Britain. Tübingen: Narr, 2012. 81-97. 82 Margaret Tudeau-Clayton three decades, of two types of foreigners or outsiders: European “aliens” or “strangers” - principally French, Dutch and Italian immigrants, many, if not all, protestant refugees - and “Englishmen foreign” - Englishmen who were not sons of freemen of the city or born within its walls (Rappaport 42). These were the categories used by the municipal authorities in surveys conducted in order to deal with the hostility towards the European strangers that resulted from the strain on material resources (housing and food). For if there were complaints about the English foreigners, who far outnumbered the European strangers (Selwood 23), it was the European strangers who were the objects of physical as well as verbal violence (Clark 52-53). Precise figures are hard to determine (Sokol 186), but Scouloudi puts at 3.69 the percentage of European strangers registered in the survey of April-May 1593 (Scouloudi 76). This was undertaken specifically to stem the unrest that followed the suppression by the House of Lords of a bill that had passed the vote by a large majority in the House of Commons in March and that had been introduced on behalf of shopkeepers and freemen of the City in order to restrict the trading practices of European strangers (Scouloudi 57-93; Chitty 141; Yungblut 41-42). This was not the first time, though it would be the last, that such a bill had been debated in parliament in the reign of Elizabeth (Dean 157). But it was the first time that the speeches were recorded in full and circulated in contravention of the traditional principal of secrecy (Love 16). An anonymous member kept a detailed journal of the 1593 session which covered the fraught issues of the subsidy and recusants as well as of strangers (Hartley III 61-175). Like the official journal this unofficial journal was subsequently lost, but not before copies had been made. Several are extant, which suggests many more were actually made - a clear indication of keen interest in the debates (Hartley III xi-xii). If modern historians have neglected the debate on strangers - J. E. Neale, for instance, makes no mention at all of it in his magisterial study of the Elizabethan parliaments - the seventeenth century antiquarian Simonds D’Ewes opens his account, compiled from the anonymous journal sometime before 1630, by evoking “the great weight of this matter touching Aliens” (D’Ewes 505). Indeed, if focused on their impact on the economy, the debate broadened to address more generally the place of “aliens” in the city, whether they were to be “entertained” (i.e. welcomed) or expelled. It was a “matter” that was of “great weight” politically because, like other issues debated in this session, it was an exacerbating instance as well as illustration of the developing tension between the court, which advocated the entertainment of strangers (primarily for economic reasons) (Yungblut 61-94), and parliament, which supported city/ citizen aspiration to their control if not their expulsion. These high political stakes Shakespeare and Immigration 83 may well have been one of the reasons copies of the speeches were made. The parliamentary historian Andrew Thrush has suggested (in private communication): “The level of interest in acquiring copies of speeches may have been directly related to the level of conflict between the Monarch and the House of Commons.” It is in the context of this leaked, politically charged debate on aliens/ strangers that I want to look again at the playtext, known as The Book of Sir Thomas More, a collaboration that exists only in manuscript and that was probably never performed. 2 In particular I want to make a new argument about the contribution by “Hand D,” now widely, if not unanimously, agreed to be Shakespeare’s (Jowett 437-53). In this contribution the eponymous protagonist succeeds in subduing a revolt of artisan-citizens who are clamouring for the expulsion of European strangers in what was a perilously topical reprise of the anti-alien riots of Ill May Day 1517. Though John Jowett in his recent Arden edition of the playtext demurs (Jowett 47), the contribution by “Hand D” - let us suppose Shakespeare - has usually been judged as discontinuous with the rest of the playtext in its treatment both of the strangers (turned from predatory abusers of privilege into victims of exclusionary violence) and, especially, of the rebel citizens of London (turned from dignified individuals into ignorant mob). This discontinuity has, however, consistently been explained as a function of material conditions of production as, for instance, a symptom of “inadequate co-ordination” between authorial hands, as Brian Vickers puts it, arguing that the consequent discontinuities would not have bothered theatre audiences (Vickers 439). More recently, following Tiffany Stern’s important work on the fragmentary production of playtexts Robert Miola has suggested that Shakespeare wrote the part he was assigned in ignorance of what fellow authorial hands wrote (Miola 16, cf. Jones 9). Attention to the material conditions of production, whether of playtext or performance, is of course crucial, but such exclusive attention to these conditions risks evacuating content of explanatory significance. On the contrary, I want to propose that we take Shakespeare’s contribution as an ethically as well as politically charged intervention that bears not only on its own moment of production, but also on the present. For the “matter touching Aliens,” or immigrants as they are now called, is once again of “great weight” not only in Britain, but more generally in Western Europe, which is confronted again by massive movements of peoples displaced by socio-economic 2 If what follows raises again the question of the date of composition of the original playtext as of Shakespeare’s contribution (? 1593-4 or 1603-4? ), I do not have the space to pursue it here. Quotations throughout will be taken from Gabrieli and Melchiori. 84 Margaret Tudeau-Clayton changes as well as by political and religious conflicts. 3 There are, moreover, likenesses between “[a]rguments made” “on both sides” (D’Ewes 505) then and now, as I shall indicate, which suggest a structural problem that recurs within very different socio-political formations, notably at moments of upheaval such as those which bookend, as it were, the modern era. It is this structural problem that I want to suggest is the problem of the playtext, which exhibits the same impasse between irreconcilable views of strangers that we find in the parliamentary debate of March 1593. Specifically, Shakespeare’s intervention which, through the figure of the eponymous protagonist, urges the charitable treatment of strangers, echoes an intervention in the debate by the member for Canterbury, Henry Finch, as scholars have noted but never explored (Maas, Gabrieli and Melchiori 26-27; see Appendix). In taking a stand on behalf of strangers Finch and Shakespeare aligned themselves, like the House of Lords, with the court. Neither, however, simply toed the court line, as we shall see. There are, moreover, significant differences between their interventions, as I shall show through comparison with a still closer and fuller echo of Finch’s intervention in a sermon preached by George Abbot (future Archbishop of Canterbury) in Oxford some 18 months after the debate, in the late summer/ autumn of 1594 (see Appendix). Crucially, where Abbot echoes Finch in evoking the memory of the persecution and exile of English protestants under Mary in order to argue the contingency of the stranger’s case, Shakespeare evokes rather English victims of enclosure. This he does by combining the echo of Finch with an echo of Raphael Hythloday’s denunciation of enclosure from the historical More’s Utopia. Drawing attention away from religious to socioeconomic grounds and forms of exclusionary violence and from religious to ethical differences, Shakespeare thus evokes an alliance, or chorus, of those that speak across the religious divide and across the century on behalf of the dispossessed and excluded. At the same time the intertextual relation to the Utopia serves as an ironic reminder to fellow authorial hands of their protagonist’s pre-reformation social vision which is betrayed by their treatment of strangers. Indeed this reflects less this vision than the views of those who spoke on behalf of the city against strangers in the parliamentary debate of 1593. If, as D’Ewes comments, “[a]rguments on both sides were made,” the debate was heavily weighted in favour of the city which had actively 3 The verb “immigrate,” glossed “To goe dwell in some place,” is first recorded in Henry Cockerham’s English-English “hard word” dictionary of 1623, the noun “immigration” in Edward Philips’s English-English dictionary of 1658; the noun “immigrant” only in 1792 according to the OED. Shakespeare and Immigration 85 lobbied members, including a top lawyer, Francis Moore (Dean 13-14, 156). Two of the arguments made by Moore (and reiterated by others) find echo in the playtext. First, the “[b]eggaring” of home retailers (D’Ewes 505) is echoed in the “bill” (1.1.103), as it is called, that the rebel citizen leader Lincoln reads out: “Aliens and strangers eat the bread from the fatherless children, . . . craftsmen be brought to beggary” (1.2.111-16). 4 Another recurring complaint, that strangers enjoyed privileges not enjoyed by natives, is voiced by Francis Moore in the debate - “[t]heir priviledge of Denization is not to be allowed above the priviledge of Birth, and our Natives are not allowed to retail and Merchandize as they do” (D’Ewes 505 ) - and denounced by Lincoln in the playtext: “Shall these enjoy more privilege then we / In our own country? ” (2.1.27-8). 5 Strangers’ abuse of privilege is, moreover, foregrounded by the action of the opening scene where it is again openly denounced (1.1.72-4). To these arguments Walter Raleigh, the speaker in the debate most hostile to the strangers, added that they were cowards and hypocrites: “Such as fly hither have forsaken their own King; and Religion is no pretext for them” (D’Ewes 508). This finds echo not in the playtext, which avoids explicit references to religious motives, but in the libels posted in London in the wave of unrest that followed the suppression of the bill by the House of Lords: “Doth not the world see, that you . . . by your cowardly flight from your own natural countries have abandoned the same into the hands of your . . . enemies, and have, by a feigned hypocrisy and counterfeit show of religion, placed yourselves here. . .” (Strype IV 234). Most well known of course is the socalled Dutch church libel, which led to the arrest of Thomas Kyd and the interrogation of Christopher Marlowe, and which Matthew Dimmock has recently attributed to Thomas Deloney who was, like Marlowe, an associate of Raleigh’s: signed “Tamberlaine” and alluding to Marlowe’s other plays this accuses the strangers: “Like the Jewes, you eate us vp as bread”; “[o]ur pore artificers doe starve & dye”; “counterfeitinge religion for your flight . . .” (Dimmock, Freeman 50-1). Echoing the assertions of speakers hostile to the strangers, notably Raleigh, who may be one of their sources, these libels express the anger and frustra- 4 As Gabrieli and Melchiori point out (note to 106-22), Lincoln’s entire speech is taken verbatim from the principal historical source in the Chronicles of Raphael Holinshed (1587), a source which may itself have fed into the arguments made by speakers in the debate. 5 There is no equivalent utterance in the historical sources which this scene otherwise follows closely. For the recriminations leading up to the bill including complaints about how the “strangers” were “extraordinarily favoured” see Scouloudi 57. Similar arguments can be heard today: immigrants take jobs from natives and enjoy privileged treatment (accommodation and social security benefits). 86 Margaret Tudeau-Clayton tion at the suppression by the House of Lords of the collective will of the Commons as this had been expressed in the vote. As the echoes suggest, the playtext was weighted, like the debate, on the side of the city, authored as it principally was by Londoners (notably Anthony Munday and Henry Chettle). Similarly, an agent of royal authority, here the Master of Revels, Edmund Tilney sought the playtext’s suppression, or revision. 6 Both acts of suppression highlight the “great” political “weight” of “this matter touching aliens” as instance and symptom of the developing stand-off between crown and parliament. 7 These political stakes are implicit to what scholars have taken to be the principal line of argument made by Shakespeare’s More, namely, the imperative of obedience to royal authority (2.3.96-123; Chambers). 8 This line of argument is shadowed, as others have noted, by the irony of More’s own subsequent refusal to submit to this authority (Gabrieli 32). It was an irony that could not have escaped Shakespeare whether or not he knew of its exploitation by fellow authorial hands who capitalise on its implications by drawing a parallel between the death of More and the death of the rebel citizen leader Lincoln (Melchiori 93), thus adding more (and More) to their case on behalf of citizens. If, however, this first line of argument is undermined by More’s own case, there is a second, relatively neglected line of argument which is rather strengthened by it. For More himself becomes a stranger when he is exiled from court, “estranged,” as he puts it, “from great men’s looks . . .” (4.4.107; cf. Miola 28). More himself, that is, will illustrate the contingency of “the strangers’ case” (2.3.150), which is as important to the argument Shakespeare makes through him on behalf of strangers as it is to the argument made by Henry Finch in parliament. For neither Henry Finch nor Shakespeare simply toed the court line in their respective interventions. As Raleigh would later summarise, those who argued against the expulsion of strangers did so on the 6 There is no space here to enter into the complex questions raised by the evidence in the manuscript of Tilney’s intervention, which is comprehensively discussed by Jowett (356-62). My argument assumes as it tends to support the view put forward by Gabrieli and Melchiori that it was the original playtext plus all, or some of the additions, including the addition by Shakespeare, that was submitted to Tilney in 1593-94 (Gabrieli and Melchiori 26-29). 7 The reasons for the suppression of the bill were primarily economic: a contemporary points out that their retailing allowed the French and Dutch communities to contribute to the royal coffers as well as to provide relief for the “English poor” (Dean 157). 8 This critical focus has not been put into question since it was first proposed by Chambers who points out parallels elsewhere in the Shakespearean corpus which he takes as further evidence of authorship. It has never been considered in connection with the parliamentary debate of 1593. Shakespeare and Immigration 87 grounds of charity, honour and profit (D’Ewes 508). Honour and (above all) economic profit was the court line, which was assiduously toed by John Wolley, “ever the queen’s good servant” as he is politely described in the ODNB (Parry), who argued that “the Riches and Renown of the City cometh by entertaining of Strangers, and giving liberty unto them” citing the examples of Antwerp and Venice that thereby grew “rich and famous” and “gained all the intercourse of the World” - an argument echoed, as James Shapiro has noted, by Antonio of Venice in The Merchant of Venice (D’Ewes 506; Shapiro 183). 9 This was an argument Henry Finch might well have made given the prosperity enjoyed by his constituency of Canterbury thanks to a large Walloon community of skilled workers (Oakley). 10 He directs attention, however, to profit of another kind in order to make the argument from charity, urging that the strangers are “profitable among us” for their exemplary piety, thrift, hard work and honesty (D’Ewes 506). 11 He then proceeds to urge the law of God, citing one of three places in the Old Testament where the Israelites’ lived experience of exile and persecution in Egypt is given as the grounds for the command to practice charity towards strangers (ibid. 507). This is followed up by an appeal to the memory of the collective trauma of “the days of Queen Mary when our Cause was as theirs is now,” when, that is, English protestants were constrained to flee as exiles, or face death. Mobilising collective memory of exclusionary violence as well as biblical example Finch thus illustrates the contingency of the strangers’ case, which he thrusts home by evoking a hypothetical future recurrence: “They are strangers now, we may be strangers hereafter.” He closes by urging the ethical imperative logically attendant on such contingency: “So let us do as we would be done unto.” This is an abbreviated version of one of Christ’s exhortations in the Sermon on the Mount with which Elizabethans would have been familiar from The Book of Common Prayer where it features as one of the “sentences” to be spoken before Holy Communion: “Whatsoever ye would that men 9 As Wolley in 1593 cites the examples of Venice and Antwerp, so James VI of Scotland in 1598 would cite England: “Take examlple by ENGLAND, how it hath flourished both in wealth and policie, since the strangers Craftes-men came in among them: ” (King James VI and I 30). 10 The crucial contribution made by European immigrants to England’s economic development in the period is pointed out in Clarkson 110-13 and fully demonstrated in a book length study by Luu. The economic contribution made by immigrants continues to be argued in their favour, though the argument now tends to be made by what is known as the liberal left, which, strange as it may appear, occupies the position held in the1590s by the court. 11 Charity is used not in the narrow economic sense it has today, but in the broader sense of benevolent disposition (or fellow-feeling); see below. 88 Margaret Tudeau-Clayton should do unto you, even so do unto them; for this is the Law and the Prophets” (Matthew 7.v.12). Declared by Christ to be an epitome of God’s law this is a call to an ethical praxis grounded on an exercise of self-splitting in a subjunctive as well as hypothetical mode - imagining oneself, as Finch urges his hearers, as the object of one’s (consequently charitable) actions as subject. It is the ethical imperative of this biblical exhortation together with the projection of a hypothetical future experience that, as I consider below, Shakespeare takes up in his reprise of Finch’s intervention. It is all but this imperative that George Abbot takes up in what is a still fuller reprise of Finch’s intervention in a passage on the treatment of strangers in a sermon preached, as I have mentioned, in the late summer/ early autumn of 1594, and not, as scholars have assumed, in 1572 when Abbot was ten years old (Sokol 60, 63; Yungblut 44). 12 The reason for this mistaken assumption is that the passage is misleadingly quoted by John Strype in his Annals of the Reformation, in his account of the English response, in 1572, to the massive influx of French protestant refugees following the St Bartholomew Massacre in August of that year (Strype II.i 251-52). As Strype points out, this response was the object of a critique (published in Edinburgh in 1574) by “a French author,” the selfstyled cosmopolitan, Eusebius Philadelphus, otherwise known as Nicolas Barnaud. It is Barnaud’s complaint that the refugees were treated by the English as “French dogs” that Abbot takes up connecting this mistreatment to recurring popular conspiracies against strangers in London, perhaps with the troubles of the previous year, 1593, in mind (Abbot 87). Against this “disposition,” as he calls it, he sets the disposition of the “wise and godly” who treat strangers as “brethren” responding to their distress with “lively felow-feeling,” precisely such feeling as Henry Finch and Shakespeare’s More urge on their respective hearers (ibid. 88). He proceeds to reiterate the key points made by Finch in a passage structured by metalinguistic verbs which highlight its character as report (see Appendix): “considering,” “remembering,” “not forgetting” and, finally, “in brief recounting . . . their case may be our case.” This summarising conclusion signals Abbot’s recognition of Finch’s key point, namely the contingency of the strangers’ case, illustrated at once by biblical example and divine command - “the precise charge” as Abbot elaborates, “which God gave to the Israelites, to deale well with all straungers, because the time once was, when themselves were strangers in that cruell land of Egypt” - and by the memory of the “last bloudie 12 The date of late summer/ early autumn 1594 can be gleaned from the close of the sermon where “Anno. 1593” “Anno. 1594” are given as marginal glosses to discussion of an outbreak of plague in London and a recent, disastrously wet summer (Abbot 110). Shakespeare and Immigration 89 persecution in Queen Maries dayes” (ibid). This virtual citation of Finch’s intervention suggests how, once leaked, it circulated especially amongst those committed, like him, to protestant internationalism, as a model of the “disposition” of the “wise and godly” towards strangers, in both senses of the word, that is, as a mindset as well as a structure of arguments to be mobilised in public places of persuasion - theatre and pulpit as well as parliament. 13 This was a commitment that Finch shared not only with George Abbot, but also with Richard Field who, in 1600, printed the series to which this sermon belongs. It was of course Richard Field who entered William Shakespeare’s first essay as poet - Venus and Adonis - in the Stationers’ Register in April 1593, the month, that is, which saw social unrest and the expression of hostility to strangers following the suppression of the bill (see above). This raises intriguing possibilities of hitherto unexplored connections. Did Richard Field offer his fellow Stratfordian an opening to a career as a poet out of recognition for a stand taken? Had this stand jeopardised a precarious start to a career as dramatist? How far does this stand imply a similar commitment to protestant internationalism? Closer comparison of the respective interventions in playtext, pulpit and parliament suggests a commitment less to protestant internationalism than to a non-sectarian Christian humanist internationalism. 14 For, if, as I indicated earlier, Shakespeare’s More, like Abbot, echoes Finch’s projection of a hypothetical future experience of exclusionary violence in order to urge the contingency of the strangers’ case, he does not ground this on the memory of the “bloudie persecution” of English protestants under Mary as Finch and Abbot do. It would of course have been anachronistic, not to say searingly ironic, to have the figure of Thomas More recall English protestant victims of Marian persecution. Though Shakespeare was not above such anachronism or such irony, he draws attention rather to another form, or ground of exclusionary violence by joining the voice of Finch with the radical voice of Raphael Hythloday from the historical More’s Utopia. He thus evokes an alliance of voices that speak across the century and across the religious divide between Protestant (Finch) and Catholic (More) on behalf of the dis- 13 The overlap between these three places, all more or (in the case of parliament) less public sites of persuasion where speakers sought to move hearers’ feelings, perceptions and judgement is pointed up in the playtext, as in the historical events it dramatises, as the “bill” drawn up by Lincoln is read out, not in parliament, but, in the playtext, on the stage standing for “a City Street” (note to 1.1.1.) and, in the events it dramatises, from the pulpit in one of a series of sermons preached by Dr Beale in Easter week. 14 Here I join company with Jeffrey Knapp, though there are important differences between us since his view of the theatrical community precludes conflict over topical issues such as I am suggesting deeply divided it. 90 Margaret Tudeau-Clayton possessed and excluded, whether European strangers (Finch) or English victims of enclosure (More), who are all in “the stranger’s case” - a case in which, as Finch, echoed by Abbot and Shakespeare’s More, urges, anyone might find themselves. This contingency of the stranger’s case is then argued by Shakespeare’s More, as it is by Finch, through the “what if” - hypothetical - mode. “They are strangers now we may be strangers hereafter” urges Finch, echoed by Abbot: “Their case may be our case.” Likewise summoning a future hypothetical experience like that of the strangers for his audience of xenophobic citizens Shakespeare’s More calls upon them rhetorically: “[w]hat would you think / To be thus used? This is the strangers’ case.” (2.3.149-50) If Finch’s “we” has become More’s “you,” both speakers project a hypothetical change of case - from citizen/ insider to stranger/ outsider - which they invite their respective audiences to imagine as theirs in order to produce a change of heart from a will to violent exclusion to a will to the mutual charity of the biblical exhortation which, as I have discussed elsewhere, is turned by Shakespeare as a response of conviction from More’s stage audience of xenophobic citizens: “Faith, ’a says true; let’s do as we may be done by” (Tudeau-Clayton 152). Where Finch, however, followed by Abbot, grounds his appeal on the memory of English protestants’ experience of persecution and exile as well as biblical precedent, Shakespeare’s More paints rather a vivid, imagined scene of exile for the citizens among hostile locals who would “[w]het their detested knives against your throats / Spurn you like dogs” (145-46) (as the English, according to Barnaud, spurned French protestant refugees [see above]). Still more importantly, he proceeds, as neither Finch nor Abbot do, to denounce such hatred as a denial of a shared human condition, which he defines, first, in relation to a common origin in God: “Like as if that God / Owed not nor made not you” (146-47); then in relation to nature as a common good: “Nor that the elements / Were not all appropriate to your comforts, / But charter’d unto them” (147-49), “chartered,” that is, to those whose violent exclusion of other humans implies an appropriation of nature as private property. With this striking image Shakespeare takes up the intertextual relation that he introduces in the first speech through which his More seeks to change the citizens’ view of strangers. Evoking a vivid scene, as he will again in his closing speech, More invites the citizens to “imagine that [they] see the wretched strangers, / Their babes at their backs, with their poor luggage / Plodding to th’ports and coasts for transportation” (80-3). As others have noted, though without exploring the implications, this echoes a description of victims of enclosure by Raphael Hythloday in the first book of the Utopia, as rendered in Ralph Robinson’s 1551 Shakespeare and Immigration 91 translation. In a fierce denunciation of the practice Hythloday describes how those who are thus deprived of their means to live are forced to depart, “wretched souls, men, women, . . . woeful mothers with their young babes, . . .[a]way they trudge . . . finding no place to rest in. . .” (Robinson 29). Advertising a filiation between his More and the voice of Hythloday in the historical More’s Utopia Shakespeare invites those who hear it to recognise European strangers as in the same case as English victims of enclosure. Not only a collective memory but an ongoing brutal practice, enclosure was the principal cause of the massive internal immigration of “foreign” English men and women mentioned at the outset, driving thousands, including many from Shakespeare’s home region in the West Midlands, to London (Twyning 1; Clark 52). With an insider’s knowledge of internal exile Shakespeare invites his audience to see European “strangers” as victims, like the English foreigners, of exclusionary violence and so not to discriminate against them as they do. 15 The likeness is then underscored in More’s closing speech when the violent exclusion of strangers is denounced as an inhuman denial of nature as a common good, “chartered” as if private property. For the rejection of private property - and the contrary doctrine of all things in common - constitutes the ground of the community imagined in the sustained exercise in the hypothetical mode that is the second book of the Utopia, an imagined ideal that is set in dialectical opposition to the brutal actual world of enclosures that is denounced in the first book. Like Shakespeare’s More this imagined community advocates mutual charity between peoples on the grounds of a natural bond between humans (Robinson 115). Nature too “equally favoureth all that be comprehended under the communion of one shape” as humans and this equality before nature implies the ethical imperative: “Do not so seek for thine own commodities that thou procure others incommodities” (ibid. 97). The objection to enclosure was precisely that it served the profit of a few to the harm of many, witness a tract published in 1604 by a clergyman, Francis Trigge who, as Robert Miola usefully notes, quotes the passage from More echoed by Shakespeare (Miola 19). As vigorous as Hythloday in his denunciation of enclosure Trigge objects: “These enclosers respect only their own commodities, and therefore it is against charity. . .”; “They think that they may doe it lawfully; that is, they may make their own commoditie, howsoever that their brethren fare. . .” (Trigge n. pag.). Such objections were, however, countered and defeated by the argument from profit (Clarkson 20-1). The European strangers and the evicted English were, indeed, historically speaking, in the same 15 The point would have been particularly pertinent in early 1593 as the previous August had seen riots against enclosures in London (Clark 53). 92 Margaret Tudeau-Clayton case inasmuch as they were victims of what we might describe as a change in a structure of feeling, the emergence and triumph over fellow feeling (charity) of the “doctrine of self interest” as a legitimate “guide to . . . behaviour” which, together with the “institution of private property” that the practice of enclosure served, marked England’s ineluctable transition to a market economy in the sixteenth century (Clarkson 20-1). Like Henry Finch’s evocation of the memory of persecution and exile under Mary, echoed by George Abbot, the evocation of enclosure by Shakespeare’s More served then to underscore the lived experience of precarious contingency and exclusionary violence shared by English men and women with European strangers. But Shakespeare’s combination of the contemporary voice of the protestant Finch with the voice of Raphael Hythloday from the Catholic More’s prereformation Utopia makes of the figure of Thomas More a spokesperson for an ongoing, non-sectarian ethical Christian humanism that sets fellow-feeling towards the dispossessed of all nations and the recognition of nature as a common good not only against national and religious partisanship, but against the mutually implicated emergent values of self-interest and private property. If Shakespeare’s contemporaries, including fellow authorial hands, appear to have been unwilling to attend to this voice, we might do worse than attend to it today faced as we are not only with massive numbers of displaced people, but also with the prospect of collective disaster, if we fail to temper self-interest and the drive to economic profit with fellow-feeling and recognition of nature as a common good. Shakespeare and Immigration 93 APPENDIX INTERVENTIONS ON “STRANGERS” IN PARLIAMENT, PULPIT AND PLAYTEXT PARLIAMENT HENRY FINCH . London, March 1593. Parliamentary speech: “Their Example is profitable amongst us. . . . Our Nation is sure more blessed for their sakes . . . as the Scripture saith Let us not grieve the Soul of the Stranger . . . In the days of Queen Mary, when our Cause was as theirs is now, those Countries did allow us that liberty, which now we seek to deny them. They are strangers now, we may be strangers hereafter. So let us do as we would be done unto.” PULPIT GEORGE ABBOTT . Oxford, late summer/ autumn 1594. Sermon: “A French man . . hath by occasion of the handling of their last great Massacre, noted it to posteritie, that by a most inhospitall kinde of phrase, our Englishmen used to treat them, no better then French dogs, that fled hither for Religion and their conscience sake. Unto this joyne the many conspiracies, which by some of the meaner people, in one Citie of our land, have been oftentimes intended against outlandish folks. . . . Those which are wise and godly, make use of those aliaunts as of brethren, considering their distresses, with a lively felow-feeling, . . . remembering the precise charge which God gave to the Israelites, to deale well with all straungers, because the time once was, when themselves were straungers in that cruel land of Egypt: not forgetting that other nations . . . were a refuge to the English, in their last bloudie persecution in Queene Maries dayes: and in brief recounting, that . . . their case may be our case: which day the Lord long keepe from us.” 94 Margaret Tudeau-Clayton PLAYTEXT WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE . London, ? 1593/ 94. Contribution to The Book of Sir Thomas More: Thomas More. . . . Imagine that you see the wretched strangers, Their babies at their backs with their poor luggage, Plodding to th’ports and coasts for transportation, . . . . . . Say now the king, As he is clement, if th’ offender mourn, Should so much come too short of your great trespass As but to banish you, whither would you go? . . . Go you to France or Flanders, To any German province, Spain or Portugal, . . . Why, you must needs be strangers. Would you be pleased To find a nation of such barbarous temper That breaking out in hideous violence Would not afford you an abode on earth, Whet their detested knives against your throats, Spurn you like dogs, and like as if that God Owed not nor made not you, nor that the elements Were not all appropriate to your comforts, But chartered unto them? What would you think To be thus used? This is the strangers’ case; And this your mountanish inhumanity. All. Faith, ’a says true; let’s do as we may be done by. Shakespeare and Immigration 95 References Abbot, George. An Exposition upon the Prophet Jonah. London: Richard Field, 1600. Barnaud, Nicolas (Eusebius Philadelphus). Dialogi ab Eusebio Philadelpho Cosmopolita . . . Edinburgh: Jacob James, 1574. Chambers, R. W. “Shakespeare and the Play of More.” Man’s Unconquerable Mind: Studies of English Writers from Bede to A. E.Housman and W. P. Ker. London: J. Cape, 1939. 204-49. Chitty, W. “Aliens in England in the Sixteenth Century.” Race 8: 2 (1966- 67): 127-45. Clark, Peter. “A Crisis Contained? The Condition of English Towns in the 1590s.” The European Crisis of the 1590s. Ed. Peter Clark. London, Boston: G. Allen and Unwin, 1985. 44-66. Clarkson, L. A. The Pre-Industrial Economy in England, 1500-1750. London: B. T. Batsford, 1971. Dean, David. Law-Making and Society in Late Elizabethan England. The parliament of England, 1584-1601. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. D’Ewes, Simonds. The Journals of all the Parliaments during the reign of Queen Elizabeth collected by Sir Simonds D’Ewes. London: Paul Bowes, 1682. Dimmock, Matthew. “Tamburlaine’s Curse.” TLS, 19 November 2010: 16-17. Freeman, Arthur. “Marlowe, Kyd, and the Dutch Church Libel.” English Literary Renaissance 3 (1973): 44-52. Gabrieli, Vittorio. “Sir Thomas More: Sources, Characters, Ideas.” Moreana 23: 90 (1986): 17-43. and Giorgio Melchiori (eds.). The Book of Sir Thomas More. Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1990. Hartley, T. E. Proceedings of the Parliaments of Elizabeth I. 3 vols. London and New York: Leicester University Press, 1981-1995. Jones, John. Shakespeare at Work. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995. Jowett, John, ed. Sir Thomas More. London: Arden Shakespeare, 2011. King James VI and I. Political Writings. Ed. J. P. Somerville. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. Knapp, Jeffrey. Shakespeare’s tribe: church, nation, and theatre in Renaissance England. London and Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002. Love, Harold. Scribal Publication in Seventeenth-Century England. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993. Luu, Lien Bich. Immigrants and the Industries of London, 1500-1700. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005. Maas, P. “Henry Finch and Shakespeare.” RES , n.s. 4 (1953): 142. 96 Margaret Tudeau-Clayton Matchett, William H. “Shylock, Iago, and Sir Thomas More: with some Further Discussion of Shakespeare’s Imagination.” PMLA 92 (1977): 217-30. Melchiori, Giorgio. “The Book of Sir Thomas More: dramatic unity.” Shakespeare and Sir Thomas More: essays on the play and its Shakespearian interest. Ed. T. H. Howard-Hill. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. 77-100. Miola, Robert B. “Shakespeare and The Book of Sir Thomas More.” Moreana 48: 183-184 (2011): 9-35 Neale, J. E. Elizabeth I and her parliaments. 2 vols. London: J. Cape, 1969. Oakley, Anne M. “The Canterbury Walloon Congregation from Elizabeth 1 to Laud.” Huguenots in Britain and their French Background, 1550- 1800. Ed. Irene Scouloudi. Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1987. 56-71. Parry,Glyn. “Wolley, Sir John (d.1596).” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. Online edition. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004- 10. Rappaport, Steve. Worlds within worlds: structures of life in sixteenth-century London. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. Robinson, Ralph. The Utopia of Sir Thomas More. Introduced by H. B. Cotterill. London: Macmillan, 1958. Scouloudi, Irene. Returns of Strangers in the Metropolis: 1593, 1627, 1635, 1639: a study of an active minority. London: Huguenot Society of London, 1985. Selwood, Jacob. Diversity and Difference in Early Modern London. Farnham: Ashgate, 2010. Shapiro, James. Shakespeare and the Jews. New York: Columbia University Press, 1996. Sokol, J. B. Shakespeare and Tolerance. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Stern, Tiffany. Documents of Performance in Early Modern England. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009. Strype, John. Annals of the Reformation. Oxford, 1824. Repr. New York: Burt Franklin, 1966. Trigge, Francis. The humble petition of two sisters; the church and Commonwealth: For the restoring of their ancient Commons and liberties, which late Inclosure with depopulation uncharitably hath taken away. London: George Bishop, 1604. Tudeau-Clayton, Margaret. “‘This is the strangers case’: the utopic dissonance of Shakespeare’s contribution to Sir Thomas More.” Shakespeare Survey (forthcoming). Twyning, John. London Dispossessed: literature and social space in the early modern city. Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1998. Shakespeare and Immigration 97 Vickers, Brian. Shakespeare, co-author: a historical study of five collaborative plays. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002. Yungblut, Laura Hunt. Strangers Settled Here Amongst Us. Policies, perceptions and the presence of aliens in Elizabethan England. London and New York: Routledge, 1996. Mobile Parents, Multilingual Children: Children’s Production of Their Paternal Language in Trilingual Families Sarah Chevalier This paper examines the language production of two young children exposed to three languages from infancy. The paper focuses on the children’s production of their paternal languages, which are minority languages for both children. It concentrates on the children’s choice of language with their fathers, and seeks reasons for these choices. The framework of the analysis is that of social interactionism, which emphasises the role of child-directed speech for certain aspects of language development (e.g. Barnes, Child-Directed Speech). The method consists of longitudinal case studies of the two children, each of which is growing up with frequent and intensive exposure to English, Swiss German and French. The analysis reveals the following factors to be of greatest relevance: the conversational styles of the fathers, certain language exposure patterns, in particular the presence or absence of the community language in the home, and input in the paternal language from friends and relatives. 1. Introduction One feature of professional life in the twenty-first century is that people are increasingly “on the move.” To a greater extent than in the past, both men and women are prepared - or expected - to relocate for their work. Not uncommonly, this relocation involves moving to a place in which a different language is spoken. Once ensconced in their new environments, such people do not, of course, only work; they also have personal lives. They make friends, they engage in romantic relationships, and they have children. Thus, in today’s increasingly mobile professional On the Move: Mobilities in English Language and Literature. SPELL: Swiss Papers in English Language and Literature 27. Ed. Annette Kern-Stähler and David Britain. Tübingen: Narr, 2012. 99-115. 100 Sarah Chevalier world, it is not unusual for couples to form in which one person speaks Language A, the partner speaks Language B, and they live in an area in which Language C is spoken. These couples may communicate in Language A, B, C or even D - or any combination of these. If and when such couples start a family, their children will potentially be exposed to three or more languages. It is the language development of such children which is of interest in this paper. 2. Aim and scope The present paper explores the language production of two young children, from two different families, who are growing up exposed to English, French and Swiss German in Switzerland. It focuses on the production of their paternal languages, which are minority languages for both children. The driving question is: what contextual factors favour the production of a non-dominant language in a setting of trilingual language acquisition? The paternal languages were chosen because these are minority languages for both children, as well as being the languages which are most comparable in terms of exposure patterns: both fathers are frequently away from home, the paternal language is not the language of the community, nor is it the language the parents use with each other. The research questions were: 1. To what extent do the children speak their paternal languages with their fathers? 2. How may paternal language input account for the children’s production of their paternal languages? 3. How may other language input factors account for the children’s production of their paternal languages? 3. Theoretical frame The research is anchored in a framework of social interactionism, which theorises that child-caregiver interactions play an important role in language acquisition (e.g. Snow and Ferguson). In situations of bior multilingual acquisition, this includes how language code is negotiated in interaction (e.g. Döpke; Lanza). In addition to interactions, relatively fixed factors concerning language input, such as the proportions of the different languages each child is exposed to (see e.g. De Houwer, Bilingual First Language Acquisition), were examined. These factors were drawn from previous work on multilingual language acquisition (see Section 4). Mobile Parents, Multilingual Children 101 Thus, both dynamic and more stable aspects of language input were taken into account. 4. Previous work The research falls into the small but burgeoning field of trilingual language acquisition (see Quay, Managing Linguistic Boundaries and Introduction for overviews). Within this field, a number of studies provide information relevant to the question of the extent to which young children growing up trilingually speak their paternal languages. Note that here we are only concerned with situations in which the paternal language is not the community language, since in the latter case the issue of trying to maintain the paternal language is (normally) superfluous. In the study by Barnes (Early Trilingualism), for example, in which Basque was both the paternal language and the community language, the question of whether or not the child would speak Basque was not an issue. Where the paternal language is not the community language, language maintenance often does become an issue. Kazzazi (69), in a study concerned with children growing up with English (mother), Farsi (father) and German (community language), showed how Farsi could be kept alive via an Iranian social network in Germany, and trips to relatives in Iran. Both Wang and Quay (Dinner Conversations) discuss affective reasons for the children’s production of their paternal languages. Wang (62-63), whose subjects were growing up with Chinese (mother), French (father) and English (community language), states that the father’s intensive style of play and interaction contributed to her sons’ production of French in the United States. Quay notes that her two-year-old subject, growing up with Chinese (mother), English (father) and Japanese (community language) maintained English speaking skills, despite the fact that, according to parental estimates, only one-fifth of her language input was in English. This, Quay suggests, was in part due to the “close bond” (Dinner Conversations 30) between the father and child. Montanari, on the other hand, discusses why her subject may have produced less of her paternal language with her father (and maternal grandmother) than her maternal language with her mother and the community language with the investigator. She explains that in the case of her young subject, growing up with Tagalog (mother), Spanish (father) and English (community language), the paternal language may have been perceived by the child “as the ‘most’ minority language” (121). While the child had intensive exposure to (virtually) monolingual speakers of Tagalog (maternal grandparents) and English (day care staff, sister), the Spanish-speakers (father and paternal grandmother) “were observed to switch to English, 102 Sarah Chevalier not only to address other family members, including their own spouses, but also to interact with each other” (121). Thus, the child probably felt it was appropriate to use English with her father, even though he spoke Spanish to her. More general information on the question concerning the production of all three languages is to be gained from two surveys on multilingual families. De Houwer analysed questionnaire data of 244 trilingual families in Flanders and found that children had a higher chance of speaking all three languages if neither parent used the community language at home (the community language may or may not have been one of the native languages of a parent). In a different survey, Braun and Cline interviewed 35 multilingual families in England and 35 in Germany. They found that one constellation particularly favoured the promotion of multilingualism, namely when each parent had just one different native language, neither of which was the community language. 5. Methodology and data As in most of the studies described above, the method of investigation is that of the case study. In a framework of social interactionism, longitudinal, holistic case studies are vital tools for the analysis of language development (see e.g. Lanza). The first family which took part in the study lives in Germanspeaking Switzerland. In this family, the target child, Lina (all names are pseudonyms), is growing up with a Swiss mother who speaks a Bernese variety of Swiss German to her and a Belgian father who speaks French to her (he himself is bilingual in French and Dutch). Lina’s parents speak English to each other. Lina has thus been exposed to all three languages regularly from birth. The mother’s English is clearly Swiss German-influenced, while the father speaks a variety of southern British English with a slight non-native accent. Besides the conversation of her parents, Lina has further exposure to English via her American aunt. The aunt and family lived together in the same house for two months when Lina was one and a half, and since that time the aunt has lived close by. With regard to Swiss German input, the mother is at home full-time, and Lina also goes to a local playgroup two afternoons a week. Where French is concerned, the father works outside the home five to six days a week but happened to be at home full-time during the first six months of the case study due to a period of unemployment. With respect to English, Lina hears this language frequently via her parents’ conversation, and interacts in English about twice a week, when her aunt comes to visit. Mobile Parents, Multilingual Children 103 In the second family, the target child, Elliot, has a Swiss father who speaks to him in a Basel dialect, 1 and an English mother (raised in South Africa) who addresses him in English. The family lives in Frenchspeaking Switzerland and Elliot attended French-language day care three days a week from the age of seven months until the age of three years. Elliot has thus been exposed to two languages regularly from birth, and a third language from before the age of onset of speech (see Quay, Managing Linguistic Boundaries 180, on onset of speech as a possible cut-off point for the definition of “trilingual first language acquisition”). Elliot also has an older brother who attends the bilingual stream in his school (French and English). Elliot’s input in English and French during the case study was relatively even since on the two weekdays that he did not attend day care he was looked after by his English-speaking mother. His input in Swiss German was considerably smaller since Elliot’s father is completely away from home during the week, working in another part of the country, and only sees his son on weekends and holidays. The child does, however, have additional exposure to Swiss German via his paternal grandmother, who visits once a month and stays for several days at a time when the mother is away on business. An overview of the language constellations in the two families can be seen in Tables 1 and 2. Table 1: Language exposure patterns, Lina’s family Source of exposure Language Mother Child Swiss German Father Child French Mother Father English Local language Swiss German Day care (two half-days) Swiss German Aunt English 1 The father’s variety also contains elements from dialects of other regions where he has worked, namely Aargau, St Gallen, Schwyz and Zurich. 104 Sarah Chevalier Table 2: Language exposure patterns, Elliot’s family Source of exposure Language Mother Child English Father Child Swiss German Mother Father English Local language French Day care (three full days) French With regard to the data collection, the parents agreed to record their children regularly once a month for a year, from just after the children’s second to just after their third birthday. The longitudinal design of the study was considered essential for the investigation of the development of their three languages. In addition, since I remained in regular contact with the families after the recordings were made, I was also able to ask them whether they could make any further sets of recordings. Both families made a set once again a year later, just after the children’s fourth birthday. Lina’s family also made one in between, when Lina was three and a half. In this paper, the results and analyses only refer to the original or “main” data set of the first year of the study. The families were asked to make half hour recordings of their usual interactions with their child. Everyday interactions were considered the best way to obtain natural child-caregiver interaction - the main setting in which Western children actually learn language. 2 The recordings thus consist of various activities: playing, book-reading, mealtimes, getting ready for bed routines, and so on. Although no instructions were given in terms of activities, the parents were asked to make recordings of four different constellations: child + mother, child + father, child + both parents, child + person who spoke the third language (who was well known to the child). In Lina’s case, the person providing the third language was her American aunt, in Elliot’s, a French-speaking babysitter. These recordings were transcribed following the CHAT (Codes for the Human Analysis of Transcription) system (MacWhinney). In the examples in this paper, however, the transcriptions have been modified for 2 This is apparently not a universal in child language acquisition. Ochs and Schieffelin (78) report on two communities, traditional Western Samoan communities and the Kaluli of Papua New Guinea, where infants and small children are not considered conversational partners, and are not usually addressed specifically; rather, young children acquire language by overhearing conversations of older people. Mobile Parents, Multilingual Children 105 the sake of readability. Besides these recordings, informal interviews and observational visits were regularly made to both families. 6. Results This section provides quantitative results concerning the first and second research questions. The first research question was: To what extent do the children speak their paternal languages with their fathers? In order to answer this, all the children’s utterances were coded for language. Table 3 shows the number and percentage of utterances the children produce in their paternal language when in conversation with their fathers. 3 Note that in this table only utterances produced exclusively in English, French or Swiss German are represented (i.e. unintelligible, mixed and ambiguous utterances are not included here). We see that when comparing the number of utterances produced in one of the three languages, Elliot produces 1,143/ 1,240 utterances in his father’s language (92%), while Lina produces only 108/ 819 in her father’s (13%). Table 3: Utterances in paternal language when in conversation with father Child Number % Elliot 1,143/ 1,240 92 Lina 108/ 819 13 The second research question was: How may paternal language input account for the children’s production of their paternal languages? Here, quantitative results concerning the consistency of the fathers in speaking their native languages with their children are given. Further aspects of this question will be treated in Section 7. In both families, there is a big commitment to the one person, one language principle (Ronjat 4), which maintains that parents in bior multilingual families should consistently speak their own language to the child. Table 4 shows the number and percentage of each father’s conversational turns exclusively in their na- 3 As in classic studies of bilingual child language acquisition (De Houwer, The Acquisition of Two Languages; Lanza), the utterance was determined according to intonational contour. A segment of speech was considered an utterance whenever there was a terminal intonation contour. The three types of terminal contour were final (marked by a period), appealing (marked by a question mark) and exclamatory (marked by an exclamation mark). The two main reference works used for intonation were Botinis, Granström and Möbius, and Cruttenden. 106 Sarah Chevalier tive language. Note that the results from the recordings shown in this table also match the behaviour that I observed on visits to the families. Table 4: Turns of fathers exclusively in native language Father of Number % Lina 876/ 983 89 Elliot 1,607/ 1,664 97 We see that Lina’s father is slightly less consistent than Elliot’s, although with a rate of 89% of his turns exclusively in French still fairly consistent. 7. Analysis How can we account for this very great difference in production between the two children? Both fathers are in a similar situation, and we have just seen that both usually use their native languages with their children. Moreover, since Lina’s father, unlike Elliot’s, always lives at home, Lina actually has more exposure to her paternal language than Elliot does. In what follows, I examine both interactional and other language input factors in order to explain these very different results. 7.1. Paternal input: Overall consistency In connection with the results concerning the caregivers’ consistency (see Table 4), I would like to consider two observations about adherence to the one person, one language strategy made by De Houwer and Cruz-Ferreira. De Houwer cautions that “a 1P/ 1L setting may be an ideal rather than 100% reality” (Bilingual First Language Acquisition 113), while Cruz-Ferreira states: “It is, I would argue, impossible not to mix in a multilingual environment” (20) - and of course a trilingual family situation is very much a multilingual environment. In the light of these observations, the consistency of the caregivers is noteworthy. Nevertheless, the lower rate of consistency displayed by Lina’s father may have consequences on Lina’s perception of how acceptable it is for her to use a non-paternal language. This, among other things, will be discussed in Section 7.2. Mobile Parents, Multilingual Children 107 7.2. Paternal input: Conversational style Following Lanza’s model of “parental discourse strategies” (Ch. 6), I examined all instances of how Lina’s and Elliot’s fathers reacted when their children spoke to them in a non-paternal language. The results, which are presented and discussed in detail elsewhere (see Chevalier), reveal that Elliot’s father had a didactic conversational style and to a certain extent taught his son his native language, while Lina’s father did not. For example, the most common response of Elliot’s father when Elliot used a language other than Swiss German was to translate the child’s utterance (or the lexical part of it). This occurred in 51/ 89 cases or 57% of the time. Translations provide the child with the word(s) in the adult’s language - and may imply to the child that they should use these words. Another strategy Elliot’s father used was pretending to guess what the child had said (this also involves translation, but in a question form; this response was counted separately to “translation”). An example of this strategy can be seen below. (Note that in the examples the following conventions are used: Swiss German is in small capitals, English is underlined and French is in italics.) Example 1: Elliot (3; 0) and father looking at a picture book FATHER WAS SIND DAS ? translation what are these? ELLIOT AINS , presents. translation one, presents. FATHER GSCHÄNK WOTSCH ? GSCHÄNK ? DAS SIND GSCHÄNK . MAMI SAIT presents, UND PAPI SAIT GSCHÄNK . GSCHÄNK WOTSCH ZELE ? translation is it presents that you want? presents? those are presents. mummy says presents, and daddy says presents. is it presents that you want to count? ELLIOT mhm. FATHER ALSO GUET . ALSO TÜEND MER GSCHÄNKLI ZELE . translation okay fine. so let’s count little presents. (counting sequence omitted) ELLIOT NÜN . translation nine. FATHER BRAVO . SEER GUET , NÜN . JA , NÜN NÜN NÜN NÜN . translation bravo. very good, nine. yes, nine nine nine nine. ELLIOT ALLI GSCHÄNKLI . translation all little presents. FATHER ALLI GSCHÄNKLI , JA . translation all little presents, yes. 108 Sarah Chevalier In this extract, it can be seen how Elliot’s father immediately translates the word presents using a question form: GSCHÄNK WOTSCH ? (“is it presents that you want? ”). He then repeats GSCHÄNK another four times in different constructions. Note that in two of the constructions the object GSCHÄNK appears at the beginning of the sentence ( GSCHÄNK WOTSCH ? / GSCHÄNK WOTSCH ZELE ? ). This is a marked construction in Swiss German and draws attention to the object. In addition, he emphasises the one person, one language rule ( MAMI SAIT presents “mummy says presents”). Thus the Swiss German term is emphasised via the immediate translation in question form, via repetition, via its grammatically marked position in two of the utterances, and via the metalinguistic comparison. Note also that the metalinguistic comparison may contain an affective element ( PAPI SAIT GSCHÄNK “daddy says presents”); the intention may be to remind the child that he is now in conversation with this father and that he should therefore use his father’s language. With regard to Lina, the most common response of her father when she did not use French with him is simply to carry on with the conversation. This occurred in 193/ 433 cases or 45% of the time. With such a response, a child is given to understand that it is perfectly acceptable for them not to speak the adult’s language. Lina’s father’s “mov[ing] on” with the conversation (Lanza 262) can be seen clearly in the following example. In this conversation, Lina is two years and four months old. She is trying to get her father to remember an incident in Berne but he has no idea of what she is talking about. Example 2 Lina (2; 4) and her father LINA ERINNERE ? translation remember? LINA B ÄÄN ERINNERE ? translation remember Berne? FATHER oui. il faut lui rappeler. translation yes. we have to remind her. comment i.e. the mother LINA B ÄÄN ERINNERE ? translation remember Berne? FATHER ERINNERE ? translation remember? comment imitates child in an exaggerated and slightly annoyed tone LINA JA , TU DÜÜTSCH REDE . translation yes, speak German. comment utterance has a smile quality FATHER non, c’est Lina qui parle lel’allemand. hm? translation no, it’s Lina who speaks German. hm? Mobile Parents, Multilingual Children 109 Lina is not able to get her message across, neither here, nor later in the conversation when she talks about a ticket-vending machine and an exit sign at the station in Berne. Lina’s father misunderstands her use of the Swiss German word ERINNERE , which Lina is using to mean “remember,” and interprets it instead as “remind” (both these meanings exist for the word). She persists, but to no avail. Her father becomes annoyed and imitates her with a slightly sarcastic rendering of ERINNERE . Lina, however, does not perceive his annoyed tone of voice but rather his choice of language - which greatly pleases her. We hear a smile quality in her speech as she states “yes, speak German.” Her father doesn’t comply, and immediately switches back to French; however he states that it is his daughter who speaks German - thereby underlining the language choice already evident. This extract is typical of conversation between Lina and her father in the sense that one person fairly consistently speaks one language and the other fairly consistently speaks a different one - a type of conversation which De Houwer (Bilingual First Language Acquisition 361) has termed “dilingual.” The extract is atypical, on the other hand, in that it involves a misunderstanding. De Houwer notes that for dilingual conversations to be possible, both must understand the other’s language. Indeed, usually communication between Lina and her father functions smoothly. And in fact, smooth communication was precisely the reason Lina’s father gave for not insisting that Lina speak French with him. 7.3. Language exposure patterns: Position of the community language Besides interaction, more general aspects of language exposure were examined. One was the position of the community language in the language constellation for each child. It was pointed out in Section 4 that De Houwer (Trilingual Input) found that absence of the community language in the home was an important factor in whether or not children were actively trilingual. This is indeed the case for Elliot but not for Lina. In Elliot’s case, the community language is French, but neither parent spoke French to him, nor to each other. However in Lina’s case, the community language, Swiss German, was also the dominant home language, since this was the language Lina’s mother spoke. Similarly, Braun and Cline found that multilingualism was particularly favoured when each parent had just one different native language, neither of which was the community language. Again, this is the case for Elliot, but not for Lina. Thus, according to these two studies, the language constellation in Elliot’s family gave Elliot more favourable conditions from the start for becoming actively trilingual. 110 Sarah Chevalier 7.4. Language exposure patterns: Regularity and proportions of input Another factor to be considered is the regularity of exposure to and the proportions of input for each language. In a trilingual family, it is very unlikely that a child will have equal input in all three languages over an extended period or even at any one given point in time. Lina had constant exposure to Swiss German via her mother from birth until the end of the case study. However, while her exposure to French and English was frequent, it was not constant. She did not always see her father every day, and was occasionally separated from him for longer periods due to his work overseas. Thus, when her father was away she had no exposure to French. In these periods she also had far less exposure to English, as she did not hear her parents talking to each other - although she still had some input from her American aunt. In terms of regularity, therefore, Lina had daily exposure to Swiss German, her maternal language, but not to her other two languages, while in terms of quantity, she also had more exposure to Swiss German because she was mostly cared for by her mother. She had considerably less and approximately equal amounts of exposure to her other two languages. These input details can be seen in Table 5. Table 5: Regularity and proportion of input, Lina (birth - 3 years) Language Swiss German French English Main source Mother & community Father Aunt & parents’ talk Daily exposure × × Proportion most least least Concerning Elliot, he heard all three languages frequently and regularly but none of them every single day. This was because his mother travelled approximately once a month overseas on business, so there were regular periods in which Elliot did not hear English. His father lived in a different part of the country during the week, so exposure to the paternal language was not constant. Nor did Elliot hear French every day, since he attended day care, his main source of French, just three days a week. Thus, in terms of quantity Elliot heard his maternal language English most (recall that English was the couple language), and the day care Mobile Parents, Multilingual Children 111 language, French, almost as much. The language heard least was Swiss German. Table 6: Regularity and proportion of input, Elliot (7 months - 3 years) Language English Swiss German French Main source Mother & parents’ talk Father Community Daily exposure × × × Proportion most least almost as much as English We see that Lina had more exposure to her father’s language than Elliot (recall that her father was at home for the first six months of the case study). But she did have a very unequal proportion of input overall, since one language, the maternal and community language, dominated both in terms of regularity and quantity. Elliot on the other hand, although he heard his father’s language least, did not have a single other language which was so dominant in his life. He heard more English and French than Swiss German, but there were also days on which he heard neither. This lack of a single dominant language may have provided favourable conditions for the development of all three languages. 7.5. Input from others One might, nevertheless, still be surprised that Elliot produced so much of his paternal language considering that his father was away from home five days a week. And here another factor must be considered, namely language input from other family members and friends, a factor which Braun and Cline (111, 121) mention as influential. In Elliot’s case, his paternal grandmother looked after him once a month when his mother was away on business, and also had Elliot to stay with her on holidays, sometimes for a week at a time. In addition, there were family friends who spoke Swiss German - and the father insisted that they address Elliot in Swiss German, even though they were tempted to speak English. In Lina’s case, though, her paternal grandmother lived in Belgium, and visited only about twice a year. Lina had no contact with other French-speaking relatives since all the other Belgian family members spoke Dutch. Further, it should be pointed out that Lina’s grandmother 112 Sarah Chevalier is not actually a native speaker of French (it was Lina’s grandfather, now deceased, who was French-speaking). Thus, while Elliot had access to a variety of Swiss-German speakers, Lina had little French input from others. Elliot saw that other people spoke the language of his father, and these were close family members and friends that he saw quite often. For Lina, though, this widened dimension of language use was lacking. 8. Summary and conclusion This paper has examined the language development of two children exposed to three languages from infancy. It focused on the production of their paternal languages, which are minority languages for both children. We saw that although both fathers follow the one person, one language principle, and speak their native languages to their children most of the time, only one child, Elliot, produces much of the paternal language. Explanations for this difference were sought within the framework of social interactionism, which posits that adult-child interactions are important for language acquisition; reasons were further sought in more general aspects of the family setting and family practices. With regard to caregiver consistency, it could be seen that both fathers used the native languages consistently, although Elliot’s father was highly consistent (97% of his turns were uniquely in his native language), while Lina’s father was less so (89%). An example of his accommodation to Lina’s choice of language could be seen in Example 2. The conversational style of the fathers was seen as salient. When the children did not use their paternal languages with their fathers, Elliot’s father made a point of providing his son with the appropriate vocabulary, and emphasising the translated terms, while Lina’s father preferred to simply continue the conversation, despite the fact that this meant that each of them was speaking a different language. With regard to more general language exposure patterns, we saw that in Elliot’s case, the community language was kept out of the home, while in Lina’s case, the community language was also the main home language. This led to one single language having a very dominant presence for Lina, but not for Elliot. Finally, input in the paternal language from other family members or friends gave Elliot further input in and emotional connections to his paternal language. Elliot was able to experience a Swiss German-speaking world, while Lina lacked such a dimension for French. These factors are summarised in Table 7. Mobile Parents, Multilingual Children 113 Table 7: Input factors and paternal language output Input Elliot Lina One person, one language maintained Didactic conversational style of father × Community language absent from home × No single dominant input language × Regular input in paternal language from others × Output Usually uses paternal language with father × To conclude, we can say that maintaining a paternal language in multilingual families can be a particular challenge. Note that this applies equally to the maternal language as soon as the mother works outside the home as much as the father. In this paper, we have seen that despite a small quantity of input, Elliot’s father was able to create an environment in which his son chose to speak his father’s language. Lina’s father, on the hand, was not. The role of interactional style in creating this environment was seen as salient, while further external factors, such as the absence of the community language in the home and input from others lent further support. 114 Sarah Chevalier References Barnes, Julia. Early Trilingualism. A Focus on Questions. Clevedon: Multilingual Matters, 2006. . “The Influence of Child-Directed Speech in Early Trilingualism.” International Journal of Multilingualism 8 (1) (2011): 42-62. Botinis, Antonis, Bjorn Granström and Bernd Möbius. “Developments and Paradigms in Intonation Research.” Speech Communication 33 (2001): 263-296. Braun, Andreas and Tony Cline. “Trilingual Families in Mainly Monolingual Societies: Working Towards a Typology.” International Journal of Multilingualism 7 (2) (2010): 110-127. Chevalier, Sarah. “Caregiver Responses to the Language Mixing of a Young Trilingual.” Multilingua. Journal of Cross-Cultural and Interlanguage Communication 32 (1). In press. Cruttenden, Alan. 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Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 2001. 149-199. . “Dinner Conversations with a Trilingual Two-Year-Old: Language Socialization in a Multilingual Context.” First Language 28 (1) (2008): 5-33. . “Introduction: Data-Driven Insights from Trilingual Children in the Making.” International Journal of Multilingualism 8 (1) (2011): 1-4. Ronjat, Jules. Le développement du langage observé chez un enfant bilingue. Paris: Champion, 1913. Snow, Catherine E. and Charles A. Ferguson, eds. Talking to Children: Language Input and Acquisition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977. Wang, Xiao-lei. Growing up with Three Languages. Birth to Eleven. Parents’ and Teachers’ Guides. Bristol: Multilingual Matters, 2008. Moving Towards an Earlier Age of Onset of L2 Learning: A Comparative Analysis of Motivation in Swiss Classrooms Simone E. Pfenninger This study was conducted against the backdrop of the recent expansion of L2 teaching at Swiss elementary school level and analyzes the motivational dispositions of 200 students with differing ages of onset of learning and consequently a different amount of L2 instruction. Based on Dörnyei’s L2 Motivational Self-System, it is shown that out of 12 motivational areas, the only dimension that yielded significant differences between the two age-groups is the Ideal L2 Self. English is generally appraised with equally positive attitudes and dispositions by early classroom learners and late classroom learners alike, which supports the hypothesis that the amount of instruction received or the age of onset do not have a great influence on the learners’ motivation levels in an instructed setting (e.g. Tragant). However, the ideal L2 English selves, which are believed to be pivotal in L2 learning success (see e.g. Csizér and colleagues), are most well developed for the late starters, which possibly accounts for their well-attested head start at the beginning of middle school. 1. Introduction Over the past decade, learning English as a second language (L2) has become the norm in many European countries, and so-called “Early English” programs have been added to many Education Acts. Following this trend, the Swiss Conference of the Education Directors of the Can- On the Move: Mobilities in English Language and Literature. SPELL: Swiss Papers in English Language and Literature 27. Ed. Annette Kern-Stähler and David Britain. Tübingen: Narr, 2012. 117-143. 118 Simone E. Pfenninger tons (EDC) introduced Early English into the primary school curriculum in 2004. This means that as of 2012 at the latest, the mandatory age of onset is set back from 13-14 to 8, that is, from Year 7 (first year at middle school) to Year 2. 1 According to the official policy directions, one of the main reasons for the introduction of Early English in Switzerland was to provide our students with the possibility to become solid (not native-like! ) L2 speakers, as a consequence of globalization, integration and the world-wide network. In the L2 primary school classroom, the focus should be on L2 sensitization, communication and cultural awareness, leaving formal, explicit instruction of grammar to secondary school. The introduction of Early English has given rise to a number of concerns during the phase of transition in the last few years, most of them being related to the teaching approach in primary school and the apparent lack of learning success of the early classroom learners (henceforth ECLs) compared to the late classroom learners (henceforth LCLs), who used to start learning English at the beginning of middle school, that is, at the age of 13-14. For instance, in Pfenninger, it was found that age of onset of learning was not associated with differential accuracy rates for the use of bound and unbound morphology in a large battery of contextualized, offline tasks (oral and written) by 100 ECLs and 100 LCLs in a single context, Zurich, the largest city in Switzerland. Within six months, the ECLs, who profited from an advance in L2 learning of 5 years in primary school, were equalled and in certain fields even surpassed by the LCLs. I suggested there that some of the main reasons seem to be the over-reliance of the Education Directors on (a) the effects of age and (b) the amount of time spent learning an L2 at the expense of the manner of instruction (i.e., type and intensity of language exposure) (cf. also Muñoz, Age and the Rate of Foreign Language Learning). Since a number of researchers have emphasized the role of factors other than a specifically language-focused critical period, notably contextual and individual factors that “may mediate or interrelate with age effects in SLA” (Muñoz and Singleton 11), and because of the socialpsychological nature of L2 learning in general, which is intimately tied with the “adoption of a new cultural identity and new ways of communicating” (Williams, Burden and Lanvers 505), it is important to interpret these findings within a motivational framework. This paper reports on an investigation into the L2 learning motivation of 200 middle school students with differing ages of onset of learning and consequently a different amount of L2 instruction. I am particularly interested in analyzing whether the observed discrepancy in their L2 performance 1 In certain cantons, the age of onset for English is 11 due to “Early French,” which is taught in Year 2 in those cantons. Motivation in Swiss Classrooms 119 and competence can be explained in terms of different motivational dispositions. The main question addressed will be as to whether the ECLs’ lack of L2 superiority might have motivational reasons, since the LCLs’ head start cannot be explained in terms of superior neurobiological or cognitive development. Or to turn the argument around, are the LCLs able to catch up to and even surpass the ECLs because the former show higher levels of motivation or a different type of motivation? Furthermore, the relation between motivation and course grades as an achievement measure will also be analyzed in order to shed light on the “interaction of motivation and achievement” (Tragant 246). In the first part of this paper, I will consider the recent literature on the interaction between motivation and (a) age of onset and (b) amount of exposure within an “education-friendly” (Dörnyei, Teaching and Researching Motivation 103) motivational framework. Against this backdrop, I will discuss the questionnaire data obtained from the 200 middle school students in the second part. 2. Motivation in an instructed setting As Gardner (Motivation and Second Language Acquisition 2) points out, the characteristics of motivation are manifold. In the field of SLA, language learning motivation and L2 attitude have been shown to play important roles: positive attitude, high motivation and low anxiety have been linked both to the desire to study a foreign language and to the ability to do well in that language (Arnold; Dewaele). Thus, in contrast to the L1, differential motivation clearly impacts a child’s or adult’s success or lack of success in learning the L2 (cf. Gardner Social Psychology and Second Language Learning; Integrative Motivation and Second Language Acquisition; Dewaele; Dörnyei Conceptualizing Motivation; Motivation and Motivating in the Foreign Language Classroom; Teaching and Researching Motivation; The Psychology of the Language Learner; The Psychology of Second Language Acquisition). For reasons of space limitations, I will restrict myself here to an outline of the most influential “motivational dimensions” or “orientations” 2 that have been identified in recent years, with a special emphasis on Gardner’s Socio-Educational Model of Language Learning and Dörnyei’s L2 Motivational Self-System. 2 According to Gardner, orientations “represent ultimate goals for achieving the more immediate goal of learning the second language” (Social Psychology and Second Language Learning 11). 120 Simone E. Pfenninger In his Socio-Educational Model of Language Learning, Gardner established the well-known concepts of integrative and instrumental orientation. “Integrativeness” or “Openness to Cultural Identification” (Gardner, Social Psychology and Second Language Learning 7; see also Gardner and Lambert) represents one of the most researched types of motivation - and the one reported to have most influence on L2 learning in a range of studies (e.g. Csizér and Dörnyei; Williams, Burden and Lanvers). Gardner, Tremblay and Masgoret describe it as “the individual’s willingness and interest in having social interaction with members of the L2 group” (345). In recent years, this interpretation of the concept of Integrativeness has been significantly broadened; on the one hand, Csizér and Dörnyei point out that besides including the wish to “integrate themselves into the L2 culture and become similar to the L2 speakers” (20), Integrativeness should be looked at within the larger framework of the “Ideal L2 Self” (Higgins; Markus and Nurius), which is the core to many motivational constructs (e.g. Arnold; Csizér and Lukács; Dörnyei, The Psychology of the Language Learner; Kormos and Csizér), notably Dörnyei’s “L2 Motivational Self-System,” which emphasizes the effect of the ability to image oneself as a successful L2 user in the future and to identify oneself as part of the L2 community on L2 learning success. Ushioda and Chen propose that “motivation for learning another language (as opposed to learning a subject like science or history) becomes intimately bound up with how one sees oneself in relation to the people, culture and values represented by the target language, and in relation to one’s own linguistic community, culture and values” (44). What is especially relevant for this study is that in previous work (e.g. Csizér and Lukács; Kormos and Csizér), it was found that the Ideal L2 Self is the motivational dimension that contributes most to learners’ motivated behavior. The concept of Integrativeness has also been broadened as new “education-friendly approaches” (Dörnyei, Teaching and Researching Motivation 103) to language learner motivation have emerged that take into account the classroom context of learner motivation and that are “in line with the current results of mainstream educational psychological research” (Dörnyei, Motivation and Motivating in the Foreign Language Classroom 273; see also Ushioda). For instance, Tragant, who analyzed 2,010 students’ answers to two questions (one yes/ no question and one openended question) in the Barcelona Age Factor (BAF) project, suggests that in an instructed setting, where the students do not have prolonged contact with the target culture, it is more realistic to think of Integra- Motivation in Swiss Classrooms 121 tiveness within a broader frame of reference.3 She suggests that Integrativeness includes “learners’ reactions to a world in which English plays a predominant role” (244), such as popular culture, the media, the internet, etc., and refers to this orientation as “Receptive orientation,” which corresponds to Clément, Dörnyei and Noels’ “English media factor,” one of five factors in a socio-educational construct of English L2 acquisition. Skutnabb-Kangas (quoted in Kormos, Kiddle and Csizér 2) argues that, as a consequence of the development of English as a global language, “the English language has become separated from its native speakers and their cultures.” This also explains why Integrativeness is closely linked to other motivational dimensions, most notably (a) what Gardner labelled “Instrumentality,” which refers to the perceived usefulness of L2 proficiency (the practical values and advantages of the L2) and thus concerns pragmatic incentives, and (b) “Attitudes toward the 2 community,” which describes the learners’ desire to meet L2 speakers and travel to their country (Gardner, Social Psychology and Second Language Learning; Csizér and Dörnyei; Kormos and Csizér). What is most often pointed out with respect to these two orientations is the status of English as an international lingua franca, i.e. the fact that it has become a necessity to speak English in various European countries, which leads people to develop a “bicultural identity” (Csizér and Lukács 2). Dörnyei (The Psychology of the Language Learner) and Csizér and Dörnyei specify that internalized instrumental motives, such as perceived benefits and usefulness of the L2 in a globalized world, can thus be part of the student’s Ideal L2 Self: “Because the ideal language self is a cognitive representation of all the incentives associated with L2 mastery, it is naturally also linked to professional competence. To put it broadly, in our idealized image of ourselves we may want to be not only personally agreeable but also professionally successful” (Csizér and Dörnyei 29). Ideal L2 Self and Attitudes toward the L2 community are linked insofar as our idealized L2 Self becomes more attractive the more positive our disposition toward the L2 speakers (Csizér and Dörnyei 29). Another important motivational dimension that has been described in the literature is “Cultural interest,” which reflects “the appreciation of cultural products” (Csizér and Dörnyei 21), as for instance transferred by the media. Cultural interest has also been linked with the Ideal L2 3 Tragant applied the eight-category taxonomy developed by Tragant and Muñoz, which includes 4 types of orientation (“Instrumental/ career orientation,” “Knowledge orientation,” “Communication/ travel orientation” and “Receptive orientation”) and 4 components of motivation (“Attitudes towards L2 instruction,” “Interest in L2,” “Determination to learn English” and “Self-confidence in L2”) (for a detailed discussion of these, see Tragant 248 ff.). 122 Simone E. Pfenninger Self and is also said to be related to L2 learning success. Already in 1986, Spada found that authentic, informal interactive contact with the L2 (e.g. watching TV programs) leads to greater fluency (cf. also Moyer, Formal and Informal Experiential Realms). In recent years, cultural interest has often been mentioned in connection with research on the effect of the different domains of input. For instance, in a longitudinal study testing input effects on 159 students (mean age: 21; 2, mean age of onset: 7; 7) over the years, Muñoz (Input in Foreign Language Learning) finds that while starting age is not significantly correlated with output measures in the long term (not even after 10 years of instruction), measures of input (notably amount of naturalistic exposure to L2, extracurricular exposure, current L2 contact) are. Tragant arrived at a similar conclusion when she found that the only difference between her teenage groups (aged 14; 9; 16; 9 and 17; 9) and (the more successful) adult groups (aged 28; 9 and 31; 9) lay in the “Receptive orientation” of the learners, since the adults reported a stronger interest in dealing with English books, songs, the media, etc. This was also observed in the data collected from 623 Hungarian students by Kormos and Csizér: for their youngest and most successful group, the adolescent language learners, it was “interest in English-language cultural products that affects their motivated behavior” (346). “Vitality of the L2 community” is another frequently mentioned motivational dimension and means the “perceived importance and wealth of the L2 communities in question” (Csizér and Dörnyei 21), while “Milieu” refers to “the influence of significant others, such as parents, family, and friends” (Csizér and Dörnyei 22), taking into account that motivation does not just come from within the individual but is created within cultural systems and involves the mediation of others (Rueda and Moll). Finally, “Linguistic self-confidence” is concerned with “L2 learning in general without any specific reference to concrete languages” (Csizér and Dörnyei 22), and “Attitudes toward the learning situation” includes all variables that can be linked directly to the “educational system and the experiences associated with the educational environment” (Gardner, Motivation and Second Language Acquisition 7). As Gardner points out, “Attitudes toward the Learning Situation” can have an influence on the individual’s level of Integrativeness, particularly “teacher-specific motivational components,” which refer to the “desire for teacher approval” (Dörnyei, Motivation and Motivating in the Foreign Language Classroom 278), which is particularly important for younger learners. Motivation in Swiss Classrooms 123 3. The interaction of motivation and age of onset The relationship between L2 learning motivation and age has not been researched extensively. As concerns the interplay between motivation and age, younger learners are said to show significantly better attitudes toward learning English than older learners (Cenoz), which Kanno attributes to psychological and educational factors. For instance, younger learners are known to have a natural tendency to respond enthusiastically to new challenges in contrast with the self-consciousness that afflicts adolescents when performing in an L2 (Driscoll 11). However, one has to be cautious when generalizing the fact that primary school beginners seem to demonstrate more positive attitudes to speaking an L2 than secondary learners. For instance, the quality of instruction might affect the strength of the motivation-outcome relationship negatively, e.g. when the learners are very enthusiastic (as it is often the case in the primary school classroom), yet the approach is not adequate (cf. Csizér and Dörnyei). For instance, in the Zagreb Project 1991, Mihaljevic Djigunovic observed that the 336 7-year-old children who participated in the study did not list learning foreign languages (English, French and German) among their favorite school subjects; she suspects that this might be because games and playing, which constituted a great part of the L2 curriculum, bored them. Another issue is that in many primary schools (also in Switzerland), the students’ performance is not graded, which might influence their motivated learning behavior as well: goalsetting is known to be a powerful motivator that might enhance intrinsic interest, and grades and tests have been found to function as “proximal subgoals and markers of progress that provide immediate incentive, selfinducements, and feedback and that help mobilize and maintain effort” (Dörnyei, Motivation and Motivating in the Foreign Language Classroom 276). The perceived likelihood of success and reward thus constitutes an important part in the concept of motivation (Moyer, Age, Accent and Experience in Second Language Acquisition), or, as Nikolov puts it, “achievements represented by good grades, rewards and language knowledge all serve as motivating forces: children feel successful and this feeling generates the need for further success” (46). In Nikolov’s study, grades seemed to be very important for her participants (ages 6-14); extrinsic motives constituted one of four main areas of motivation mentioned most frequently in students’ answers to open-ended questions. However, the status of school grades is still highly debated, particularly due to their potential to exercise pressure on the students. Older learners are traditionally said to have a tendency to reject the school system in general, or they might be less motivated by the use of more traditional and less active methods in high school (see Tragant 124 Simone E. Pfenninger 239). Marinova-Todd, Marshall and Snow (27) suggest that most adult learners are less successful language learners because they fail to engage in the tasks with sufficient motivation, commitment of time or energy, and support from the environments in which they find themselves to expect high levels of success. This, however, does not explain the LCLs’ well-documented head start mentioned above: many studies (see overview in Singleton and Ryan) have shown that older learners profit from an initial short-term advantage, i.e. they experience a faster rate of learning (e.g. of morphosyntactic development) than younger learners in the initial stages, mainly due to their cognitive advantages at testing. It has also been reported (e.g. Muñoz, Age and the Rate of Foreign Language Learning; Pfenninger) that under conditions of unequal exposure (with early starters profiting from an extended learning period), late starters are able to catch up on and even surpass the early starters’ L2 performance within a very short period of time. So far it has not been observed in the literature that the early starters were able to retain their superiority within the period of normal schooling. The common impression is that late starters seem to feel the urge to achieve proficiency quickly. Snow and Hoefnagel-Höhle hypothesize that the superior initial performance by late starters (and thus older learners) is perhaps due to the greater academic demands placed on these learners by the schools, creating higher levels of motivation in them than in younger learners to learn the language necessary for success in school. On the other hand, children have (extracurricular) contact with the English language from a very early age on in many European countries. In Switzerland, for instance, English enjoys an excellent reputation among Swiss students and it is commonly considered “cool” among adolescents to speak or write in English (as demonstrated on numerous Facebook sites) or to at least include English terms in their native language, which might increase the students’ intrinsic motivation. What is more, the extrinsic motivation might be increased due to the public attitude towards English in Switzerland; the importance of English in the national and international job market is generally acknowledged. Thus, late starters usually do not need any so-called “sensitization programs” (Driscoll 15) at the beginning of middle school that aim to develop a basic competence and confident “handling” of simple phrases and vocabulary. Motivation in Swiss Classrooms 125 4. The interaction of motivation and amount and distribution of instructional time When it comes to the question of the distribution of instructional time (e.g. amount of exposure in hours per week), various researchers have analyzed the effects of concentrated vs. non-concentrated time distribution programs on the motivation of the students. The general tenor seems to be that concentrated L2 instruction has a positive impact on the students’ acquisition of certain aspects of language, i.e. more condensed exposure to the L2 in the classroom seems to bring about more learning than more spaced lessons (e.g. Netten and Germain; Serrano and Muñoz). Netten and Germain’s study of intensive vs. non-intensive L2 French programs in Quebec showed that traditional L2 language programs with limited hours of instruction per week in a nonconcentrated time distribution have not been shown particularly effective for L2 learning. The curriculum followed was the same as that for regular core French, but the recommended texts were covered in a shorter space of time, with the teaching strategies not being changed - similar to the situation in Switzerland. Serrano and Muñoz examined the four skills (reading, writing, listening, speaking) of 114 L2 English students distributed in 3 groups (extensive, semi-intensive and intensive) at the language school of the University in Barcelona. Their results show that those L1 Spanish students registered in extensive classes make less progress than those in intensive groups (the hours of instruction being the same in the different language programs). Hinger observed that students in intensive groups have more group cohesion and are more motivated than students in regular classes. Similarly, the intensive group students in the studies by MacFarlane, Peters and Wesche and Peters displayed more self-confidence and positive attitudes towards learning the L2. These findings are insofar important as young learners are known to improve more slowly in primary school, possibly because they do not have enough time and exposure to benefit from their alleged advantages of implicit learning (cf. De Graaff and Housen; Muñoz, Input in Foreign Language Learning; Zhang and Widyastuti). The early primary L2 language course also progresses much more slowly than any high school course because of the scarce amount of time spent learning the L2. For instance, Tragant calls attention to the question of sustainability in contexts where L2 instruction is limited to one or two sessions a week by mentioning “the serious risk that students will have difficulty in seeing any progress over time” (237). Early learners’ interest and curiosity to know more might fade over this long period of sporadic language learning, which can negatively impact motivation and perseverance (Moyer, Age, Accent and Experience in Second Lan- 126 Simone E. Pfenninger guage Acquisition; Williams, Burden and Lanvers). Lightbown and Spada hypothesize that this drip-feed approach often leads to frustration as learners feel that they have been studying “for years” without making much progress. The decrease in early enthusiasm over a longer period of instruction has been frequently observed in the literature. Famously, Burstall, who examined attitudes to speaking French of 17,000 children between the ages of 8 and 13, observed that the motivation to learn French as a school subject decreased after the age of 10-11. Likewise, Masgoret, Bernaus and Gardner report a decrease in motivation with age among Spanish students between 10 and 15. Williams, Burden and Lanvers analyzed the L2 learning motivation of 228 English secondary school students at different ages and found a clear decrease in motivation with age, i.e. time of exposure. While the beginners (Year 7) showed high integrative orientation, this motivational dimension waned quickly with the years of instruction. Despite this rather negative image of the small amount of exposure and large time distribution in educational programs, it is not impossible per se for the students to maintain their high motivation levels over a longer period of time - students simply “need to develop certain skills and strategies to keep themselves on track” (Ushioda 26), e.g. by motivating themselves with incentives and self-awards, by setting concrete short-term targets or by “engaging in an intrinsically motivating activity” (Ushioda 27) during phases of boredom or frustration. Evidence for this has been provided by Tragant, who found that learners of the same age (12; 9) but with different hours of instruction (200 and 416), showed similar levels of motivation and similar types of orientation (“Instrumental” and “Communication/ travel” orientations ranked very high). Significant differences were only found later: after 726 hours of instruction, more students had positive attitudes towards learning English among those who had started at the age of 11 (89.7%) than among those who had started at the age of 8 (71.2%). Tragant (257) thus concludes that biological age is a more determinant factor than hours of instruction received. This is also proposed in Gonzales’ study, where the motivation of 150 Filipino university students was assessed: Gonzales credits “biological factors and age” (17) to attribute to the understanding and appreciation of cultures as well as language acquisition, but at the same time he suggests that as students “go on learning the FL, they become more integratively motivated, shifting their motivational orientation from merely understanding a culture to being integrated into the target language community” (17-18). It has to be borne in mind, however, that his students were aged 17-20, which makes it difficult to distinguish between “younger” and “older” learners. Finally, Stevens (684) Motivation in Swiss Classrooms 127 also suggests that biological age is strongly linked with motivations and opportunities to speak and to maintain or improve proficiency in an L2. In sum, what has been shown in an abundance of literature is that in instructional settings, the age at which instruction begins is less important than (a) the biological age of the students at the time of testing, (b) the quality and intensity of the instruction, and (c) the continuation of exposure over a sufficient period of time. In the following, this has to be verified for the situation in Switzerland. 5. Subjects 100 ECLs (52 females and 48 males) and 100 LCLs (51 females and 49 males) were asked to fill in a linguistic background questionnaire and a 24-item motivation questionnaire as part of a larger project that analyzes the benefits of Early English in Switzerland (Pfenninger). They have different starting ages (ECLs: 8; 4, LCLs: 13; 2) and a different amount of classroom exposure (ECLs’ mean number of years of learning English: 5; 3, LCLs’ mean number of years of learning English: 0; 7), but the same age at testing (ECLs’ mean age: 13; 3, LCL’s mean age: 13; 8). In the Early English program that the ECLs attended, students received on average 90 minutes of Early English per week in two 45-minute classes. As briefly indicated in Section 1, English in Switzerland does not follow a strict protocol. English may be the central focus of the lesson, but the teacher is free to incorporate it into, or combine it with, other subjects or conduct classroom business in the L2. Due to their same biological age, both groups have the same state of neurological and cognitive development and the same level of L1 proficiency. Thus, no learner group profits from cognitive advantages. None of them had stayed outside of Switzerland for more than 1 month. All of them had had French as a school subject for 2.5 years, with two years in primary school (two 45-minute classes a week) and six months in middle school (three 45-minute classes). This means that for the ECLs, English represents the first foreign language to be learned at school (that is, in primary school), while for the LCLs, it is the second L2. This is important for a study of motivational characteristics as the initial language choice has been found to be an important condition of language learning success in countries like Switzerland where English constitutes the most popular foreign language (cf. e.g. Csizér and Lukácz; Dörnyei, The Psychology of Second Language Acquisition). If the students’ wish to start with English as their first language is not accommodated (e.g. when they have to learn L2 French first), their motivation will suffer in the long run (Csizér and Lukácz 7, 12). Besides (Swiss)German, English and 128 Simone E. Pfenninger French, none of the participants had extensive exposure to any other languages. All of them went to the same state school, a typical middle school in the canton of Zurich, which is also the main limitation of my study: since primary school students have to pass an admission test and a 3month probation time in order to be admitted to middle school in Switzerland, the participants of this study are representative of many but certainly not all students in Switzerland. Furthermore, the students often come from middleand upper-class backgrounds and thus might have more contact with L2 speakers than students of less “elitist” secondary schools. Direct contact with L2 communities is known to contribute to motivated learning behavior in a positive way (Csizér and Lukácz 10). However, owing to the administered linguistic background questionnaire, the learning environment is believed to be fairly homogeneous in terms of social background, former school education, present school education (school system, teachers, curriculum), and L1. Finally, let me note that no mixed classes were tested in this study, since at the school where the learners were tested, ECLs and LCLs do not come together in the same L2 class. This has the advantage that there is no levelling-down effect on the ECLs. 6. Materials and procedure The problem with social-psychological factors is that it is very difficult, i.e. not very practicable, to measure them. In this study, I used a motivation questionnaire with a 5-point Likert scale, 4 which was pilot-tested in 2009 with 50 students who did not participate in the main study in order to ensure sufficient validity and reliability coefficients. 5 This instrument was chosen (a) in order to elicit responses that they would be unlikely to produce spontaneously in answers to an open question (cf. Tragant), (b) to avoid obtaining vague answers that cannot be interpreted afterwards (it is not an easy task for 13-year-olds to evaluate themselves), (c) to avoid misunderstandings and/ or misinterpretations on the part of the learners, and (d) to get responses even from learners who might lack confidence and, therefore, are reluctant to describe their attitude towards English. 4 5-point scale Likert-type questionnaire items have been frequently used in motivation studies (e.g. Csizér and Dörnyei; Gardner, Masgoret, Tennant and Mihic; Kormos, Kiddle and Csizér; Kormos and Csizér; among many others). 5 Test-retest reliability was measured and the correlation coefficient was found to be 0.80. Motivation in Swiss Classrooms 129 The questionnaire consists of 12 motivational dimensions, with two items per dimension, and integrates language-related as well as learnerinternal, learner-external and learning situation factors (Ushioda 23). The questions were partly adopted from Kormos and Csizér (who themselves followed Gardner, Social Psychology and Second Language Learning; Dörnyei, Csizér and Németh; and Ryan). Attention was paid that the questions were not beyond the grasp of the 13-14 age groups. Note that for economical reasons, it was not possible to include every aspect of motivational literature in the questionnaire, but endeavors were made to at least account for the key motivational factors that were identified in previous research (cf. above). Furthermore, since these motivational dimensions are closely linked, i.e. influence each other in various ways as described above, the divisions are rather simplistic and overlap to a certain extent (see also Williams, Burden and Lanvers for a discussion of this issue). However, this design is still hoped to shed some light on possible differences between the two groups as regards motivated behavior. Table 1 includes a brief description of each dimension and lists them according to the categories described in the literature outlined above (notably Csizér and Dörnyei; Dörnyei, Motivation and Motivating in the Foreign Language Classroom; Gardner, Social Psychology and Second Language Learning; Gardner, Tremblay and Masgoret; Tragant). Table 1. Motivational dimensions Dimension Description Gardner’s framework 6 Tragant’s framework 7 1 Desire to improve English for personal reasons (identification with the language and the culture) Integrativeness/ Ideal L2-Self 8 Receptive orientation 2 Necessity of English for future career plans (work) 3 Importance of English to graduate from high school (school) 4 Desire to improve English for future studies (university) Instrumentality Instrumental/ career orientation 6 Further elaborated by Csizér and Dörnyei. 7 Based on Tragant and Muñoz’ 4 types of orientation and 4 components of motivation. 8 According to Kormos and Csizér (347), the correlation of Integrativeness and Ideal L2 Self can be considered moderate for secondary school students. 130 Simone E. Pfenninger 5 Desire to improve to travel to foreign countries 6 Desire to improve English to initiate contact to English speakers Attitudes toward the L2 community Communication/ travel orientation 7 Importance of English in popular culture Cultural interests Receptive orientation 8 Necessity of English to be respected in society Vitality of the L2 community Instrumental/ career orientation 9 Intensity of motivation to learn foreign languages in general Linguistic selfconfidence Knowledge orientation 10 Desire to improve English due to parental support Milieu - 11 Satisfaction with the English teacher 12 Intensity of motivation to go to English class Attitudes toward the learning situation Positive attitudes towards L2 instruction Dimensions 1 and 7, which can be classified as “Receptive orientation” in Tragant’s framework, include the learners’ identification of the target culture and the liking of the L2, as well as the “use of English in noninteractive contexts such as reading books, magazines and newspapers, listening to songs, watching movies, using the internet, and so on” (Tragant 249). Dimensions 2, 3, 4 and 8 refer to the importance of English as a lingua franca and the usefulness of English for one’s career and studies (at present or in the future) and can be classified as “Instrumental/ career orientation” (Tragant 248). Dimensions 5 and 6 refer to the “Communication/ travel orientation,” i.e. “contexts in which English is used for interaction” (Tragant 249): interest in travelling, meeting people from other countries, spending time or living in an English-speaking country. Dimension 9 can be classified as “Knowledge orientation,” since they deal with “knowing a ‘new’ language other than their first language or acquiring a higher level of education, rather than on the process of learning itself” (Tragant 249). Finally, dimension 10 taps into parental encouragement (which was missing in Tragant’s study), and dimensions 11 and 12 correspond to “Positive attitudes towards L2 instruction,” with a focus on teacher-specific motivational and coursespecific components. Note that some of the scales were made up of negatively worded items. Besides these scales, one additional simple question was asked in order to discover the place of English among Motivation in Swiss Classrooms 131 other school subjects (see Nikolov 41): “On a priority scale of 1-10 (1 being the highest/ the most important school subject), how high would you rank English? ” The questionnaire was administered by the author and was completed by the ECLs and LCLs during class time so that they were able to ask questions where necessary. To identify differences between mean values on scales, independent-sample t-tests as well as chi-square tests were run. 7. Results Table 2 shows the comparison of the two learner groups, of which the first (ECLs) started learning English in primary school (n=100) and the second group (LCLs) commenced their English studies later in middle school (n=100). In the t-test, the level of significance was set for p < .05 due to sample size. Table 2. Types of motivation in both learner groups Questionnaire dimensions and age groups Mean value SD t-value p-value 1) Desire to improve English for personal reasons ECLs 3.38 .98 LCLs 3.67 1.08 1.989 .048 2) Necessity of English for future career plans ECLs 4.02 .71 LCLs 4.06 .87 -0.356 n.s. 3) Importance of English to graduate from high school ECLs 3.33 .88 LCLs 3.21 .83 0.992 n.s. 4) Desire to improve English for future studies ECLs 3.57 .92 LCLs 3.66 .87 -0.711 n.s. 5) Desire to improve English to travel to foreign countries ECLs 4.31 .72 1.909 n.s. 132 Simone E. Pfenninger LCLs 4.09 .90 6) Desire to improve English to initiate contact to English speakers ECLs 3.97 .76 LCLs 4.00 .84 -0.265 n.s. 7) Importance of English in popular culture ECLs 3.59 1.06 LCLs 3.67 .96 -0.559 n.s. 8) Necessity of English to be respected in society ECLs 2.45 1.03 LCLs 2.47 1.02 -0.138 n.s. 9) Intensity of motivation to learn foreign languages in general ECLs 3.62 .97 LCLs 3.71 1.14 -0.601 n.s. 10) Desire to improve English due to parental support ECLs 3.45 1.01 LCLs 3.73 1.13 -1.847 n.s. 11) Satisfaction with the English teacher ECLs 4.31 .95 LCLs 4.23 .89 0.615 n.s. 12) Intensity of motivation to go to English class ECLs 3.96 .75 LCLs 3.82 1.01 1.113 n.s. In general, there is a very high correlation between the mean values of the two learners groups (Pearson’s correlation r=0.95, p<.001). Both the ECLs and the LCLs can be considered highly motivated learner groups, with very few learners expressing a low interest in, or desire to learn and improve their L2 English. Dimensions 2 (Instrumentality [work]), 5 (Attitudes toward the L2 community), and 11 (Attitudes toward the Learning Situation [teacher]) are the scales that showed the highest mean values, surpassing the 4-point mark on a 5-point scale. Only one of the scales had a lower mean value than 3, namely dimension 8 (Vitality of the L2 community). All the learners reported an overwhelmingly strong satisfaction with their English teacher (dimension 11): 84% of the ECLs Motivation in Swiss Classrooms 133 and 80% of the LCLs are content or highly content with their instructor, which stands in contradiction with other findings; Tragant, for example, found that “Positive instruction” receives low percentages in her groups irrespective of the age of onset, i.e. this reason was rarely mentioned in the answers of the learners with starting ages of 8, 11 and 18 at all testings. The results from the two-tailed t-test revealed that there is one marked difference between the two groups’ motivational dispositions: the Ideal English selves seem to be more developed for the LCLs than for the ECLs (dimension 1), which points to the LCLs’ stronger desire to improve English for personal reasons. An additionally run chi-square contingency test (cf. results in the Appendix) showed that dimension 12 (X 2 =7.83, df=3, p<0.05), which represents the students’ motivation to go to English class (“Attitudes toward the Learning Situation”), is also marginally significant, with the ECLs scoring higher values than the LCLs. Finally, as concerns the additional question (“On a priority scale of 1-10 (1 being the highest/ the most important school subject), how high would you rank English? ”), the LCLs seem to esteem English as a school subject higher than the ECLs; they placed English between 2-3 (mean=2.79, SD=1.51), while the ECLs placed it between 3-4 (mean=3.42, SD=1.86), which is significant (t=2.3, p<.001). Interestingly, the students’ responses did not correlate with their course grades 9 : the responses yielded a very weak (and non-significant) negative correlation for ECLs (r=-0.18) and a moderate (but significant) negative correlation for LCLs (r=-0.42; p<.001), which indicates a weak interaction between favorable attitudes toward the course and achievement at school, i.e. it reflects the high status of English as an important life skill in general irrespective of one’s success at L2 learning at school or the classroom experience. The “extrinsic gains of learning English” or “pragmatic orientation” of learners aged 12; 9 onwards has also been observed by Tragant’s study, where the young adolescents’ (extrinsic) motivation levels were high, “even though for most of those students the process that learning English entailed (the lessons) may not be particularly motivating (English was not a favorite subject)” (262). 9 The mean course grade of the ECLs in English class was 4.5 (SD=0.61), while the mean grade of the LCLs was 4.6 (SD=0.51). 134 Simone E. Pfenninger 8. Discussion The equally high levels of motivation of the two learner groups refutes several previous findings: neither longer exposure, nor age of onset of learning, nor the order of L2s being learned at school seem to have a significantly positive or negative effect on the students’ motivational behavior. Furthermore, instrumental concerns were not the predominant reasons reported by the learners, in contrast to the findings in existing studies (e.g. Lamb). Only instrumental motives concerning future career plans rank high, which is remarkable, considering the fact that in the case of middle school students, career-related goals are quite distant (cf. e.g. Kormos, Kiddle and Csizér). In Nikolov’s study, for instance, instrumental motives are highest around puberty. She cautions, however, that “most of the children are aware of the fact that English will be useful in their adult life but not all of them give this as a reason for studying it” (46). This might also be the case in this study; none of the students learn English merely for the sake of high school graduation (dimension 3), i.e. because English is a mandatory school subject, and neither group seems to be aware of the necessity to speak English in the globalized world (for social, educational, professional and material success in the future) and that they can therefore not afford abandoning their English studies: hardly any learners of the two groups expressed an awareness of the increasing stigmatization of people who do not master English in our society (dimension 8), i.e. only 3 ECLs and 3 LCLs say that people who do not speak English might be disrespected for this lack of knowledge. This might be due to their age, as adolescents might not yet perceive the high importance of being able to use English in our society. It is nevertheless a noticeable result for the ECLs, as it is one of the main goals of Early English in Switzerland to make the learners aware of the role English plays in the world and to raise their cultural awareness. Interestingly, on the other hand, both populations realize the importance of English to initiate contact with native speakers of English (dimension 6); 81% of the ECLs and 76% of the LCLs see this as an incentive to improve their English skills. Another motivational dimension that ranks very high is “Attitudes toward the L2 Speakers/ Community,” which is in line with the results from Mihaljevic Djigunovic’s and Tragant’s studies, where the primary school students rank the reason “Communication/ travel orientation” (my dimensions 5 and 6) highest at all testings. Csizér and Dörnyei, who analyzed survey data from 8,593 Hungarian students aged 13-14 on two occasions (with an interval of 6 years), found that while Integrativeness was the single most important factor in the generalized motivational disposition of language learners, “Attitudes toward the L2 Speak- Motivation in Swiss Classrooms 135 ers/ Community” have emerged as one of the main antecedents of Integrativeness, i.e. they feed into Integrativeness as one of its primary contributors. Neither ECLs nor LCLs seem to bow to parental expectations, i.e. they do not report that their parents have a particularly active, encouraging role in their L2 learning (see the values around 3.5 on a 5-point scale for dimension 10). This is insofar interesting as it is often indicated in the literature (see e.g. the Zagreb Project by Mihaljevic Djigunovic) that parents tend to take an active part and that their support attributes success to motivation. We might speculate that at the beginning of puberty, other members of their close social contexts, e.g. friends and peers, might have more influence on their L2 motivation than parents. Cf., e.g., Kormos, Kiddle and Csizér, who explain the weak effect of parental support on the Ideal L2 Self of teenagers as follows: “Secondary school students are at an age where they start asserting independence from their parents, and thus their parents’ views and encouragement have a somewhat weaker effect on their attitudes” (15). The one area where a t-test yielded significant differences, dimension 1, deals with what Gardner called “Integrativeness” and Dörnyei reinterpreted as the “Ideal L2 Self.” Several aspects of Dörnyei’s Motivational Self System might contribute to a better understanding of the result that the LCLs seem to have more salient Ideal English selves. As described above, the underlying attitude of the L2-Self is described by Gardner as the “emotional identification with another cultural group” (Integrative Motivation and Second Language Acquisition 5). English-related products and popular culture with all its role models are known to represent a strong motivator for the Swiss adolescents to learn English: for instance, the students identify themselves with Anglo-Saxon celebrities, who, in their opinion, have the attributes they would ideally like to possess, much in the sense of how Dörnyei (The Psychology of the Language Learner) describes it: Our idealized L2-speaking self can be seen as a member of an imagined L2 community whose mental construction is partly based on our real-life experiences of members of the community/ communities speaking the particular L2 in question and partly on our imagination. (102) In a similar vein, Kormos, Kiddle and Csizér explain the concept of the L2 Ideal Self of teenagers as follows: “Their motif to learn English is in all likelihood associated with the wish to become part of the global community of teenagers interacting in the borderless environment of the Internet and information technology” (16). What is interesting in my study is that the late-starting formal learners showed significantly higher 136 Simone E. Pfenninger mean values in this motivational area than the early-starting formal learners. Since this difference cannot be put down to age or learning environment at the moment of testing, the crucial factors must lie in the kind of input the two populations received in the past, i.e. different learning experiences (curricular vs. extracurricular L2 acquisition). It seems to be the LCLs’ access to a variety of (extracurricular) conversations and linguistic resources in the L2 (computer games, TV shows, internet platforms, etc.), or, more generally speaking, their “investment” (Ushioda 24) in the L2 prior to middle school, that accounts for their headstart at the beginning of middle school. This does not necessarily imply that the LCLs benefited from more contexts of L2 interaction than the ECLs in general, but rather that the LCLs profited from the purely voluntary L2 interaction in their free time. While the ECLs had more contexts of L2 interaction at school, the LCLs had more engagement in informal personal domains. Thus, this seems to support the hypothesis that it is essentially the “domains in which the language is used” (Muñoz and Singleton 13) that are significant. The main shortcoming in this study is that frequency of use of L2 outside the classroom was not measured, even though some measures of L2 use have been derived from the linguistic background questionnaire described above. The second dimension that displays (marginally) significant differences, namely dimension 12 (X 2 = 7.83; p=0.05; cf. Appendix 1), reveals a difference in the perception of English as a subject in the school curriculum. By stating that they have a “strong” interest in going to English class, the ECLs seem to esteem English as a school subject higher than the LCLs, possibly due to their prolonged experience with English as a school subject. This concurs with Tragant’s results, which reveal that “for older students the importance of English might have been more salient than the teaching approach [. . .] and the opposite might have been the case for younger learners” (259). Kormos, Kiddle and Csizér, who analyzed the L2 learning motivation of three different age groups (201 secondary school students, 174 university students, 143 adult learners) in Chile, found that university students derived more enjoyment from language learning than secondary students and that this enjoyment “exerts a significantly more important influence on the Ideal L2 self of university students” (13) than of secondary students or adult learners. They hypothesize that this might be due to the fact that “for secondary school students language-learning attitudes might be strongly influenced by the instructional context, and their attitudes might be related to English being as one of the school subjects” (14). This supports again the importance of context of L2 acquisition/ learning: while the LCLs’ language-learning attitudes are strongly influenced by their extracurricular Motivation in Swiss Classrooms 137 exposure to the L2, the ECLs’ language-learning attitudes are strongly influenced by the instructional context. 9. Conclusion The overall results suggest that apart from two dimensions (“Ideal L2 Self” and “Positive attitudes towards L2 instruction”) where the values of the two groups differed significantly, younger age of onset and longer time spent in studying L2 English do not influence learners’ motivation. The motivation that ECLs reportedly show in primary education seems to be sustained, at least throughout the first 6 months of middle school. The results thus support Tragant’s hypothesis that the types of orientation are more dependent on the biological age of the learners than on the amount of instruction received or the age of onset. The levels of motivation also seem to be independent of the L2s previously learned in school; the fact that the LCLs started with French as their first L2 did not have a negative impact on their motivation to learn English - at least compared to the ECLs, who had English as their first L2. By contrast, the contexts of SLA, i.e. the different domains of curricular and extracurricular input, were shown to have a significant influence on language learning motivation. In light of the impact of extracurricular input the idea that late starters are complete beginners when they enter middle school just because they have not received any L2 instruction needs to be refuted. The LCLs have been exposed to English as part of their daily lives, that is through popular culture, computer technology and internet platforms, such as Facebook and Twitter, and many of them are eager to expand their knowledge at school, despite the fact that they have already had to start learning a slightly less popular L2 (French) at school. This incentive seems to be crucial. Since it is suggested in the literature that the students’ future self-image or Ideal English Self is “at the heart of motivated L2 learning behaviors” (Csizér and Dörnyei 30) and “the main driving force of language learning” (Dörnyei, The Psychology of the Language Learner 3), we can tentatively assume that the LCLs’ significantly higher scores in this field might have an influence on their superior performance and impressive head start. Thus, it is not necessarily a question of intensity of motivation that plays the most important role in an educational context, but the type of motivation that is strongest. Note, however, that it might well be the case that the learners’ interest in English will wane in the next few years, as also observed by other researchers. As mentioned above, Tragant found that even though after 200 and 416 instructional hours no significant differences between her 138 Simone E. Pfenninger two groups could be observed, after 726 hours the late starters, who started at the age of 11, showed higher levels of motivation than those who started at the age of 8. Finally, it has to be mentioned that we cannot conclude from the overall high mean values on all motivational scales that, in general, Swiss learners find learning English important and useful. As mentioned above, the populations chosen for this study consist of high-proficiency students who have been admitted to middle school according to the results of an admission test and a probation period. In the future, further research on the motivation of students in other secondary schools is in order so that comparative data can be obtained. Also, attention needs to be paid to the development of the primary students’ motivation over time, and classroom observation needs to be integrated into the research procedures, as done, e.g. by Nikolov in Hungary. Motivation in Swiss Classrooms 139 Appendix Types of motivation in both learner groups (%) Questionnaire dimensions and age groups 1 pt. 2 pt. 3 pts. 4 pts. 5 pts. X 2 1) Desire to improve English to travel to foreign countries No desire at all No strong desire Neutral Certain amount of desire Definite desire ECLs 0 1 12 42 45 LCLs 1 4 18 40 37 X 2 = 4.50 df = 3 prob = 0.212 2) Necessity of English for future career plans Not needed Probably not needed Not sure Probably Yes, definitely ECLs 0 4 12 62 22 LCLs 1 5 14 47 33 X 2 = 4.82 df = 3 prob = 0.186 3) Desire to improve English due to parental support No desire at all No strong desire Neutral Certain amount of desire Definite desire ECLs 4 9 42 28 17 LCLs 5 7 29 28 31 X 2 = 6.50 df = 3 prob = 0.09 4) Necessity of English to be respected in society Not needed Probably not needed Not sure Probably Yes, definitely ECLs 23 23 42 9 3 LCLs 18 35 32 12 3 X 2 = 2.27 df = 3 prob = 0.517 5) Intensity of motivation to learn foreign languages in gen. Very weak Weak Neutral Strong Very strong ECLs 3 6 37 34 20 LCLs 6 8 23 35 28 X 2 = 5.70 df = 3 prob = 0.127 6) Satisfaction with the English teacher No satisfaction Low satisfaction Neutral Satis-faction High satisfaction ECLs 1 6 10 27 57 LCLs 2 0 18 33 47 X 2 = 6.62 df = 3 prob = 0.085 7) Desire to improve English for personal reasons No desire at all No strong desire Neutral Certain amount of desire Definite desire ECLs 3 11 47 23 16 LCLs 6 8 20 45 21 X 2 = 18.7 df = 3 prob=0.01** 8) Importance of English to graduate from high school Not important Low importance Neutral Important Very important ECLs 4 12 34 47 3 LCLs 3 17 36 44 0 X 2 = 3.60 df = 3 prob = 0.308 9) Desire to improve English to initiate contact to English speakers No desire at all No strong desire Neutral Certain amount of desire Definite desire ECLs 0 1 18 46 35 X 2 = 2.48 df = 3 prob = 0.479 LCLs 1 3 20 47 29 10) Importance of English in popular culture Not important Low importance Neutral Important Very important ECLs 6 8 25 43 18 LCLs 3 8 26 45 18 X 2 = 0.425 df = 3 prob = 0.935 11) Desire to improve English for future studies No desire at all No strong desire Neutral Certain amount of desire Definite desire ECLs 3 3 46 30 18 LCLs 0 9 33 41 17 X 2 = 4.47 df = 3 prob = 0.215 12) Intensity of motivation to go to English class Very weak Weak Neutral Strong Very strong ECLs 1 0 24 52 23 LCLs 4 3 28 37 28 X 2 = 7.83 df = 3 prob=0.05* * Significance at 95% confidence level ** Significance at 99% confidence level 140 Simone E. 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Mobilizing Linguistic Concepts: Support Verb Structures in Early English Patricia Ronan This study investigates the use of support verb constructions in an Old English corpus in comparison with a sample corpus from Chaucer’s late 14th century Canterbury Tales. The investigation focuses on the use of support verb constructions with loan-derived predicate nouns and observes that, while the percentage of loaned predicate nouns roughly corresponds to that of loan words in Old English overall, Chaucer uses considerably more foreign derived predicate nouns in support verb constructions than in non-support verb contexts. While a number of these constructions seem to be employed for stylistic or poetic considerations, others, particularly those with the support verb do, clearly fill gaps in the verbal system that result from recent language contact. This shows that Chaucer uses support verb constructions to incorporate new verbal concepts into his language and it suggests that the higher level of foreign derived predicate nouns is stimulated by the increased level of language contact in Middle English as compared to Old English. 1. Introduction This paper investigates the use of support verb constructions in Old and Middle English. 1 On the basis of an Old English sample corpus and of a corpus consisting of a selection of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, the study intends to determine the possible motivations for employing early English support verb constructions in general, and the importance of loanderived predicate nouns in particular. The object of the study, support 1 The author would like to thank the anonymous reviewer of this paper for the helpful comments. On the Move: Mobilities in English Language and Literature. SPELL: Swiss Papers in English Language and Literature 27. Ed. Annette Kern-Stähler and David Britain. Tübingen: Narr, 2012. 145-161. 146 Patricia Ronan verb constructions, are multi-word verbs that consist of an inflected verb, which typically has rather general meaning content, such as have, give, take or do, and a predicate noun (e.g. Algeo 204), which syntactically is the direct object of the support verb. Examples of these structures are to have a dream, to make a proposal, or Old English andsware sellan “give an answer.” A number of these support verb constructions contain predicate nouns that are loan-derived and the research aim is to determine whether the overall higher degree of language contact in Middle English as compared to Old English leads to these multi-word words being used more frequently with loan-derived predicate nouns in Middle English. The investigation of the Chaucerian material serves as a pilot study for further research into this question in a larger corpus of Middle English material. This approach fills a lacuna in research as previous research on support verb constructions in English has mainly been concerned with the semantic contributions of their individual parts, and the pragmatic effects of their use overall. The main concerns of corpus-based studies, such as Algeo (203 ff.) on PDE, and studies on earlier varieties of English (Brinton and Akimoto 21 ff.; Ronan 43 ff.; Matsumoto, From Simple Verbs 209-213; and Claridge 4 ff.) so far are to offer overviews of the main support verbs used, and of the overall structure of the support verb constructions, as well as to assess the degree of grammaticalization of the collocations (Traugott 239-60). It has been noted, but not investigated further, that loan-derived nouns may be incorporated into the host language’s verbal system (Akimoto 235 ff.; Ronan 130), and in language contact studies the difficulty of incorporating verbs in language contact situations has also been observed. In the latter context it has been argued that verbs are more difficult to loan than nouns because of their generally more complex morphological patterns (Matras 172-176). The present paper reports the results of the investigation of corpusbased data in order to assess the use of loan-derived predicate nouns. It is argued that support verb constructions may indeed serve to facilitate the transfer of verbal concepts into early English. 2. Previous research on support verb constructions A support verb construction is a type of multi-word verb which is also referred to as “light verb construction” (going back to Jespersen, Vol. IV 117), “complex verb” (Nickel 1ff.), “expanded predicate” (Algeo 203 ff.), “verbo-nominal combination” (Claridge 69-82) or “stretched verb construction” (Allerton 15 ff.). The collocations in question consist of predicate nouns, which contribute to the core semantic content of the collocations, and of inflected, semantically general verbal forms, whose Support Verbs in Early English 147 generality allows them to be applicable to a number of different predicate nouns. These collocations differ from ordinary verb-object combinations. Characteristically, they are semantically non-compositional, the collocations form semantic units that express one verbal event and are often paraphrasable by a simple verb, such as to dream, to lecture or to propose (e.g. Algeo 203-204). In the modern language, the choice of the verb is not arbitrary: with few exceptions, the verb and the predicate noun form a fixed collocation, in which a change of the verb typically results in semantic changes within the collocation (Allerton 227-234). However, the degree to which collocations were fixed constructions in the earlier language is difficult to determine. Following the approach to constructions in Goldberg and Jackendorff (532), the current study presupposes that collocations on a cline from free to idiosyncratic should be considered together, and applies this to support verb constructions. The term support verb construction in this study therefore does not entail judgement on fixedness or non-fixedness of the collocations. The type of structure that is subject to study in different investigations varies considerably. First, scholars apply different morphological criteria. A number of authors working on English language constructions consider only collocations with predicate nouns that are verbal derivatives (e.g. Wierzbicka 753 ff.; Akimoto and Brinton 23), either by zero-derivation or by the use of derivative suffixes. Typically, the predicate noun is assumed to be preceded by an indefinite article, but exceptions can be found. In some cases, the predicate noun further requires a prepositional phrase. Here, Brinton (192) mentions do a translation of and give consideration to. Second, functional criteria are used in the determination of support verb structures. Some authors take it as their main criterion that the resulting collocation functions as a verbal phrase (Claridge 72-73; Allerton 20; Matsumoto, From Simple Verbs 19 ff.). All authors agree on the prerequisite, however, that semantically the collocations must be noncompositional, i.e. they must have one single meaning, and thus could typically be paraphrased by a simple verb. The possibility that support verb constructions could also be paraphrased by a simplex means that they can be perceived as being verbose or unnecessarily complicated, and they are often shunned for being markers of unduly technical or scientific styles (Stein 25; Brinton 189). Some authors (Nickel 15; Akimoto and Brinton 53) see it as one of the main functions of support verb constructions that they can make possible adjectival modification of the predicate noun where modification would be impossible with a simple verb, such as Sue took a short walk versus *Sue walked shortly (Brinton 194), or where an adverb is considered ungainly, e.g. to have a quick look versus to look quickly (ibid.). 148 Patricia Ronan It is further argued that the complex morpho-syntactic structures also offer the possibility to change sentence structure for pragmatic reordering, such as in he gave Mary a kiss versus he gave a kiss to Mary (Brinton 197). They furthermore help to avoid that a verb, which is normally unstressed in English, appears in the final, stressed, position of a sentence (Nickel 17), and serve to provide an internal object for transitive verbs so that no further object needs to be mentioned, e.g. to make a mistake versus *to mistake. Support verb constructions can additionally offer semantic specification of an expression, which results from the interaction of the support verb and the predicate noun. Thus, whereas to walk is a temporally nonbounded, general activity, to take a walk is described as temporally bounded activity. In other cases, even more specific aspectual information may be added by the collocation of verb and predicate noun. Allerton (207), amongst a number of further uses and examples, observes that be and have add stative values to a collocation, conduct and practice create processes, inception of an action is expressed by arouse, go into, initiate and termination is expressed in his data by drive home. Even though these complex functions of support verb constructions are often thematized, they can also serve to simplify language. Thus, Danchev points out that they are often found in language contact situations and in situations of imperfect language acquisition (Danchev 30), and particularly support verb constructions with the verb do are noted to be used for the incorporation of foreign verbs into a target language (Hock and Joseph 257-258). Both these studies are historical and typological and they are not concerned with offering corpus-based evidence. Further observations on the use of support verb constructions to incorporate verbal concepts in multilingual contexts are made by comparative studies on language contact. It has been argued that nouns can often be integrated into a borrowing language with more ease than verbs because nouns typically need little morphological adaptation to the target language (Matras 172). This has the result that the first step in borrowing processes of verbs often is the use of their nominal forms in support verb constructions (Matras 172-176). If these suggestions are viable then an increase in language contact in a given language should also manifest itself in an increase of loan-derived predicate nouns within support verb constructions. In the following it will be examined whether this is borne out by a sample corpus of Middle English support verb constructions in comparison with Old English support verb constructions. Support Verbs in Early English 149 3. Data and Method The data for this study have been extracted by two different methods. The Old English data have been extracted semi-automatically from a roughly 108,800 word sample corpus of Old English. The texts used are the following Beowulf 12,000 words Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum (Bede) 80,000 words Anglo-Saxon Chronicle A 15,000 words Ohthere and Wulfstan 1,800 words These texts have been chosen in order to represent different linguistic genres, both in translation from Latin (Bede), and as original compositions. The largest part is constituted by prose, both narrative and annalistic, and poetry is also considered (Beowulf). The data were extracted by searching the Dictionary of Old English Corpus in Electronic Form by Di Paulo Healy et al. and using the search interface provided by the corpus website. In a first step, potential Old English support verbs were determined by a seed-study based on findings of previous research, and on an investigation of the Anglo-Saxon Dictionary by Bosworth and Toller, as well as on textual investigation. All possible spelling variants of stem forms of potential support verbs were then searched for in the corpus texts. For example, sel, sil, syl, sal, seal and sæl were entered for sellan “give” or ber, beor, bir, byr, bær, and bor for beran “bear,” as well as corresponding forms with the prefix ge-. While guaranteeing very high recall, precision was low and false positives with coincidentally similar stem forms had to be discarded, as well as those attestations which were not complemented by predicate nouns that were possible candidates for creating support verb constructions. All corpus texts provide examples of support verb constructions, and the highest type and token frequencies are found in the elaborate poetry of Beowulf with more than 30 examples per 10,000 words, while the narrative texts have lower frequencies of between 14 (Bede) and 16 examples per 10,000 words respectively. The Chronicle A, with its more technical language, occupies a middle ground of about 24 examples per 10,000 words. The Middle English sample corpus has then been compiled to make possible comparison with the earlier material and against the background of the high counts in the Old English poetic sample text, an example of verse has been selected for the pilot study, namely a selection of tales from the Canterbury Tales. For the purpose of this pilot study, we focus on the five most prominent support verbs in Middle English (cf. Matsumoto, Composite Predicates in Middle English and From Simple 150 Patricia Ronan Verbs to Periphrastic Expressions 42 ff.). The data considered for the Middle English sample corpus have been extracted from all attestations of the verbs in question and for this task use has been made of the eChaucer online concordance. The collocations have been selected using the same formal and semantic selection criteria as for the Old English data. The investigated texts consist of about 50,000 words: General Prologue 8,400 words Knight’s Tale 21,800 words Miller’s Tale 7,400 words Wife of Bath’s Tale 12,700 words It is planned for further research to considerably increase the corpus base for Middle English and take into consideration a wider variety of support verbs in addition to those identified as the most robustly attested support verbs (cf. Matsumoto, From Simple Verbs 42-45). 4. Observations on support verb constructions in Old and Middle English. 4.1. Motivations for the use in the Old English corpus In the Old English data, two important groups of usage can be observed. Firstly, the use of support verbs may add semantic specification to the verbal action as compared to the verbal simplex. This is illustrated by the following examples. 1. ic m mid Hruntinge d m gewyrce “I will create glory for myself with Hrunting” (Beo 1491) 2. . . . Bæt þaet he him geþeaht sealde . . . “he asked that he give him counsel” (Bede 4 [0608 (26.350.16)]) The noun d m “glory” is connected to the verb d man “to judge, deem.” The meaning of the collocation in the support verb construction differs from the simple verb by focusing on the outcome of the action. Differences are also illustrated by Example 2. The noun geþeaht is the basis for the verb geþeahtian “to take counsel.’ With the verb geþeahtian, the subject of geþeahtian is the receiver of the counsel. The support verb construction is used if the subject is to give counsel rather than receive it. In addition, the data provides ample evidence of the second type of support verb construction for which no verbal simplex exists, where the support verb is used to create a verbalized expression to fill the gap: Support Verbs in Early English 151 3. ac ymb Hreosnabeorh eatolne inwitscear oft gefremedon. “but often committed dreadful malicious slaughter at Hreosnabeorh” (Beo [0681 (2472)] ) 4. Swa sceal <geong> guma gode gewyrcean, “so a young man should do good” Beo [0008 (20)] In these two cases no corresponding verbs exist for the nouns inwitscear “slaughter” and g d “good.” If the speaker wants to use these and similar rare nouns and verbalized adjectives in a verbal phrase, then semantically appropriate support verbs, such as the factitive gewyrcean, are used to create semantically more explicit multi-word verbs from these. In some cases the predicate noun is a loan word in the sense that it is not derived from an Anglo-Saxon root, but has entered the English language due to language contact with mostly Latin or Old Norse. On the basis of the evidence in the Anglo-Saxon Dictionary (Bosworth and Toller), the nouns in question have not formed a corresponding verb, or have not formed it yet at the period under investigation: 5. & bebead þam biscopan ... serfise to donde, “and he ordered the bishops to perform service/ mass.” (Chron A 0632 (1070.12)] ) 6. . . . ongunnon heo somnian & singan & gebiddan & messesong don (. . .) “they began to gather it and to sing and pray and make mass-song” (Bede 1 [0236 (15.62.5)] ) The examples of loan words in the 108,800 word Old English corpus texts are ælmessan “alms” (5 tokens), and serfis “service” (1 token). Further the loan-translation mildheortness ‘mercy’, from Latin misericordia, was found (1 token). There is one token of messesong, which is a compound of the Germanic head song “song” and the Latin modifier messefrom missa “mass.” The noun serfis develops a corresponding zero-derived verb at a later stage, during the Early Modern English period. All the examples in hand are examples of concepts expressing changes in cultural practices, in these cases in particular connected to Christianity. Overall, in the Old English corpus only a small percentage of predicate nouns are foreign derived. Of a total of 188 tokens, only the above 8 nouns may be considered loans or loan translations, which have entered the language recently and have not developed corresponding verbs. This amounts to 4% of the total predicate nouns in the Old English corpus. This seems to be in line with the observation that Old English has an average of 3% loan words overall (Kastovsky 294). 152 Patricia Ronan 4.2. Use of support verbs in Chaucer’s English The search for support verb constructions in the Middle English corpus data uncovers a wide variety of structures with considerably larger textual frequency than in the Old English data base. The occurrence of these tokens can arguably be explained similarly to the explanations given for the use of support verb constructions in Modern English in section 2, namely semantic specification, pragmatic reordering and creation of new verbal concepts. Further, metrical requirements can be assumed. Evidence of support verb constructions which are likely to be employed due to these different potential motivations are given in the following subsections. 4.2.1. Support verb constructions lacking parallel verbs As in Old English, the support verb constructions may appear in expressions where no corresponding simple verb exists. 7. . . . and smale foweles maken melodye, (GP 9) “and small birds make melody” 8. I have the power durynge al my lyf (WBT 158) “I have the power during all my life” 9. . . . I, that wende and hadde a greet opinioun That if I myghte escapen from prisoun (KnT 1268-90) “I, who supposed and had a great notion, that if I could escape from prison. . . .” In these cases the predicate nouns are loan words from Old French (MED, s.v), in the case of opinioun either from Latin or French (MED, s.v). The use of corresponding simple verbs is not attested according to MED, or in the case of op nen attested first in 1450, after the time of Chaucer writing the Canterbury tales. In these cases, the support verb constructions are used to accommodate otherwise non-existent concepts within a verb phrase. In the case of melodie no corresponding verb has ever developed and the collocation seems specific to the poetic register of the text, to opinion and to power, albeit in transitive use, come to exist, but are considerably later additions to the lexicon. 4.2.2. Support verb constructions with parallel verbs in rhyming position Where no parallel simple verbs exist, an argument can easily be made that support verb constructions are formed in order to fill a paradig- Support Verbs in Early English 153 matic gap. Where corresponding simplexes exist, the reason must be different. In poetic texts, such as The Canterbury Tales, it will of course be the author’s concern to create rhyme. Here support verb constructions are additionally useful because the predicate noun can enter the rhyme. 10. For if he yaf, he dorste make avaunt, He wiste that a man was repentaunt (GP 227-8) “for if he gave, he was want to boast, he knew that the man was contrite.” 11. And therfore wol I maken yow disport, As I seyde erst, and doon yow som confort. (GP 775-6) “and therefore I will create a game for you, as I said at first, and provide you some comfort.” Both the verb avaunten “brag, boast” and disporten “take leisure, be merry,” from French deporter, were available at the time and are also found in Chaucer’s Tales (MED online, s.v.) and would have been possible, albeit non-rhyming alternatives. But of course rhyme cannot be a criterion for use in every case. For example, where the support verb is not in rhyming position and has a parallel simple verb, a different reason must be found. 12. Ne make werre upon me nyght ne day, (KnT 1823) “not to wage war on me by night or day” In this case, the Old-French derived parallel simple verb werren (MEDonline, s.v.) was available. Here it may be assumed that support verb constructions are used because they offer functions which are not offered by the simple verb. 4.2.3. Support verb constructions used for meaning specification As in Old English, Middle English structures can be found to offer meaning specifications that cannot be expressed by the use of the simple verb. 13. He wolde make a fyr in which the office Funeral he myghte al accomplice (KnT 2863) “He should make a fire in which he should observe the funeral rights.” 14. To maken vertu of necessitee, (KnT 3042) “To make virtue of necessity” 154 Patricia Ronan The verb f ren “to fire” is normally transitive, in the collocation make fyr an otherwise necessary object phrase can be avoided if the author does not want to specify what is being burnt. Similarly, vertuen “to be virtuous” exists, but it is a stative or reflexive verb, and where it is to be used with a notional object, a support verb construction can create the necessary argument structure for this. This possibility clearly exists for both native and loan-derived predicates. Fyr is a Germanic-derived predicate, while vert is a French loan. Not only valency-related, but also pragmatic functions can be fulfilled. Thus, some examples seem to facilitate pragmatic ordering of the utterance. 15. So muche sorwe hadde nevere creature (KnT 1359) “a creature never had so much sorrow” 16. “Now dame,” quod he, “so have I joye or blis, (WBT 830) “‘Now, Mylady,’ he said, ‘so I take joy or bliss.’” In these examples the predicate nouns sorwe, which is of Germanic origin, and the loan-derived noun joye, for which the parallel simplex joien is attested even before Chaucer’s time, are placed in positions of metrical stress in the lines and as they are stressed they may also be argued to carry salient information. This stress could not have been carried by a simple verb. In sum, it can be seen that support verb structures are used in the Chaucer Tales investigated in order to create new verbs for concepts for which simple verbs do not yet exist. They can also be used in addition to extant simplexes, in such cases they function similarly to structures with native-derived predicate nouns. These functional parallels indicate that the collocations with loan-derived predicates largely seem to be used in similar contexts, and seem to be motivated by similar lexical, semantic and pragmatic concerns like support verb constructions with Anglo-Saxon-derived predicate nouns. In the following, the question will be considered how prominent support verb constructions with loan-derived predicate nouns are within the linguistic system of the Chaucerian texts in question. 4. 3. Loan-derived predicate nouns in Middle English In order to assess how prominent the use of loan-derived predicate nouns is in support verb constructions in the corpus versus the use of loan-derived nouns in general, the first step is to quantify the overall use of loan nouns. To facilitate a rough comparison, the first 50 nouns have been counted in the four corpus texts and the overall ratio of loan- Support Verbs in Early English 155 derived versus native-derived nouns has been determined. This count shows that a mix of native and loan-derived nouns is used in all texts, but loan-derived nouns are more frequently used in some tales than in others: Table 1: Number of foreign derived nouns in first 50 words of the corpus texts Text Loan nouns in first 50 % loan nouns in first 50 General Prologue (GP) 22 44% Knight’s Tale (KnT) 31 62% Miller’s Tale (MilT) 21 42% Wife of Bath’s Tale (WBT) 24 48% Average 24.5 49% Not all the tales feature foreign nouns to the same extent within the textual samples. On the basis of the first 50 sample nouns, Chaucer makes the educated and well-travelled Knight predictably use most foreign derived nouns, more in fact than Anglo-Saxon derived nouns. The Knight is followed by the socially aspirant Wife of Bath, who is made to use slightly more foreign words in the textual sample than the narrator in the Prologue. The Miller, doubtlessly the least upwardly mobile character in the sample, has the lowest percentage of loan-derived nouns within the noun sample. On average, about half the nouns in the textual samples are loan-derived. Not only the total numbers of loan-derived predicate nouns in support verb constructions differ in the sample texts, also the use with different support verbs is unevenly distributed. In the following, the five most frequent support verbs are tabulated according to their use with native and foreign predicate nouns. 156 Patricia Ronan Table 2: loaned predicate nouns in Chaucer’s SVCs Counts Overall Loan Native Loan % Do 57 46 11 81% Have 63 43 20 68% Make 54 36 18 66% Take 27 11 16 41% Give 10 4 6 40% Total 211 140 71 66% In support verb constructions with do, the use of loan-derived predicate nouns is considerably more frequent than with the other verbs investigated in the sample texts. In examples of support verb constructions with do, loan-derived predicate nouns are used highly significantly more often than loan nouns in the samples of Chaucer’s overall language. 2 In the cases of have and make, foreign-derived predicate nouns are still more numerous than native-derived nouns. The two verbs with the lowest frequencies, take and give, also have the lowest percentages of loanderived predicates. 3 This could be due to frequency effects: the more frequent a structure is, the more it undergoes grammaticalization, which entails an increase in semantic generalization. This, in turn, enables the item to extend to even more new contexts (Bybee and Hopper 13). Therefore, when a new collocation develops with a loaned noun, this is likely to use an already frequent support verb. Those support verbs that are already frequent in Old English, do and have, are well established with loan words in Chaucer’s use. Take and give are not yet frequent support verbs in the Old English corpus investigated: tacan had not been loaned from Old Norse, giefan was still less general than sellan. This explanation does not, however, account for the overall high frequency of use of macian. Macian has no currency in the early Old English corpus material investigated for this study, but it is very well represented in the material from Chaucer, both in terms of general frequency, and in terms of percentage of loan-derived predicate nouns. Further research should investigate how and why this frequency increase took place. 2 The difference is statistically significant according to the chi-square contingency table test. The probability of chance is smaller than 0.01%. 3 The frequency of loan-derived predicate nouns with support verb constructions as a whole is statistically significantly higher than than the overall use of loan-derived nouns. The probability of chance is 0.05%. Support Verbs in Early English 157 In addition to different overall frequencies of support verb constructions in the different Tales, the distribution of the individual support verbs also varies. Their distribution is shown in the following graph: Figure 1: The distribution of loan and native derived predicate nouns with support verbs in the texts (normalized to 10,000 words) in Chaucer. Figure 1 illustrates the frequencies and distribution of the investigated support verbs in the corpus texts and shows the ratio of loan-derived and Anglo-Saxon derived predicate nouns. It can be seen that have and make have comparable numbers of loan-derived and native predicate nouns, while take and give have low counts both overall and with loanderived predicate nouns. Their lower counts may be due to them being semantically more specific, and hence less broadly applicable, than do and have. At the other end of the scale, loan-derived predicates are particularly frequent in support verb constructions with do. The Knight’s Tale employs most loaned predicate nouns, and few English derived predicates, with do. The Miller’s Tale, by contrast, does not use do as a support verb at all. These differences of attestation in the texts do not appear entirely arbitrary, rather, they serve to underline the author’s linguistic characterization of the protagonists: the Knight as an educated 158 Patricia Ronan person is made to use do support frequently to coin French-derived loan verbs, and the use of foreign-derived predicate nouns is also frequent in the other support verb constructions used by him. The General Prologue and the Wife of Bath’s Tale resemble the Knight’s Tale in using more foreign-derived predicate nouns than native ones in do support. The Miller, an uncultured person, is made to use fewer loan-derived predicate nouns in his support verbs overall. In summary it can be shown that in the Chaucerian corpus data loanderived nouns are used significantly more frequently in support verb constructions than in non-support verb contexts, in the case of do plus predicate noun this difference is statistically highly significant. Generally, loan-derived predicate nouns are more often used with frequent than with rarer support verbs. Furthermore, Chaucer’s use of support verb constructions with do seems to illustrate social differences: in the speech of a character with higher social status, or higher social aspirations, it is used more than the low-status character. This observation can only be tentative, however, as it is based only on data from four Tales (including the General Prologue) and testing on the complete corpus of the Canterbury Tales is necessary to confirm or refute this hypothesis. 5. Conclusion A comparison of the data from Old English and a data sample from Chaucer’s Middle English Canterbury Tales confirms that Chaucer uses more loan-derived predicate nouns in support verb constructions than the texts in the Old English corpus do. The count of loan-derived predicate nouns in support verb constructions in Old English is similar to the average percentage of loan words in Old English, which is 3%. Even though the genre of the corpus texts, as well as the overall size of the corpora, differ in the Old English and the Chaucerian data, the figures suggest that the tendency to employ loan-words in support verb constructions increases from Old English to Chaucer’s English. The Chaucerian sample texts show an average of 66% foreign derived predicate nouns in support verb constructions, compared to 49% foreign nouns overall in the textual sample. This increase is indeed likely to be due to increased borrowing overall, and disproportionally so in support verb constructions, particularly with do. Support verb constructions are clearly used as a means to create new verbs where no corresponding simplex exists. Furthermore loan-derived nouns continue to be frequent in support verb constructions, even if a corresponding simple verb has already developed at the time of use in Middle English. Where a corresponding simplex exists, the use of the support verb construction seems Support Verbs in Early English 159 to be conditioned by principles of stylistics and semantics similar to those that apply to support verb constructions with native predicate nouns. The investigation of the Chaucerian data, however, can only be viewed as a pilot study for the status and prominence of loan-derived predicate nouns in the Middle English corpus data. For any confident conclusions on Middle English, a larger-scale study of attestations in various dialects and genres from different periods of Middle English is needed. So far the material seems to confirm that support verb constructions, particularly with the verb do, are indeed used to integrate new linguistic concepts in the context of linguistic and cultural contacts, and the increase in linguistic and cultural contacts from Old English to Chaucer’s times is mirrored in a high percentage of foreign derived predicate nouns complementing the most frequent support verbs. 160 Patricia Ronan References Akimoto, Minoji. “Collocations and Idioms in Late Modern English.” Collocational and Idiomatic Aspects of Composite Predicates in the History of English. Ed. Laurel J. Brinton and Minoji Akimoto. Amsterdam: Benjamins, 1999. 207-238. and Laurel J. Brinton. “The Origin of the Composite Predicate in Old English.” Collocational and Idiomatic Aspects of Composite Predicates in the History of English. Ed. Laurel J. Brinton and Minoji Akimoto. Amsterdam: Benjamins, 1999. 21-58. Algeo, John. “Having a Look at the Expanded Predicate.” The Verb in Contemporary English. Theory and Description. Ed. Bas Aarts and Charles F. Meyer. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. 203-217. Allerton, David J. Stretched Verb Constructions in English. London: Routledge, 2002. Bosworth, Joseph and T. Northcote Toller. An Anglo-Saxon Dictionary. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1898. Also available at: http: / / lexicon.ff.cuni.cz/ texts/ oe_bosworthtoller_about.html Brinton, Laurel J. “Attitudes to Increasing Segmentalization. Complex and Phrasal Verbs in English.” Journal of English Linguistics 24 (3) (1996): 186-205. and Minoji Akimoto (eds). Collocational and Idiomatic Aspects of Composite Predicates in the History of English. Ed. Laurel J. Brinton and Minoji Akimoto. Amsterdam: Benjamins, 1999. Bybee, Joan and Paul Hopper. “Introduction to Frequency and the Emergence of Linguistic Structure.” Frequency and the Emergence of Linguistic Structure. Ed. Joan Bybee and Paul Hopper. 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Amsterdam: Benjamins, 1999. 59-96. . From Simple Verbs to Periphrastic Expressions. Bern and Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2008. MED: see Kurath, Hans, Sherman M. Kuhn, John Reidy and Robert E. Lewis, eds. Nickel, Gerhard. “Complex Verbal Structures in English.” International Review of Applied Linguistics 6 (1968): 1-21. Ronan, Patricia. Make Peace and Take Victory: Support Verb Constructions in Old English in Comparison with Old Irish. NOWELE Supplement Series 24. Odense: University of Southern Denmark, in press. Stein, Gabriele. “The Phrasal Verb Type to Have a Look in Modern English.” International Review of Applied Linguistics in Language Teaching 19 (1991): 1-29. Traugott, Elizabeth Closs. “A Historical Overview of Complex Predicate Types.” Collocational and Idiomatic Aspects of Composite Predicates in the History of English. Ed. Laurel J. Brinton and Minoji Akimoto. Amsterdam: Benjamins, 1999. 239-260. Wierzbicka, Anna. “Why Can you Have a Drink When You Can’t *Have an Eat? ”. Language 58 (1982): 753-799. Notes on Contributors ELLEKE BOEHMER is the author of Colonial and Postcolonial Literature (1995, 2005), Empire, the National and the Postcolonial, 1890-1920 (2002) and Stories of Women (2005), and the biography Nelson Mandela (2008). She has published four acclaimed novels: Screens Against the Sky (shortlisted for the David Hyam Prize, 1990), An Immaculate Figure (1993), Bloodlines (short-listed for the SANLAM award, 2000), and Nile Baby (2008). She edited Robert Baden-Powell’s Scouting for Boys (2004), and the anthology Empire Writing (1998), and co-edited JM Coetzee in Writing and Theory (2009), Terror and the Postcolonial (2009), and The Indian Postcolonial (2010). Sharmilla and Other Portraits (2010) is her first short story collection. Elleke Boehmer is Professor of World Literature in English at the University of Oxford and Deputy Director of the Oxford Centre for Life Writing at Wolfson College. She is currently working on a memoir fiction. DAVID BRITAIN is Professor of Modern English Linguistics at the University of Bern. He is Associate Editor of the Journal of Sociolinguistics, co-author of Linguistics: an Introduction (2009), editor of Language in the British Isles (2007) and co-editor (with Jenny Cheshire) of Social Dialectology (2003). He has co-edited a special issue of the International Journal of the Sociology of Language on dialect death in Europe with Reinhild Vandekerckhove and Willy Jongenburger, published in 2009. His areas of research include language variation and change, English dialectology, and the interface between dialectology and human geography. BARBARA BUCHENAU is Assistant Professor of Postcolonial Literary and Cultural Studies at the University of Bern. Publications include Der frühe amerikanische historische Roman im transatlantischen Vergleich (2002), Intercultural Negotiations in the Americas and Beyond (edited with Marietta Messmer, 2001) and Do the Americas Have a Common Literary History? (edited with Annette Paatz, Rolf Lohse and Marietta Messmer, 2002). Her areas of research are historical fiction, travel writing, early modern scholarship, Atlantic and Inter-American Studies. She is currently working on cultural mobility, stereotyping and religious typology. 164 Notes on Contributors SARAH CHEVALIER is Senior Assistant in English Linguistics at the University of Zurich. She holds a BA in modern languages from the University of Sydney, as well as a Lizenziat in English and French Linguistics and Literature, and a doctorate in English Linguistics, from the University of Zurich. Her research interests are the social and regional varieties of English, onomastics, biand multilingualism, and language acquisition. Her first book, Ava to Zac: A Sociolinguistic Study of Given Names and Nicknames in Australia (2006), explored the formation, use and social meanings of personal names. Her Habilitation (recently submitted at the University of Zurich) is concerned with the acquisition of three languages by very young children. MARTIN HEUSSER is a professor in the English Department at the University of Zurich where he holds the chair for Literatures in English of the 19th and 20th Centuries. He is the author of I Am My Writing: The Poetry of E. E. Cummings (1997) and has edited several volumes of essays on word and image topics, among them Text and Visuality (1999), On Verbal / Visual Representation (2005) and Mediality / Intermediality (2008). His primary research interests lie in word and image studies, American studies and literary theory. At present he is working on a series of articles on the representation of the Vietnam War in photojournalism and the popular media from the 1960s to the 1990s. ANNETTE KERN-STÄHLER is Professor of Medieval English Studies at the University of Bern. Her areas of research include medieval authorship, concepts of space, the senses in medieval literature and culture, and interrelations between science and literature. She is the author of two monographs: “A Room of One’s Own”: Reale und mentale Innenräume weiblicher Selbstbestimmung im spätmittelalterlichen England (2002) and “A Missionary Zeal: ” Besatzung, Entnazifizierung und Umerziehung als Aktionsfeld und im Geschichtsbewusstsein britischer Literaten (2009) and co-author of a book on literature and medical ethics, which is forthcoming. SIMONE E. PFENNINGER received her doctoral degree in historical linguistics from the University of Zurich. She is a senior assistant at the English Seminar of the University of Zurich, where she teaches courses at the undergraduate level in second language acquisition and psycholinguistics. Outside of the university environment she also completed a teacher training programme to become a certified high school teacher. Her recent work has focused on age effects in instructed second lan- Notes on Contributors 165 guage acquisition (cognitive aspects as well as socio-affective factors of language learning, such as language learning motivation, anxiety, learner strategies). Her current research project is concerned with the question as to whether the mandatory school time in Switzerland is long enough for the benefits of early L2 English instruction to unfold. PATRICIA RONAN is Maître Assistante at the Department of English at the University of Lausanne, Switzerland. Her main research interests are the languages of Britain and Ireland and their historical development, as well as the linguistic and cultural results of contacts between the different population groups in these areas. SIMON SWIFT is Senior Lecturer in Critical and Cultural Theory at the School of English, University of Leeds. He is the author of two monographs: Romanticism, Literature and Philosophy (2006; paperback edition published 2008) and Hannah Arendt (2008). His work has also appeared in Textual Practice, Studies in Romanticism, New Formations and Parallax. MARGARET TUDEAU-CLAYTON is Professor of English Literature and currently head of the Institute of English Studies at the University of Neuchâtel. She is the author of Jonson, Shakespeare and early modern Virgil (1998; reprinted as paperback 2006) as well as of numerous articles on English Renaissance literature, especially on translation and on Shakespeare. She has co-edited three collections of essays: with Martin Warner, Addressing Frank Kermode (1991); with Philippa Berry, Textures of Renaissance Knowledge (2003); and with Willy Maley, This England, that Shakespeare (2010). She is currently working on a book length project, Shakespeare’s Englishes: Shakespeare and the Ideology of Linguistic Practices in Early Modern England. Index of Names Abbot, George, 13, 84, 88, 88n, 89-90, 92, 93 Ackland, Michael, 27 Adams, Percy G., 57 Adorno, Theodor, 40 Agamben, Giorgio, 45 Aguilar Rivera, José Antonio, 70 Ahmed, Sara, 62, 65 Akimoto, Minoji, 146-147 Algeo, John, 146-147 Allen, Charles, 21 Allerton, David, J., 146-148 Althusser, Louis, 50 Appadurai, Arjun, 25 Arendt, Hannah, 12, 39-51 Arnold, Jane, 119-120 Austin, Alfred, 22, 28 Baden-Powell, Robert, 30 Barnaud, Nicolas (Eusebius Philadelphus), 88, 90 Barnes, Julia, 14, 99, 101 Barthes, Roland, 72 Bauer, Ralph, 57 Bauman, Zygmunt, 41, 44 Bayly, C. A., 20 Bede, Saint 149-151 Bell, Duncan, 19, 19n, 28 Berger, Dina, 70 Bernaus, Merce, 126 Bernd Möbius, 105n Bloom, Nicolas Dagen, 70 Boehmer, Elleke, 19n, 27, 29, 33 Bosworth, Joseph, 149, 151 Botinis, Antonis, 105n Bradford, Marshall D., 124 Braun, Andreas, 102, 111 Brinton, Laurel J., 146-148 Brontë, Charlotte, 25 Bruner, Edward M., 72 Burden, Robert, 118, 120, 126 Burstall, Clare, 126 Bybee, Joan, 156 Carman, Bliss, 27 Cenoz, Jasone, 123 Chambers, R. W., 86, 86n Charles II, King, 12, 58 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 14, 145, 152-159 Chen, Szu-An, 120 Chettle, Henry, 86 Chevalier, Sarah, 11, 14, 99, 107, 164 Chitty, W., 82 Chomsky, Noam, 49-50 Claridge, Claudia, 146-147 Clark, Peter, 82, 91, 91n Clarkson, L. A., 87n, 91-92 Clément, Richard, 121 Cline, Tony, 102, 111 Cockerham, Henry, 84n Colley, Linda, 57 Combet, Denis, 62 Conrad, Joseph, 32, 76 Cresswell, Tim, 11 Cruttenden, Alan, 105n 168 Index of Names Cruz-Ferreria, Madalena, 106 Csizér, Kata, 117, 120-123, 127-128, 128n, 129, 129n, 134-137 Danchev, Andrei, 148 Darwin, John, 22 Dean, David, 82, 85, 86n D’Ewes, Simonds, 82, 84-85, 87 De Graaff, Richard, 125 De Houwer, Annick, 100, 102, 105n, 106, 109 Deloney, Thomas, 85 Delpar, Helen, 69-70 Derrida, Jaques, 45n Dewaele, Jean-Marc, 119 Dickens, Charles, 25 Dilke, Charles, 23, 24n Dimmock, Matthew, 85 Di Paulo, Healy, Antonette, 149 Döpke, Susanne, 100 Dörnyei, Zoltán, 14, 117, 119-123, 127, 128n, 129, 129n, 134-135, 137 Driscoll, Patricia, 123-124 Eichmann, Adolf, 42, 46 Elizabeth I, Queen, 82 Engels, Friedrich, 40 Erikson, Erik, 75 Falk, Barry J., 21 Fanon, Frantz, 47 Ferguson, Charles A., 100 Field, Richard, 89, Finch, Henry, 13, 84, 86-87, 88-90, 92-93 Fournier, Martin, 58-60, 62 Frank, Waldo, 69-70 Freedgood, Elaine, 25 Freeman, Arthur, 85 Froude, J. A., 24 Gabrieli, Vittorio, 83n, 84, 85n, 86, 86n Gamio, Manuel, 71, 74 Gandhi, M. K., 33-34 Gardner, Robert C. 119, 119n, 120-122, 126, 128n, 135 Garvey, Marcus, 34 Germain, Claude, 125 Givner, Joan, 71, 73 Goldberg, Adele, 147 Gonzales, Richard D. L.C., 126 Graham, Colin, 20-21, 23n, 27n Granström, Bjorn, 105n Greenblatt, Stephen, 11-12, 53-59, 60-61, 65-66 Gunn, Drewey Wayne, 70n Haines, Dorothy, 149 Hartley, T. E., 82 Hazel, Markus, 120 Headrick, D. R., 23 Heidegger, Martin, 44, 45n Hendrick, Willene and George, 73 Henley, W. E., 17, 19n, 22- 23, 33-34 Hewitt de Alcántara, Cynthia, 74 Higgins, Tory E., 120 Hill, Robert W., 23n Hinger, Barbara, 125 Hitler, Adolf, 45 Hoch, Hans Heinrich, 148 Hoefnagel-Höhle, Marian, 124 Holinshed, Raphael, 85n Holland, Joan, 149 Hopkins, A. G., 22 Hopper, Peter, 156 Horkheimer, Max, 40 Housen, Alex, 125 Jackendorff, Ray, 147 Index of Names 169 James VI, King of Scotland, 87n Jameson, Frederic, 19, 32-33 Jesperson, Otto, 146 Jones, John, 83 Joseph, Brian, 148 Jowett, John, 83, 86n Joyce, James, 32 Kanno, Yasuko, 123 Kaplan, Caren, 65 Kastovsky, Dieter, 151 Kazzazi, Kerstin, 101 Kiddle, Thom, 121, 128n, 134-136 Kipling, Rudyard, 12, 17-34 Kitzan, Laurence, 20, 26n Knapp, Jeffrey, 89n Kormos, Judit, 120-122, 128n, 134-136 Kuhn, Sherman, M., 152- 153 Kuhn, Thomas S., 54 Kurath, Hans, 152-153 Kuttner, Sven, 60 Kyd, Thomas, 85 Lamb, Martin, 134 Lambert, David, 22 Lambert, Wallace, E. 120 Lanvers, Ursuka, 118, 120, 126 Lanza, Elizabeth, 100, 102, 105n, 107-108 Lenin, Vladimir, 48 Lester, Alan, 22 Lewis, Robert E., 152-153 Lightbown, Patsy M., 126 Loomba, Ania, 19 Lord Tennyson, Alfred, 17, 22-33 Love, Harold, 82 Lukács, Gabriella, 120-121, 127, 128 Luu, Lien Bich, 87n Maas, P., 84 MacDonald, Robert H., 20- 22, 23n, 30 MacFarlane, Alina, 125 MacWhinney, Brian, 104 Mandela, Nelson, 33-34 Marinova-Todd, Stefka, 124 Markus, Hazel, 120 Marlowe, Christopher, 85 Marx, Karl, 40, 45n, 47-48 Mary I, Queen, 13, 84, 87, 89, 92-93 Masgoret, Anne-Marie, 126, 128n Massey, Doreen, 59 Matras, Yaron, 146-148 Matsumoto, Meiko, 146-150 McClintock, Anne, 24 McDougall, David, 149 McDougall, Ian, 149 McLaughlin, Joseph, 24 Melchiori, Giorgio, 83n, 84, 85n, 86, 86n Melville, Herman, 40-41, 49 Mihaljevic Djigunovic, Jelena, 123, 134-135 Mihic, Ljiljana, 128n Miola, Robert B., 83, 86, 91 Moll, Lilia, 122 Montanari, Simona, 101 Moore, Francis, 85 More, Thomas, Sir, 13, 81-92 Moyer, Alene, 122-123, 125 Munday, Anthony, 86 Muñoz, Carmen, 118, 121n, 122, 124-125, 129n, 136 Nance, William L., 71, 73 Napoleon, Louis, 45n Neale, J. E., 82 NeCastro, Gerard, 150 Németh, Nóra, 129 Netten, Joan, 125 170 Index of Names Newbolt, Henry, 12, 17, 22- 23, 29-30, 33 Nickel, Gerhard, 146-148 Nikolov, Marianne, 123, 131, 134, 138 Noels, Kimberley A., 121 Nurius, Paula, 120 Nussbaum, Martha, 41 Nute, Grace Lee, 58-59 Nyquist, Mary, 63 Oakley, Anne M., 87 Ochs, Elinor, 104n Parry, Glyn, 87 Paterson, A. B. (“Banjo”), 25-27 Peters, Martine, 125 Petrarca, Francesco, 75 Pfenninger, Simone, 11, 14, 117-118, 124, 127, 164 Philips, Edward, 84n Podruchny, Carolyn, 60 Porter, Katherine Anne, 13, 69-78 Potter, Simon, 23 Pratt, Mary Louise, 57 Quay, Suzanne, 101, 112 Radisson, Pierre-Esprit, 12, 53-66 Raleigh, Walter, Sir, 85-86 Rappaport, Steve, 82 Reidy, John, 152-153 Ricks, Christopher, 17 Rider Haggard, H., 28 Roberts, Charles G. D., 27 Robinson, Cecil, 69-70 Robinson, Ralph, 91 Rogin, Michael Paul, 63 Ronan, Patricia, 11, 14, 145- 146, 207 Ronjat, Jules, 105 Rowlandson, Mary, 64 Rueda, Robert, 122 Ryan, Linda, 124 Ryan, Richard, 129 Said, Edward, 33 Schieffelin, Bambi B., 104n Schmidt, Henry C., 70n Schreiner, Olive, 28 Scouloudi, Irene, 82, 85n Scull, Gideon D., 59 Seeley, J. R., 24 Selwood, Jacob, 82 Serrano, Raquel, 125 Shakespeare, William, 13, 81- 92 Shapiro, James, 87 Sheller, Mimi, 11, 53-57, 60- 61, 65-66 Singleton, David, 118, 124, 136 Skeggs, Beverley, 65 Skutnabb-Kangas, Tove, 121 Snow, Catherine, E. 100, 124 Sokol, J. B., 82, 88 Spada, Nina, 122, 126 Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty, 45n Stalin, Joseph, 42 Stead, W. T., 22n Stern, Tiffany, 83 Stevens, Gillian, 126 Strong, Pauline Turner, 62 Strype, John, 85, 88 Tennant, Jeff, 128n Thompson, Andrew, 18, 22 Thompson, Barbara, 71 Thrush, Andrew, 83 Tilney, Edmund, 86, 86n Toller, Northcote, Thomas, 149, 151 Tragant, Elena, 117, 120, 121n, 123, 126, 128, 129n, 130, 134, 136-137 Traugott, Elizabeth Closs, 146 Tremblay, Paul E., 120 Index of Names 171 Trigge, Francis, 91 Tudeau-Clayton, Margaret, 90 Twyning, John, 91 Unrue, Darlene Harbour, 71, 75 Urry, John, 11, 14, 53-57, 60- 61, 65-66 Ushioda, Ema, 120, 126, 136 Van Wyk Smith, Malvern, 28 Van Zandt, Cynthia Jean, 63 Vickers, Brian, 83 Victoria, Queen, 30-31 Voigt, Lisa, 57 Wallace, Edgar, 25 Walsh, Thomas F., 71, 73, 75 Wang, Xiao-lei, 101 Warkentin, Germaine, 60 Wesche, Maire, 125 White, Richard, 63 Widyastuti, Ima, 125 Wierzbicka, Anna, 147 Williams, John, 64 Williams, Marion, 118, 120, 126 Williams, Richard, 33 Wolley, John, 87, 87n Woodward, Kath, 75 Woolard, Kathryn, A., 93 Xiang, Xin, 149 Young, Robert J. C., 33 Yungblut, Laura Hunt, 82, 88 Zhang, Yanyin, 125 Narr Francke Attempto Verlag GmbH+Co. KG • Dischingerweg 5 • D-72070 Tübingen Tel. +49 (07071) 9797-0 • Fax +49 (07071) 97 97-11 • info@narr.de • www.narr.de NEUERSCHEINUNG OKTOBER 2011 JETZT BESTELLEN! Deborah L. Madsen / Mario Klarer (eds.) The Visual Culture of Modernism Swiss Papers in English Language and Literature 26 2011, 265 S. €[D] 49,00/ SFr 65,50 ISBN 978-3-8233-6673-7 The Visual Culture of Modernism offers a wide-ranging exploration of intertextual relations that bring together artists, artistic forms and artistic periods in response to the question: what is the relevance of early twentiethcentury American Modernism to our present historical moment? Scholars from Europe and America develop responses to this question based on the philosophical heritage of modernity and in the context of the range of Modernist cultural praxis. The essays collected here explore links between literary and cultural Modernism, the relationship between the concepts of modernity and Modernism, and the legacy of Modernism in the late twentieth century and the contemporary period. Cinema, cinematic paratexts, television, the visual arts of painting and photography, poetry, fiction, and drama are among the artistic forms discussed in terms of issues ranging from cinematic and stage reinterpretations of Modernist literary texts to the genre of televisual melodrama and the trope of racial passing. The essays argue that visuality remains an urgent concern, from the Modernist period to our present age of media revolution. Narr Francke Attempto Verlag GmbH+Co. KG • Dischingerweg 5 • D-72070 Tübingen Tel. +49 (07071) 9797-0 • Fax +49 (07071) 97 97-11 • info@narr.de • www.narr.de NEUERSCHEINUNG OKTOBER 2011 JETZT BESTELLEN! Guillemette Bolens / Lukas Erne (ed.) Medieval and Early Modern Authorship Swiss Papers in English Language and Literature 25 2011, 325 Seiten €[D] 49,00/ SFr 65,50 ISBN 978-3-8233-6667-6 Reports of his death having been greatly exaggerated, the author has made a spectacular return in English studies. This is the first book devoted to medieval and early modern authorship, exploring continuities, discontinuities, and innovations in the two periods which literary histories and institutional practices too often keep apart. Canonical authors receive sustained attention (notably Chaucer, Gower, Shakespeare, Jonson, Milton, and Marvell), and so do key issues in the current scholarly debate, such as authorial self-fashioning, the fictionalisation of authorship, the posthumous construction of authorship, and the nexus of authorship and authority. Other important topics whose relations to authorship are explored include adaptation, paratext, portraiture, historiography, hagiography, theology, and the sublime. “This rich, challenging and exceptionally well conceived collection addresses the construction of authorship in medieval and early modern England, and revises received opinion in important ways. All the essays are worth attention; several should be considered essential reading.” Stephen Orgel, J. E. Reynolds Professor in the Humanities, Stanford University Narr Francke Attempto Verlag GmbH+Co. KG • Dischingerweg 5 • D-72070 Tübingen Tel. +49 (07071) 9797-0 • Fax +49 (07071) 97 97-11 • info@francke.de • www.francke.de NEUERSCHEINUNG MÄRZ 2012 JETZT BESTELLEN! Simone Heller-Andrist The Friction of the Frame Derrida’s Parergon in Literature Schweizer Anglistische Arbeiten, Band 138 2012, 277 Seiten geb. €[D] 58,00/ SFr 77,90 ISBN 978-3-7720-8426-3 This study is the first that systematically applies the Kantian and Derridean parergon to English literature. The parergon is a specific type of frame that interacts with the work it surrounds in a fashion likely to influence or even manipulate our reading of the work. On the basis of this interaction, Derrida’s parergon becomes a valid methodological tool that allows a close analysis of the mechanisms involved in the reading process. The manipulative force of a textual construct is apparent through the occurrence of friction, namely incongruities or gaps we notice whilst reading. Friction is thus, on the one hand, the main indicator of parergonality and, on the other, the prime signal for a potential conditioning of the reader. As readers, we not only have to analyze the interaction between work and parergon but must also constantly reflect upon our own position with regard to the text that we read. SPELL Swiss Papers in English Language and Literature 27 “All the world seems to be on the move.” So began Sheller and Urry’s declaration of a ‘new mobilities paradigm’, a critique of what they called the sedentarism of contemporary social theory. In linguistic, literary and cultural studies, mobility and movement have been receiving increasing critical attention for at least two decades. English on the Move: Mobilities in Literature and Language seeks to harness some of this critique to explore how mobilities, both mundane and dramatic, are represented, narrated, performed and negotiated in literature and discourse, as well as the repercussions and consequences of mobility on language and dialect. ISBN 978-3-8233-6739-0