SHARON MARCUS CHAPTER TEN Comparative Sapphism It is a truth universally acknowledged by readers of nineteenth-century literature possessing an interest in sapphism: they ordered this matter bet- ter in France. Odd women, romantic female friends, passionately devoted sisters and cousins may shadow British narratives of courtship and mar- riage; otherworldly female creatures drawn to women may occasionally creep into its supernatural fiction. In almost every case, however, those British texts refuse to define any relationship between women as explicitly sexual. For representations of women whose desire for women is unmistak- ably sexual—and it is that desire I am calling lesbian, and those representa- tions I am calling sapphic—one must cross the literary channel from En- gland to France. Comparative studies of British and French literature have paid little attention to sapphism even though critics have long defined the differ- ence between the two national literatures as sexual, particularly with re- spect to the novel. For most comparatists the sexual difference between nineteenth-century British and French literature is exclusively heterosex- ual: against the staid British novel of courtship throbs the French novel of adultery. But the lack of any British counterpart to the sapphism that thrived in France shows that the difference between the two literatures is also homosexual. With respect to heterosexuality, nineteenth-century French and British novels offer a contrast between two kinds of presence; with respect to sapphism, the contrast is between presence and absence. It would thus seem that the critic who compares nineteenth-century French and British sapphism is in the paradoxical position of comparing some- thing to nothing. 251 One overlooked factor, however, complicates this opposition. Al- though nineteenth-century British writers did not produce an indigenous sapphism, French sapphism entered England through the mediation of the British periodical press. Throughout the Victorian era (1830-1900), British periodicals, whose readers often numbered in the tens of thousands, pub- lished numerous reviews of French literature that frequently discussed the work of Balzac, Gautier, Baudelaire, and Zola, including their sapphic texts.1 While the British novel avoided sapphism, British criticism defined it as an element in the difference between national literatures, thus produc- ing a domestic sapphism aimed at the general public—a British sapphism that alluded to lesbianism, but always and only as foreign.2 The British sapphism purveyed by articles in the periodical press was, as we will see, a discourse that applied to lesbianism the periphrasis and circumlocution that Ed Cohen and William Cohen have analyzed in Victorian accounts of men put on trial for sodomy and gross indecency.3 Like knowledge of sex between men, knowledge of sex between women was expressed in language that disavowed both that knowledge and its object. When discussing French sapphic texts, reviewers used the now fa- miliar rhetoric of the "open secret," in which, as D. A. Miller and Eve Sedgwick have argued, homosexuality can only be connoted, not denoted, and becomes visible only as a pattern of elision.4 By the same token, a pattern of elision and circumlocution around sapphism becomes a sign of sapphism's visibility. And a pattern there certainly was, one that prevailed over the heter- ogeneity of the authors who wrote the numerous articles about French literature that appeared in a wide array of British periodicals over a seventy- year period. Reviewers of French literature ranged from men and women obscure even in their own time to authors whose prestige as novelists and critics endures to this day. Some of the more famous reviewers of French literature were popular novelists, such as Eliza Lynn Linton, Margaret Oli- phant, Vernon Lee, and George Moore. Others were polymaths whose areas of expertise included French literature, such as George Lewes, George Saint- sbury, Leslie Stephen, and Andrew Lang. Lang, for example, was a folklorist and translator of Homer who also wrote many articles on French authors. George Saintsbury was a prolific critic of French literature who began pub- lishing with an essay on Baudelaire for the Fortnightly Review in 1875, wrote numerous essays and books on French, British, and European literature, and in the 1890s edited a forty-volume translation of Balzac.5 The reviews cited here are drawn from periodicals representing diverse formats, prices, religious views, and political orientations. Reviews 252 SHARON MARCUS of French texts (translated and untranslated), French authors, and French literature appeared in the Quarterly Review, the Fortnightly Review, the Westminster Review, the Saturday Review, the Contemporary Review, and the Edinburgh Review, in Cornhill, Blackwood's, and Pall Mall magazines, and in the Spectator, the Athenaeum, Temple Bar, and Belgravia. Those periodicals differed significantly from one another with respect to format, audience, religious views, and political bent. Some were published weekly, some monthly; the Edinburgh Review was Whig, the Quarterly Review Tory, the Fortnightly Review freethinking under John Morley's editorship (1867- 82). Some, such as Blackwood's, Dark Blue, and the Westminster Review, were directed at an intellectual readership, while others, such as Cornhill, were designed to be read by all members of middle-class families.6 Varied as these publications were, when confronted with French sapphism their contributors displayed a remarkable unanimity in what they said and how they said it. In what follows, I excavate Victorian critics' awareness of French sapphism; analyze those critics' rhetorical maneuvers, political intentions, and aesthetic commitments; and highlight some of the surprising findings about Victorian sexuality and Victorian literature that emerge from a read- ing of this archive. Let me signal my main claims at the outset. First, the visibility of French sapphism in the British periodical press indicates that the Victorian general public was aware of lesbianism and could be expected to understand even highly coded references to it. Many have argued that the Victorians produced so few sapphic texts because of a pervasive igno- rance of lesbianism in Victorian England, pointing to the paucity of refer- ences to lesbians in juridical, legal, and medical records of deviance. British reviews of French sapphism suggest, however, that we have been looking in the wrong places for knowledge of sex between women and that such knowledge surfaced regularly in a genre focused on aesthetics and culture (the book review) and in a medium defined by middle-class respectability (the periodical). Second, British reviews of French sapphism reveal that Victorian critics often linked their condemnation of sapphism to a rejec- tion of realism. This conjunction leads me to challenge the common as- sumption that realism was the dominant aesthetic in Victorian England and to question the received view of the relationship between lesbians and realism: that realism relegates lesbians to the status of the spectral, the apparitional, and the fantastic. Victorian critics perceived the lesbian not as a ghost but as a sign of the real, as the embodiment of a desire that could never transcend materialism and sensuality. For the many Victorian 253 COMPARATIVE SAPPHISM critics who considered realism to be a morally debased, empiricist aes- thetic, realism was not antithetical to sapphism but the most plausible aesthetic in which to couch it. British Critics and the French Sapphic Canon In order to introduce the sapphic canon, let me begin at the nineteenth century's end, with Havelock Ellis's "Sexual Inversion of Women," pub- lished in 1895. "Sexual Inversion in Women" is best known as one of the first sexological works to define lesbianism, but it also deserves a place in the history of literary criticism as one of the earliest formulations of a sapphic canon. Ellis's article is a model of cosmopolitanism, written by an Englishman for an American journal and replete with medical and anthro- pological evidence from England, Spain, Italy, Germany, and the United States. Ellis opens with a sweeping generalization: "Homosexuality has been observed in women from very early times, and in very wide-spread regions." The reader expects a similar expansiveness from the literary claim that immediately follows: the "passion of women for women has, also, formed a favorite subject with the novelist."7 Yet the footnote to Ellis's comment about novelists has a very limited historical and national range: of the twelve authors Ellis cites—Diderot, Balzac, Gautier, Zola, Belot, de Maupassant, Bourget, Daudet, Mendes, Lamartine, Swinburne, and Ver- laine—only Diderot wrote in the eighteenth century, and only Swinburne, albeit often identified by his compatriots as in effect a French writer, was English; the remaining ten sapphic authors wrote in nineteenth-century France (141-42). In his comments on one of the French novels he cites, Ellis refers to a "liaison" between two women, emphasizing the French origins of the term by italicizing it (142). In so doing, he underscores the common association of nineteenth-century France and French literature with lesbianism. The mark of France often accentuates the sapphic strain in Victorian stories of odd women: it is in France that Miss Havisham com- pletes Estella's education and that Miss Wade transmits her "History of a Self-Tormentor"; it is in French, if not in France, that Bronte sets her eccen- tric Lucy Snowe, and Wilde his perverse Salome.8 In her study of lesbianism in literature, Terry Castle looks to France to restore the lesbian body to Anglo-American literature, arguing that "it was precisely by way of Nana that [Henry] James found an ingenious means of treating the subject of 254 SHARON MARCUS lesbianism"; that British lesbian couples signified their bond through imag- ined encounters with Marie Antoinette; and that what she calls the "count- erplot of lesbian fiction" emerged in a twentieth-century British novel set in 1848 Paris.9 Critics who equate the literary history of lesbianism with nine- teenth-century France display so much unanimity in their choice of texts that they have established what Elisabeth Ladenson calls a "canon of lesbi- anism in French literature."10 Scholars repeatedly select the same works: Balzac's La Fille aux yeux d'or (1835), Seraphita (1834), and La Cousine Bette (1846); Gautier's Mademoiselle de Maupin (1835), which, according to Ellis, "made the adventures of a woman who was predisposed to homo- sexuality and slowly realizes the fact [its] central motive"; "Lesbos" and "Femmes damnees (Delphine et Hippolyte)," two of the condemned poems from Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du mal{ 1857); and Zola's Nana (1880), which, again according to Ellis, "described sexual inversion with character- istic frankness."11 Although each of those texts represented lesbianism in complex, sometimes elliptical and equivocal ways, nineteenth-century crit- ics and authors ignored those complications by citing them as signs of lesbianism. When the narrator of Adolphe Belot's Mademoiselle Giraud, mafemme (1870) tracks his errant wife to an apartment containing copies of La Religieuse, La Fille aux yeux d'or, and Mademoiselle de Maupin, the reader is meant to decode instantly what the misguided husband, who can only imagine a male rival, understands only in retrospect: that his wife and her female best friend are conducting a sexual affair. Within a text like La Religieuse, even within Mademoiselle Giraud, ma femme itself, lesbianism is never denoted, but once Belot uses Diderot's text to connote lesbianism, he concretizes its status as a lesbian sign.12 Havelock Ellis identified the French sapphic canon and discussed lesbian sexual practices as part of a controversial project to create a public discourse that characterized homosexuality neutrally, even positively. In so doing, Ellis broke with the rhetoric prevailing among British literary critics, who throughout the nineteenth century operated under and reinforced constraints on any explicit discussion of homosexuality. British critics were unable to condemn sapphism outright, as they did novels of adultery, be- cause to do so would have required demonstrating and purveying knowl- edge of sexual practices and desires of which everyone, they believed, should be kept ignorant.13 To resolve the conflicting demands of censure and censorship, British critics short-circuited meaning and made their dis- course circular, repeatedly using negation, ellipsis, periphrasis, and met- 255 COMPARATIVE SAPPHISM onymic allusion to indicate without actually explaining why La Fille aux yeux d'or, Mademoiselle de Maupin, and Nana made them so indignant. Ellipsis often took the extreme form of refusing to name sapphic works by title. In one of the very few nineteenth-century British reviews of Baudelaire's work, George Saintsbury refers to Baudelaire's "Lesbian studies." Especially when capitalized, Lesbian could mean "from or of Lesbos" and not "female homosexual." Saintsbury, however, does not asso- ciate the term with the Greek island, nor even with Baudelaire's poem entitled "Lesbos," which itself links Lesbian to lesbian ("Lesbos, ou les Phrynes l'une l'autre s'attirent"). Rather, he anchors the meaning of the term in female homosexuality by referring it to the "passion of Delphine" and thus to the sapphic poem "Femmes damnees (Delphine et Hippo- lyte)." Saintsbury thus signals his understanding that Baudelaire wrote sap- phic poems and is so familiar with Baudelaire's "condemned pieces" that he knows how many lines they total, but not once does he quote from or name "Femmes damnees" or "Lesbos."14 Leslie Stephen used a similar strategy when, in an 1871 article titled "Balzac's Novels," he discussed Balzac's La Fille aux yeux d'or without giving its title. La Fille aux yeux d'or was first published in France in 1834 and 1835 in the Scenes de la vie parisienne as part of a series of three linked works collectively entitled Histoire des treize. Few British crit- ics ever mentioned it, and as late as the 1890s George Saintsbury excluded it from an English translation of The Thirteen, noting in his preface that "[i]n its original form the Histoire des Treize consists ... of three stories: Ferragus ... La Duchesse de Langeais ... and La Fille aux Yeux d'Or. The last, in some respects one of Balzac's most brilliant effects, does not appear here, as it contains things that are inconvenient."15 British crit- ics who read French were probably aware of La Fille, since their articles often referred to French editions of Balzac's complete works, as well as to Ferragus and La Duchesse de Langeais, the other two works that made up the Histoire des treize in the Comedie humaine. In 1896 Leonard Smithers, known as a publisher of both Decadent literature and expensive pornogra- phy, published a limited, illustrated edition of La Fille aux yeux d'or with a translator's preface by the poet Ernest Dowson. Given its reputation as a work about forbidden sexual practices, it is not surprising that until 1886 no review of Balzac's works referred to La Fille aux yeux d'or directly by name.16 Most of the critics who did not name La Fille aux yeux d'or also did not discuss it, a simple form of critical neglect that could have had multiple motives or none. Leslie Stephen's "Balzac's Novels," published in 256 SHARON MARCUS the Fortnightly Review in 1871, is more striking: Stephen devotes an entire paragraph to Balzac's "most outrageous story" without ever providing that story's title. Even more curiously, Stephen comments on the story by exten- sively paraphrasing but never directly quoting its opening pages.17 As a result, only one who has already read the tale, can recall it, and has it to hand can identify that the "most outrageous story" is La Fille aux yeux d'or. Stephen's elision of La Fille's title suggests that reading the story would be so dangerous that he can neither direct his readers to it nor even ac- knowledge that he himself has read it. In writing about a sapphic text, Stephen goes against the critical grain by concealing instead of demonstrat- ing knowledge of his subject. At the same time, however, Stephen's choice of paraphrase over quotation means that instead of keeping Balzac's words separate from his own, he has put them into his own words, made them his own in the very process of disowning them. And in another of the paradoxical effects characteristic of censorship rhetoric, because only those who have read the forbidden Fille can understand what Stephen is talking about, his prose creates a community based on the very thing he intended to suppress: shared knowledge of La Fille aux yeux d'or and the lesbianism it represents.18 Critics who, unlike Stephen, were willing to name sapphic titles were no more willing than he to discuss the content of sapphic texts, even if only to condemn it. Instead, they reverted to ellipsis, negation, and cir- cumlocution so consistently that a cumulative reading of their reviews es- tablishes the blatant refusal to speak about sapphism as the way to speak about it. An 1866 Saturday Review tirade against Swinburne's Poems and Ballads excoriated the poems as "unspeakable foulnesses" that depicted "the unnamed lusts of sated wantons." The reviewer took as his "only comfort" the belief that "such a piece as 'Anactoria' will be unintelligible to a great many people, and so will the fevered folly of 'Hermaphroditus,' as well as much else that is nameless and abominable."19 As poems that overtly depict sapphism and bisexuality, "Anactoria" and "Hermaphrodi- tus" confer on the indeterminate terms "nameless" and "unspeakable" a specific and easily determined meaning. Although intended as synonyms, "nameless" and "unspeakable" register the contradictions of a rhetoric that simultaneously wants to stigmatize sapphism and make it invisible. The reviewer calls the poem's subjects "nameless" in order to enact his wish that they have no name, but he belies that namelessness with the term "unspeakable," which suggests that the poem's subjects do have names, but ones too awful for him to utter.20 In an 1889 essay titled "Some of Balzac's Minor Pieces," George Moore, an admirer of Balzac and Zola, 257 COMPARATIVE SAPPHISM explained that he could only list the titles of Balzac's queerest hits: La Fille aux yewc d'or,; La Derniere Incarnation de Vautrin, Une Passion dans le de- sert, Seraphita, and Sarrasine. Moore allies those texts with "the strange, the perverse, the abnormal" and suggests that he would like to write about them but can do no more than name them: " [I]t would be both interesting and instructive to analyse these strangest flowers of genius, but having regard for the susceptibilities of the public, I will turn at once to Massamilla [Doni]," a story of heterosexual intrigue whose plot he recounts at length. Moore's use of the word "susceptibilities" suggests a set of competing pub- lics: a censorious one he cannot risk offending, a vulnerable one he cannot risk harming or infecting, and a queer one that he cannot risk arousing.21 Such hyperbolic ellipses, whose characteristic expression would be "I'm so shocked that I can't say why," had their corollary in the redundant understatement "It's so clear that I don't need to explain." Eliza Lynn Lin- ton, a novelist and frequent contributor to the Saturday Review, wrote a series of articles in 1886, published in Temple Bar, entitled "The Novels of Balzac." Cannily relating lesbian characters to gay ones in order to avoid naming what they have in common, Linton writes that the "love of la cousine Bette ... for Valerie is emphatically in all things of the same kind as that of Vautrin for Lucien."22 What kind of love, one might ask, was the love of Vautrin for Lucien? Vautrin, Linton explains, "watches over [Lu- cien] as tenderly, if not so purely, as a mother."23 But Linton offers no further explanation and praises Balzac for providing almost none himself. Linton approves of the "trenchant touch" with which Balzac depicts "the various corruptions of society": "A rapid hint—a side flash—one word— haply a mere gesture, photographs a whole moral tract which only the initiated see and of which the ignorant remain ignorant." She then specifies that Balzac's linguistic economy saves the ignorant reader from gaining knowledge of homosexuality: Balzac, Linton states, "shows us Vautrin's secret by a touch as rapid as a fencer's riposte—an allusion as obscure as a cypher —."24 Linton's telegraphic, paratactic prose mimics the compact- ness and the inscrutability she praises and has the same ostensible purpose she ascribes to Balzac: to bleed explanation from representation, to show not only without telling but practically without showing. When her own discussion threatens to reveal too much about Vautrin's secret Linton re- places coded understatement with outright ellipsis: Vautrin's apparently selfless love for Lucien has, we are told, "a baser thread than appears on the surface in this double life—but with that we need not meddle."25 As a supplement to ellipsis, British critics of the French sapphic canon added two tropes of substitution: antonomasia and the pronominal 258 SHARON MARCUS adjective. In antonomasia a proper name supersedes a descriptive term; critics frequently used proper names to avoid using terms for women who had sex with women (lesbian, invert, sapphist, and tribade were among the several available at the time). Often the proper name was that of a contemporary or classical author associated with sapphism or homosexu- ality; sometimes an allusion to Sodom and Gomorrah or the name of a literary character served as the substitute.26 The Saturday Review article on Poems and Ballads worried that if Swinburne published enough, "English readers will gradually acquire a truly delightful familiarity with ... un- speakable foulnesses" that would allow them to grasp "the point of every allusion to Sappho ... or the embodiment of anything else that is loath- some and horrible."27 Arthur Waugh wrote that Swinburne "scrupled not to revel in sensations which for years had remained unmentioned on the printed page; he even chose for his subject refinements of lust, which the commonly healthy Englishman believed to have become extinct with the time of Juvenal."28 As Terry Castle and Emma Donoghue have shown, the English had associated Juvenal with sapphism for centuries.29 Intended as veils that would conceal sapphism, the proper names Juvenal, Sappho, Catullus, and Swinburne became instead veils that outlined it. Antonomasia was potentially endless in its circularity. Baudelaire's sapphism was termed "Juvenal," Swinburne's sapphism "Juvenal," "Sap- pho," and "Baudelaire." Critics evoked the sapphism of Gautier's work by alluding to Catullus, Baudelaire, Swinburne, and the Plato of the Phaedrus and the Symposium; they designated Balzac an author of queer texts by comparing him to the Shakespeare of the Sonnets.30 Every term in the anto- nomasiac series became interchangeable, so that just as Swinburne's sap- phism was called "Juvenal" or "Baudelaire," Zola's sapphism was called "Swinburne."31 In an article on Zola, Vernon Lee noted that "Nana ... gradually extends her self-indulgence (not accompanied by shades of Swinburnian empresses, but, as she comfortably believes, of real ladies, of femmes du monde) to regions not usually included by those who seek merely a good time, sane and without bad intentions, she enters the happy hunting-grounds of monomania and crime."32 The reader who has Zola's novel Nana to hand can determine that Lee's Swinburnian empresses are sapphic and that Lee is alluding to the episode in which Nana has an affair with another woman, Satin, because, like Leslie Stephen writing of La Fille aux yeux d'or, Lee is paraphrasing Zola's novel without acknowledging it. Lee's comment that Nana believes her actions to be the same as those of "real ladies, of femmes du monde," echoes the justification of Nana's lesbian affair with Satin in Zola's text: "Why, it was done everywhere! And she 259 COMPARATIVE SAPPHISM named her woman friends, and swore that society women did it too"; in the original French, the phrase for "society women" is "dames du monde."33 The comparison is instructive: where Zola uses free indirect discourse ("Why, it was done everywhere!" is narration, not quotation) and thus merges his narrator's voice with Nana's, Lee separates her views from Nana's with the phrase "as she comfortably believes." By avoiding direct quotation of Zola's text, Lee refuses to confer on his words the deno- tative status that might then also extend to the lesbianism his text depicts. As recent critics and biographers have shown, Lee had an acute and nega- tive awareness of lesbianism, whose overt sexuality she rejected in favor of romantic female friendships based on ideals of purity and beauty.34 Since to attack lesbianism directly would reveal her intimate knowledge of it, Lee distances herself and the reader from lesbianism by displacing Nana's "crime" onto euphemism ("Nana's self-indulgence") and literary allusion ("Swinburnian empresses"). As if to compensate for the extent to which Swinburne had in effect become a synonym for lesbian, Lee then obscures the allusion to Swinburne through a double elision (Nana is "notaccompa- nied by shades of Swinburnian empresses" [emphasis mine]). In a second form of substitution, critics of sapphic texts replaced verbs and nouns with a cluster of recurring adjectives: unnatural, artificial, morbid, obscene, immoral, perverse, impure, and diseased. Those adjectives functioned as pronouns that syntactically modified words like story or po- etic imagination but semantically replaced words like invert, lesbian, or sap- phist. By using such adjectives, reviewers could substitute negative evalua- tions of sapphism for accounts of what prompted their disapproval. Leslie Stephen described Balzac's La Fille aux yeux d'or, we will recall, as his "most outrageous story," without giving the story's title or explaining what made t outrageous. George Moore associated La Fille with Baudelaire's Les Fleurs iu mal when he included it in his roster of Balzac's "strangest flowers of ;enius" and then explained one adjective ("strangest") tautologically with i string of others that qualified the works listed as "abnormal," "bizarre," 'strange," "perverse," and "exotic."35 A commentator on Mademoiselle de \4aupin wrote that Gautier puts "forward wanton evidences of abnormal lisorders and unhealthy moods of passion"; his "morbid expressions" are hemselves "the evidence of disease," and his heroine pursues knowledge >f humanity "in a very unnatural manner."36 Swinburne, we are told re- »eatedly, dwells on "morbid cravings and monstrous appetites," on "what s lowest, most perverted, and extreme in nature"; Parallelement, Verlaine's ollection of sapphic poems, exhibits "perversity, moral and artistic."37 In iting these remarks, I have not separated them from explanations of what 260 SHARON MARCUS