E-Book, Englisch, Band 147, 292 Seiten
Reihe: Schweizer Anglistische Arbeiten (SAA)
ISBN: 978-3-7720-0123-9
Verlag: Narr Francke Attempto Verlag
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Autoren/Hrsg.
Weitere Infos & Material
Acknowledgements
Introduction
1. The system of duty
1.1 Allestree, Delany and reciprocal duties
1.2 Clarissa and the system of duty
1.3 Duty and interiority
1.4 Masquerade, truth and hypocrisy
1.5 Body and mind
2. Alternative structures of relationship: gift, contract, friendship
2.1 The giving of gifts
2.2 Women, gifts, and property
2.3 'Puzzling Locke,' Mulso and the system of duty
2.4 Friendship and the system of duty
2.5 Male authority and the disruption of relationships
3. Grandison and utopia
3.1 The harmonious body
3.2 Cross-gender solidarity
3.3 Grandisonian re-presentations of truth
3.4 Gift-giving in Grandison
3.5 Women among themselves
3.6 Women, free will and control
3.7 Paradise Regained – the utopia of Grandison Hall
4. Conclusion: the double narrative of Sir Charles Grandison
Bibliography
Primary Sources
Secondary Sources
Introduction
A few years before the publication of Samuel Richardson’s last novel, he and his young friend Hester Mulso, later Hester Chapone, conducted a debate in letters on filial duty, she generally taking the side of children, he of parents. Richardson had invited Mulso to put her views in writing. She did so, as she wrote in the first letter (Oct 12, 1750)1, “to expose my opinions to you, in order to have them rectified by you” (Mulso 205). As it turned out, Mulso’s opinion was not easily “rectified”. By the third and last letter of her side of this exchange, she even began to doubt that he had any need to correct her. She writes that “I began to perceive (at least I thought I did) that we were both on the same side of the question” (227). To make sure of this, however, she systematically rehearses the questions which had spawned their debate in the first place. In a passage which reflects not only the debate itself, but also the mode in which it had been conducted, she writes: But that I may know with certainty how far we agree or differ, will you give me leave, for once, to be a saucy girl, and catechise my adopted papa? Though indeed I do not mean to do it saucily, but really and truly for my information. For when you left it to me to make the applications, inferences, and conclusions, from all the quotations, stories, and observations you produced, you left me a task which would have been much better performed by yourself; my head is not clear enough to do it as I ought. Permit me then, my dear sir, to put it upon you to decide on the questions I am going to put: and when I have your positive answer to these, I shall know whether we have all this while been arguing about words, and whether what Mr. Locke calls honour, what I called gratitude, and what you called duty, be indeed the same thing or not. (228) It is no coincidence that the terms whose meaning is so disputable are “honour”, “gratitude”, and “duty”. All three define the moral obligation of children towards parents, but perceived from different angles. “Honour” specifies the form which filial “duty” should take, and “gratitude” specifies what such behaviour is based on, while the term “duty” emphasizes adherence to rules. Ideally, these concepts prove mutually reinforcing, but they can also come into conflict. Mulso’s word “gratitude”, for example, indicates her preference for viewing a child’s “duty” as the natural response to parental kindness when it occurs, while Richardson’s “duty” shows his reluctance to admit a factor of variability into filial obligations. Mulso’s disclaimer – “I do not mean to do it saucily, but really and truly for my information” – is therefore less innocuous than it might look at first. Her inquiry aims to distinguish, at least in the context of this debate, terms which are frequently mixed – in order to define the basis of a child’s duty and, thus, its limits. The ‘testing ground’ for these limits is Richardson’s second novel, Clarissa. Richardson’s anxiety that his readers draw the correct “inferences” from his novels is well-documented (e.g. Taylor, Reason and Religion 60). Indeed, some of the rules to be deduced from his texts are specified at the beginning and ending of his books. In Pamela, these teachings appear in their least subtle form, as a list whose lack of complexity perhaps justifies the ironic or apologetic way in which critics tend to mention them. The “[a]pplications” that readers should draw from the “[i]ncidents” of Pamela (500), or from his other works, tend to be both general and uncontroversial. The following exhortation is fairly representative: “From the same good Example [of Pamela], let Children see what a Blessing awaits their Duty to their Parents, tho’ ever so low in the World: And that the only Disgrace is to be dishonest; but none at all to be poor” (502). Mulso would probably have agreed that Pamela’s parents deserve all the “duty” – or gratitude – she shows them in return for their love and care. This “application” of Pamela’s story is therefore too clear; Pamela has so much reason to respect her parents that little about the limits (if any) of filial duty can be learned from her case. The situation is different in Clarissa, which announces on its title page that it will illustrate “the distresses that may attend the misconduct both of parents and children, in relation to marriage”. Tom Keymer has suggested that this novel is designed to depict an exact balance between a situation where the daughter is right to rebel and where the parents may uphold their authority, thus exercising the reader’s judgment (cf. Richardson’s Clarissa 122, 140–1). In this regard, Hester Mulso’s debate with Richardson indicates the urgency of showing the point at which the balance tips in favour of the weaker party – the child. Her italics emphasise the importance of the points to be decided, and the directness of her questions – simple syntax and frequent question marks – leaves as little room as possible for her correspondent to manoeuvre in his answers: What must their children [those of unnatural parents] do, if “the want of duty on one side, justifies not the non-performance of it on the other, where there is a reciprocal duty?” […] (228) But give me leave […] to ask you, whether the child […], when injured, when cruelly and inhumanly treated, when deprived of its natural rights, and reduced to a state of slavery, is not then at liberty to disobey, or the subject to rebel? […] (229) But this is one question which I would refer back to you for an answer, viz. who is to be judge in points contestible, of the reasonableness, or unreasonableness of the exertion of the parent’s authority? (229) […] The question is then, whether the bare title of father or mother, shall give to such, a right to make their children miserable for life? And if not, what kind or degree of duty is owing to such, and on what grounds? (230) These pointed questions indicate just how little justification for filial disobedience is granted in Clarissa. Although Richardson’s best characters – and many of his worst ones – are preoccupied with questions of proper conduct, and despite (or because of) his avowed didactic intention, he refuses to clarify exactly when and how a child may refuse to obey an unjust command. In this, he follows texts like the classic The Whole Duty of Man, attributed to Richard Allestree, or Patrick Delany’s Fifteen Sermons Upon Social Duties. Both these works acknowledge the rights of children only in so far as parents have duties. As a consequence, the right of rebellion can either be denied outright – as in The Whole Duty of Man – or be glossed over, as in Delany’s sermons (see part I). This poses a problem for those serious-minded readers who seek to reconcile duty to personal liberty. Indeed, Mulso’s slightly tongue-in-cheek remark – “my head is not clear enough to do it as I ought” (emphasis mine) indicates that she counts herself in this number. The duty of a good reader is to draw not just any, but the correct inferences, and the correct inference is also a moral one. Richardson’s part of this debate is not extant2, but from the evidence of his last novel, as well as of some of his letters, his answers to the questions cited above would have been evasive once more (cf. also Keymer, Richardson’s Clarissa 122). The History of Sir Charles Grandison once again takes up many of the conflicts in the earlier novels, especially in Clarissa. These conflicts concern not only relations between parents and children, but also between husband and wife, master and servant, neighbours, and friends. In contrast to Clarissa, however, the focus of Grandison is not on ongoing struggles, but on the depiction of an ideal community where conflicts can be reconciled (cf. also Doody, A Natural Passion 340). This allows Richardson to address the issue of conflicts of duty while, at the same time, avoiding the critical point where they might lead to the breakdown of social relations – either through the abuse of authority or through rebellion on the part of those who should obey. Instead of solving the question of how the virtuous can defend themselves, he shows how virtue can be propagated – creating a world which affords the secure space for the good (especially good women) which they may not carve for themselves. Thus, whereas Clarissa is a novel of division, Grandison is one of unification. In the former, the different demands of virtue are found to be in conflict, and human frailty and virtue, body and soul, pull in different directions. In the latter, body and soul, friendship and love, the control of one’s self and influence over others merge in a harmonious whole which enables virtue and happiness to spread. The answer to conflict is not the exact settling of rights...
