blah-feme

music, masculinity and the voice-identity relation

In any critical engagement with masculinity, attention to sonic materials will inevitably challenge the field of men’s studies as it has been constituted since the late 1970s: much of that field has consistently emphasized discourses grounded in the visual (descriptions of male bodies, of uprightness, steadfastness, of muscles, the fetish, the veiled and unveiled phallus/penis and so on) or discourses of control, power and ideology. And with very good reason: the field has had to constitute itself in this way in order to make sense of the dominant mechanisms by which hegemonic masculinity goes about reproducing itself across its numerous cultural fields. Only very recently, then, has it become possible to think about gender, and about masculinity in particular, as part of a broader sensory field in which ideologies are, to use Pierre Bourdieu’s term, ‘somatized’ (that is, embedded in the body such that externally held beliefs come to appear as if originating ‘from within’) and which therefore draw on all the senses to construe masculinity as both cause and symptom of the male sensorium. In this context, then, emphasis on sonic materials is radicalizing, not just because it disturbs the traditional emphasis on the visual, but also because it contributes to an enriching of the field of men’s studies by requiring full and critical attention be given to the ways in which men are construed as acousmêtres or beings in sound.[i]

            The relation among the terms ‘identity’, ‘voice’ and ‘discourse’ is best understood in the context of this new articulation, especially since the middle term, ‘voice’, brings the outer terms into a relation with the sonic which is not always granted to them. In particular, what thinking about voice in this context does is to enable the recasting of identities and discourses around notions of making and intervening in cultural meanings through and in sound. This is not something that many theorists outside of musicology have occupied themselves with until recently.[ii] This relation among the three terms, then, is one which makes claim to a radicalization in the name of sound.

            The term ‘identity’ in English has a long and complex history, reaching back at least as far as early modern usages. It has been connected consistently both to the idea of ‘sameness’ or similarity and to what we now might call ‘personality’ or ‘individuality’. Even in its most casual of contemporary usages that duality remains, both in terms of the idea of being like something and in actively seeking out (or having thrust upon one) a certain ‘like-ness’. In this sense, then, the question of identity, which has been much theorized in the European philosophical tradition and continental theory, is a question about relatedness, even when liberal discourses might seek to hide that connectedness in discourses about autonomy, sovereignty and so on. In the context of gender studies, identity has been placed under intense scrutiny, from Judith Butler’s now famous Gender Trouble in 1990 to recent more empirical accounts such as John Colapinto’s biography of David Reimer, As Nature Made Him: The Boy Who Was Raised as a Girl and Georgia Warnke’s controversial After Identity: Rethinking Race, Sex and Gender.[iii] The gender-identity complex is characterized for these scholars as an investment in thinking about the relationship between consciously-held views of gender and the more dispersed and culturally anonymous (but no less powerful) discourses that attend those views.

            The relation of the voice to identity is one characterized both by inclusion (where voice has been taken as an instance of identity formation) and mismatch (where voice appears to mark a remainder or a leftover ‘after’ identity formation). It is important, I think, to hold this twofold function in place because this is precisely how voice has come to be understood in our culture, both as the marker of a personality trait and as something ‘unto itself’, stubbornly uncanny. It has become, one might say, both symptom and fetish. There has been relatively little attention paid to voice (other than a few notable exceptions in cultural history and philosophy[iv]) and this dearth of attention has as much to do with the complexity of constituting the voice as an object as it is with any kind of widely held hostility to the voice in the contemporary mindset. It is that complexity, perhaps, which has left most theorists circling around a few small texts on the voice.[v] In the context of thinking about masculinity, there is much work to be done on the voice. ‘His Master’s Voice’, the voice of authority, and the ‘voice of reason’ are all instances of gendered imaginations of voice that operate according to the discursive restraints of hegemonic gender designations; and yet, every time scholars have tried to pin down the characteristic of voice as ‘gendered’, they are confronted with the uncanny exception that disturbs the field. It is precisely here, I want to argue, that thinking about gender is changed, in this encounter with voice as capricious, wanton, unto itself.

            It is in discourse that all this is held: in the statements that can and cannot be made about a thing; in the collection of possible statements which together constitute the discursive field of gender and of masculinity in particular.[vi] And it is discourse, therefore, that theoretical construct that Foucault made part of our everyday parlance yet again, that enables the kinds of analysis that disturb the everyday and estrange us from the mundane sameness thst voice refuses. What an emphasis on discourse enables us to do is to map out and determine the logic of statements that together hold gender designations together through an operation, as we have already seen, of somatization. That process whereby discourses become ‘embodied’ is precisely that process that I am interested in understanding. How, for example, is masculinity held in language? What kinds of statements attend it? How do those statements relate to one another? What are the logics by which one statement is deemed to belong to the discourse and another not? And, perhaps most crucially for our purposes, how do those logics come to feel natural?

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[i] This is a term we take form Michel Chion, The Voice in Cinema, trans. and ed. Claudia Gorbman (New York, 1999) and Michel Chion, Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen, trans. Claudia Gorbman (New York, 1995). An acousmêtre is a voice-character specific to cinema that derives its power from being heard but not altogether seen. The term is an amalgam of the Greek acousma, or ‘curtain’ from behind which Pythagoras is said to have lectured to his students, and être, ‘to be’ or ‘being’ in French. Although the voice character of the cinematic medium is a special case, one could argue, in fact, that, beyond the ‘voice-character’ itself, there is always some sense in which sound detaches itself from its source and in this sense, the relation of sound and character is always in some sense unstable. Hence, we might say, that we are always already acousmêtres.

[ii] See, in particular, Steven Connor, Dumbstruck: A Cultural History of Ventriloquism (New York & Oxford, 2000) and Mladen Dolar, A Voice and Nothing More (Boston, MA., 2006). Also, with a specific focus on singing styles, but with much broader application, is John Potter’s Vocal Authority: Singing Style and Ideology (Cambridge, 2006). Of course there is a body of work produced under the banner of ‘acoustic ecology’ which, starting in the late 1960s, sought to understand how human beings (and, to a lesser extent, other sentient animals) use sound to mediate with their environment. See, in particular, Barry Truax, Handbook for Acoustic Ecology (Vancouver, 1978). It is striking that this body of work has not impacted on mainstream musicological methodology, other than in some ethnomuscologically-oriented work (see, for example, Steven Feld, ‘From Ethnomusicology to Echo-Muse-Ecology: Reading R. Murray Schafer in the Papua New Guinea Rainforest’, The Soundscape Newsletter, 8 (June, 1994): 9–13).

[iii] Judith Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (London & New York, 1990); John Colapinto, As Nature Made Him: The Boy Who Was Raised as a Girl (London & New York, 2006); Georgia Warnke, After Identity: Rethinking Race, Sex and Gender (Cambridge, 2008).

[iv] See: Michel Poizat, The Angel’s Cry: Beyond the Pleasure Principle in Opera, trans. Arthur Denner (Ithaca & London, 1992); Dolar, ‘Voice’; Dolar, Voice; Roland Barthes, ‘The Grain of the Voice’, in Image, Music, Text, trans. Stephen Heath (New York, 1977), pp. 179–89; Kaja Silverman, The Acoustic Mirror: The Female Voice in Psychoanalysis and Cinema (Bloomington & Indianapolis, 1988).

[v] Barthes’s ‘The Grain of the Voice’ is inevitably the key text at which most scholars outside the natural sciences begin. See also Guy Rosolato, ‘La voix: Entre corps et langage’, Revue française de psychanalyse, 37/1 (1974): 75–94 and Chion, Voice.

[vi] For a useful overview of recent developments in gender and discourse analysis, see Lia Litosseliti and Jane Sunderland (eds), Gender Identity and Discourse Analysis (Amsterdam, 2002).

nationalism: a fragment

The element which holds together a given community cannot be reduced to the point of symbolic identification: the bond linking together its members always implies a shared relationship toward the Thing ... This relationship toward the Thing ... is what is at stake when we speak of the menace to our ‘way of life’ presented by the Other: it is what is threatened when, for example, a white Englishman is panicked because of the growing presence of ‘aliens’. What he wants to defend is not reducible to the so-called set of values that offer support to national identity. National identification is by definition sustained by a relationship toward the Nation qua Thing.[i]

The study of nation formation and nationalism, has become inexorably bound up with the liberal consensus of the Anglophone academy around the problematic nature of national adherence, allegiance or attachment. As Benedict Anderson has shown, nations, nation-states and nationalisms are relatively recent creations that belong to the later phases of the longue durée of modernity and are ‘cultural artefacts’.[ii] As a critical-discursive field within the academy, nationalism (and its attendant ‘artefacts’ of the nation-state, the nation and whatAnderson calls ‘nation-ness’[iii]) is only located in those territories that have a particular story to tell. The ingredients of that story are well known and invariably emphasise the contested relation of state and nation-ideal: nationalism is born, so the story goes, of a mismatch, a misfire or a hitch in the flow of political power; it is a kind of blockage that needs to be cleared, a crisis to be overcome.

In this hegemonic liberal academic discourse, then, nationalism flourishes,

1.        where public political discourse and the operation of statehood are perceived to be in radical discontinuity with each other;

2.        where political power is perceived as being exercised by agents external to the national, from outside of the ‘people’;

3.        where there is thus a strong martyrological discourse attending the ‘nation’ and its ‘culture’ (often linked to tensions between administrative language and the people’s language);

4.        where there is a vibrant vernacular culture (or the perception of it);

5.        where there is clear evidence of what Anderson calls ‘unisonality’;[iv]

This story of nationalisms is also a story counter-narrated against a much older and far less ambivalent story, with its origins in the European Enlightenment and in radical liberalism. That older story, narrated endlessly until the middle of the twentieth century, is a story forged in the heat of political attachment to the nation-ideal, the Kulturnation, and invariably imagines the rise of the nation state as the rise of the people: Herder’s declaration, ‘Denn jedes Volk ist Volk; es hat seine National-Bildung wie eine Sprache’[v] points, in this older-liberal imagination of the nation, to a logic of self-ownership, of sovereignty and autonomy and to an internally-facing imagination of the people as constituted among themselves as an ideal unit. What the later, more agnostic liberal stories share, especially after the second world war, is a desire to debunk the dewy-eyed optimism of that originary radical-liberal story: for the later scholar, that story, the story of the great collective rising up and overthrowing its masters, is one which has duped, radicalized and ultimately betrayed the people, led them to mass madness and driven them to a blood-thirsty frenzy with promises of the Sonderweg or blessed path to freedom. This is thus the mainstay of the contemporary critical discourse on nationalism (and in this, Anderson and Gellner can serve as exemplars): the nation state is a fantasy born of a seduction born of a blockage and leads to mass psychosis.

There are, within this pervasive critique of the nation state, also a number of loci classici at which, traditionally, nations and nationalisms have been seen to form themselves. These, inevitably, have tended to be located east, north or south of the old imperial seats of Britain, France,Germany and Austria-Hungary. Hence, much of Ernest Gellner’s discourse on nationalism, for example, focussed on Eastern Europe and theorisations since then have tended to imagine nation states outside Europe as following the same logics, the same pathways as those taken by European nations of the nineteenth century (the same routes to fruition and the same inevitable declines into disenchantment).[vi] That pervasive Eurocentrism has recently come under fire from scholars who, whilst attaching themselves to a similarly agnostic theory of the nation-state, nonetheless also seek to emphasize the rich diversity and complexity of nation states both within and outside the traditional European purview. These more recent theorists have also sought to distinguish, for example, between ‘civic’ and ‘ethnic’, ‘liberal’ and ‘organic’, and ‘Eastern’ and ‘Western’ nationalisms, whilst also sketching out the existence of ‘transnations’, ‘internations’, ‘counternations’ and other cognates of the nation-state that occupy the space between the local on the one hand and the global on the other.[vii]

            Nonetheless, a pervasive agnosticism vis-à-vis the nation-state and nationalism in particular persists. What this pervasive agnosticism has consistently missed is the stubborn persistence of the nation (and of nationalism) in political contexts that display few, if any, of the ingredients listed above. The rise of ‘English nationalism’, for example, is a good case in point in which, far from representing a minority state, or even a state in any sense linguistically, culturally or politically ‘disadvantaged’, England is pointedly and poignantly re-framed within a new martyrological discourse around notions of ‘Englishness’ as ‘silenced’ or under some malign threat:

What is curious … is the fact that England has been forbidden. Venerable customs and wise institutions are under threat or already abolished: the grammar schools, the old House of Lords, the Prayer Book [sic] and the English Bible, English weights and measure, English currency, local regiments, the Royal Tournament – every practice in which the spirit of England can be discerned seems fated now to arouse contempt, not in the world at large, but in the English.[viii]

Here there is no threat to the linguistic autonomy of the English, no immanent invasion, no deadly crisis round the corner, no threat to their political hegemony, but, rather, a strongly stated sense of imminent and, crucially, self-inflicted decline. How can this be nationalism? And yet nationalism it certainly is in that it maps out a consistent story of the mismatch of the political reality and the imagined community of England. Notice, also, that Scruton fetishizes the markers of this imagined community: grammar schools, House of Lords, Common Prayer Book, the St. James’s Bible, imperial measures, sterling, and so on; they are all somehow connected, as if there were something, to put it in Alan Finlayson’s terms, that, ‘[gave] them cohesion’.[ix] For Scruton, then, the fetishes all stack up and point in one direction toward some thing, as yet (indeed always) unnamed, but imputed, suggested, imagined and produced in the obsessive-compulsive ordering of the fetishes of the nation. That Thing is the call to order, the call to connect, the call to desire.

Slavoj Žižek has shown how the persistence of nationalism in the European imagination in particular (but also in other contexts) cannot be sufficiently thought in the context of the liberal-agnostic thesis. What is striking in Žižek’s analysis is precisely this: that so-called ‘deconstructionist’ theories of the nation (what we have been terming liberal-agnostic theories here) have too readily ‘reduced’ the nation to mere symptom of an ideology, the ‘product’ of a certain Weltanschauung. As Žižek puts it:

A nation exists only as long as its specific enjoyment continues to be materialized in a set of social practices and transmitted through national myths that structure those practices. To emphasize in a ‘deconstructionist’ mode that Nation is not biological or transhistorical fact but a contingent discursive construction, an overdeteremined result of textual practices, is thus misleading: such an emphasis overlooks he remainder of some real, nondiscursive kernel of enjoyment which must be present for the Nation qua discursive entity-effect to achieve its ontological consistency.[x]

In other words, the liberal-agnostic discourse misses precisely that element of national consciousness that enables its continued persistence, despite the widespread discrediting of its ideology: outside of discourse, outside of symbolisation, there must be some thing that allows subjects to constitute themselves as subjects, to conceive of themselves not merely as symptoms of the flow of semiosis, but also as corporeal fleshy beings, as instances, and it is precisely this that makes nationalism ‘sticky’. For Žižek, then, the kernel of enjoyment that sustains nationalism is bound up precisely with something that cannot be held in discourse, but which falls outside of it, as a nugget of jouissance. The ‘Thing’ that sustains that jouissance is thus something that sustains desire – the desire to adhere, the desire to believe, the desire to demonize the Other.

            We are in a position now to inflect the liberal-agnostic thesis of nationalism thus: whilst it is true that nationalism constitutes a fetishization of ritual, behaviour, objects and images around an ‘imagined community’ (for Scruton, grammar schools, the House of Lords, the Common Prayer Book, the St. James’s Bible, imperial measures, sterling and so on), the key to understanding the ideological structure that holds these different fetishes together is not the upper level of that structure (its ‘superstructural’ effects), but the enjoyment that that ordering delivers. In this sense, then, it is a matter of thinking attachment to nation as to something that promises to fill the lack in the Other. And here is something quite profound in Žižek’s theory not merely of nationalism but of the political field in general: the political is, to be sure, always constituted around fantasy, but that fantasy is not the ground, but itself a superstructural effect of what lies beneath, a huge dark and arbitrary (and therefore ‘empty’) structure that casts about for fantasies and which is never satisfied by them. That ‘undergrowth of enjoyment’,[xi] is a space that allows ideology to stitch itself into the Real. To understand nationalism, then, one must not seek to uncover the fantasy that lies beneath, but one must seek, instead, to uncover attempts to cover over the empty and arbitrary constitution of its ground and the erotic investments it makes in that undergrowth.

            What is striking in this context, then, is the extent to which the political rituals of nationalism consistently relied on the appropriation and redistribution of regional, vernacular and interior ‘exotic’ musical traditions. Music, therefore, is taken up as fetish, reordered, brought under the logic of the Thing that holds nationalism together and made to project an underlying cohesion which cannot be named: our music tells us who we are, but that is not all that we are – there is something else we cannot get at, an excess that music can only vaguely point to. Invariably, the music fetish is sustained where the threat of the Other seems most intense. Where, conversely, there seems to have been little or no contestation vis-à-vis the status of, for example, bourgeois music, where, that is, there seems to have been a clearly articulated and unproblematic match of a fully-fledged art music tradition with the national ideal, musical nationalism is infrequently in evidence. Where, conversely, the status of the national ideal is in stark contrast to a diagnosed political crisis (where, for example, one language territory is cruelly ruled by another), and where bourgeois art musics are aligned with internationalising tendencies or with cultures occupying the position of interloper or occupier (the Master, the malign Other), musical nationalisms tend to proliferate. There are, of course, some interesting exceptions, where the call of the Master seems to make itself felt even when the nation’s musical cultures are far from under threat. The case of Germany both before (as a Kulturnation or ‘cultural nation’) and after (as the Wilhelmine Second Reich) unification, is a striking case in point.

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[i] Slavoj Žižek, Tarrying with the Negative (Durham N. C.: Duke University Press, 1993), p. 201, quoted in Alan Finlayson, ‘Psychology, Psychoanalysis and Theories of Nationalism’, Nations and Nationalism, Vol. 4, No. 2 (1998), 145–62: 154.

[ii] Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism (London & New York, 2^nd edn 1991), p. 4.

[iii] Ibid., p. 3.

[iv] Ibid., p. 145.

[v] Johann Gottfried Herder, Ideen zur Philosophie der Geschichte der Menschheit (Riga and Leipzig: Hartknoch, 1785), p. 245. Misquoted in Anderson (67-8), this is quite difficult to translate precisely because the German contains an ambiguity that the English does not. The translation depends on the context (the ‘Denn’ refers back o what comes before). The context is as follows: ‘Endlich wünschte ich auch die Unterscheidungen, die man aus rühmlichem Eifer für die überschauende Wissenschaft dem Menschengeschlecht zwischengeschoben hat, nicht über die Grenzen erweitert. So haben einige z. B. vier oder fünf Abteilungen desselben, die ursprünglich nach Gegenden oder gar nach Farben gemacht waren, Rassen zu nennen gewaget; ich sehe keine Ursache dieser Benennung. Rasse leitet auf eine Verschiedenheit der Abstammung, die hier entweder gar nicht stattfindet oder in jedem dieser Weltstriche unter jeder dieser Farben die verschiedensten Rassen begreift. Denn jedes Volk ist Volk: es hat seine Nationalbildung wie seine Sprache.’ The complexity in rendering this into good English stems from at least three problems : first on the repeated  term Volk because the second would be rendered differently in English than the first, thus losing the emphatic repetition of the German; second, the force of ‘wie’ here is difficult to translate since it could mean both ‘like’ or ‘as if’ in English; third, the term Nationalbildung (hyphenated in the original Herder but now usually given as a single word) has an ambiguity in German that is difficult to render accurately into English – the second element Bildung has a complex history and refers to he notion of a ‘formation through culture’ or ‘culture as process’ and therefore the full term Nationalbildung could mean something like ‘national becoming’, ‘national culture’ or ‘national formation’. ‘Denn’ here is clearly a conjunction that expands the preceding sentence ‘Race leads to a differentiation of origin (lit. racial extraction), which here is either not the case or one [will] encounter a huge diversity of races in every small corner of the world under each flag.’ In other words, race is too crude a marker of nation since it leads either to a false splitting of the origins of a nation or will cause a multitude of peoples to crawl out from under each flag. We might thus render the final key sentence here as something like ‘Because every people is a people (i.e. a nation): each has its national culture (or formation) like [a] language’.

[vi] Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (New York, 1983).

[vii] Ian Biddle and Vanessa Knights, ‘Introduction’, Music, National Identity and the Politics of Location: Between the Global and the Local (London: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 1–18.

[viii] Roger Scruton, England: An Elegy (London and New York: Continuum, [2000] 2006), p. 247.

[ix] Finlayson, ‘Psychology’, p. 154.

[x] Žižek, Tarrying, p. 202.

[xi] Slavoj Žižek, For They Know Not What They Do: Enjoyment as a Political Factor (London and New York: Verso, 1991), p. 237.

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the vocal fetish (i)

Here we have it laid out in all its giddying and disorientating grandeur, that passage from Joyce’s Ulysses (1922):

Besides how could you remember everybody? Eyes, walk, voice. Well, the voice, yes: gramophone. Have a gramophone in every grave or keep it in the house. After dinner on a Sunday. Put on poor old greatgrandfather Kraahraark! Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark awfullygladaseeragain hellohelloamarawf kopthsth. Remind you of the voice like the photograph reminds you of the face. Otherwise you couldn't remember the face after fifteen years, say.[i]

In this much quoted and analysed passage, Leopold Bloom, articulating what Richard Terdiman has referred to as modernity’s ‘crisis of memory’, imagines how it might be possible to remember the lost.[ii] Should we reduce them, he asks, to snapshots, to fragments, metonyms, synechdoches, leftover objects that operate in the manner of a kind of make-shift memento mori, a ‘gramophone on every grave?’ It is interetsing that, for Leopold, the voice, that texture, that sonic mark, like a characteristic walk that marks a person out as ‘what they are’, is precisely that which is leftover when the lost are gone, as if voice could only become audible as it leaves the body. Terdiman connects the ‘crisis of memory’ to a specific phase of modernity or, rather, a specific articulation of it, the turn of the nineteenth to the twentieth century.[iii] How, then are we to understand this notion of voice as leftover, as remnant? What are the cultural-historical processes that incubate this notion and, what, precisely does this allow us to think about constructions of gender during this very long fin de siècle?

Let’s begin with this relation of voices and memories. One way to understand Leopold Bloom’s makeshift economy of fragmentary memories is as a negotiation of a very particular kind of loss characteristic of modernity, a loss that projects itself backwards in a fetishized investment in objects, details, metonyms.[iv] Bloom’s investment is not nostalgic, but is precisely about side-stepping that nostalgia: real things can stand for someone close, for a touch long since gone, and for an imagined organic connection with the other that never was; and those real things can be collected, ordered, catalogued, stored. In Virginia Woolf’s fiction as well, investments of this kind are made by her characters in order to close the circle of memory, to smooth over the fractious and debilitating discontinuities of modernity.[v] Clarissa Dalloway is given voice at the opening of Mrs Dalloway (1925) as someone fixated on details, the fetishes of modernity, in the now famous stream-of-consciousness narrative that intertwines her ruminations with those of Peter Walsh and the fate of the young shell-shocked soldier Septimus Warren Smith, who kills himself during the day on which the novel is set. Clarissa loves London, immerses herself in every extraordinary detail of its soundscape, gives herself to it fully:

... in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages; motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she love; life; London; this moment of June.[vi]

It is as if a voice were in all this for Clarissa, in the ‘high singing’ of the aeroplane and in the ‘leaden circles’ of Big Ben. She is immersed in thought as in the city itself, they flow one into the other: thoughts of her life, of loving life and the sound of Big Ben striking the hour:

The leaden circles dissolved in the air. Such fools we are, she thought, crossing Victoria Street. For Heaven only knows why one loves it so, how one sees it so, making it up, building it round one, tumbling it, creating it every moment afresh; but the veriest frumps, the most dejected of miseries sitting on doorsteps (drink their downfall) do the same; can’t be dealt with, she felt positive, by Acts of Parliament for that very reason: they love life.[vii]

The soundscape of London is what holds Clarissa together, what keeps her safe. The sonic envelope of the city is something in which she takes great pleasure and which she feeds on. And Peter too is fixated, distracted by the great city that booms around him, but for him it is a more visual fixation, an investment in reflections, surfaces, figures:

Remember my party, remember my party, said Peter Walsh as he stepped down the street, speaking to himself rhythmically, in time with the flow of the sound, the direct downright sound of Big Ben striking the half-hour. (The leaden circles dissolved in the air.) Oh these parties, he thought; Clarissa’s parties. Why does she give these parties, he thought. Not that he blamed her or this effigy of a man in a tail-coat with a carnation in his buttonhole coming towards him. Only one person in the world could be as he was, in love. And there he was, this fortunate man, himself, reflected in the plate-glass window of a motor-car manufacturer in Victoria Street. All India lay behind him; plains, mountains; epidemics of cholera; a district twice as big as Ireland; decisions he had come to alone—he, Peter Walsh; who was now really for the first time in his life, in love.[viii]

But it is Septimus, more most of all, who is invested in what Freud (and Marx before him) had termed the fetish; and Septimus is specifically invested in the fetish of the voice. This is an attachment to the sound that speaking makes, and to every sonic detail that his fragmented memory allows him to conjure up; he gives these fragments magical, mystical meaning, in line with Marx’s definition, in Kapital of fetishism:

... the existence of the things qua commodities, and the value relation between the products of labour which stamps them as commodities, have absolutely no connection with their physical properties and with the material relations arising therefrom. There it is a definite social relation between men, that assumes, in their eyes, the fantastic form of a relation between things. In order, therefore, to find an analogy, we must have recourse to the mist-enveloped regions of the religious world. In that world the productions of the human brain appear as independent beings endowed with life, and entering into relation both with one another and the human race. So it is in the world of commodities with the products of men's hands. This I call the Fetishism which attaches itself to the products of labour so soon as they are produced as commodities, and which is therefore inseparable from the production of commodities.[ix]

And for Freud too, the fetish is to be linked to a certain religiosity:

What is substituted for the sexual object is some part of the body (such as the foot or hair) which is in general very inappropriate for sexual purposes, or some inanimate object which bears an assignable relation to the person whom it replaces and preferably to that person's sexuality (e.g. a piece of clothing or underlinen). Such substitutes are with some justice likened to the fetishes in which savages believe that their gods are embodied.[x]

So, for both Marx and Freud, the fetish (and fetishism) are to be connected to a religious investment in the ordinary life of things. Septimus’s investment in the vocal fetish is linked explicitly by Woolf to a religiosity at the heart of his psychosis:

“K . . . R . . .” said the nursemaid, and Septimus heard her say “Kay Arr” close to his ear, deeply, softly, like a mellow organ, but with a roughness in her voice like a grasshopper’s, which rasped his spine deliciously and sent running up into his brain waves of sound which, concussing, broke. A marvellous discovery indeed—that the human voice in certain atmospheric conditions (for one must be scientific, above all scientific) can quicken trees into life! ... But they beckoned; leaves were alive; trees were alive. And the leaves being connected by millions of fibres with his own body, there on the seat, fanned it up and down; when the branch stretched he, too, made that statement. The sparrows fluttering, rising, and falling in jagged fountains were part of the pattern; the white and blue, barred with black branches. Sounds made harmonies with premeditation; the spaces between them were as significant as the sounds. A child cried. Rightly far away a horn sounded. All taken together meant the birth of a new religion.[xi]

This voice, transformed into a life force that connects everything, as a network of filaments, ‘fibres’, is a voice at the heart of a machine, a networked machine that encompasses the world: in this manic moment, Septimus imagines a voice beyond the fetish, as in all things, as distributed. And it is precisely this deterritorialisation of the object that constitutes the action of fetishism here. The psychosis that dis-associates and re-associates the world for Septimus, that deterritorialises the object of desire, is messianic: ‘All taken together meant the birth of a new religion.’[xii]

In Mrs Dalloway, these three kinds of investment in the world of objects, the sonic-metonymic, the visual-metonymic and the messianic, jostle for attention in the narrative, each fracturing the stylistic cohesion of the text, each threatening to foreclose the teleology of that narrative and dominate it to the detriment of the others. What is particularly telling here is the extent to which Septimus in particular disturbs the subtle gendering of the fetish-investments of Clarissa and Peter: Sepitmus’s visions are precisely about refusing the duality of a Clarissa versus a Peter. His is an investment, we might say, in androgyny. The vocal fetish expands to fill every gap, smooths over all discontinuities, swells to infinite plentitude – the fetish of all fetishes, the compensator for all losses, an object saviour, a space between men and women.

[continued in next post]

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[i] James Joyce, Ulysses. (New York: Vintage, [1922] 1961), 114.

[ii] Richard Terdiman, Present Past: Modernity and the Memory Crisis (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993).

[iii] Terdiman concentrates his analysis specifically on Alfred de Musset, Charles Baudelaire, Marcel Proust and Sigmund Freud, and thus on what we might term the long fin de siècle. Ibid., vii-ix.

[iv] See David Lodge’s analysis of Leopold Bloom in ‘Metaphor and Metonymy in Modern Fiction’, Critical Quartlerly, Vol. 17 No. 1 (1974), 75-93. For a fascinating account of the fetish in early modern England, see Ann Rosalind Jones and Peter Stallybrass, ‘Fetishisms and Renaissances’, in Carla Mazzio and Douglas Trevor (eds.), Historicism, Psychoanalysis and Early Modern Culture (London and New York: Routledge, 2000), pp. 2-35.

[v] In her introduction to the annotated Penguin edition of Mrs Dalloway, Elaine Showalter suggests that the novel might also be read as in some sense a product of the First World War. Indeed, Woolf herself had suffered from bouts of psychosis during the Great War and Septimus could be said to constitute an attempt to exorcise her own illness. Elaine Showalter, ‘Introduction’ to Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway, ed. Stella McNichol (London: Penguin [1925] 1992), xxii.

[vi] Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway, ed. Stella McNichol (London: Penguin [1925] 1992), 4.

[vii] Ibid., 4.

[viii] Ibid., 52-3.

[ix] Karl Marx, Capital Volume 1, trans. Ben Fowkes (London: Penguin, 1990),165

[x] Sigmund Freud,

[xi] Woolf, Dalloway, 23-4.

[xii] Ibid., 24.

the vocal fetish (ii)

Woolf herself makes such a messianic investment in the voice in ‘Anon’, a late essay (1941), in which she evokes an archaic voice not unlike that which excites Septimus; she mythologizes the origins of literature, that enemy of orality (as romantic anthropology would have it), as cracked open in song, in the first orality of oralities:

The voice that broke the silence of the forest was the voice of Anon. Some one heard the song and remembered it for it was later written down, beautifully, on parchment. Thus the singer had his audience, but the audience was so little interested in his name that he never thought to give it.[i]

And so the story of literature begins: the male voice in song breaks the ‘silence’ of the primordial forest, emerges, as it were, from the swamp and grounds literacy (and, so it would seem, modernity itself); song is both modernity’s beginning and its Other, its ground and its swamp; it is thus always already split. This masculine ground, this beginning, this split sung origin, is an inversion of the norm: in that other (patriarchal) paradigm, the one which Woolf seeks to disavow, modernity always begins not with the male cry, but with the cry of the siren, with the scream of the feminine at her abandonment by the male: European musics and literatures from the long turn of the nineteenth into the twentieth century abound with images of these seductive sirens, deadly matriarchs, vicious seductresses and dominatrices, none of which is ever satiated by men’s return;[ii] these voices, the ones that stalk the fin-de-siècle misogynist imagination, are voices that are hungry, they must be constantly fed – they are hysterical, wanton, monstrous.

Woolf’s pointed inversion of this misogynist vision, then, is motivated by a specific and pressing need in her work to question, certainly by the time of ‘A Room of One’s Own’ (1929), the gendering of origins and the gendering, more specifically, of writing – it is an inversion that sets out to bring into consciousness the gendered structure of the division of song from speech (and speech from script) in the hegemonic male imaginary; it also addresses the fundamental and devastating impossibility of that inversion; this is an inversion beholden always to that very same cultural logic it is seeking to undermine. Indeed, ‘Anon’, as Woolf points out in ‘A Room of One’s Own’ was often a woman:

Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman. It was a woman Edward Fitzgerald, I think, suggested who made the ballads and the folk–songs, crooning them to her children, beguiling her spinning with them, or the length of the winter’s night.[iii] 

Hence we are stuck with a dilemma here: how can it be that the originary cry that breaks the silence of the forest be both male and female (sometimes one, sometimes the other)? What was it about the specifics of the turn of the century moment that led to this disturbing androgyny of origins?

For Woolf, the voice in song works to both found and ground writing (notation), to set it in motion, as it were. At the very moment when the voice breaks the ‘silence’ of prehistory, it has already fallen under the disciplinary sway of scripture and it is here that it is detached from the body of Anon and made fetish. What is striking in Woolf’s modernist myth of vocality is its appeal to the voice in ‘song’ (a voice, that is, pointedly other than the everyday voices of Leopold Bloom’s imagination)  as in some sense primordial or pre-linguistic and yet only audible prescisely as it is de-oralised: the discipline of scribing, of making marks to record the apocryphal moment of modernity’s birth, is thus beholden to the moment of spontaneous oral abandon that precedes it and which works as its violent and disturbing Other – the violence of disciplining that singing voice is what battens down the spontaneity of that first violent abandon. And it is not that the scriptural disciplining must attempt simply to overcome or overturn this Other (although it surely attempts to do this): this pre-historical Other, the primordial birth pain of modernity, persists at the core of the Law of literacy, a persistence that Slavoj Žižek would no doubt term, drawing on late Lacan, a “nugget of enjoyment”[iv] and which, far from constituting an undoing of modernity, is absolutely key to its continued operation, as something to which real feeling subjects can attach themselves.

When evocations of that mythic voice are let loose into the urban cityscape of, for example, Mrs Dalloway, ‘thousands of years’ after the apocryphal moment of its emergence from the forest, it is all the more intense, all the more debilitating for its acute incommensurateness with the modernity into to which it is poured, and which it paradoxically grounds:

A sound interrupted him; a frail quivering sound, a voice bubbling up without direction, vigour, beginning or end, running weakly and shrilly and with an absence of all human meaning into

ee um fah um so
foo swee too eem oo—

the voice of no age or sex, the voice of an ancient spring spouting from the earth; which issued, just opposite Regent’s Park Tube station from a tall quivering shape, like a funnel, like a rusty pump, like a wind-beaten tree for ever barren of leaves which lets the wind run up and down its branches singing

ee um fah um so
foo swee too eem oo

and rocks and creaks and moans in the eternal breeze.

Through all ages—when the pavement was grass, when it was swamp, through the age of tusk and mammoth, through the age of silent sunrise, the battered woman—for she wore a skirt—with her right hand exposed, her left clutching at her side, stood singing of love—love which has lasted a million years, she sang, love which prevails, and millions of years ago, her lover, who had been dead these centuries, had walked, she crooned, with her in May; but in the course of ages, long as summer days, and flaming, she remembered, with nothing but red asters, he had gone; death’s enormous sickle had swept those tremendous hills, and when at last she laid her hoary and immensely aged head on the earth, now become a mere cinder of ice, she implored the Gods to lay by her side a bunch of purple-heather, there on her high burial place which the last rays of the last sun caressed; for then the pageant of the universe would be over.[v]

The sexless, ageless voice (note again the gender disruption here) interrupts Peter Walsh’s ruminations on the ‘icy’ Clarissa.[vi] The Woolfian articulation of the voice in song is as a kind of trace, a remainder out of place, as a staging of the jouissance that the woman felt during that enchanted moment, so many years ago, when she walked, in May, with her lover: her voice stages her expulsion from Eden, that moment when Law intervened in enjoyment and left only the fetish of the voice behind, an expulsion and an investment that Peter knows only too well and shares with Clarissa. Woolf imagines Peter as someone caught up, ensnared in this nugget of enjoyment, this material that persists and persists. He imagines it as permanent, as formidably material, beyond the reach of history (symbolisation):

Still remembering how once in some primeval May she had walked with her lover, this rusty pump, this battered old woman with one hand exposed for coppers, the other clutching her side, would still be there in ten million years, remembering how once she had walked in May, where the sea flows now, with whom it did not matter…[vii]

The persistence of this material, then (this ancient voice before speech, before writing) is the key to its cultural work: it sticks in Peter’s throat and represents itself precisely as a blockage, a refusal, a nugget.

[continued in next post]

---

[i] Virginia Woolf, ‘Anon’, available in Brenda R. Silver (Ed.) ‘‘Anon’ and ‘The Reader’: Virginia Woolf’s last essays’, Twentieth Century Literature, 25 (1979), 356-441.

[ii] Julia Kristeva sees them all over in male literatures from this period. See Powers of Horror: An Essay in Abjection (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982), 20.

[iii] Virginia Woolf, ‘A Room of One’s Own’, available in Suman Gupta and David Johnson (eds.), A Twentieth-Century Literature Reader: Texts And Debates (Routledge: London and New York, 2005), 118-127: 121.

[iv] Slavoj Žižek, The Sublime Object of Ideology (London and New York: Verso, 1989), 93.

[v] Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway (London and New York: Penguin, [1925] 1992), 88-9.

[vi] ‘But women, he thought, shutting his pocket-knife, don’t know what passion is. They don’t know the meaning of it to men. Clarissa was as cold as an icicle. There she would sit on the sofa by his side, let him take her hand, give him one kiss on the cheek…’ Ibid., 88.

[vii] Ibid., 89-90.

the vocal fetish (iii)

These formidable specifics of song, of singing or, even, of songing, haunt late nineteenth-century and early modernist European literatures and musics. The terms by which song has consistently been bracketed off from speech are complex and constitute a fundamental problem for the cultural historian of the voice. For many at the long fin de siècle, the voice in song constitutes both an exception and a generality and these two structures cannot be held together. It is this incommensurateness of voice in song, I want to suggest in this series of posts, that occasions its fetishization. And that fetishization, rather than focussing just on an erotics of voice (on voice as object cause of desire) focuses on the redistribution of voice, on its disavowal, its cultural silencing, on its deterritorialisation, as we have seen in Septimus’s messianic visions. What song brings in this symbolic economy of the voice is the promise of enchantment, of an object that dissolves as it constitutes itself, a shortcircuit, a suture.

As has been well documented, the voice in song in the modern European imagination is of a different order from the voice in speech: numerous literary representations of the voice in song between 1878 and 1945 (for example, Villiers de l’Isle-Adam’s L’Eve future (1886), Maurice Renard’s ‘La Machine à parler’ (1892), Proust’s Memory of Things Past (1909-1922), Kafka’s ‘Josephine the Singer, or The Mouse Folk’ (1924), Mann’s The Magic Mountain (1924),  Musil’s ‘The Blackbird’ (1928) and so on) situate it squarely outside the realm of history, of speech, of writing, as somehow always already sticking out of the flow of discourse, an excess, but also a remainder, a stubborn stain, a mark, something that persists and yet, paradoxically, as something that has been and could again, any minute, be lost. It is that transience of the voice that marks modernist discourses on the voice in song even more intensely than they do imaginations of voices in speech: indeed, the difference between the two is one of the key problems that occupies the scant writings on the voice at this time.

The notion of a voice in song as, on the one hand, persistent and yet, on the other, as transient or ephemeral, can be usefully rethought around that other originary moment, oft told in hushed messianic tones in recent scholarships, when the voice of Edison speaks back to him, intoning, almost singing, incanting: ‘Mary had a little lamb’.[i] I do not want to suggest, in crude ‘determinist’ terms, that this moment transformed or amended the epistemological landscape after 1878 but, rather, that it contributed, among other things, to a thickening of the imagined worlds that attend death, memory and song: as Richard Middleton recently put it, ‘technologies reveal something that was already there’,[ii] they change things for us only in so far as we take up new relations with those things. We might say, for example, that recording technologies contribute to a specific kind of investment in the voice fetish in which memory and vocal production change their relation to one another very slightly, but also quite profoundly.[iii] As that relation changes, the imagination of the voice also takes on new forms. It is possible to understand these changes as stitched in to a procession of changes subsumed under the action of disenchantment, as part of what Jonathan Sterne calls the ‘Ensoniment’, the oral and aural counterpart to the Enlightenment.[iv] Hearing, listening and even sound itself become objects of scientific investigation such that voices fall under the sway of rational research, and with that rationalising impulse comes, inevitably, its dialectical opposite, a stubborn recuperative re-enchantment of voice.

This re-enchantment, linked, as we have seen, to a messianic fetishization of the voice, gets underway in the nineteenth century relatively quickly after Edison’s invention makes the news in 1878. The voices of the late Victorian imagination, newly spiritualised, are ever more ghostly and, simultaneously, ever more objectified; in fiction, those voices are captured in boxes, held in bottles, little clockwork fragments, tiny tins of vocal material, exchanged, in malevolent disregard for the silenced victims. There is one famous scene in Jules Verne’s 1892 novel Le Château des Carpathes in which the hero, Franz de Telek, storms the castle of the wicked Baron de Gortz to find him listening over and over to a recording of the last performance of the famous opera singer ‘La Stilla’ whilst gazing at her statue; we learn she had died of a heart attack on seeing the wicked baron in the audience and the Baron had, that night, secretly recorded that last performance. The implication here is clear: the female voice is ‘stolen’ and with it the lifeblood of the diva. The Baron both causes and in some sense (although monstrously) intervenes in death by means of the voice. When Franz accidentally shoots the box, the Baron screams “Her voice, her voice”.[v] Similarly, spiritualised re-imaginations of radio, the telegraph and the phonograph also abound in boulevard literary sources, on the popular stage and in the equally popular serialised narratives in subscription periodicals and Victorian and Edwardian spiritual evidence societies draw explicitly on new technological tropes to imagine connections with the dead. What is interesting, though, is the extent to which the ground for this technological troping had already been laid before Edison’s ‘box of tricks’ was even a twinkle in the eye of the inventor.[vi]

The phonograph, of course, is not alone in its entroping into literature and public discourse, but it has a particular kind of history in that its uses were imagined well before its invention. As early as 1589, Giovanni Battista Porta claimed he had ‘devised a way to preserve words, that have been pronounced, inside lead pipes, in such a manner that they burst forth from them when one removed the cover’.[vii] Porta’s claims are connected, of course, as much to an elaboration of the principles of the magic as to the principles of sound-reproduction per se, but that connection, that intimate stitching together of magic and the reproduction of sound, was far from excised by the modernists: the figure of he recorded voice as seducer, as enchanter, remains well into the late twentieth century.

Of course, other technologies also impacted on the imagination of sound and its distribution and contributed to an enrichment and intensification of technologically-informed imagery in public discourse. Indeed, in 1859, in his version of the Divine Comedy, author and mystic Josiah Bingham imagines a vision of Benjamin Franklyn, flanked by angels and an ‘Indian’, a vision aided with no less than a ‘galvanic battery’:

Above the head of the Indian floated another company of celestials encircling one spirit of expanding intelligence and wisdom, and who is well known to the political as to the philosophical world, By his side was a machine of which he designed to perform a most interesting and instructive experiment, and thereby enfold to me one method which angels employ to impart their tide of inspiring intelligence to the less unfolded and intelligent. On a more rigid examination of that curiously constructed machine, I found it resembled a modern galvanic battery, with a large wheel at the centre, which revolved at will.[viii]

The technological colouring of this vision is clear, the imagery intensely indebted to an imagination of telegraphy and all the stranger to us now for its juxtaposition with spiritualist imagery. This technologization of literary images was already part of the mainstream gothic imagination[ix] and takes hold substantially in nineteenth-century spiritualism in the latter half of that century with numerous references to ‘celestial telegraphs’, ‘divine radios’ and the ever-present haunted phonograph. Anxious imaginings of ghostly voices run through the later gothic imagination as voices that persist, stalk, haunt, seduce and overwhelm.

The phonographic structure of the short story ‘A Wicked Voice’ (1890) by Lee Vernon (a pseudonym for Violet Paget), for example, is clear in its investment in the voice as an object or, rather, in a projected vocal aura attached to an object fetish; in this case, the narrative fixates on a portrait of the eighteenth-century male singer, Balthasar Cesare (nicknamed Zaffirino [sapphire]). The Norwegian composer ‘hero’ of the story is nauseated by the picture:

Singer, thing of evil, stupid and wicked slave of the voice, of that instrument which was not invented by the human intellect, but begotten of the body, and which, instead of moving the soul, merely stirs up the dregs of our nature! For what is the voice but the Beast calling, awakening that other Beast sleeping in the depths of mankind, the Beast which all great art has ever sought to chain up, as the archangel chains up, in old pictures, the demon with his woman's face? How could the creature attached to this voice, its owner and its victim, the singer, the great, the real singer who once ruled over every heart, be otherwise than wicked and contemptible?[x]

This is not merely an investment in the object, although this is where the narrative resurrection of the voice of Zaffirino begins: throughout the story, the composer is haunted by the voice of the singer in the portrait (although he does not know that is what it is until some way through the narrative) and it follows him, cut loose from the painting:

I was leaning against a pillar, looking into the greyness of the great arches, when the organ suddenly burst out into a series of chords, rolling through the echoes of the church: it seemed to be the conclusion of some service. And above the organ rose the notes of a voice; high, soft, enveloped in a kind of downiness, like a cloud of incense, and which ran through the mazes of a long cadence. The voice dropped into silence; with two thundering chords the organ closed in. All was silent. For a moment I stood leaning against one of the pillars of the nave: my hair was clammy, my knees sank beneath me, an enervating heat spread through my body; I tried to breathe more largely, to suck in the sounds with the incense-laden air. I was supremely happy, and yet as if I were dying; then suddenly a chill ran through me, and with it a vague panic. I turned away and hurried out into the open.[xi]

What marks this out from the more commonplace gothic fetishes is its gender: it is precisely the malevolent male voice at work in this sexualised fantasy, and the composer wants to give himself to it completely. When, one night, unable to sleep (‘The night seemed perfectly stifling’), the composer wakes and follows the sound of that ‘wicked voice’ again. Eventually he stumbles on a sado-masochistic scene in which the ghostly voice of Zaffirino is sucking the lifeblood from a young woman:

On the sofa, half-screened from me by the surrounding persons, a woman was stretched out: the silver of her embroidered dress and the rays of her diamonds gleamed and shot forth as she moved uneasily. And immediately under the chandelier, in the full light, a man stooped over a harpsichord, his head bent slightly, as if collecting his thoughts before singing.

He struck a few chords and sang. Yes, sure enough, it was the voice, the voice that had so long been persecuting me! I recognised at once that delicate, voluptuous quality, strange, exquisite, sweet beyond words, but lacking all youth and clearness. That passion veiled in tears which had troubled my brain that night on the lagoon, and again on the Grand Canal singing the Biondina, and yet again, only two days since, in the deserted cathedral of Padua. But I recognised now what seemed to have been hidden from me till then, that this voice was what I cared most for in all the wide world.[xii]

The homoerotic potential of the composer’s investment in Zaffirino’s voice is intensified in the author’s description of the singer’s vocal quality:

The voice wound and unwound itself in long, languishing phrases, in rich, voluptuous rifiorituras, all fretted with tiny scales and exquisite, crisp shakes; it stopped ever and anon, swaying as if panting in languid delight. And I felt my body melt even as wax in the sunshine, and it seemed to me that I too was turning fluid and vaporous, in order to mingle with these sounds as the moonbeams mingle with the dew.[xiii]

The composer is on the verge of giving himself up to this malign voice when he is suddenly able to release himself from its charm, regain his composure

Suddenly, from the dimly lighted corner by the canopy, came a little piteous wail; then another followed, and was lost in the singer's voice. During a long phrase on the harpsichord, sharp and tinkling, the singer turned his head towards the dais, and there came a plaintive little sob. But he, instead of stopping, struck a sharp chord; and with a thread of voice so hushed as to be scarcely audible, slid softly into a long cadenza. At the same moment he threw his head backwards, and the light fell full upon the handsome, effeminate face, with its ashy pallor and big, black brows, of the singer Zaffirino. At the sight of that face, sensual and sullen, of that smile which was cruel and mocking like a bad woman's, I understood--I knew not why, by what process--that his singing must be cut short, that the accursed phrase must never be finished. I understood that I was before an assassin, that he was killing this woman, and killing me also, with his wicked voice.[xiv]

and, as if to emphasise the need for a re-assertion of his normative, active, heterosexual masculinity, he ‘takes control’ of himself and rushes down the stairs to try to gain access to the site of the nightmarish scene he sees before him; the mask of the fetish falls away. It is precisely in the nature of the fetish to both hide and reveal artifice: its modern usage came into English via the Portuguese feitiço, meaning made with artifice, fashioned, constructed. That sudden moment at which the fetish is unveiled as artifice, is also a traumatic moment: in a move that anticipates the nightmarish vision of Kafka’s short prose fragment ‘Up in the Gallery’,[xv] the composer plunges own the stairs into the circle below and is suddenly held in the grip of the fetish for one last blood-curdling moment:

... I heard the voice swelling, swelling, rending asunder that downy veil which wrapped it, leaping forth clear, resplendent, like the sharp and glittering blade of a knife that seemed to enter deep into my breast. Then, once more, a wail, a death-groan, and that dreadful noise, that hideous gurgle of breath strangled by a rush of blood. And then a long shake, acute, brilliant, triumphant.

The door gave way beneath my weight, one half crashed in. I entered. I was blinded by a flood of blue moonlight. It poured in through four great windows, peaceful and diaphanous, a pale blue mist of moonlight, and turned the huge room into a kind of submarine cave, paved with moonbeams, full of shimmers, of pools of moonlight. It was as bright as at midday, but the brightness was cold, blue, vaporous, supernatural. The room was completely empty, like a great hay-loft. Only, there hung from the ceiling the ropes which had once supported a chandelier; and in a corner, among stacks of wood and heaps of Indian-corn, whence spread a sickly smell of damp and mildew, there stood a long, thin harpsichord, with spindle-legs, and its cover cracked from end to end.[xvi]