[In the following essay, Coates describes “Duke Carl of Rosenmold” as Pater's treatment of the conflict between historical difference and historical continuity.]

May it be my part in the future, to have not attained, but marked the goal of history, to have called it a name that no one else had. Thierry called it narration, and M. Guizot analysis. I have named it resurrection, and this name will remain.

Jules Michelet, Le Peuple

In a bright dress he rambled among the graves, in the gay weather, and so came, in one corner, upon an open grave for a child—a dark space on the brilliant grass—the black mould lying heaped up around it, weighing down the little jewelled branches of the dwarf rose-bushes in flower.

Walter Pater, “The Child in the House”

A century after they are trampled to death and buried, as the story of Pater's “Duke Carl of Rosenmold” goes, the corpses of the Duke and his wife are unexpectedly unearthed when a tree falls during a storm.¹ Thus it happens that the bejeweled remains of the Duke and his wife become exposed at once to the scrutiny of nearby villagers, Pater, and us. During their examination of this singular exhumation, the villagers find that at last they can solve several local mysteries, not the least of which is the story of the Duke's final dispensation. At some point during the act of standing over an opened grave, in other words, Pater's villagers find the ability to resolve a narrative that had been considered unresolvable.

This “face to face” tableau, as I have described it, is one way to characterize historical practice in the nineteenth century. That an understanding of the past demands a physical apprehension, that this evidence in turn creates a liaison between chronologically separated epochs, is a typically nineteenth-century conception that Pater himself “unearths” for evaluation in this portrait.² More to the point, Pater's simulation of this tableau serves as his critique of its theoretical underpinnings.³ Although the villagers' own curiosities may be resolved easily by this striking scene, the questions that Pater uncovers in this, his most sustained discussion of historical exhumation, become increasingly more complex.

One such complication is Pater's extensive discussion of historical anachronism in “Duke Carl of Rosenmold.” From the beginning, Pater suggests that a rhetorical similarity may exist between the century-old corpses and the people who view them. The fact that the Duke's story has been unresolved for so long, and is therefore perpetually “current,” keeps this imagined similarity dynamic and viable. One way “currency” is evidenced, for instance, is in Pater's decision to describe the villagers' reaction to the corpses by recreating the night of the Duke's death: “… the disposition of the remains suggested to them a lively picture of a sullen night, the unexpected passing of a great army, and the two lovers rushing forth wildly at the sudden tumult outside their cheerful shelter, caught in the dark and trampled out so, surprised and unseen, among the heroes and the heavy guns” (IP 120-21).

We find later that the villagers share this anachronistic desire to re-enact past narratives with their ancestor, Duke Carl, whose persona in the years leading up to his death had become a patchwork of affected cultural and historical artifacts. Duke Carl, in other words, had become a walking anachronism.

Although it is a term that one hears often, it is not at all clear what is meant by the word anachronism. As it is typically used, anachronism implies a judgment—as if the very act of identifying an anachronistic element were also an attempt to return it to its proper, chronological space. For Pater, however, anachronism is not something merely to be corrected, as such an action assumes a “correct” or progressive notion of history. Instead, the concept of anachronism, in Pater's hands, becomes a rhetorical device that exposes the inevitable discrepancies in this progressive notion of history.⁴ One of the more prominent such discrepancies is the paradoxical desire to revive an “ancient subject” in the name of progress or enlightenment:

And yet it is one of the charming anachronisms of a poet, who, while he handles an ancient subject, never becomes an antiquarian, but animates his subject by keeping it always close to himself. …

In handling a subject of Greek legend, anything in the way of an actual revival must always be impossible. Such vain antiquarianism is a waste of the poet's power. The composite experience of all the ages is part of each one of us; to deduct from that experience, to obliterate any part of it, to come face to face with the people of a past age, … is as impossible as to become a little child, or enter again into the womb and be born. (“Aesthetic Poetry” 195-96)

The poet's simple anachronism, like the anachronism that one corrects, is harmless and inconsequential. “Face to face” communion—the kind that appears to be taking place at graveside in “Duke Carl of Rosenmold”—however, is as complicated in its cultural implications as the Duke's desire to exhume the Apollonian ideal for modern Germany. Similarly, the poet's anachronism is as “charming” as the Duke's originally benign interest in Celtes, the German poet who inspires his Apollonianism. When his flirtation with this anachronistic power tempts him into effecting a revival, however, the results are the increasingly complex machinations that eventually lead to his self-destruction.⁵ The Duke's progress from curiosity to self-annihilation to exhumation, therefore, can be used to identify Pater's own use and critique of this historical problem that achieves such prominence in the nineteenth century.

This so-called progress begins, anachronistically enough, in 1486—the year that Conrad Celtes's own summons for cultural revival is printed: “the young Duke Carl laid his hand on an old volume of the year 1486, printed in heavy type, with frontispiece, perhaps, by Albert Durer—Ars Versificandi: The Art of Versification: by Conrad Celtes. Crowned poet of the Emperor Frederick the Third, he had the right to speak on that subject; for while he vindicated as best he might old German literature against the charge of barbarism, he did also a man's part towards reviving in the Fatherland the knowledge of the poetry of Greece and Rome” (123; emphasis added).⁶

Here and throughout the portrait, Pater situates each historical artifact as specifically as possible so that, in this case, the Duke's touching of the book becomes, as Pater suggests, an attempt to efface chronological history. Duke Carl's “vision,” moreover, comes not so much from his reading of the Celtes text as it does from the volume's sensual qualities augmented by other revelatory elements: “Those verses, coming to the boy's hand at the right moment, brought a beam of effectual daylight to a whole magazine of observation, fancy, desire, stored up from the first impressions of childhood. To bring Apollo and his lyre to Germany! It was precisely that he, Carl, desired to do—was, as he might flatter himself, actually doing” (123-24; emphasis added).

Pater does not disclose whether this “moment” occurs at the “right” time in the Duke's life, in the continuum of temporarily frozen German culture, or in the happy convergence of historically transcendent elements with cultural desire (i.e. the hand of Apollo). Like the Duke, Pater finds it best to leave the source of this moment mystified. For Duke Carl, this mystification—for him unequivocal and physical evidence of “a world beyond”—becomes carte blanche for his other anachronistic manipulations of culture and history. For Duke Carl, it seems, sensory evidence participates in two worlds: it is the courier of phenomena transcending particular cultures at the same time that it provides a grounding for phenomena inside his own. Physical and intellectual phenomena, for him, do not reside in isolated spheres; so it is to the physical realm that he constantly turns for explanations to intellectual problems. He wonders, for instance, whether “a physical cause might lie beneath [his] strange restlessness, like the imperfect reminiscence of something that had passed in an earlier life” (133).⁷ Like the villagers who observe the results of his exhumation, the Duke believes that he can resolve his fragmented nature with unequivocal, physical evidence.

Consequently, in his attempt to bring Apollo to his “candlelit people,” the Duke dons and discards cultural artifacts as if these anachronistic maneuvers might resurrect that original, powerful contact with the Celtes volume. To Germany, for instance, he brings “Apollo in the dandified costume of Lewis the Fourteenth” (124); he redecorates his royal residence with “‘pavilions’ (after the manner of the famous Mansard)” (124); and he stages French plays, such as Marivaux's Death of Hannibal, wherein “Duke Carl himself, attired after the newest French fashion, play[s] the part of Hannibal [247-183 bc]” (125).⁸ By organizing his life through these artifacts, it might be argued, the Duke succeeds in his goal of suspending the influence of the German culture to which he belongs. Indeed, Pater tells us in the afterword that the Aufklärung did spring full blown into German history—not by the Duke but through his spiritual allies: Lessing, Herder, and Goethe.

The “successes” the Duke may have generated, however, should be qualified by the consistent failure of sensual artifacts to achieve his anachronistic ends. None of them seems to satisfy: “One fault only Carl found in his French models, and was resolute to correct. He would have, at least within, real marble in place of stucco, and, if he might, perhaps solid gold for gilding” (125). These costly, decidedly unspiritual materials, in turn, become the fabric of the Duke's “new” self-presentation. As a result of these elaborate attempts, the portrait of Duke Carl becomes not that of a man inhabited by the “spirit of Apollo” or the manifestation of some long-awaited Hellenic Zeitgeist; it becomes the story of a man whose desperation to transcend his culture drives him further into the material economy of that very culture. By extension, anachronism, in its appearance of getting beyond cultural and historical boundaries, fixes one all the more inside those boundaries.

Nonetheless, the Duke sees himself as one who moves freely between cultures and chronologies. “Middle Age” Germany, for example, becomes present and future Germany: “The spirits of distant Hellas would reawake in the men and women of little German towns. Distant times, the most alien thoughts, would come near together, as elements in a great historic symphony. A kind of ardent, new patriotism awoke in him, sensitive for the first time at the words national poesy, national art and literature, German philosophy” (144-45).

It is possible for the Duke to consider such concepts as “patriotism” and “nationalism” precisely because he believes them to be, like himself, disengaged from culture. These formations are the acts of a free, self-determining will, of a mind that can orchestrate a “symphony” of artifacts free from their place in chronology or culture, simply because it has disengaged its interest from it, because it has wrenched itself from culture's hold: “[a] free, open space had been determined, which something now to be created, created by him, must occupy” (145). Convinced that this end has been realized, the Duke imagines himself to be—as villagers confirm with their comments as he passes down the street—Apollo himself.

Since thus to transcend culture is also to transcend the self, this cultural annihilation turns out to entail a kind of self-annihilation.⁹ Duke Carl's violent death, then, should not surprise us, especially after Pater speaks of the “Resurgam on Carl's empty coffin” (153). In the end, the Duke and his “beggarmaid” wife, whom he asks to “believe in him,” “flee into the tumult” (152; emphasis added). But even this last-ditch effort to destroy self, wife, and culture, to achieve some kind of desperate transcendence, is met with a political, historicizing response: the trampling hooves of a very contemporary German army.

Indeed, the Duke's desire for cultural transcendence through cultural revival has the opposite effect in the end: it makes him a prominent cultural figure and figuration of culture. At the time that they are uncovered, for example, the lovers' bodies had been familiar and “contemporary” artifacts for a full century: “for the minds of some long-remembering people their discovery set at rest an old query. It had never been precisely known what was become of the young Duke Carl, who disappeared from the world a century before. … Restless, romantic, eccentric, had he passed on with the victorious host, and taken the chances of an obscure soldier's life?” (120).

Other documents contribute to the discursive web that surrounds these bodies: “Certain old letters hinted at a different ending—love letters which provided for a secret meeting, preliminary perhaps to the final departure of the young Duke (who, by the usage of his realm, could only with extreme difficulty go whither, or marry whom, he pleased) to whatever worlds he had chosen, not of his own people” (120).

Instead of being associated with linear intellectual progress, Duke Carl's legacy is a complicated narrative web that has insinuated itself into every villager's life to be passed along, reworked, reconstructed. When the exhumed bodies arrive on the scene a century later, they do not so much function as a corroboration of a single, heroic legend, but as another sensational and vibrant text that feeds the thick network of discourse that prefigures the corpses. The Duke who sought to become pure spirit has instead become the stuff of popular legend. By participating in the Duke's exhumation a century later, the villagers do indeed resolve an ancient narrative. More important, however, or so Pater implies, they create a new, more complicated narrative of their own.

The resolution of this narrative for the villagers is signaled by Pater's entry, deus ex machina, to tell us what really happened to Duke Carl of Rosenmold and his wife. Resolving the story of Duke Carl neatly for the villagers with an act of exhumation allows Pater to examine the complexities and problems with exhumation as a historical practice. Pater sets up the villagers, in other words, as practitioners of a method that calls for his rigorous examination and critique.

Establishing the villagers this way, however, also includes the rhetorically suspect maneuver of making the villagers part of a culture that is “frozen”; the villagers, by implication, are somehow uncomplicated and naive: “Time, at the beginning of the eighteenth century might seem to have been standing still almost since the Middle Age—since the days of the Emperor Charles the Fifth, at which period, … a sudden tide of wealth, flowing through the grand-ducal exchequer, had left a kind of golden architectural splendour on the place, always too ample for its population” (121).

Pater's villagers might be expected to react the same way to the exhumed bodies; an inability to absorb “ampleness” is strongly embedded, having had “almost since the Middle Age” to do its work. Consequently, they are easily convinced of the power and finality of the Duke's exhumation. For them, the exhumation is the conclusive, physical resolution to a complex narrative.

Pater's “stepping-in,” then, is itself a significant historicizing gesture. It is important for the villagers' narrative to seem resolved, precisely because it allows him to contrast and intensify his own. Since the villagers—in their timeless simplicity—are unable to distinguish historical complexity, Pater must do so for them. Indeed, the catalyst for their curiosity is a “popular fancy,” a fairy tale much like the ones that Pater sets up as evidence of a superstitious, pre-Aufklärung Germany. It is Pater from his chronologically advantageous position in 1887 who must historically situate the villagers and Duke Carl. Instead of completing any single narrative, Pater suggests, exhumation opens up numerous others and thus makes this kind of historical discourse impossible to resolve or simplify. In their historical naiveté, the villagers are unable to take in the “ampleness” of such complexities.

To these ends, Pater adopts a version of German history wherein he may endorse or dismiss, as it suits him, a progressive or Enlightenment-based history. Thus having it both ways is what Friedrich Nietzsche—in his own critique of nineteenth-century historical practice—might call the act of an überhistorische, or “superhistorical,” philosopher:

[the super-historical philosophers] are unanimous in the theory that the past and the present are one and the same, typically alike in all their diversity, and forming together a picture of eternally present imperishable types of unchangeable value and significance. Just as hundreds of different languages respond to the same constant and elemental needs of mankind, and one who understood the needs could learn nothing new from the languages; so the “superhistorical” philosopher sees all the history of nations and individuals from within. He has divine insight into the original meaning of the hieroglyphs. (“Use” 14)

Although it would be wrong to accuse him of what Nietzsche has overstated for rhetorical advantage, Pater does indeed want it both ways: he wants to exhume both the body and the problems of the Duke at the same time that he wants to critique the use and abuse of such exhumations; he wants to point out the need to consider historical difference at the same time that he often operates within a model of historical continuity. One of the more conspicuous such dual positions is Pater's alternate praise and criticism of the Duke. Although the Duke crosses Pater's line between “charming” and “antiquarian” anachronisms, Pater concludes the portrait by praising the legacy of Duke Carl.¹⁰ What Pater sets up as the Duke's naiveté and absurdity is transformed, in the end, into an “aspiring soul” that is finally “effective”—but only in death.

As is so often the case in Pater's work, the figure's death is where one must look for clarification: the noble Marius is granted a peaceful death; the violent Denys l’Auxerrois is torn to shreds; and Duke Carl, finally, is trampled to death and his body disposed under mysterious circumstances. While this is by no means the only instance in which Pater provides grisly ends for his characters,¹¹ nonetheless, the Duke's death-by-trampling cannot be dismissed as just another Paterian exercise in sadism. Considering the ridiculous ends to which the Duke has sought to recreate himself through anachronism, could there be a historicizing judgment in his death? Certainly, Pater has made the Duke's enterprise a failure: as we have seen, every time he adopts new artifacts the Duke is driven deeper within the material confines of his own culture; even his final desperate attempt to transgress class boundaries by marrying the “beggarmaid” plays into the prevalent fairy tales and myths about nobles and commoners. The final rejection of his desires, one might say, comes by political exigency: the stampeding German Army.

Determining Pater's final judgment, however, may be superfluous: if the Duke's cultural anxiety is manifested in his desire for self-annihilation, then he succeeds. This “natural” closure, however, does not end either Pater's, the villagers', or our reading. The Duke's death, burial, and exhumation are not so much judgments on the Duke as they are complexities designed to preclude such judgments. The post-Duke, post-Enlightenment world, in other words, is not where the spirit of Apollonian reason and light has suddenly appeared, but rather a place where culture becomes discursive and where clear, binary judgments are hard to come by.

From this perspective, the terms Enlightenment, Aufklärung, and Renaissance are themselves anachronistic conceptions. Such terms—says Michel Foucault in his essay “What is Enlightenment?”—present themselves as harbingers of a historical progress that they cannot deliver. He explains that Immanuel Kant (like the Duke) conceived of Aufklärung in terms of a “way out” of “immaturity.” Furthermore, this conception is characterized by a notion of historical progress that is difficult to reconcile with the fact that Kant's “way of philosophizing” is, for all intents and purposes, still with us: we still think in terms of progress at a time when such thought must appear anachronistic and anti-progressive. Foucault proposes that instead of being seen in terms of accumulation, knowledge might be “conceived as an attitude, an ethos, a philosophical life in which the critique of what we are is at one and the same time the historical analysis of the limits that are imposed on us and an experiment with the possibility of going beyond them” (50; emphasis added). Attempts to reverse or subvert chronology, history, or culture, in other words, cannot be conceived apart from a recognition that such boundaries are inescapable. Bringing the antiquity of Apollo to contemporary Germany, at the same time that it is in the strictest sense a direct affront to this progressive notion of enlightenment, for Duke Carl, paradoxically exists nonetheless.

Thus, Pater's discussion of anachronism, revival, and Enlightenment in “Duke Carl of Rosenmold” is a careful positioning and retreat from judgments based on progressive notions of history. One of the more prevalent stereotypes of pre-Aufklärung Germany, for instance, is the people's supposed “belief” in fairy tales, in a mythology at which we, in our historically advantageous position, are supposed to scoff. Although Pater himself includes more than a few references to what we must imagine to be a uniquely German proclivity, his reading of these “fairy tales” is more complex. For example, he speaks of this time in terms of a “hyperborean German darkness,” of a time when “there were violent robbers, nay, real live devils, in every German wood” (123). Historical or contextual reading here takes the place of historical judgment. Indeed, Pater presents himself in the act of reading: during his description of pre-Aufklärung Germany, he corrects himself in mid-sentence and describes the phenomenon of the German woods in terms of what he perceives to be the contemporary conventional wisdom. Instead of discussing the absurdity of goblins in the German woods, he finds more value in examining how these conceptions are created. For Pater, that history must be textualized gives it its vitality. Thus, to describe the architecture of the town, he historicizes “fairy tales” in terms of those for whom they “lived”: “The sloping Gothic roofs for carrying off the heavy snows still indented the sky—a world of tiles, with space uncurtailed for the awkward gambols of that very German goblin, Hans Klapper, on the long, slumberous, northern nights” (121). In his reading, Pater occupies this cultural artifact and imagines the “gambols” of this “goblin” and, by participating in the mythology himself, forgoes judgment.

These moments of historical occupation in “Duke Carl of Rosenmold” indicate what for Pater are the most valuable uses of the exhumed artifact. By distancing himself from the unearthing of the artifacts, he proposes an alternative to simplistic models of cultural revival and thus to the actions of Nietzsche's überhistorische philosopher. In its various forms, historical practice in the nineteenth century is in part defined by the anachronistic desires that Pater illustrates in this portrait. In the Romantic history of, say, Jules Michelet or Ernest Renan, or in the historical fiction of George Eliot or Walter Scott and others, a desire to transcend beyond by going back cannot be simplified like that of the villagers who see exhumation as final and complete. Michelet, for one, seeks out the exhumatory model of resurrection precisely because it complicates historical discourse. Pater's villagers, however, do not state a case for the efficacy of the exhumatory model. Instead, they represent one side of a complex dialectic whose only resolution is to demonstrate how difficult such things are to reconcile.

Notes

1. All references to “Duke Carl of Rosenmold” are taken from the 1920 edition of Imaginary Portraits.

2. This essay is taken from a larger work-in-progress on representations of bodily exhumation in nineteenth-century historical writing. This model, I argue, informs the work of George Eliot, Scott, Dickens, Rossetti, and many others, but is especially important in the work of Jacob Burckhardt, Jules Michelet, and Thomas Carlyle. In The Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy (1860), for example, Burckhardt discusses exhumation within the context of the Renaissance's revival of antiquity; as the passage heading this essay suggests, Michelet, who actually attended several exhumations himself, uses the exhumatory model overtly (see Mother Death [89-90] for such an account); for Carlyle, this model is implicated in the very process of historical writing and reconstruction. This is particularly evident in his account of the John Stuart Mill episode, when Mill accidently dropped the only copy of Carlyle's French Revolution manuscript into the fire. (See Froude 1. 29.)

3. While all of Carolyn Williams's important study, Transfigured World: Walter Pater's Aesthetic Historicism, is germane to the issues of historical recovery that I address here, it is especially so in her identification of the Paterian “exhumatory” technique of representing a historical totality through the individual figure and how Pater means this figure to represent the vivid concretion of an original historicity; then all the disparate experiences and productions of that figure are summed up and interpreted as representative of that age (8).

4. Although David DeLaura claims that Pater enthusiastically embraced the evolutionary theories of Hegel and Darwin (174), I find a much more skeptical Pater on issues of progress—historical or otherwise. Whereas history, for Hegel, advances dialectically to its own end, history for Pater cannot even properly be called linear. As this portrait suggests, any notion of progress must take into account the contradictory artifices that mark progress—the most striking of which is the anachronistic model of exhumation.

5. Anachronism plays an important part elsewhere in Pater's work. See, for instance, Chapter 16, “Second Thoughts,” of Marius the Epicurean, wherein Pater openly acknowledges this “free play”: “Let the reader pardon me if here and there I seem to be passing from Marius to his modern representatives—from Rome, to Paris or London” (181). See also “A Prince of Court Painters” wherein Pater's first person narrator refers to a pre-Revolution-era France of 1717 in conspicuously Revolutionary language: “People talk of a new era now dawning upon the world, of fraternity, liberty, humanity, of a novel sort of social freedom in which men's natural goodness of heart will blossom at a thousand points hitherto repressed” (IP 33; emphasis added).

6. See Konrad Celtis, Selections, for examples of Celtes' work. A German who wrote in Latin at a time when there is “one might think, enough writing of that period in German …” (Selections 5), Celtes is perhaps best known for his ode—Ars versificandi et carminum—“inviting Phoebus to come to Germany and spread the art of song.” Not only did the ode express this desire, but “made available the technical instruction for achieving this aim” (3-4).

7. It is around the time of Pater's writing of this portrait that the Eugenics Movement starts to take form in England. This movement, which would later boast such members as Winston Churchill, Theodore Roosevelt, and Alexander Graham Bell, arose out of the fin de siècle anxiety that the collective genetic pool had become seriously “watered down.” It is not too difficult to find such anxieties, for example, in Joris-Karl Huysmans' A rebours (1884) or in Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890). For a history of the Eugenics Movement, see Farrall. The consequence of physiology is also a recurring concern in much of Nietzsche's work. In The Will to Power (1889), for example, he attempts to draw connections between physical and moral pathology and speaks of the same kind of genetic degeneration that Huysmans' Des Esseintes fears is the cause of his malady.

8. Pater refers here to Marivaux's Annibal, presented for the first time by Les Comediens Français on 16 December 1720. In the introduction to that volume, Frederic Deloffre writes that to contemporary eyes, “[Marivaux's] principal fault was without a doubt the absence of all salient traits. Treating an historical subject, Marivaux has neither the taste for politics nor the dramatic sense of Corneille … in a period when the public is eager for new emotions, Marivaux was unable to play upon any of these provocations” (Théatre complet 118; my translation). Apropos to our discussion, the introduction to the play implies that Marivaux was trying to imitate the “voice of the ancients” (120)—much to the dismay of his contemporary audience.

9. Thomas Carlyle discusses this connection between self-denial and culture in terms of “Selbsttödtung, Annihilation of Self, justly reckoned the beginning of all virtue: here is the highest form of it, still possible to the lowest man. The voice of Nature this, to a repentant outcast sinner turning again towards the realm of manhood;—and I understand it is the precept of all right Christianity too” (256).

10. In the final “frame” of the portrait, for example, Pater steps out of the carefully constructed historical problems embodied in his portrayal of the Duke and discusses Duke Carl in terms of the actual Aufklärung and connects the spirit of the Duke with those “other hands” who “effected” it, namely Lessing, Herder, and Goethe. Seeing this as evidence of Pater's wholesale endorsement of Duke Carl's efforts—as many others have—as well as those of whom Duke Carl is most likely modeled upon, J. J. Winckelmann, is problematic, since such a reading necessarily overlooks the majority of the complex characterization preceding the afterword. We should also note that twenty-one years separate Pater's “Winckelmann” essay and this imaginary portrait and that even in the earlier essay, as laudatory as Pater was towards Winckelmann's similar efforts to resurrect Greek culture, he did not stint in his criticism.

11. See, for instance, the mutilation of Denys L’Auxerrois in the Imaginary Portrait of the same name, the account of the St. Bartholomew's Eve massacre in Gaston de Latour, the “Manly Amusement” of Roman public torture in Marius the Epicurean, and even the delicate rendering of Winckelmann's murder in “Winckelmann,” to cite but a few such deaths.

Works Cited

Burckhardt, Jacob. The Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy. Vienna: Phaidon, 1937.

Carlyle, Thomas. Latter-Day Pamphlets. Freeport, New York: Books for Libraries, 1972.

Celtis, Konrad. Selections. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1949.

DeLaura, David. Hebrewand Hellene in Victorian England: Newman, Arnold and Pater. Austin: U of Texas P, 1969.

Farrall, Lyndsay Andrew. The Origins of the English Eugenics Movement, 1865-1925. New York and London: Garland, 1985.

Foucault, Michel. “What is Enlightenment?” The Foucault Reader. Ed. Paul Rabinow. New York: Pantheon, 1984. Pp. 32-50.

Froude, James Anthony. Thomas Carlyle: A History Of His Life in London, 1834-1881. 2 vols. London, 1897.

Huysmans, Joris-Karl. A rebours. Paris: Flammarion, 1978.

Marivaux, Pierre Carlet de Chamblain de. Théatre complet. Nouvelle Ed. Paris: Bordas, 1989.

Michelet, Jules. Le Peuple. Paris, 1866.

———. Mother Death: The Journal of Jules Michelet, 1815-1850. Trans. and Ed. Edward K. Kaplan. Amherst: U of Massachusetts P, 1984.

Nietzsche, Friedrich. “The Use and Abuse of History.” Thoughts Out of Season, Part II. Trans. Adrian Collins. New York: Russell, 1964. Pp. 3-100.

———. The Will to Power. Ed. Walter Kaufmann. Trans. Walter Kaufmann and R. J. Hollingdale. New York: Vintage, 1967.

Pater, Walter. “Aesthetic Poetry.” Selected Writings of Walter Pater. Ed. Harold Bloom. New York: Columbia UP, 1974. Pp. 190-98.

———. “The Child in the House.” Miscellaneous Studies: A Series of Essays. London: Macmillan, 1917.

———. “Denys l’Auxerrois.” Imaginary Portraits. London: Macmillan, 1920.

———. “Duke Carl of Rosenmold.” Imaginary Portraits. London: Macmillan, 1920.

———. Gaston de Latour. London: Macmillan, 1914.

———. Marius the Epicurean. Ed. Michael Levey. New York: Penguin, 1985.

———. “A Prince of Court Painters.” Imaginary Portraits. London: Macmillan, 1920.

———. “Winckelmann.” The Renaissance. Studies in Art and Poetry: The 1893 Text. Ed. Donald L. Hall. Berkeley: U of California P, 1980. Pp. 141-85.

Wilde, Oscar. The Picture of Dorian Gray. Ed. Donald L. Lawler. New York: Norton, 1987.

Williams, Carolyn. Transfigured World: Walter Pater's Aesthetic Historicism. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1989.