TY - JOUR
AU - Joseph, Abigail
AB - Abstract Alfred Tennyson disliked the engraving of ‘The Lady of Shalott’ produced by William Holman Hunt for the 1857 Moxon edition of Tennyson’s Poems, accusing the artist of taking too many liberties in depicting the Lady’s hair and the threads of her weaving as ‘wildly tossing’ around her. This essay traces the histories of both Hunt’s image and Tennyson’s text, arguing that the poet’s objection is grounded in the fact the engraving reproduces the fierce agency that characterizes the Lady in Tennyson’s 1832 original but not his 1842 revision. That pattern of revision, I suggest, reflects the poet’s distress over the 1833 death of his beloved friend Arthur Hallam and is motivated by his new ways of thinking, in the wake of that catastrophe, about the crisis of desire and the perpetual trauma of communication between the living and the dead. The deluxe illustrated edition of Poems by Alfred Tennyson, published in 1857 by Edward Moxon and usually called ‘The Moxon Tennyson’ after its publisher, was widely acknowledged as one of the more important ‘beautiful books’ of the Victorian period. George Layard’s 1894 Tennyson and his Pre-Raphaelite Illustrators: A Book About a Book claims that ‘it is to the enterprise of Edward Moxon that the world is indebted for one of the most enchanting volumes it has ever been privileged to possess’. He continues: Let it be understood, however, that it is of purpose that I do not say it is among the best illustrated books the world has seen. It is far from being this, as will appear; but that it is among the most interesting will, I think, as surely be granted.1The qualification is instructive: the production of this celebrated volume – and by ‘production’, I mean both the process and the finished object – was rife with conflict, drama, and difficulty on a number of levels, with multiple crises and clashes between Victorian artistic characters. First of all, although the volume has come to be thoroughly associated with the Pre-Raphaelite movement, its artists were in fact responsible for only 29 of the 54 illustrations. The other half were by ‘establishment artists – all members of the Royal Academy, all belonging to an earlier generation’.2 The dissonance between the artistic styles and motives of these two groups becomes immediately apparent as soon as the book is opened: between the rapturous iconography of the Pre-Raphaelite style, with its radical reconstitution of the requirements of detail, figure, and pictorial space characteristic; and, on the other side, the pleasing but wholly conventional picturesque vignettes of the ‘establishment artists’ against whom the young Brotherhood had, from its founding in 1848, explicitly set its agenda. The clash was noted by early reviewers and by the book’s audience, contributing to its awkward reception. As William Holman Hunt noted in his 1905 memoir: The illustrated volume was in the end a commercial failure. Those who liked the work of artists long established in favour felt that the pages on which our designs appeared destroyed the attractiveness of the volume, and the few who approved of our inventions would not give the price for the publication, because there was so large a proportion of the contributions of a kind which they did not value.3 Moreover, the Pre-Raphaelites on their own caused poor Moxon substantial headaches. Dante Gabriel Rossetti was especially difficult, complaining loudly that the engravers (the celebrated Dalziel Brothers) failed to do justice to his drawings; failing to get his own work in on time and thereby causing Moxon to miss the lucrative Christmas season release; and being in general such a pain that when Moxon died less than a year after the book came out it was widely circulated as a ‘grim joke’ that ‘Rossetti killed Moxon!’4 And finally, there was the internecine struggle that exploded within the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood over who would represent which of Tennyson’s poems. As Hunt later told the story: [Rossetti] avowed at once that he did not care to do any [illustrations] because all the best subjects had been taken by others. ‘You, for instance,’ he said, ‘have appropriated The Lady of Shalott, which was the one I cared for most of all’.Hunt’s retort was that Rossetti ‘should have chosen at the beginning’ and that he, Hunt, had a long-standing interest in this particular poem.5 The end result was that Hunt produced the opening tableau for the poem and Rossetti the closing one. ‘The Lady of Shalott’ thus became a divided, divisive poem in a divided volume: the only one split between two artists and the only one that attracted the vocal disapproval of Alfred Tennyson. The poet objected in particular to Hunt’s portrayal of the scene that the artist called ‘The Breaking of the Web’, in which the poem’s title character defies the curse forbidding her to look out of her tower, thereby setting in motion the events that will lead to her death. It is on the conflict between Hunt and Tennyson and their respective visions that this essay will focus. Tracing the histories of their multiple versions of the ‘The Lady of Shalott’, I will argue that Tennyson’s dislike of Hunt’s image is grounded in the fact that the engraving reproduces the fiercer agency that characterizes the Lady of Shalott in Tennyson’s original 1832 version of the poem, but is effaced in the 1842 revision reproduced in the Moxon. The densely intertwined points of confluence and divergence between early and later revisions of drawing and poem reveal both poet and artist working, within the particular constraints and capacities of their respective media, to figure out how to represent a moment of crisis: its immediate shape and its ongoing ramifications; the relationship it forges and alters between the individual and the larger forces – fate, choice, death, desire – in which she is enwrapped. Furthermore, the juxtapositions open up some new possibilities for reading ‘The Lady of Shalott’, a work that explores through mythic narrative and poetic form the difficulties and the attractions inherent in the movements between constraint and action, representation and event, narrative and image – and in the communications, vital but inescapably incomplete, between author and subject, artist and object, lover and beloved. The scene Hunt chose to illustrate for the opening image of ‘The Lady of Shalott’, the poem based in Arthurian legend, is the story’s pivotal moment of crisis. The Lady of Shalott has, by an obscure ‘curse’, been condemned to spend her days in a tower, weaving ‘a magic web with colours gay’, forbidden from looking directly at the world beneath her. She can only see its reflection: ‘moving thro’ a mirror clear | That hangs before her all the year, | Shadows of the world appear’. But at this moment, the Lady, who has declared herself ‘half-sick of shadows’, succumbs to the desire incited by the spectacle of ‘bold Sir Lancelot’ riding by in the ‘dazzling’ sunlight and ‘flash[ing] into the crystal mirror’, and does that which she has been forbidden to do: She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro’ the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look’d down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack’d from side to side; ‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried The Lady of Shalott. (lines 109–117)Hunt’s illustration of this scene (Figure 1), engraved for the Moxon book by John Thompson, is remarkable for its condensation of the major elements of the story – the Lady herself, the weaving, the mirror, and Sir Lancelot, with helmet and plume – into a small, nearly square pictorial space (4.2 × 3.6 inches). In the midst of all of this visual activity, meticulously composed to create the effect of chaotic movement, it is the Lady who dominates the image: her body fills it vertically, and her hair, with its prototypical Pre-Raphaelite heft, does the same horizontally. These dominant features of the image – its crowdedness, its turmoil, and in particular the unsettling vigour of the central figure – were the ones to which Tennyson, in a memorable conversation with the artist, voiced an objection. Figure 1. William Holman Hunt, The Lady of Shalott, 1857. Wood engraving, 4.2 × 3.6 inches. Scanned image by George P. Landow, The Victorian Web. Figure 1. William Holman Hunt, The Lady of Shalott, 1857. Wood engraving, 4.2 × 3.6 inches. Scanned image by George P. Landow, The Victorian Web. In his memoir, Hunt recalls his first, long-anticipated meeting with ‘the great’ poet, whom he had expected to be haughty but found ‘markedly unostentatious and modest’, with a head […] nobly poised on his grand columnar neck, rarely held erect, but inclined towards whomever he addressed with unaffected attention; he was swarthy of complexion, his black hair hanging in curls over his domed head; he had a great girth of shoulder, resembling many a Syrian Arab I had met.This was not long after the release of the Moxon volume, and Tennyson indicated that ‘I was always interested in your paintings, and lately your illustrations to my poems have strongly engaged my attention!’. The engagement, though, was not entirely a happy one: After some general talk he said, ‘I must now ask why did you make the Lady of Shalott, in the illustration, with her hair wildly tossed about as if by a tornado?’ Rather perplexed, I replied that I had wished to convey the idea of the threatened fatality by reversing the ordinary peace of the room and of the lady herself; that while she recognized that the moment of the catastrophe had come, the spectator might also understand it. ‘But I didn’t say that her hair was blown about like that. Then there is another question I want to ask you. Why did you make the web wind round and round her like the threads of a cocoon?’ ‘Now,’ I exclaimed, ‘surely that may be justified, for you say – “Out flew the web and floated wide; | The mirror crack’d from side to side;” […] a mark of the dire calamity that had come upon her.’ But Tennyson broke in, ‘But I did not say it floated round and round her.’6Hunt responded to Tennyson’s complaint with a theory of the different capacities of visual and written forms to plot the trajectory of an event, specifically a disastrous or climactic event, which must simultaneously unfold slowly and erupt suddenly: ‘My defence was, “May I not urge that I had only half a page on which to convey the impression of weird fate, whereas you use about fifteen pages to give expression to the complete idea?”’. The poet, though, was unmoved: ‘Tennyson laid it down that “an illustrator ought never to add anything to what he finds in the text”.’7 Tennyson insists, stubbornly, on the primacy of word over image, of author over artist. But the idea of absolute textual authority is complicated by the fact that, while indeed a poem has more space to ‘convey [its] impression[s]’ than an illustration of that poem, both poets and illustrators have capacious resources of revision: making multiple drafts and sketches, creating and releasing different versions of their respective works that stretch their respective boundaries quite far beyond that ‘half a page’ versus ‘fifteen pages’. Hunt had been doing studies of ‘The Lady of Shalott’ since 1850, and kept working on it for the rest of his career until completing an enormous oil painting of the subject in 1905, five years before his death. Tennyson, meanwhile, published two substantially different versions of the poem, the first in 1832 and the second a decade later, and the story would appear again, as ‘Lancelot and Elaine’ in Idylls of the King (1859). What makes the dual histories of text and image, and their point of tempestuous convergence in the Moxon Tennyson, especially intriguing is that they seem, if we read and look closely, to have crossed paths somewhere in the middle. Hunt’s series of sketches from 1850, which he referred to as his ‘embryo design’,8 have, as we will see, little of the riotous explosion of detail and form and threads and hair that would characterize his later visions, and that so troubled the poet. Tennyson’s earlier version of the poem, meanwhile, renders its title character in much more intensively imagistic, graphically wilful terms than the 1842 one. The weirdly divergent paths of the revisions of ‘the impression of weird fate’, I want to suggest, demonstrate both William Holman Hunt’s and Alfred Tennyson’s perpetual reckonings with the question of how a catastrophic event – the shattering of a system by interceptions of desire and fatality – can be imagined and represented. And, in Tennyson’s case, how it can be lived: for haunting his 1842 text, and his overdetermined refusal of Hunt’s 1857 image, is the 1833 disaster of the sudden death of his friend Arthur Henry Hallam, which may have led the poet to new ways of thinking about the risks of desire and the endless crisis of encounter with a dead beloved. In his memoir, Hunt recounts his response to Dante Rossetti’s petulant accusation that Hunt had unfairly ‘appropriated’ Rossetti’s favorite poem for the Moxon Tennyson. The anecdote suggests not only Hunt’s own long-standing investment in ‘The Lady of Shalott’, but also his concern with shaping his artistic self-image and his sense of the production of the work of art as an ongoing process whose finished product at once carries and conceals the traces of multiple earlier instantiations: You know I made a drawing from this poem of the ‘Breaking of the Web’ at least four years ago. It was only put aside when the paper was so worn that it would not bear a single new correction […] A friend and his wife came to my studio, I showed them this embryo design […] and the lady expressing a violent liking for it, begged it of me […] My protestations that I was dissatisfied with the drawing, except as a preparation for future work, were of no avail, and I yielded on condition that it should not be shown publicly, and that it should be mine when needed for future use. I have ever since been nervous lest this immature invention should be regarded as my finished idea, so I was glad on reading the list of poems chosen for the Tennyson book to find this one at my disposal.9Thus, it seems that Hunt jumped at the chance to illustrate ‘Shalott’ for the Moxon edition because he saw it as an opportunity to at last complete a process that had been started several years before (perhaps it was the jolt he needed to get back to work on a project that he had, out of some kind of artistic blockage, abandoned), as well as to make sure that the preliminary results of that process – his ‘immature invention’ – wouldn’t be the ones to fix themselves in the public imagination. An early draft or study might, in certain cases, be seen as both necessity and liability: one needs it in order to get to the ‘finished idea’, but, if publicized, it threatens to supplant that idea’s finality. Hunt’s evident awareness of this predicament lends a certain irony both to his insistence, to Tennyson, of the artist’s spatial limitations, as well as to his apparent befuddlement at the poet’s distress over the imperfect concordance between his own ‘finished idea’ and the artist’s – which, if my reading is correct, actually corresponds more readily to the poet’s earlier, or ‘immature’, one. As his description of the incident might indicate (‘It was only put aside when the paper was so worn that it would not bear a single new correction’), Hunt’s ‘embryo design’ was not actually a single image, but rather a series of them (Figures 2 and 3). In the most complete rendering from that series, we see the Lady of Shalott standing, sedate and relatively unadorned, her eyes downcast and fixed upon her weaving, away from the viewer (Figure 4). Her back is turned to the large mirror on the wall behind her, the centre point of the image, which is, in Sharyn Udall’s description, ‘surrounded by eight smaller rondels […] in which are shown the crenellated tower, the Lady at her loom and in her boat, and other scenes from her life, past, present, and future’.10 The image thus presents a kind of iconographic narrative that preserves the structure of the text even as it consolidates its spread-out events into a unified pictorial space. There is, as Richard Stein puts it, ‘no suggestion of this sort of physicality’, the tornado-blown hair and the twisting threads, to which Tennyson objected in the later version. Rather than depicting, in bold visual terms, the catastrophe of the ‘breaking of the web’, the sketch ‘depicts [the Lady] diligently weaving before the crisis’.11 Figure 2. View largeDownload slide William Holman Hunt, study for The Lady of Shalott, 1850. Pen and ink. Scanned image by George P. Landow, The Victorian Web. Figure 2. View largeDownload slide William Holman Hunt, study for The Lady of Shalott, 1850. Pen and ink. Scanned image by George P. Landow, The Victorian Web. Figure 3. View largeDownload slide William Holman Hunt, study for The Lady of Shalott, 1850. Pen and ink. Scanned image by George P. Landow, The Victorian Web. Figure 3. View largeDownload slide William Holman Hunt, study for The Lady of Shalott, 1850. Pen and ink. Scanned image by George P. Landow, The Victorian Web. Figure 4. William Holman Hunt, The Lady of Shalott, 1850. Black chalk, pen and ink, 9 x 6 in. National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne. Felton Bequest, 1921 (1133-3). Figure 4. William Holman Hunt, The Lady of Shalott, 1850. Black chalk, pen and ink, 9 x 6 in. National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne. Felton Bequest, 1921 (1133-3). There is, then, a radical divergence between this ‘embryo’ vision of the Lady of Shalott and the ‘finished’ one which appears in the Moxon woodcut. There, as Tennyson complained, the threads of the unravelling tapestry ‘wind round and round’ the lady, whose wild hair mirrors that disarray. Her gaze is defiant and, while her head faces downward towards the loom, her eye seems at the same time to be sneaking a glance at the mirror, in which we see Sir Lancelot riding away. The knight, of course, is oblivious to the tumult he has caused. Yet, thanks to a brilliant trick of perspective, one of the flying threads of the weaving appears to catch on and wind around the tip of his spear even as its other end winds around the Lady’s torso: their fates are literally bound together. In Udall’s feminist reading, the Lady’s femininity has progressed from demure and passive to active, empowered, possibly monstrous: From her small, almost cowering pose in the 1850 drawing, the Lady grew in the 1857 Moxon illustration into a creature of great presence and size – a caryatid whose head would burst through the picture’s edge were she to look up. Glowering, angry, she struggles to shield her consciousness, to protect a nascent autonomy. With her own story to tell, she threatens to subvert her prescriptive selflessness and achieve her own female/artistic authority.12This Moxon image, in which ‘order explodes into chaos, releasing a power that grows in each of Hunt’s succeeding images’,13 would serve as the template for the work on the subject that would occupy Hunt until nearly the end of his life, culminating in the large-scale, oil-on-canvas version that was finally completed, after 20 years of work (and, due to Hunt’s failing eyesight, with the help of assistants), in 1905. One suspects that if Tennyson had lived to see this painting, he would have been strongly displeased. Here, the ‘tornado’-like chaos of the scene is amplified by the grand scale and the shockingly fluorescent colour scheme (Figure 5). Here, too, the iconography is much denser and stranger, Hunt having added objects and images which veer very far from the poetic source: a pair of wooden Japanese sandals; an ornate silver oil lamp with a Sphinx at its base; birds and angels; reliefs of Hercules on one side and the Virgin Mary on the other.14 While in 1850 the Lady wears an appropriate medieval gown and in 1857 a Grecian-esque tunic with the kind of billowing sleeves favoured by the Pre-Raphaelites, by 1905 she is elaborately clad in a glossy pink skirt and an astonishing blue-green iridescent bodice which appears to be made of peacock feathers. Throughout his half-century of work on the subject, Hunt’s vision of Tennyson’s Lady became ever more idiosyncratic, ever more his own: more laden with symbolism; more insistent on the explosive aesthetic power of the central figure; more defiant of the usual boundaries of both pictorial and narrative space. As Udall writes: Hunt obviously relished the increasing complexity of his Lady of Shalott images. Of his final version [he] recorded […] the necessity of expanding the space ‘above and at the sides of the composition, which gave room for new inventions to make manifest the significance of the subject’.15Tennyson’s vexation, then, seems to reflect not only irritation at the details of an artist’s interpretation of his work, but a sense – which would turn out to be correct – that the artist was less concerned with interpretation of the poet’s vision than with the emergence of his own, that Hunt was developing the Lady of Shallot as his own ‘subject’, with ‘new inventions’, a newly forged ‘significance’ whose threads of connection to the poem grew ever looser. The future of Hunt’s work on ‘Shalott’ lends Tennyson’s declaration that ‘an illustrator ought never to add anything to what he finds in the text’ an ironic sense of simultaneous urgency and futility. But this account is not entirely accurate, either, for it suggests a certain concreteness to Tennyson’s ‘Shalott’ that does not reflect the fluctuations of its own process of composition. Indeed, Tennyson’s disapproval may also have rested on the fact that Hunt’s Moxon engraving fits much better with the 1832 poem, the one he published first, then revised and effectively discarded. Critics have described the shifts across both Tennyson’s and Hunt’s versions of ‘The Lady of Shalott’, but what has not been noted are the parallels – or, more precisely, the non-parallels; the diagonalized correspondences, perhaps – between the revisions of the picture and those of the poem.16 The crisscrossed accounts of poet and artist reveal divergent approaches to the proper form for the representation of disaster – and, thus, we can posit, divergent understandings of the psychological workings of the experience and aftermaths of disaster. Figure 5. William Holman Hunt, The Lady of Shalott, c. 1890–1905. Oil on canvas, 74⅛ × 57⅝ inches. Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art, Hartford, CT. The Ella Gallup Sumner and Mary Catlin Sumner Collection Fund, 1961.470. Figure 5. William Holman Hunt, The Lady of Shalott, c. 1890–1905. Oil on canvas, 74⅛ × 57⅝ inches. Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art, Hartford, CT. The Ella Gallup Sumner and Mary Catlin Sumner Collection Fund, 1961.470. The first published version of ‘The Lady of Shalott’, which appeared in the 1832 collection Poems, is notably different in a number of regards, both major and minor, from the revised text that would replace it in Poems in 1842 and, in later editions, effectively efface it. The 1857 Moxon Tennyson (followed by many later collections) places this poem in a sub-section entitled Poems: Published 1832 but with no indication that the text that follows is not in fact the one published in 1832, in the volume that earned the young Tennyson avid followers and equally avid detractors.17. Arthur Henry Hallam – the ‘dear friend’ whose sudden death, at the age of 23, is mourned in In Memoriam A.H.H., published in 1850 – wrote in his fond review of Tennyson’s 1830 Poems, Chiefly Lyrical of the poet’s luxuriance of imagination, and at the same time his control over it […] his power of embodying himself in ideal characters […] his vivid, picturesque delineation of objects, and the peculiar skill with which he holds all of them fused […] in a medium of strong emotion […] the exquisite modulation of harmonious words and cadences to the swell and fall of the feelings expressed.18 That volume, as Hallam’s review suggests in its bountiful comparisons of Tennyson to Keats and Shelley, is characterized by a Romantic sensibility. This same sensibility can also look, as poets and critics like Richard Le Gallienne in the later nineteenth century would eagerly see, like a sort of glamorous proto-Aestheticism, which was rebuked by Walter Bagehot in 1859 for ‘labouring under the defect that it is written almost professedly for young people – especially young men – of rather heated imagination’.19 Contrasting this problematic earlier work with the poet’s more recent productions, Bagehot says approvingly that Tennyson has now ‘sided with the world’. Much (though not all) of this more sensual, sensational, or sentimental valence of Tennyson’s early style would be sublimated in the more worldy and philosophically astute later work that would make him Poet Laureate. Yet it was the earlier Tennysonian spirit that spoke so strongly to the Pre-Raphaelites. As Richard Stein argues: The poetic qualities [the Pre-Raphaelites] were likely to have respected most were also the ones for which his youthful poetry had been most severely censured: his subjectivity, his sensuousness, his emphasis on atmosphere, and even his static visual effects […]. This was not the sort of verse that was gaining approval at mid-century, when critics praised Tennyson for his growing maturity.20It is the spirit of the younger Romantic Tennyson, as embodied in his earlier ‘Lady of Shalott’, which William Holman Hunt (who was becoming more distinctly a pre-Raphaelite dissident as Tennyson was becoming more of a mid-Victorian national spokesman) grasped onto and depicted, so memorably, and indeed with a brazen departure from the later text, in his 1857 image. That image, though, appears to take much less of the impertinent artistic licence of which Tennyson accused it if held next to the earlier 1832 poem. There, while admittedly he still does not ‘say that her hair was blown about like that’, Tennyson does render his title character in much greater detail and focus than the later version, in terms of her physical appearance, her clothing and surroundings, and her affective experience, as well as her conscious processes of choice-making and action-taking. This difference, though it climaxes in the final section, comes into play early in the poem. Both versions begin with setting – ‘On either side the river lie | Long fields of barley and of rye, | That clothe the wold and meet the sky; | And thro’ the field the road runs by | To many tower’d Camelot’ (lines 1–5) – and both make their way only slowly to person, introducing the Lady in the final line of the second stanza: ‘And the silent isle imbowers | The Lady of Shalott’ (lines 26–27). In the later version, the poem’s view of the Lady remains, for a time, oblique. For the whole of Part I, she is seen only at a distance, through shadow and rumour. Her existence itself is in question: ‘But who hath seen her wave her hand? | Or at the casement seen her stand? | Or is she known in all the land, | The Lady of Shalott?’ (lines 33–36). This opening section then ends, not with affirmation but with a moonlit whisper: ‘And by the moon the reaper weary | Piling sheaves in uplands airy, | Listening, whispers ‘’Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott’ (lines 44–45). In the 1832 poem, the reaper’s whisper comes instead in the penultimate stanza of Part I and, rather than being preceded by doubting questions, is followed by a direct view of their subject: The little isle is all inrail’d With a rose-fence, and overtrail’d With roses: by the marge unhail’d The shallop flitteth silken sail’d, Skimming down to Camelot. A pearl garland winds her head: She leaneth on a velvet bed, Full royally apparelled, The Lady of Shalott. (lines 28–36)The details offered here – a pearl garland, a velvet bed – are not especially memorable, and it is easy to see, from a lyrical and dramatic standpoint, why the maturing poet would have deleted them in favour of a more intriguing set-up to the narrative that follows. However, they are notable in a few regards. First, they prefigure the kind of material richness, the plushness of texture, that characterizes both the poem’s later description of Sir Lancelot and many Pre-Raphaelite paintings, especially of women. Second, they establish the pattern of revision that will, throughout the 1842 version of the poem, continue to render the Lady of Shalott with less physicality, less fully drawn presence, than she is accorded in this earlier one. Consider the second stanza of Part II in each version: She lives with little joy or fear.  And moving thro’ a mirror clear  Over the water, running near,  That hangs before her all the year,  The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.  Shadows of the world appear.  Before her hangs a mirror clear,  There she sees the highway near   Reflecting towered Camelot.   Winding down to Camelot:  And, as the mazy web she whirls,  There the river eddy whirls,  She sees the surly village-churls,  And there the surly village-churls,  And the red cloaks of market-girls,  And the red cloaks of market girls,   Pass onward from Shalott.   Pass onward from Shalott.  (lines 45-54, 1832)  (lines 45-54, 1842)  She lives with little joy or fear.  And moving thro’ a mirror clear  Over the water, running near,  That hangs before her all the year,  The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.  Shadows of the world appear.  Before her hangs a mirror clear,  There she sees the highway near   Reflecting towered Camelot.   Winding down to Camelot:  And, as the mazy web she whirls,  There the river eddy whirls,  She sees the surly village-churls,  And there the surly village-churls,  And the red cloaks of market-girls,  And the red cloaks of market girls,   Pass onward from Shalott.   Pass onward from Shalott.  (lines 45-54, 1832)  (lines 45-54, 1842)  View Large She lives with little joy or fear.  And moving thro’ a mirror clear  Over the water, running near,  That hangs before her all the year,  The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.  Shadows of the world appear.  Before her hangs a mirror clear,  There she sees the highway near   Reflecting towered Camelot.   Winding down to Camelot:  And, as the mazy web she whirls,  There the river eddy whirls,  She sees the surly village-churls,  And there the surly village-churls,  And the red cloaks of market-girls,  And the red cloaks of market girls,   Pass onward from Shalott.   Pass onward from Shalott.  (lines 45-54, 1832)  (lines 45-54, 1842)  She lives with little joy or fear.  And moving thro’ a mirror clear  Over the water, running near,  That hangs before her all the year,  The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.  Shadows of the world appear.  Before her hangs a mirror clear,  There she sees the highway near   Reflecting towered Camelot.   Winding down to Camelot:  And, as the mazy web she whirls,  There the river eddy whirls,  She sees the surly village-churls,  And there the surly village-churls,  And the red cloaks of market-girls,  And the red cloaks of market girls,   Pass onward from Shalott.   Pass onward from Shalott.  (lines 45-54, 1832)  (lines 45-54, 1842)  View Large ‘Why did you make the web wind round and round her like the threads of a cocoon?’ Tennyson protested to Hunt: ‘I did not say it floated round and round her.’ But the 1832 poem does mention, ‘the mazy web she whirls’ (line 51). In the 1842 revision, that striking verb ‘whirls’, which seems to denote exactly what’s going on in Hunt’s 1857 image, is still present in the equivalent line. But it is transferred, taking with it its suggestive sense of rapid motion and action, from the weaving Lady to ‘the river eddy’: from character, that is, to surroundings; from actor to atmosphere. The central sequence of the poem, Part III, in which Sir Lancelot rides by glittering and gleaming and the Lady leaves her loom to gaze down upon him, thereby unleashing the ‘curse’, is identical in both published versions. This, of course, is the scene actually depicted by Hunt, the ‘breaking of the web’ as he called it, or, in Tennyson’s phrasing: ‘Out flew the web and floated wide: | The mirror crack’d from side to side; | “The curse is come upon me,” cried | The Lady of Shalott’ (lines 114–17). The fact that this vivid language of flying, floating, cracking, and crying – language of entropy, of ruin – was maintained across the decade of revision makes it seem all the more peculiar that Tennyson objected so strongly to Hunt’s visualization of the event. No, the poet does not say specifically that the threads wound around the Lady, but is it really such a jump from ‘floated wide’ to ‘floated round and round her’? Looking at the text as a whole, however, and in particular at the language surrounding this central moment – all of which, by his own account, Hunt hoped to encompass in his single image – lets us read such apparent quibbling as, instead, a crisis of poetic authority come face to face with its own limitations, with the wreckage of desire, with the fragility of the body and the haunting persistence of the image. The second stanza of Part IV in the 1832 poem dresses the Lady for her final trip to Camelot in elaborately conjured material detail. Again she is ‘royally apparelled’. But while the description echoes the ‘pearl garland’ of Part I, the languidness of the ‘velvet bed’ is here superseded by a mood of active determination that is significantly depleted in the revised version. As Erik Gray writes, ‘the original version emphasizes, even more than the final one, the clear-sightedness with which the Lady recognizes her own “mischance” […] A passage omitted in 1842 describes how deliberately she repeats the action of looking down to Camelot’21: A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight. All raimented in snowy white That loosely flew, (her zone in sight, Clasped with one blinding diamond bright,) Her wide eyes fixed on Camelot, Though the squally eastwind keenly Blew, with folded arms serenely By the water stood the queenly Lady of Shalott. (lines 127–36, 1832)The Lady stands by the shore ‘raimented in snowy white’, looking ‘queenly’, assailed by the ‘squally eastwind’ blowing ‘keenly’, even as in her bold serenity she resists it. This resonates with Hunt’s illustration, where the figure of the Lady is surrounded by the agitated movements of hair and threads, tossing about as if blown by a ‘squally’ wind, yet retains a kind of dignified, columnar stillness, although it is a dynamic stillness which bears traces of its own imminent rupture. This stanza has no correlative in the 1842 version. It is simply deleted, leaving the latter nine lines shorter. Part of its detail is retained – ‘in snowy white | That loosely flew’; so resonant, again, with the tossing, winding, and flying of the illustration – but with a major difference: Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right – The leaves upon her falling light – Thro’ the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. (lines 136–44, 1842) In 1832, the Lady had stood in her loose white dress; now, that description is withheld until she is already ‘lying’ in the boat and ‘float[ing] down to Camelot’. In the second version, she is neither clasped by a ‘blinding diamond bright’, nor are her ‘wide eyes fixed’ on her destination. And she is ‘crowned’ not by a ‘cloudwhite […] crown of pearl’ that she herself has put on, but rather by the ‘leaves upon her falling light’: the transfer, once again, from person to place, from internal to external agency. The largest of Tennyson’s revisions occurs in the final stanza, when the ‘shallow boat’, upon the ‘carven stern’ of which the Lady has in both versions written her name (or, rather her title: ‘The Lady of Shalott’), has made its way to Camelot. In 1832, the closing words of the poem are those of the Lady’s own letter: a strongly first-person (‘this is I’) document of self-identification and self-narration that reverberates, that keeps speaking, beyond her death. They cross’d themselves, their stars they blest, Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest. There lay a parchment on her breast, That puzzled more than all the rest, The wellfed wits at Camelot. ‘The web was woven curiously, The charm is broken utterly, Draw near and fear not, – this is I, The Lady of Shalott.’ (lines 172–80, 1832)She tells her story: the story of her ‘curious’ weaving, of the charm’s ‘breaking’, implying that her death – which should not be ‘feared’ – is somehow both preordained and chosen, the result of both her fated position and her own act of seizing agency by destroying it. But in 1842, in the closing as in the opening passages, questions raised about the Lady are not directly answered: ‘Who is this? and what is here?’ (line 163, 1842). The letter is not mentioned, and the final word is given instead to Sir Lancelot, who in the previous version doesn’t enter the closing tableau at all. But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, ‘She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.’ (lines 163–71, 1842)This is a substantial revision, and a puzzling one. The Lady of Shalott’s letter, read by the citizens of Camelot after her death, is a central object in the medieval Italian novella, Donna di Scalotta, that was Tennyson’s source for the poem; more or less the whole point of that very brief story, in fact, is to reveal what this document says. Donna di Scalotta supplies only the barest outline of the tale that became ‘The Lady of Shalott’: a lady dies out of unrequited love for Sir Lancelot, and her body floats to Camelot. As Tennyson himself put it, according to F. J. Furnivall: ‘I met the story first in some Italian novelle: but the web, mirror, island, etc., were my own’.22 L. S. Potwin, who in a 1902 article in Modern Language Notes sought to unravel the complexities of the relationship between poem and source text, notes that ‘the first edition of this much-revised poem (1833) resembles the novella more than the second (1842)’.23 The first line of correlation is in the way that the Lady is figured. As I have noted, the first version, in Potwin’s words, ‘adorns the lady more splendidly, and mentions crown and girdle’,24 thus retaining some of the novella’s interest in the specifications of luxury: she commanded that when her soul should depart from her body, there should be made ready a rich boat covered with red samite, with a rich bed therein, with rich and noble coverings of silk, adorned with rich precious stones; and with a rich girdle and a rich purse.25The second connection, present in 1832 and severed in 1842, is the letter, the transcription of which takes up a quarter of the words of the brief Italian text: To all the knights that are round-about, this Damsel of Shalott sends greeting, as to the best people of the world. And if you would know wherefore I have come to my end, it is for the best knight of the world and for the most cruel, that is, Sir Lancelot du Lac, whom indeed I knew not to care enough for love to have pity on me. And so, alas, I die for loving well, as you can see.26In the 1832 poem, though the letter doesn’t drive the narrative as it does in the source, it does stand out emphatically as its italicized finale. Lancelot, however, goes unmentioned: in Tennyson’s rendering, the Lady’s final pronouncement speaks not of the object of her love but rather of its consequences. In 1842, though, the letter is simply gone, and Lancelot appears; we might say that he takes its place, structurally, as the speaker of the poem’s final lines. Concurrently, the Lady, in lieu of her moment as a posthumous speaking subject, gets a moment instead as a posthumous object of desire. On the one hand, this might be taken as a depressing reinforcement of Victorian gender norms: the male perspective and voice active, empowered; the female body ‘lovely’ but silent. But another way to read this transformation of the dynamics of the closing tableau emerges if we consider Lancelot’s trajectory in the poem, contrasting his role here as appraiser of the Lady’s beauty with his earlier appearance as the one being appraised. As we know, Lancelot’s entrance into the text in Part III (which, as I noted above, was not subject to any revision) is exceptionally vivid, his physical attributes and the splendidness of his attire given far more attention than the Lady’s in either version of the poem. With his ‘blazon’d baldric’ from ‘mighty silver bugle’ hanging, his ‘thick-jewell’d’ saddle-leather shining, and so on, he is positioned dramatically as the glowing, gazed-upon object of desire: the object of the Lady’s newly awakened desire, of course, but in a fuller sense of the poem’s desire as well, revealed through the force of the poet’s descriptive attention. And now, in the final stanza of 1842, Lancelot reappears, and fully takes over, now the one paying descriptive attention. Thus, in the later version, Lancelot claims both the starring role of desired object in the poem’s memorably detailed mid-section and, in the revised finale, that of desiring subject. I want to suggest that this doubling of the way the text imagines masculinity and the male body shifts its erotics into a territory that might be called homoerotic: it carries a suggestion of the circulation of desire around and between men. In September 1833, less than a year after the publication of Tennyson’s Poems, Arthur Henry Hallam died at the age of 22 while travelling in Europe with his father. His uncle wrote, famously and heartbreakingly, to Tennyson: ‘He died at Vienna on his return from Buda, by Apoplexy – and I believe his Remains come by sea from Trieste.’27 Tennyson was utterly devastated by the loss; as his grandson wrote a century later: ‘a sudden and brutal stroke had annihilated in a moment a love “passing the love of women”. The prop, round which his own growth had twined itself for four fruitful years, was suddenly removed’.28 Almost immediately, he began working on parts of what would, after 18 years of composition and revision, finally be published as In Memoriam A.H.H. in 1850. The very first section he wrote, on 6 October 1833, is the one that addresses itself plaintively to the boat itself on which Arthur’s body is being transported: Fair ship, that from the Italian shore Sailest the placid ocean plains With my lost Arthur’s loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o’er. (Section IX, lines 1–4) The year of the publication of the revised ‘Lady of Shalott’, 1842, is close to the mid-point between Arthur Hallam’s sudden death (1833) and the publication of In Memoriam (1850), the poem that recorded Tennyson’s cycles of mourning for his lost friend. At that time, then, Tennyson may have been thinking in much darker and more complicated ways than he had been in 1832 about relations between subjects and their lost loved objects and, in particular, about communication between the living and the dead. The extraordinarily painful difficulties of such communication – as well as the extraordinary power of fantasies about it – is one of the central themes of In Memoriam, one of the central tropes of the grief it charts: ‘For this alone on Death I wreak | The wrath that garners in my heart; | He put our lives so far apart | We cannot hear each other speak’, Tennyson says in Section LXXXII (lines 13–16). In Section XCV, Tennyson depicts himself, alone after a gathering, suddenly struck by a ‘hunger’ to read ‘the noble letters of the dead’ (lines 21, 24): So word by word, and line by line, The dead man touch’d me from the past, And all at once it seem’d at last The living soul was flash’d on mine, And mine in this was wound, and whirl’d About empyreal heights of thought, And came on that which is, and caught The deep pulsations of the world. (lines 33–40)Note, here, the prominence of two of the contested verbs of tempestuous action, appearing together in the phrase ‘wound, and whirl’d’. Here it is the poet himself who is whirl’d, wound, and, like the lady’s hair in Hunt’s image, ‘wildly tossed’. The tornado-like force is that of ‘the living soul’ of ‘the dead man’, which ‘flash’d’ onto Tennyson’s own soul just as Lancelot ‘flash’d into the crystal mirror’ of the Lady of Shalott (line 106). The reunion of souls, achieved through the reading of the ‘letters of the dead’, is longed for and impossible, sought out and imagined, painful and joyous, potent but fleeting, both phantasmatic and physical (‘the dead man touch’d me’), both mystical and erotic. These lines are also the site of one of the major revisions that Tennyson made to In Memoriam after its first edition. In 1850, they read: ‘His living soul was flash’d on mine | And mine in his was wound and whirl’d’. It was not until 1872 that ‘his’ was changed to ‘The’ and ‘this’. Unsurprisingly, these lines and their revision have been taken up as evidence in the long-standing critical debate over the presence and extent of homosexual desire or homoeroticism in the poem.29 Richard Dellamora calls Section XCV ‘the central lines of the central lyric […] the visionary moment of union with Hallam, their mystic marriage’ and argues, convincingly, that the revision, in which ‘Tennyson suppressed masculine pronouns and substituted third-person neuter one’, ‘reflect[s] a climate of increasing concern about the verbal expression of male-male desire’.30 This claim is supported by Tennyson’s own statement about the revision, as quoted by his son Hallam Tennyson: ‘The first reading, “his living soul”, troubled me, as perhaps giving a wrong impression’.31 Surely we can assume, especially in light of the poet’s other defensive statements and revisions, that ‘the wrong impression’ does refer to the impression of male-male desire and even physical contact. The revision also seems to me, however, to suggest a transition similar to that made in the revision of ‘The Lady of Shalott’: the move from personal to general, from specific to abstract, and from the deliberate seizing of fate to a more ambivalent embrace. Hallam Tennyson’s record of his father’s explanation continues: ‘Of course the greater Soul may include the less […] I have often had that feeling of being whirled up and rapt in the Great Soul.’32 Elsewhere, Alfred Tennyson is quoted as having said ‘my conscience was troubled by “his”. I’ve often had a strange feeling of being wound and wrapped in the Great Soul’.33 One part of the poet’s revising consciousness, then, might have been trying (using Dellamora’s term) to ‘suppress’ the presence of gay desire. But another part might have been trying to reckon anew with the agony and the transcendence of – like the Lady of Shalott – living with a love that is both impossible to have and impossible to give up, of having one’s own very particular desire ‘whirled up’ and ‘wound and wrapped’ in a force much larger than oneself. But if the revisions of ‘The Lady of Shalott’ between 1832 and 1842 contain a record of Tennyson’s shifting emotional consciousness in the wake of the great catastrophe of Arthur Hallam’s death, then they might seem to go in a strange direction. If Arthur’s ‘noble letters’ speak from beyond the grave, then why is the Lady of Shalott’s own letter removed entirely? If ‘whirl’d’ and ‘wound’ are the poet’s own terms for describing the experience of living in the aftermath of a catastrophic loss that is at once absolutely abrupt and subsequently unabating, of encountering a force beyond your control that you have nonetheless made the choice to encounter – then why did he object so fiercely to William Holman Hunt’s visual rendering of these very processes? Hunt’s Lady, unlike the figure in his early studies and for that matter in the other paintings of the subject by his Pre-Raphaelite peers, is not a demure or hesitant figure. Like Tennyson’s Lady of 1832, her wide eyes fixed on Camelot, she stares fiercely, defiantly down at her unravelling ‘web’, even as her wild hair seems about to lift her out of the window and into the world where she will meet her unavoidable yet deliberately chosen fate. The image condenses, as Hunt espoused, ‘fifteen pages’ of poetic space into a single one. It also adds to it a kind of emotional fierceness: forcing, as he said, the Lady and the ‘spectator’ to simultaneously ‘recognize that the moment of catastrophe had come’, and at the same time to both defy and accept the nature of the ‘curse’ that has brought it on. But the Tennyson who revised the poem in 1842 and responded to Hunt’s image almost two decades later wanted, in this work, to preserve instead a sense of delay; of the incommensurability, perhaps, between the experience of the subject of disaster and that of its spectator: the one who, like Lancelot, and like Tennyson, is left standing by the shore to receive the dead body, arriving by boat. And it is a dead body which, when it arrives, unlike in the earlier version, refuses to tell the story of its own death. Sometimes the dead speak, and sometimes they refuse to. Sometimes the wild tossing of fate, chance, and choice enables communication between souls, between selves and ‘the deep pulsations of the world’ – and sometimes blocks it. Sometimes a voice testifies from the moment between life and death, as the Lady does in both versions of the poem, for while this ghostly voice is more vigorous in the version that preserves her letter, it is heard also in the song that she sings while floating down the river (called her ‘deathsong’ in 1832): ‘They heard her singing her last song, | The Lady of Shalott. | Heard a carol, mournful, holy, | Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, | Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken’d wholly, | Turned to tower’d Camelot’ (lines 143–49, 1842). Sometimes, on the other hand, death, rather than being deliberately if mournfully approached, arrives so suddenly that its victim does not have the chance to say anything at all. Opposed to the Lady’s ‘blood’ being ‘frozen slowly’ is Henry Hallam’s harrowing account of his son’s abrupt death: ‘A wet day probably gave rise to an intermittent fever, with very slight symptoms, and apparently subsiding, when a sudden rush of blood to the head put an instantaneous end to his life.’34 All such possibilities are explored throughout the 133 sections of In Memoriam, an elegy of epic length, composed in pieces across 18 years, that records in perhaps greater detail than any other poem in history the multiplicitous forms both consolation and its refusal can take. As Tennyson himself put it, ‘the different moods of sorrow as in a drama are dramatically given’.35 At the moment of his revision of ‘The Lady of Shalott’, though, Tennyson moved toward the side of silence, of stillness; from the ‘queenly’ agent of 1832 to the more quickly ‘dead pale’ object of 1842. Having committed, in that text, to that approach – having inscribed its affective and dramatic stance into the revision that he clearly viewed as a finalization – Tennyson then found insupportable the encroachment of Hunt’s own emerging vision upon his. Yet the versions of poem and image that coexist, uncomfortably, in the Moxon book both carry with them the alternate perspectives of the alternate versions that came before and would come after, stretching from Tennyson’s 1832 original to Hunt’s demure sketches to, more than seven decades later, his extraordinary 1905 painting: the zenith of the figuration of the Lady as the centre of a whirling symbolic universe which she is at once constrained by and in command over. Among all of these figures – and between the poet and artist who clashed over them – is poised the spectre of Arthur Hallam and the restless, winding, wounding, redemptive negotiations over his loss that are the emotional and lyric drama of In Memoriam. Exerting her disruptive presence in the pages of the Moxon Tennyson, Hunt’s stunningly mobile Pre-Raphaelite Lady refuses to allow a single strain of revision to hold: breaking her web and her constraints, breaking into the world, breaking towards the fulfilment of her desire even at the cost of her own death, she retains alternate possibilities, and thus expresses – and potently expands – the whirling, multiple, conflicted strands of Tennyson’s poetics of loss. Disclosure statement No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author. 1. George Somes Layard, Tennyson and his Pre-Raphaelite Illustrators: A Book About a Book (London: Elliot Stock, 1894), p. 1. 2. Richard L. Stein, ‘The Pre-Raphaelite Tennyson’, Victorian Studies, 24.3 (1981), 279 pp. 278–301. 3. William Holman Hunt, Pre-Raphaelitism and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, 2 vols ([1905]; New York: Dutton, 1914), ii, 103. 4. William Michael Rossetti, Dante Gabriel Rossetti: His Family Letters, 2 vols (London: Ellis and Elvey, 1895), i, 190. 5. Hunt, Pre-Raphaelitism and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, ii, 101. 6. Hunt, Pre-Raphaelitism and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, ii, 124–25. 7. Hunt, Pre-Raphaelitism and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, ii, 124–25. 8. Hunt, Pre-Raphaelitism and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, ii, 101–2. 9. Hunt, Pre-Raphaelitism and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, ii, 101–2. 10. Sharyn R. Udall, ‘Between Dream and Shadow: William Holman Hunt’s “Lady of Shalott”’, Woman’s Art Journal, 11.1 (1990), 34–38. 11. Stein, ‘The Pre-Raphaelite Tennyson’, p. 284. 12. Udall, ‘Between Dream and Shadow’, p. 36. 13. Udall, ‘Between Dream and Shadow’, p. 36. 14. Udall, ‘Between Dream and Shadow’, p. 36. Udall’s interpretation of the iconography of this image has been tremendously useful to me. 15. Udall, ‘Between Dream and Shadow’, p. 37. The citation is from William Holman Hunt, Pre-Raphaelitism and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, ii, 377. 16. For example, on Tennyson’s revisions, see Erik Gray’s recent analysis of the transformation of the character (and in particular the agency) of the Lady of Shalott across the versions of the poem: Erik Gray, ‘Getting it Wrong in “The Lady of Shalott”’, Victorian Poetry, 47.1 (2009), pp. 45–59. On Hunt’s revisions, see Alison Inglis and Cecilia O’Brien, ‘“The Breaking of the Web”: William Holman Hunt’s Two Early Versions of “The Lady of Shalott”’, Art Bulletin of Victorian, 32 (1991) http://www.ngv.vic.gov.au/essay/the-breaking-of-the-web-william-holman-hunts-two-early-versions-of-the-lady-of-shallot/. 17. Poems was published in December 1832, but the title page was dated 1833; this accounts for the discrepancy in how it is referred to by critics . 18. Arthur Henry Hallam, ‘On Some of the Characteristics of Modern Poetry, and On the Lyrical Poems of Alfred Tennyson’, in The Poems of Arthur Henry Hallam, Together with his Essay on the Lyrical Poems of Alfred Tennyson, ed. by Richard Le Gallienne (London: Elkin Matthew & John Lane, 1893), p. 109 pp. 87–139 19. Stein quotes this, from Bagehot review of Tennyson’s Idylls of the King, in ‘The Pre-Raphaelite Tennyson’, p. 287. 20. Stein, ‘The Pre-Raphaelite Tennyson’, p. 287. 21. Gray, ‘Getting it Wrong in “The Lady of Shalott”’, p. 51. 22. Quoted in Aidan Day’s editor’s notes to Tennyson’s Selected Poems (London: Penguin, 1991), p. 355. 23. L. S. Potwin, ‘The Source of Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott’, Modern Language Notes, 17.8 (1902), 238 pp. 237–239 24. Potwin, ‘The Source of Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott’, p. 238. 25. Quoted in Potwin, ‘The Source of Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott’, p. 239. 26. Potwin, ‘The Source of Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott’, p. 239. 27. Hallam Tennyson, Alfred Tennyson: A Memoir by his Son, 2 vols (London: Macmillan, 1898), i, 105. 28. Quoted in Christopher Ricks, Tennyson: A Selected Edition (New York: Routledge, 2014), p. 331. 29. Jack Kolb outlines (and takes part in) the critical debate in his article ‘Hallam, Tennyson, Homosexuality, and the Critics’, Philological Quarterly, 79.3 (2000), coming down firmly against those critics, including Christopher Craft, Richard Dellamora, and Alan Sinfield, who argue that the love between Tennyson and Hallam was homosexual, at least in feeling if not in act. See Christopher Craft, Another Kind of Love: Male Homosexual Desire in English Discourse, 1850–1920 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994); Richard Dellamora, Masculine Desire: The Sexual Politics of Victorian Aestheticism (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1990); Alan Sinfield, Alfred Tennyson (Oxford: Blackwell, 1986) pp. 365–396. 30. Richard Dellamora, Masculine Desire, p. 34. 31. The Works of Tennyson, ed. by Hallam Tennyson (New York: Macmillan, 1916), p. 936. 32. The Works of Tennyson, ed. by Tennyson, p. 936. 33. Ricks, Tennyson, p. 439. 34. Henry Hallam, Remains in Verse and Prose of Arthur Henry Hallam (London: John Murray, 1863), p. 42. 35. Hallam Tennyson, Alfred Tennyson: A Memoir, i, 304. © 2017 Leeds Trinity University
TI - ‘Impressions of Weird Fate’: Revision and Crisis in ‘The Lady of Shalott’
JF - Journal of Victorian Culture
DO - 10.1080/13555502.2016.1261363
DA - 2017-06-01
UR - https://www.deepdyve.com/lp/oxford-university-press/impressions-of-weird-fate-revision-and-crisis-in-the-lady-of-shalott-wCTthP0qQk
SP - 183
EP - 203
VL - 22
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DP - DeepDyve
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