Aug 28

Hans Christian Andersen’s Sexuality

My book about Disney’s Victorians includes a chapter about Hans Christian Andersen, locating him among other eminent Victorians (including Dickens, the Brownings, Eliot, and Yonge) and exploring the relationship between biography and adaptation. Among the most intriguing aspects of Andersen’s life, as nearly all biographers point out, is his sexuality, and this week I’m thinking about two quite different approaches to nineteenth-century sexuality. The first is Helena Michie and Robyn Warhol’s Love among the Archives, and the second is Eve Sedgwick’s “Jane Austen and the Masturbating Girl.” The latter was among the readings for V21’s 2018 summer reading group, and part of this post is inspired by conversations in the Nashville area group.

Hans Christian Andersen statue in Kongens Have, Copenhagen (image from Wikimedia Commons)

But first, a bit about Andersen’s sexuality, for those not familiar with the romantic life of the fairy tale author. Andersen never married and, if his own account is to be believed, he died a virgin. But his diaries make clear that he did have sexual urges. In 1834 he recorded, “My blood is churning. Huge sensuality and struggle with myself. If it really is a sin to satisfy this powerful urge, then let me fight it. I am still innocent, but my blood is burning” (Diaries 80). This is typical of the diaries, which reveal Andersen’s struggle between his sexual desires and his compulsion to suppress them. Entries like this appear throughout the diaries, often followed by a small drawing of a cross, a symbol indicating masturbation – which he regularly recorded in his diary.

The diaries are simultaneously salacious and chaste, a paradox that makes biographers curious about Andersen’s relationships. He had intimate friendships with both men and women, and his life can seem to be a series of infatuations. Some biographers – including Jackie Wullschlager and Alison Prince – are convinced that Andersen’s of homosexuality. Others, like Jens Andersen, refuse to label his sexuality, but make clear that it was outside the normative expectations of 19th-century Denmark. All of the recent biographies make his sexuality a central focus, and even the travel writer Michael Booth, in a memoir following the itinerary of Andersen’s travels, feels compelled to dwell on it.

What are we to make of this obsession with Andersen’s sex life? How do we begin to categorize Andersen’s sexuality, and what drives us to do so?

In their biography of George Scharf, a relatively unknown Victorian bachelor, Helena Michie and Robyn Warhol combine a rich archival record with their own affective responses to that record, demonstrating how a biography is constructed as much by the interpretive desires of the biographer as by the records left by their subject. Among the desires motivating Michie and Warhol’s investigation of Scharf is what they refer to as “the ubiquitous and hegemonic marriage plot,” which in modern culture generally (and the Victorian novel in particular) functions as a biographical imperative (Michie and Warhol 67). Even in their slightly amended phrase “romance plot,” they recognize two expectations: first, that biographers explore the love lives of their subjects; and second, that those love lives fit certain parameters: perhaps not heterosexual, but at least diachronic rather than momentary, emotional as well as physical, and monogamous rather than polyamorous. That Andersen fits uncomfortably into such parameters motivates his biographers’ interest in his sexuality.

Michie and Warhol identify two possible partners for Scharf: Jack Pattisson and Freeman M. O’Donoghue. The romance plot they reconstruct thus resists a Victorian norm in the gender of Scharf’s lovers, but in other ways it is “legible in the terms of the literary and cultural romance plots that make agitation for gay marriage so compelling for many” (Michie and Warhol 111). His homosexual relationships seem to have been sequential, non-overlapping, emotional, and monogamous. But Michie and Warhol are careful to note that this conclusion arises both from the limited evidence available and from their own training as readers (especially as readers of the Victorian novels). Scharf may well have had other desires and other sexual experiences that left no trace in the archive.

Michie finds “archival consummation” in a close reading of a letter from Pattisson to Scharf, announcing the former’s engagement (Michie and Warhol 92), and Andersen’s biographers seek similar details that might betray his sexuality: Karl Gutzkow’s accusation that Andersen is a “half-man” (Andersen, Diaries 245), or Andersen’s love letter to Edward Müller (Wullschlager 111), or Theodor Collins’s warning about his relationship with Harald Scharff (J. Andersen 475). Jens Andersen’s supposition that Andersen’s friends destroyed or returned letters evidencing his relationships (171-2) implies that those relationships existed. But in all these cases tacitly assume that if he engaged in a homosexual relationship, it would be with one person at a time: the potential relationships with Edvard Collin, Edward Müller, Henrik Stampe, and Harald Scharff are non-overlapping. In this sense, then, the biographers bring their own normative assumptions about Andersen’s desires.

HCA by Thora Hallager 1869

Andersen in 1869 (image from Wikimedia Commons)

My goal isn’t to uncover Andersen’s “true” sexuality (I don’t read Danish, for one thing), but rather to consider how understandings of his sexuality have changed over time, and how they might inform the production and reception of adaptations of his works. And in this sense, Sedgwick’s “Jane Austen and the Masturbating Girl” has led me to rethink Andersen’s sexuality, and especially his (only slightly encoded) recording of his own masturbation in his diary. Andersen’s physician Emil Hornemann described Andersen’s sexuality as  “ascetic” (J. Andersen 525-6). Such a conclusion underscores Andersen’s chaste conversations with prostitutes and his series of emotionally intense but nevertheless platonic relationships with both men and women.

But accepting that conclusion means accepting some assumptions about sexuality. Calling Andersen’s sexuality “ascetic” makes sense only if we assume it was externally focused. But Sedgwick posits another “sexual identity”, recognizable in the nineteenth-century culture in which both Andersen and Austen lived but no longer identified as such. In the intervening centuries, “The identity of the masturbator was only one of the sexual identities subsumed, erased, or overridden in this triumph of the homo/hetero calculus” (Sedgwick 826). Because Andersen’s biographers focus singularly on his relationships they perhaps miss an equally intriguing conclusion. Certainly Andersen’s erotic energies were centered on other people, but he may have physically expressed that energy by himself. In this sense, his sexuality was far from ascetic.

For Sedgwick, considering masturbation as a distinct sexuality lets us see “so powerful a form of sexuality run so fully athwart the precious and embattled sexual identities whose meaning and outlines we always must insist on thinking we know” (Sedgwick 822). The point is less a historical claim about Austen (or Andersen) than a presentist reevaluation of our own assumptions about sexuality. What Andersen’s biography helps us to see — and what linking his biography to Disney’s adaptations like The Little Mermaid or Frozen helps us to see — is that sexual identity exists along multiple intersecting axes, including not just the biological sex or gender assignment of one’s self and one’s partner, but the number of partners (including zero), whether sexual expression is physical or emotional, the cultural and historical communities in which one exists, and other factors that no list could exhaust.

Works Cited
Andersen, Hans Christian. The Diaries of Hans Christian Andersen. Patricia L. Conroy and Sven H. Rossel, editors and translators. Seattle and London: University of Washington Press, 1990.
Andersen, Jens. Hans Christian Andersen: A New Life. Translated by Tina Nunnally. New York: Overlook Duckworth, 2005.
Booth, Michael. Just as Well I’m Leaving: To the Orient with Hans Christian Andersen. London: Jonathan Cape, 2005.
Michie, Helena and Robyn Warhol. Love among the Archives: Writing the Loves of George Scharf, Victorian Bachelor. Edinburgh University Press, 2015.
Prince, Alison. Hans Christian Andersen: The Fan Dancer. London: Allison and Busby Ltd., 1998.
Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. “Jane Austen and the Masturbating Girl.” Critical Inquiry 17 (Summer 1991), pp. 818-837.
Wullschläger, Jackie. Hans Christian Andersen: The Life of a Storyteller. London: Allen Lane, The Penguin Press, 2000.
Zipes, Jack. Hans Christian Andersen: The Misunderstood Storyteller. New York and London: Routledge, 2005.

Jun 21

Charles and Hans, Summer 1857

This summer is the 160th anniversary of a famous vacation: from June 11th to July 13th, 1857, Hans Christian Andersen sojourned with Charles Dickens and his family, at their home in Gad’s Hill.

Dickens’s biographers tend to treat Andersen’s visit as something of a farce. Andersen was initially supposed to stay about a week, but he stayed five. Dickens’s daughter Kate thought him a “bony bore,” and reports that after Andersen left, Dickens pinned a note above a mirror that read, “Hans Andersen slept in this room for five weeks — which seemed to the family AGES!” From the Dickensian perspective, a patient but exasperated family put up with their Danish visitor’s eccentricities and poor English. 

Kate Perugini (nee Dickens), who called Andersen a “bony bore.”

I’m working on a book chapter about Andersen, and find myself returning to this anecdote from another perspective. In a short volume published a half-century ago and subtitled “a friendship and its dissolution,” Elias Bredsdorff reprints a portion of Andersen’s diary, as well as his and Dickens’s correspondence (both to each other and with others). Andersen in these documents comes across as enamored with Dickens, desirous to stay in his company, where he was initially welcomed. He gradually became aware of the family’s annoyance, but only later; the first part of his visit went smoothly. Moreover, it was Dickens who, about ten days into Andersen’s visit, encouraged him to stay longer to see him perform in The Frozen Deep, a stage production to benefit the family of his friend Douglass Jerrold.

Andersen in 1846, just before his first visit to England.

Dickens and Andersen got along well the first time they met, in June 1847. Dickens had rented out his London house and was staying the summer in Kent, but traveled to London to attend a party at Lady Blessington’s, with the express purpose of meeting Andersen (20-21). A few weeks later Dickens invited Andersen to dine with the family, and when Andersen left England the next day, Dickens met him at the docks; he was the last person Andersen saw before he departed (26-7). By all accounts this first visit was a friendly one, and the two continued to correspond over the next few years. It was Dickens who, in 1856, first encouraged Andersen to return to England and to stay at his house (40). Andersen was moved by Dickens’s kindness, writing to his benefactor Jonas Collin, “as a boy I was always called Hans-Christian, but never Hans alone, and he writes, ‘Dear and worthy Hans!’ How such a beginning struck me!” (41). Based on their first meeting, their letters, and the warmth of Dickens’s introduction, Andersen surely expected to be welcomed into Dickens’s home.

Andersen mentions his struggle with English in both his letters and his diary. After his first day at Dickens’s house he wrote to Mrs. Ingeborg Drewsen, “it goes quite well with the language; I have of course to make some jumps, but we meet each other” (92). Two days later he recorded in his diary, “I talked a great deal this evening, and they understood me well” (52). After he had been in England a week, he wrote to his friend Henriette Wulff, “Him [Dickens] I understand the best as far as speaking goes, and now — exactly eight days since I came — he says that I am making surprising progress in speaking English” (94). Dickens praised Andersen’s English to his face, but his letters show something different. In early July, about two weeks after Andersen recorded Dickens’s praise, Dickens wrote that Andersen “speaks no language but his own Danish, and is suspected of not even knowing that” (112).

Engraving of Dickens at Gad’s Hill, where Andersen visited him in 1857.

In the final weeks of his stay Andersen must have picked up on Dickens’s frustration, and his family’s growing irritation. After leaving England, he wrote to Dickens from Germany: “I realize that it cannot have been at all easy for the whole circle to have in its midst for weeks such a one as spoke English as badly as I,” he told him, “Yet how little I was allowed to feel it” (118). His diary and letters, however, make clear that he had felt it. From Paris, where he traveled directly after leaving Dickens, he wrote to Wulff, “In Dickens’s house Dickens was unquestionably the pearl; Mrs. Dickens tender-hearted, Mary, I think, was the one who came closest to her in kindness to me, and thus downwards” (106). Only days after leaving England he was sharing his awareness of the Dickens family’s annoyance, and his private diary shows that awareness had been developing for weeks. After the first performance of The Frozen Deep he attended a party at the Household Words office, and closed his diary entry for the day with a parenthetical, “Not at all in good humour really the whole evening” (80). Earlier that week he had dined with Dickens’s daughter and wife, along with her sister and mother: “little Kate sarcastic, and the aunt is certainly weary of me” (78), he wrote.

Cover of Wilkie Collins’s _The Frozen Deep_: Dickens encouraged Andersen to stay longer and see him perform the led role.

Andersen stayed well beyond the two weeks he had initially intended and by July it seems he had worn out his welcome. But it was Dickens who had encouraged him to extend the visit. On June 21st, when he had been staying with the Dickens family for about ten days, Andersen wrote in his diary, “Dickens begged me most charmingly not to go before I had seen the performance they were giving for Jerrold’s widow, said that he, his wife and daughters were so glad to have me with them; I was much moved” (60). This was just the sort of kindness that appealed to Andersen, always seeking the approval of those around him. And he must have recognized the burden on the family, for a week later, June 28th, he wrote in his diary that when he was asked how long he would stay, he replied, “Long for Mr. Dickens, short for me!” (70).

One can’t help but feel for Andersen, staying with a man he clearly admired, and who had encouraged him to extend his visit. Surely he can’t be blamed for the timing of his visit: not only was Dickens mourning his friend and busy with rehearsals for The Frozen Deep, but Little Dorritt was being panned by reviewers and he was about to bid adieu to his son Walter, who shortly thereafter left for India (where he would die a few years later). Also his marriage was unraveling — he would meet Ellen Ternan a few months later, and separate from his wife within a year. Despite all this Dickens himself maintained a friendly facade, but one might forgive his family for becoming irritated with their guest.

Perhaps had Andersen declined Dickens’s invitation to stay longer, and skipped The Frozen Deep, he wouldn’t be remembered as such a “bony bore.”

Work Cited

Bredsdorff, Elias. Hans Andersen and Charles Dickens: A Friendship and Its Dissolution. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde and Bagger, 1956.

Feb 22

Corporate Periodization, INCS conference preview

The Interdisciplinary Nineteenth Century Studies conference is March 10-13, in Asheville, NC, and I’ll be presenting part of my current book project about the Victorians and the Walt Disney Company. The paper argues that literary and corporate periodization are analogous, each stemming from particular institutional objectives, and demonstrates the analogy by examining the history of the Walt Disney Company.

In fitting the paper to its necessary length I wrote two sections that don’t fit exactly into the argument, and I decided to post them here as a preview of (or complement to) the paper. The first part explores the imagined contrast between making art and making money. The second very briefly identifies different periods in the management of the Lyceum Theater, which I see as a historical example of the kind of periodization I’m claiming for Disney.

Making Art and Making Money

The imagined corporate ethos is encapsulated in an internal memo written by Michael Eisner, CEO of the Walt Disney Company from 1984 to 2005. The memo is famous enough that it has become a meme:

We have no obligation to make history. We have no obligation to make art. We have no obligation to make a statement. To make money is our only objective. - Michael Eisner

I first encountered this memo in Henry Giroux’s The Mouse That Roared. Giroux argues that Disney is a cultural icon, but its profit-centered motivation makes it a threat to Democratic values (Giroux 25). For those who value making art, history, and statements over making money, Eisner’s memo raises eyebrows. And it’s easy to imagine a corporate executive spouting claims like this. It’s a too-perfect encapsulation of the neoliberal values we fear are encroaching into the university.

But the next sentence of the memo changes things a bit, at least for me. And it tends to be left out of the memes. Here is the slightly extended version:

We have no obligation to make art. We have no obligation to make history. We have no obligation to make a statement. But to make money, it is often important to make history, to make art, to make some significant statement. (Stewart 23; Eisner)

Eisner is a corporate CEO, and clear about his priorities. But he is also aware of the kind of company he’s leading. In his 1998 memoir he doubles down on the idea, and claims to be riffing on Woody Allen’s claim that “if show business weren’t a business, it would have been called ‘show show’” (Eisner).

It’s the contrast between these different values that interests me most, and the way they are too often framed as a zero-sum game. Professors are often caricatured as being out of touch, as if our only objective is to teach students and produce research. And I don’t necessarily disagree that that is our objective as faculty. But imagine a university president adapting Eisner’s words:

We have no obligation to make money. To make art, to study history, to make statements is our only objective. But to make art, study history, and make significant statements it is sometimes necessary to make money.

I don’t think that statement is a slippery slope that leads all universities to become like Corinthian Colleges. To insist on a contrast between universities and corporations is to insist on different priorities. It doesn’t mean we remove ourselves entirely from the financial system. When we push for state or federal funding, for student loan reform, for alumni donations, or for higher wages for contingent faculty, we recognize that universities do need to be funded. My paper takes seriously the shared motivations among academics, artists, and corporations.

The Lyceum Theater

The division between corporate and academic ethos is less stark than news coverage makes it out to be. But it nonetheless exists, and does affect the moves we make in our own scholarship. In her book on Gilbert and Sullivan, for example, Carolyn Williams argues that

Genre formation is not only an aesthetic and historical, but also an economic, process, and genre was important to Gilbert and Sullivan’s effort to carve out their own market niche. They distinguished their productions from other theatrical fare through their genre parody and their particular treatments of gender. Their success at capital accumulation supported unusually high production values, which led, in turn, to further capital growth. (Williams 5)

That’s an insightful point, recognizing the link between profit and aesthetics. Williams then emphasizes that capital accumulation “does not reduce the aesthetic dimension of their success” (6). Even when acknowledging the link, she recognizes the need to guard against a backlash that would insist on a divide between art and the marketplace. In arguing that English departments and the Walt Disney Company follow similar institutional drives to periodize, I aim to further bridge that divide.

Theater scholars tend to be especially attuned to financial questions: Williams is just one example, and Shakespeare critics have long been invested in learning about his financial involvement in his companies. For my purposes, the Lyceum Theatre provides an index to theatrical trends, and its operational history demonstrates how an institutional brand can turn a profit by keeping up with the rhythms of popular culture. Built by the Society of Artists in 1772, the Lyceum hosted a variety of exhibitions in the late eighteenth century, including “astronomical demonstrations, air balloons, waxworks, ‘philosophical fireworks,’ boxing matches, circuses, programs  of humorous recitations, and concerts”  (Altick 54). The site took advantage of fads like waxworks and tableaux vivants as they emerged: Madame Tussaud began her British career at the Lyceum in 1802 (Altick 333) and William Dimond’s The Peasant Boy (1811) featured one of the earliest tableaux (Altick 342).

After hosting operas and fairy extravaganzas around mid-century, the Lyceum later came to be associated with Henry Irving, and especially with Shakespeare: Irving’s 1874 Hamlet has been called “one of the most influential and talked about theatrical roles in the latter part of the nineteenth century” (Young 3). As these examples demonstrate, the Lyceum shifted its strategy to keep up with popular culture, its different stages analogous to literary periods. Today, I would suggest, the Lyceum continues its Victorian legacy: since 1999 it has hosted Disney’s The Lion King, an adaptation of Hamlet that takes combines two distinct trends of twentieth-century pop culture: the animated musical and the Broadway musical.

In the INCS paper, and in the book towards which these arguments are building, I continue developing these analogies to explore how a global media corporation can helps us understand Victorian culture and its reception.

Works Cited