The Contested Status of Illustrated Literature (1860—1890) 259 The Contested Status of Illustrated Literature (1860—1890) Shane D. Peterson Kennesaw State University Abstract: This essay examines the role of the German periodical press in shaping attitudes toward illustrated literature between 1860 and 1890. Above all, the publication of the five-volume, illustrated Goethe edition by Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt (1882-85) initiated a vibrant debate about the appropriateness of literary illustration. By invoking the tropes of lazy reader, interloping illustrator, and illustrated book as national treasure, critics adapted the rhetoric of the luxury and reading debates of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. As a counterreaction to the democratizing impact of the German Klassikerjahr , commentators framed illustrated book editions as suitable for the intellectual and economic elite, rejecting the common argument for illustration as a means of broadening readership. Keywords: illustration, book history, luxury, Goethe, nationalism In 1864, the pedagogue Friedrich Schaubach declared illustration “die Verkörperung des die Gegenwart beherrschenden Strebens.” Noting its widespread popularity, he concluded, “Unsere Zeit verlangt Illustrationen” (Graf and Pellatz 479). Two decades on, the author and critic Otto Weddigen echoed his remarks with an energetic proclamation: “Wir befinden uns in der Zeit der Illustrationen! ” (142). On the surface these twin decrees register the continuity of illustration as a prominent and historically significant publishing trend. The specific contexts of these comments, however, chronicle gradual shifts in the way German publishers employed illustration between 1860 and 1890. Schaubach’s broad observation presents primarily a response to the rise of illustrated newspapers and magazines. He references, therefore, periodicals such as the Münchener Bilderbogen (1848—98) and Fliegende Blätter (1845—1944). Weddigen likewise characterizes illustration as defining his age, albeit in the context of illustrat- 260 Shane D. Peterson ed books. Appearing in the literary magazine Blätter für literarische Unterhaltung (1826—96), his assertion responds, most directly, to a book publication titled Illustrirte Geschichte der fremden Literaturen in volksthümlicher Darstellung (1881—82). As the nineteenth century entered its last three decades, books increasingly supplanted periodicals as the catalyst of the illustration debates. Despite this change of focus, the periodical press remained the consistent site of German illustration debates throughout the mid to late nineteenth century. Nevertheless, not all observers shared either Schaubach’s benign acceptance of or Weddigen’s marked enthusiasm for the proliferation of illustrated books and periodicals. Throughout the second half of the nineteenth century, German critics reacted to illustration with sustained aversion. Repeatedly they launched polemic attacks in family and literary magazines, casting illustration in terms reminiscent of the late eighteenthand early nineteenth-century reading debates. Some painted the trend as grave and dangerous - as an “Illustrirwut” (G.W. 635) or “Illustrirungs-Seuche” (Keil 376). Others trivialized illustration as “kindisch” (Gutzkow 847) or dismissed the burgeoning practice as “Bücher Frou-Frou” (Kürnberger 29) - that is, as something frivolous, faddish, and, in the nationalist fervor of the era, French. But critics were not content merely to offer general condemnations of the trend. They also attended to the purportedly harmful effects of consuming illustrated literature, maligning illustration as inherently “verdummend” (Gutzkow 847), “schwäch[end],” and “entmann[end]” (Kürnberger 31; qtd. in Häntzschel 104). Although their derisive and, at times, sexist language in many ways mimicked the disputes of an earlier generation, the stakes of the illustration debate were effectively the opposite. Rather than warning against the unfettered and unsupervised fantasy, German critics consistently denounced the constriction of the reader’s imagination - and the frustration of the author’s original intention - at the hands of the illustrator. What mobilized detractors was not the purported lack of readerly self-restraint but rather the evidence of external constraint on readers. In what follows, I examine the role of the periodical press in shaping German attitudes toward illustrated literature between 1860 and 1890. I situate the five-volume, illustrated Goethe edition published by Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt (1882—85) as a flashpoint for debate. Commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of Goethe’s death, this monumental undertaking comprised 1,058 illustrations by more than sixty artists, including Carl Gehrts, Philipp Grot-Johann, Edmund Kanoldt, Arthur Langhammer, Franz Simm, and Erdmann Wagner (see image 1). The volumes’ editor, Heinrich Düntzer, offered readers an extensive selection that favored poetry and biographical context while minimizing drama. The project followed and was advertised alongside illustrated Schiller and Shakespeare editions. At twelve Marks for each lexicon octavo volume, the illustrated The Contested Status of Illustrated Literature (1860—1890) 261 Goethe remained out of reach for many middle-class readers (Tatlock 122—23), but paled in comparison to the publisher’s illustrated nonfiction volumes on Egypt and Palestine which sold for 115 Marks each (“Zu Festgeschenken”; “Zu Weihnachts-Geschenken”). At least five editions were printed in Stuttgart in the first two decades (Goedeke and Goetze 22). Facsimile reprints by another publisher, Bechtermünz of Augsburg, were issued as recently as 1997. Image 1. Title page on the first volume. Düntzer, Heinrich, ed. Goethe’s Werke: Illustrirt von ersten deutschen Künstlern. 5 vols. Stuttgart/ Leipzig: Deutsche Verlagsanstalt, 1882-85. Trinity College Library, Hartford, CT. Anchored in a close reading of an 1882 review of the Goethe edition in Die Grenzboten (1841—1922), this essay explores the perception of illustration as both degradation and enhancement of the literary text as expressed by the tropes of lazy reader, illustrator as interloper, and illustrated book as national treasure. To highlight the long genealogy of each stereotype, I draw on the most outspoken German-language critics of illustration in the mid-nineteenth centu- 262 Shane D. Peterson ry, Karl Gutzkow and Ferdinand Kürnberger, as well as the recent scholarship of Matt Erlin. I begin each section, therefore, with a synopsis of the trope’s origins in the luxury and reading debates of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries and conclude with analyses of the continuities, deviations, and reappropriations present in the illustration debates. First, I suggest that illustration’s detractors adapted their predecessors’ palpable fear of unbounded fantasy to censure its inverse, namely the complete submission of the reader’s imagination to the illustrator’s concrete vision. Moreover, I show that the indolent reader’s most egregious error proved, in the minds of later observers, not conspicuous consumption, but rather intellectual self-deception. Second, I propose that commentators departed from their forerunners in their profound reverence for authors and their autonomy. The later generation accused unskilled and manipulative illustrators rather than greedy writers and publishers of debasing the text. Yet these latter critics failed to offer consumers any recuperative reading strategies. Third, I argue that illustration’s critics articulated a nuanced approach to luxury editions that bridged the gap between the antithetical poles of praise (national treasure) and scorn (individual indulgence) common to both discourses. As a counterreaction to the democratizing impact of the Klassikerjahr , detractors framed illustrated editions as suitable for the intellectual and economic elite, rejecting the common argument for illustration as a means of broadening readership. Figures vary, but the German reading public unequivocally experienced a substantial rise in available literature over the course of the nineteenth century. Despite a tenfold increase in new book titles (Winckler 25), periodicals remained the primary source of reading material, providing the equivalent of three novels and six novellas at a cost commensurate with a single bound novel (Wittmann 239). On the pages of these periodicals, readers not only learned about but also experienced the latest technological advancements in paper production, printing capacity, and illustration. Although many family magazines had contained images since their inception, periodicals became increasingly illustrated around 1885� Die Gartenlaube , for instance, published 127 illustrations in 1865 before nearly tripling that figure over a twenty-year period. A major competitor, Daheim (1864—1943), displayed an even more precipitous increase in illustrations per year, from 134 in 1874 to 424 in 1884 (Graf and Pellatz 472). The introduction of new print technologies, foremost lithography and photography, as well as the transition from woodcuts to wood engraving facilitated the expansion of illustration by lowering costs while increasing the number of impressions possible (Gerhardt). These technological advances formed the primary preconditions for publishing reasonably inexpensive and increasingly illustrated periodicals. The Contested Status of Illustrated Literature (1860—1890) 263 Decreases in printing costs - together with changes in copyright law - fueled a similar surge in illustration in the book market. Inaugurated on November 9, 1867, the German Klassikerjahr initiated the automatic expiration of copyright privileges for works by writers deceased at least thirty years. As a result, the literature of Goethe and Schiller became more widely accessible - a development linked by contemporaries to the forging of Germany as an “imagined community” or Kulturnation prior to its political realization in 1871 (Estermann and Füssel 188). The most immediate effects of the “Classics Year” were felt, however, in the book industry. Whereas the Cotta publishing house lost its nearly absolute monopoly on the German classics, Reclam and its competitors profited by publishing inexpensive editions with circulation figures as much as twenty times higher than Cotta (Wittmann 178—79; Schulz 25—26). As reading became democratized and book ownership spread, however, the book lost its appeal as a status object (Winkler 179). In time, publishers countered the proliferation of cheap, uniform, mass-produced books with a new wave of illustrated editions in an attempt at product differentiation, often as a second life for popular successes first published in serialization (Tatlock). Although some of the classics had been illustrated prior to 1867, these had always appeared as prohibitively expensive, large-format luxury editions (Wittmann 183; Estermann and Füssel 182—83). The new illustrated editions differed considerably from their predecessors - and not just in price. To make these volumes competitive for the middle class, publishers resorted to cheaper materials and highly mechanized production. Indeed, the German illustrated editions of the 1870s and 1880s were both a result of and response to the industrialization of the book. Fetishizing the age of the medieval illuminated manuscript, readers sought the aura of a handmade book without the cost (Winkler 184). While economic and technological factors facilitated the mass production of illustrated books, aesthetic concerns motivated that the book obscure its industrial origins via synthetic embellishment. Wide-ranging in nature, the luxury debates of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries frequently focused on the book market and critics’ deep-seated anxiety about the potential loss of reader autonomy. At times casting the blame on the publisher or author, commentators most frequently disparaged consumers, establishing the lazy reader as a useful trope. J.R.G. Beyer, for instance, identified the “book-loving layman” as particularly susceptible to texts which promise “the appearance of erudition.” J.L. Ewald likewise censured the proclivity of his contemporaries merely to browse “Jean Paul, Kant, and Fichte … in order to collect a few choice phrases . . . and to preen themselves with these foreign quills and foreign minds” (qtd. in Erlin 88). Ewald’s comments highlight three elements of lazy reading practices: First, a passing engagement with an 264 Shane D. Peterson esteemed author; second, an instrumentalized relationship to the text, selecting books and authors based purely on their social cachet; and third, an enthusiasm for all things “foreign,” including in-vogue ideas and thinkers. Like-minded critics frequently invoked gustatory metaphors, debasing undiscerning readers as “book gobblers” ( Bücherfresser ) and books as “fashionable sweets” (qtd. in Erlin 81). Offering fleeting pleasure at a steep price rather than deep nourishment, sweets suggested striking parallels to novels and other maligned genres in the minds of many detractors� For these early detractors, periodicals functioned as a gateway drug whose very format inclined readers toward shallow reading practices that carried over into the reading of books. Ernst Brandes cited, for instance, “[t]he perpetual jumping back and forth […] between articles on the most disparate subjects” as “a great evil […] even if most of the articles were actually good” (qtd. in Erlin 87). Fearful of “damage [to] the reader’s ability to undertake focused, systematic reflection,” detractors once again blamed the quest to appear learned as the chief culprit and “superficial Vielseitigkeit ” as its unfortunate result (Erlin 87). To counteract this purported shallowness, Johann Gottlieb Fichte appealed to a hermeneutic approach to reading: writing twenty pages for each printed page read (Erlin 94). To overcome his or her indolent predisposition, it seems, the reader merely needed to adopt active reading practices. Seven decades on, the politically-oriented, pro-Prussian weekly magazine Die Grenzboten reacted vigorously to the illustration of Goethe’s works as the provocative title “Goethefrevel” indicates. Confronted with the illustrated Goethe edition published by Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt three years on, the periodical once again weighed in, adapting the rhetoric of the luxury debates to portray the so-called “Illustrirwut” as analogous in severity and in effect (G.W. 635). Foremost, the periodical condemns the profit-driven approach to book illustration and its deleterious effects on the reader. Citing the foreword to the set, the unnamed reviewer “G.W.” takes umbrage with Düntzer’s appeal to the sales figures of an illustrated Schiller edition as validation of his editorial endeavor. For the reviewer, purchases alone do not indicate literary merit and should not determine publishing agenda (643). The power of advertisement renders sales an unreliable indicator of quality (645). Taking up another common justification - that illustration expands readership - Die Grenzboten asserts that illustrated editions will merely enable lazy readers. By deploying this stereotype, commentators often relayed their assumptions about the readership of periodicals and books. In the 1860s, critics focused on the role of illustrated periodicals in the informal education of the masses, as two opposing article titles indicate, “Illustration und Volksverdummung” and “Die Illustration als Hebel der Volksbildung.” In direct contradiction to the latter, the The Contested Status of Illustrated Literature (1860—1890) 265 reviewer of the 1882 Goethe edition claims: “Wer solche Bücher kauft wie diese Goetheausgabe, der kauft sie eben, nicht um sie zu lesen, sondern um die Bilder zu begaffen” (G.W. 645). The use of the unsophisticated verb begaffen alludes to an allegedly uneducated or undiscerning audience. One year prior, the author Dagobert von Gerhardt similarly dismissed illustrated editions out of hand, albeit under the presumption of a female readership: “Es gibt sogenannte gebildete Damen,” von Gerhardt maintains, “die Goethe’s Faust […] nie gelesen haben, die sich aber einbilden, ein solches Werk zu kennen und geistig zu besitzen, wenn es verziert mit vielen bunten Bildern als Staubfänger auf ihrem Sophatische liegt” (qtd. in Mazzoni 53). Five years on, the journalist and poet Ernst Eckstein echoes these sentiments with a much less specific audience in mind. For Eckstein, the entire culture of the Gründerzeit has become debased by conspicuous consumption: Wie man heutzutage auf jedem Teller, auf jeder Milchkanne, auf jedem elenden Ofen- Schirm stilvolle Klexe, Arabesken und Schnörkel verlangt […] so beansprucht das entartete Publikum auch von dem, was ausschließlich der geistigen Nahrung zu dienen hätte, übertriebenen Formenreichtum und Farbenglanz. In the ornamentation so prevalent in books of the era, Eckstein sees evidence that “die Literatur bei dem größten Teile des Publikums zur bloßen Toilettenfrage geworden ist” (qtd. in Mazzoni 62). In each of these three cases, the critic aligns illustrated texts with a disfavored reading public, caricatured as indolent and superficial, as a means of dismissing these editions. Readers, they claim, have instrumentalized books as decorative pieces and status objects by emphasizing their material qualities rather than their intellectual depth. Eckstein’s invocation of reading specifically (and high culture generally) as a source of “cognitive nourishment” tapped into a set of complementary metaphors most prominent in the rhetoric of Ferdinand Kürnberger, the preeminent Viennese feuilletonist of his generation (Kühnel 3). As early as 1853, Kürnberger bemoaned the illustration of Goethe’s Faust as inherently shallow: a mere nibbling (“geistige Näscherei”) or sipping “womit wir den geistigen Inhalt eines Buches in ein paar Illustrationen wegnippen” (425). Two decades on, he would employ sartorial comparisons to the same end� With a nod to Jean Paul’s satirical “Kleiderordnung für sämmtliche einwohnende Bücher unseres Landes” (1800/ 1803), Kürnberger’s 1872 essay on “Bücher-Frou-Frou” invokes the onomatopoeic term for the rustling of silk or satin skirts then favored in French fashion. Mobilizing a range of metaphors, he characterizes illustrations as ornamental indulgences that yield an inherently shallow (and foreign) form of the reading experience (28—30). Like von Gerhardt and Eckstein, he fears that illustration does not convey the intellectual sophistication of the text, as reflected in each critic’s repetition of the adjective geistig � 266 Shane D. Peterson Contentment with cursory consumption, Kürnberger reasons, turns proper reading into a burden: “[…] von dem Genusse, dem Dichter nachzuphantasieren, kaufen wir uns los wie von einer Mühe” (425). The logical consequence is a lazy reader. By deferring to illustrators, readers render themselves - and their imaginations - weakened, passive, and even emasculated. Consequently, he warns readers ominously, “der Illustrator […] gewöhnt deiner Phantasie Indolenz, Bequemlichkeit, Abhängigkeit an, er macht dich fauler, nachlässiger, er schwächt dich, er entmannt dich” (qtd. in Häntzschel 104). By contrast, Gutzkow objects not to the hindrance of the imagination but rather to its overstimulation at the hands of the illustrator: “Daß ein übermäßiges Beschäftigen der Phantasie dem Verstand eine zu lange Ruhepause gönnt […] ist eine erwiesene Thatsache. Wenige verweilen in ‘Illustrirten Zeitungen’ beim Text” (847). At first glance his objection to the overengagement of the fantasy seems to replicate the earlier reading debates. But by implicitly aligning the imagination with illustration and the intellect with the text, Gutzkow censures illustrations as promoting idleness in a manner closer to Kürnberger. Gutzkow - the publisher of a shortlived, nonillustrated periodical - was certainly neither a disinterested party nor an anomaly (Graf and Pellatz 424, 479)� By the late nineteenth century, the lazy reader stereotype had become thoroughly entrenched in German culture. Even Meyers Konversations-Lexikon warned that illustration caters to indolent readers and their base desires (“der müßigen, gedankenlosen Schaulust”) (894). When comparing the rhetoric of the early luxury debates with its revival in the illustration debates, one notes distinct parallels as well as unique deviations, extensions, and re-appropriations. These continuities come as direct allusions to the earlier generation of critics, for instance, in Kürnberger’s explicit reference to Jean Paul’s satirical piece about the sartorial luxury of book bindings. In other cases, one notes a common theme, such as the repetition of gustatory metaphors to highlight superficial and nonenduring reading practices. Naturally, both discourses prominently feature criticisms revolving around the disparity between Schein and Sein . Whereas the luxury debates indicted those who merely browse great works to appear erudite - resulting in what Erlin calls the “parody of a Renaissance man” (87) - the illustration debates seem much more concerned about female readers, unlearned readers, and French influence. Consistent across both debates, the accusation of public deception by consumers adds a layer of reader self-deception in its later instantiation. Early critics of luxury such as Beyer and Ewald suggested that readers aim for the appearance of learnedness through their consumption habits, an act of outward deception motivated by feelings of inferiority and the desire to rise socially. By contrast, illustration’s detractors offer far bolder claims, asserting that illustrations delude readers and book purchasers themselves. To be sure, the conspicu- The Contested Status of Illustrated Literature (1860—1890) 267 ous display of knowledge and good taste still factor into critics’ concerns, as indicated by their universal disdain for coffee table displays. But von Gerhardt and Kürnberger focus more incisively on the false assurance illustrations offer readers, namely the delusion that merely looking at the pictures yields a sufficient grasp of the book’s intellectual contents. The solutions also yield divergent responses from otherwise like-minded critics in the luxury and illustration debates. Whereas reading seemed salvageable in the former, illustration does not in the latter. Writing in the early nineteenth century, Fichte is most concerned about strategies for turning passive reading into active engagement with the author’s writing. More than a half-century later, illustration’s critics do not outline any approaches to negating or counteracting the purportedly damaging effects of pairing image and text; even covering the illustrations proves insufficient (G.W. 644). Rather, detractors seem implicitly to desire a complete abandonment of the practice, or at least a curtailment of its use in the works of the young nation’s most esteemed writers, foremost Goethe. But the most striking rhetorical adaptation concerns the role of reader imagination. Extremely suspect in earlier debates, fantasy deserves defense in the latter. For Kürnberger, the reader’s conscious, wholehearted submission to the illustrator’s visual depiction represents the height of laziness. Outsourcing the most intellectually sophisticated component of reading - the creation of mental images out of written text - results in a demoralizing fettering of the reader. His counterpart, Gutzkow, proves more closely aligned with the thinking of the reading debates. His warning about idle pauses - a variation of the lazy reader trope - betrays a fundamental fear of illustrations overwhelming the text, which he associates with the rational faculty. Both share an unease about the disengagement of the mind and subsequent loss of reader control caused by deferring to the illustrator’s visual depictions. Rather than a runaway imagination, illustrations’ critics fear a throttled one. Above all, the ideal of harmony pervaded late eighteenthand early nineteenth-century thinking about luxury. What proponents justified as the serendipitous convergence of “beauty of execution and beauty of content,” detractors framed as a disharmonious pairing of “the noble [object] with the lowest class of citizen” (qtd. in Erlin 73, 35). Transposed onto the book market, these sentiments indict the incongruence of reader class (or gender) and reading fare as well as the misalignment of a book’s material form and contents. An overly ornate book may constitute an appropriate and welcome embellishment of canonical literature but prove wholly misplaced for more “trivial” fare (or for younger, female, uneducated, or lower class audiences). Consequently, critics such as Johann Georg Heinzmann bemoaned disharmonious pairings, claiming “no books appear on 268 Shane D. Peterson better paper or are printed more splendidly than those of the greedy hacks who cloak their emptiness with chintz and glitter.” While some feared a distortion of the book’s contents, Johann Adam Bergk worried about embellishments obscuring a book’s utility: “Brilliant bindings are like padlocks that we do not dare to tear off, for how easily we might sully the beautiful cover! ” (qtd. in Erlin 65, 66). As in the case of the lazy reader, critics attended to the free market generally and periodicals specifically as catalysts for broader problems in the book market. Brandes, for one, lamented the strict, recurring deadlines that force periodical editors and authors alike to favor steady production over quality (Erlin 88). Observers worried, however, not merely about superfluous writing, but also about damaging fare in periodicals and books. Beyer censured writers who saturate their works with “salacious depictions, sensual treats, [and] apparent witticisms” to increase sales (qtd. in Erlin 87). Critics also assigned readers considerable blame, citing their proclivity to order books indiscriminately and to succumb to lavish covers with little regard to the book’s actual contents (Erlin 86—88). By subverting inclinations toward selectivity, the seemingly unbounded drives of production and consumption compromise literary quality. Over a half century later, critics resurrected the interloper trope to criticize the illustrated Goethe edition published by Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt � While periodicals such as the Illustrirte Zeitung (1843—1944) had characterized the illustrator as a “noble translator” in the late 1860s (“Die Illustration als Hebel” 4), commentators in the early 1880s portrayed illustrators as incompetent or malicious imposters who disrupted the natural, harmonious relationship between author and reading public. Most frequently, critics summoned the interloper stereotype in tandem with the lazy reader as two sides of the same coin� Whether they blamed readers’ apathy or the illustrator’s strong-arm tactics, critics demonstrated a consistent anxiety about images overpowering the reader. In the 1882 Goethe review, the criticism of illustrators revolves around two concerns which echo and extend the luxury debates of an earlier generation: textual primacy and image redundancy. First, Die Grenzboten calls for a ratio of images to text that preserves the primacy of the written word: “Schönheit [ist] nur da möglich […] wo Maß gehalten wird” (G.W. 637). In the case of the Goethe edition, the author finds a lack of balance - and therefore, a lack of beauty - due to the excessive number ( Überladung ) of illustrations, totaling forty-six in the first sixty-four pages not including “die kleineren Kopfleisten und Initialen” (636—37). Nevertheless, the high density of illustrations alone proves not as disturbing as the consequence of this saturation. Rather than the text determining the selection and placement of images, the illustrations serve as master of the page layout to the detriment of the text: “Die Bilder machen sich in der aufdringlichsten Weise breit, der Text […] The Contested Status of Illustrated Literature (1860—1890) 269 muß sich quetschen und zerren.” Consequently, the reviewer complains about the vast range of dimensions and shapes of illustrations: “die Größe einer halben, drittel, viertel, sechstel, zwölftel Kolumne“ and “die Form eines Quadrates, eines Rechtecks, eines Längs- oder Querstreifens, eines Winkelmaßes, eines Hufeisens oder noch verzwacktere Formen” (637) (see images 2 and 3). Such unusual and unpredictable shapes and sizes - not to mention inconsistencies of style across images by dozens of artists (637—38) - render the text unreadable. Image 2. Illustration for “Mailied” by J.W. von Goethe. Düntzer, Heinrich, ed. Goethe’s Werke: Illustrirt von ersten deutschen Künstlern. 5 vols. Stuttgart/ Leipzig: Deutsche Verlagsanstalt, 1882-85. Trinity College Library, Hartford, CT. 270 Shane D. Peterson Images 3. Illustration for “Meeresstille” by J.W. von Goethe. Düntzer, Heinrich, ed. Goethe’s Werke: Illustrirt von ersten deutschen Künstlern. 5 vols. Stuttgart/ Leipzig: Deutsche Verlagsanstalt, 1882-85. Trinity College Library, Hartford, CT. Second, Die Grenzboten condemns the duplicative nature of illustrations, reviving a criticism levied since at least 1860 (Gutzkow 847). Rhetorically, the author asks whether the following redundancies of text and image offer the reader anything useful: “neben ein Trinklied die Trinkgesellschaft hinzusetzen, The Contested Status of Illustrated Literature (1860—1890) 271 die es singen soll, ein ‘Mailied’ durch eine Waldlandschaft im Frühling, [oder] ein Reiterlied durch eine Gefechtsszene zu erläutern” (G.W. 640). In the case of Goethe’s poetry, the reviewer sees the illustrations as not only unable to enhance the written word, but also as detrimental. Such simplistic illustrations preempt the text, spoiling or obscuring its rich symbolism and multivalent complexity (640). Whereas words can express both a figurative and literal meaning simultaneously, an image conveys only the object that it represents. Taking this notion of indexicality a step further, he argues that illustrations prove not only superfluous but also completely arbitrary. With only a superficial connection to Goethe’s poems, the illustrations could be used interchangeably to illustrate multiple texts (639—40). For the reviewer, illustrations should be not only unique like the text but also uniquely keyed to the text. These comments repeat and develop criticisms expressed in the periodical press one to two decades earlier, albeit with a tone that paints illustration in both more malicious and more redemptive terms. Whereas Die Grenzboten dismisses illustration out of hand as redundant and damaging, Gutzkow’s more nuanced view considers whether a text is of sufficient literary value to warrant illustration. Conceiving of illustration as a potential “Verherrlichung” of the written word, he believes that only texts that possess “Leben und reichen Inhalt” merit such additions. Central to this assertion is Gutzkow’s concept of Verdummung , which he defines as “jede Incongruenz zwischen Inhalt und Form” (847). Like other commentators (Schlosser 428), his greatest concern is that illustration misrepresents the quality of a text� At the roots of the discrepancy, he contends, lie profit-driven production rather than aesthetic merit. In the 1870s, Kürnberger would criticize another perceived incongruence, namely between the relative abilities of the author and illustrator. To heighten this disparity, Kürnberger compares Goethe - as an author “mit der höchsten dichterischen Bildkraft” - to nameless illustrators whom he identifies only with the derogatory designations “Radirer, Schaber und Kritzler.” In Kürnberger’s estimation, every illustrator is a manipulative charlatan who places himself between the author and the reader: “Du sollst Dir das Gretchen vorstellen, nicht wie es Goethe will, sondern wie ich es will? ” (30). Fundamental to his position is the claim that illustration can be learned while literature remains the product of innate ability ( Genie ). This distinction yields a hierarchy in which the illustrator should necessarily defer to the author� Fear of a loss of authorial control is thus intricately interwoven in his argument. To be sure, the luxury and illustration debates offer distinct parallels, foremost in their attention to notions of selectivity and excess. Luxury’s detractors, for instance, lamented publishers and authors beholden to market forces which reward production with profit and undiscerning and insatiable readers who treat 272 Shane D. Peterson books as just another object of consumption, each to the detriment of literary quality. The selectivity deficit finds its natural analog in the illustration debates in the assertion that the illustrations accompanying Goethe’s works prove, in most cases, entirely arbitrary. The purported randomness of each illustration - suitable, as Die Grenzboten claims, for any number of poems - reveals the publisher’s lack of discrimination. Regardless of their stylistic merits, these arbitrary images cannot convey the intellectual depth of the texts they adorn. The related criticism of image indexicality - that illustrations can only duplicate words’ literal meanings - depicts images not only as woefully inferior to the written word, but also as rather banal and one-dimensional, despite the history of rich symbolism in the visual arts. A mutual unease about excessiveness likewise marks both discourses. In the former debates, critics depicted “salacious depictions” and “apparent witticisms” as textual excesses. In the latter, detractors indict large numbers (or outlandish shapes and sizes) of illustrations as visual excesses which overwhelm the reader and oversaturate the page. In both eras, the result is the same: a “crowding out [of] any healthy thoughts” (Erlin 87) or a “quetschen” of the author’s text at the hands of interchangeable images (G.W. 637). The two discourses diverge in their identification of the offending interloper and in their degree of presumed reader agency. The luxury debates focused on the profit motive and the book’s material form - most commonly its cover - as interfering with and distorting the otherwise harmonious author-reader relationship. The illustration debates maintain a degree of continuity with their shared anxiety about misleading material qualities. Yet, in a significant departure, critics concentrate on a more concrete entity to blame: the illustrator. Detractors focus at length, therefore, on both denigrating illustrators generally and on portraying these artists’ motives as manipulative at best and malicious at worst. In the luxury debates, by contrast, critics proved wary of authors (and publishers) themselves. Far from Kürnberger’s notion of author as Genie , early commentators cast writers as opportunists exceptionally susceptible to profit motive and the allure and ease of popular, sensuous elements. Meanwhile, luxury’s critics viewed publishers as engaged in a barrage of misleading attempts to mask poor authorial content with pretty trappings. In the illustration debates, however, most critics share an exceptional reverence for authors. Readers are no longer confronted with poor content masked as intellectual fare, but rather a perfect text that is, at best, no longer readable due to page layout and illustration density. At worst, the author’s intentions have been skewed by illustrations that force a viewpoint on the reader. In this case, critics of illustration presume a reader with far less ability to resist. For, to return to the lazy reader stereotype, later commentators offer no solution for overcoming illustration analogous to Fichte’s hermeneutic method, only their utter exasperation. The Contested Status of Illustrated Literature (1860—1890) 273 Apologists of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries frequently celebrated luxury as a reflection of cultural and technological achievement. Friedrich Justin Bertuch, for instance, asserted that “the richer and more refined an enlightened nation is, the more comfortable, beautiful, tasteful, and diverse are its fashions.” What some critics cast as praiseworthy human progress, however, others denigrated as a sign of baseness and regression. For Isaak Iselin, the “proclivity for ornament” and the yearning for “anything that shimmers, jingles, is colorful” represented the height of primitivism (qtd. in Erlin 29, 40). Regardless of the polemic, both parties united in consistently inflecting their arguments with nationalist sentiment. Hence, sophistication in the cultural realm was commonly interpreted as a manifestation of superiority in the political. Opponents, meanwhile, inclined toward the inverse conclusion. Discussions of luxury were, therefore, marked by attitudes of both jealousy and disdain. In the book market, nationalist-minded proponents regularly cited the publishing occasion in defense of luxury editions. Christoph Martin Wieland’s funeral in 1813, for instance, featured a casket adorned with exquisite editions of his literary works Oberon and Musarion . In Erlin’s astute reading, the funeral constituted an instance of “tasteful opulence […] befitting both the gravity of the occasion and the reputation of the deceased” (54), although a least one contemporary questioned the suitability of such lavish editions for a middle-class author (67). At times, advocates interpreted the justifiable occasion more broadly as a need to keep pace with neighboring nations, foremost France. One review of the aforementioned Musarion edition validated the publisher’s endeavor as a “monument of admiration for the German nation.” Another cited the publisher’s unusual selection of Roman Antiqua rather than Gothic typeface as a patriotic endeavor aimed “to save German literature from humiliation in the face of its neighbors and to prove that works of elegance can also arise from German hands” (qtd. in Erlin 57, 72). Motivated by cultural nationalism, feelings of inferiority, and a desire for parity, commentators began to situate luxury no longer as the great divider of social classes, but as the great unifier and luxury editions as “national treasures rather than personal indulgences” (Erlin 73). Cultural nationalism likewise infused the illustration debates of the mid to late nineteenth century, with Goethe’s works serving as a frequent catalyst for discussion. As would Kürnberger with his invocation of “Bücher Frou-Frou,” Gutzkow associated illustration not only with France as foil, but also with French cultural customs deemed woefully superfluous: “Dennoch ist es damit bei uns noch nicht so schlimm wie in Frankreich, wo […] jeder Ball des kaiserlichen Hofs ein Gegenstand der Verherrlichung durch die bildliche Darstellung des Holzschnitts geworden ist” (847). Die Grenzboten took a stronger tack in its 1882 review, situating illustration as not merely unnecessary, but also as a 274 Shane D. Peterson degradation of that which is already complete: “[E]s ergriff uns eine solche Entrüstung, Goethe, den geliebten und verehrten, so mißhandelt zu sehen, daß wir am liebsten sofort zur Feder gegriffen hätten” (G.W. 635). To signal the serious nature of the dilemma, the reviewer selects a formulation commonly associated with taking up arms rather than the quill (Grimm). While his equivalence of the illustration of Goethe and military aggression by a foreign power may seem extreme, illustration constituted a competitive endeavor between nations at times stoked by skirmishes on the actual battlefield (Martin). Although some observers noted their snobbish disgust, most registered their jealousy of nations with a more vibrant culture of illustration. On several occasions Der Bazar (1855—1932), an illustrated women’s magazine known for its emphasis on sartorial trends, weighed in on illustration in terms of national competition. An 1876 review of three luxury editions, for instance, laments the relative belatedness and inferiority of the German book industry: “Wir sind […] erst seit kurzer Zeit an dergleichen Prachtwerke gewöhnt, wie sie bereits längst bei den Engländern und Franzosen zu den Hausschätzen der Familienbibliotheken gehören” (“Drei Prachtwerke” 372). Hopeful for parity, the periodical extolls a luxury edition of Kleist’s drama Der zerbrochne Krug illustrated by Adolph Menzel in a lengthy review published two years on. To justify the endeavor, the reviewer emphasizes the national identity and esteem of both writer and illustrator, portraying each as the greatest living German in their respective genre. In a reprise of the harmony ideal, the reviewer implies that illustration constitutes an art form appropriate for a nation’s most revered writers, particularly when the works of an equally talented author and artist coalesce� Der Bazar commends, therefore, the way in which Menzel’s illustrations augment Kleist’s drama, creating a “sinnliche Verwirklichung” of the text (see image-4). Here degradation gives way to notions of glorification and consummation: [D]ie gesammte Ausstattung und Erscheinung sind des poetischen und künstlerischen Inhalts würdig und wirken mit dazu, ein Ganzes herzustellen” (“Illustrirte Prachtwerke” 369). For the reviewer, illustration ennobles and completes rather than degrades and destroys. The Contested Status of Illustrated Literature (1860—1890) 275 Image 4. Licht prompts Adam to inspect his facial wounds. Illustration for the first scene of Kleist’s Der zerbrochene Krug in French translation. Kleist, Heinrich von. La cruche cassée: comédie en un acte. Illus. Adolph Menzel. Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1884. University of Connecticut Library, Special Collections, Storrs, CT. 276 Shane D. Peterson Above all, Der Bazar extolls material aspects of the Kleist edition in a comparative light and, like advocates of luxury six decades earlier, cites the occasion as suitable for such opulence. The reviewer boasts that the exquisite edition “auch durch die reichsten und kostbarsten Prachtwerke Englands und Frankreichs nicht übertroffen wird” (“Illustrirte Prachtwerke” 369). On the one hand, these comments reflect the general nationalist climate of the 1870s. On the other hand, they emanate from a more specific context and an alternate public, namely the international audience of the Paris World’s Fair where the Kleist edition was displayed that year. Naturally, an occasion staged to display a nation’s cultural and technological achievements results in the desire for acclaim from outside observers. The reviewer asserts, therefore, that the illustrated Kleist edition was universally deemed superior to British and French luxury editions by “die Künstler und einsichtigsten Kenner der fremden Cultur-Nationen” (“Illustrirte Prachtwerke” 369). This appeal to third party validation demonstrates both considerable pride and feelings of inferiority, for the same periodical had previously acknowledged the relative backwardness of the German publishing industry. Nationalist-minded reviews of illustrated books commonly mobilized classbased notions as well, characterizing illustrated classics as a method of favorably expanding access to the nation’s best writers. As the editors of Westermann’s Illustrirte (1856—1987) remarked in 1870, three years removed from the Klassikerjahr : [D]enn eine Illustrirte Ausgabe von Goethe’s Werken kann nur den Zweck haben, dem Volke zu dienen, indem sie die gleichgültigeren Kreise desselben anregt, sich mit den edelsten Schätzen deutschen Geistes bekannt zu machen; die Werke des Dichters selbst können durch solche Beigaben keinen weiteren Schmuck erhalten. (“Literarisches” 96; emphasis added) Despite similarly favoring illustration, the editors appear opposed to the notion of enrichment proffered by Der Bazar � For Westermann’s , illustration does not aesthetically or intellectually enhance great literature; it can only serve to broaden the reading public. The editors of the Illustrirte Zeitung advocated a middle ground, albeit in a discussion concerned with illustrated periodicals. Rejecting prevalent notions of redundancy and poor taste, they argue that illustrations not only function as an enticement to read for the intellectually uninterested, but also yield a rich and enduring effect, even for avid readers: “eine um so größere Kraft lebendiger und nachhaltiger Wirkung auf [den] Geist.” In contrast to the elitism of Die Grenzboten , the lllustrirte Zeitung portrays illustration as an egalitarian modality engaged in nation-building through the spread of German literature “für den Genuß und die Bildung der Nation im großen und ganzen” (“Die Illustration als Hebel” 4). Thus, the latter periodical walks a fine The Contested Status of Illustrated Literature (1860—1890) 277 line between arguing that illustrations elevate the tastes of otherwise indifferent readers and reinforcing the deep-rooted criticism of illustration as merely perpetuating the base purportedly tastes of lower classes, the uneducated, youth, and female readers� Unexpectedly, several of the most ardent opponents to illustration also offered its strongest acclaim. The 1882 review of the five-volume Goethe, for instance, mixed disgust with considerable jealousy of the book industry in France. Putting forward an even more explicit elitism of taste than Gutzkow, Die Grenzboten avers that Goethe is only accessible to the intellectual elite: “[Goethe] wird immer und ewig nur für die geistige Aristokratie unsers Volkes da sein, und diese will und mag den Bilderplunder nicht” (G.W. 644; emphasis added). With dismissive language, the reviewer belittles the publishers who explicitly advertised the illustrated luxury edition of Goethe as a national treasure (642; Düntzer I: v). In the same breath, however, he reinforces the very notion. Citing volumes published by Firmin-Didot, Hachette, Quantin, and Rothschild, the reviewer proclaims, “Es wurde uns ganz seekrank zu Mute, als wir mit der unbeschreiblichen Noblesse dieser [französischen] Werke den deutschen Prachtwerkströdel verglichen” (643). For the reviewer, the German nation cannot compete with the illustrated luxury editions produced in France (Bodemann-Kornhaas et al.). At the core of these comparisons stand assumptions about the target audience for illustrated books. According to the reviewer, an illustrated Goethe edition should also cater to the economic elite: “Sollten für eine solche Ausgabe in den wohlhabenden Kreisen unsers Volkes nicht ein paar Tausend Abnehmer aufzutreiben sein? ” (G.W. 644; emphasis added). Die Grenzboten offers a distinctly class-based approach to the harmonious marriage of author and audience reminiscent of Gutzkow’s and Kürnberger’s attention to the perceived incongruence of image and text. In contradiction to the claims of Westermann’s and the Illustrirte Zeitung a dozen years prior, an illustrated Goethe should serve only one purpose - to appeal to the noble tastes of the economic or intellectual elite� At first glance, the luxury and illustration debates’ mutual inclination toward nationalist sentiment evokes few differences. Both discourses demonstrate a blend of jealousy and disdain, pride and embarrassment at the production and display of luxury editions. In each case, critics imbue cultural objects with significance beyond their immediate sphere of influence. Above all, like their predecessors, illustration’s advocates justify exquisite editions by invoking a suitably dignified occasion. In a return to the ideal of harmony, proponents situate each author’s stature as well as the formal occasion - Wieland’s funeral and the Paris World’s Fair - as appropriate for the display of luxury. 278 Shane D. Peterson Several discontinuities emerge, however, when one considers the material quality that ignited each debate. For early critics, typography proves the contentious and embarrassing formal feature that inspires national comparison and justification. Whereas Gothic typography signaled uniqueness, familiarity, and tradition to German speakers, outsiders caricatured the script as primitive and, implicitly, as a reflection of the purportedly regressive cultural traditions of the people and nation where it thrived. By contrast, advocates (and even some detractors) of German illustration suffered from feelings of inadequacy more than shame. France and Britain pioneered the illustration of periodicals and books in Western Europe, with German publishers resigned merely to imitate their successes (Weber 150—51). Rather than a clinging to historical tradition as in the case of typography, the tentative embrace of a relatively new and widespread technology inspired the illustration debates. Above all, the twin issues of class and audience prove more pronounced between 1860 and 1890. First, the illustration debates seem not to invoke diachronic human progress as a justification for illustration as had advocates of luxury seven decades earlier. Rather, illustration’s critics focus primarily on the synchronic issue of national competition. In one distinctive turn, proponents frequently appeal to illustration as a means to engage and excite otherwise indifferent readers. Thus, later commentators restage the primitivism argument of the luxury debates, albeit while highlighting intellectual primitivism not as grounds for rejecting but rather for embracing illustration. Second, illustrations’ apologists and critics claim a new audience absent in the luxury debates. Erlin convincingly traces the rhetorical strategies employed to reframe luxury as admirable national treasure rather than harmful personal indulgence. In the illustration debates, critics pursue a parallel trajectory before introducing a unique third phase: class-based elitism. For some commentators in the mid to late nineteenth century, illustration should appeal foremost to intellectual and economic elites within the nation. In response to the democratization of book ownership fostered by the Klassikerjahr , publishers turned to illustrated editions to reposition the book as status object. Product differentiation, therefore, facilitated class distinction through conspicuous consumption. In this context, critics diverged from their predecessors by portraying illustration as an ennoblement of the text - an argument necessary to promote illustration as a praiseworthy, elitist practice� By 1886 - the year following the completion of the five-volume Goethe edition - the tropes of lazy reader, interloping illustrator, and illustrated book as national treasure had become an established formula for critique. Consequently, Reinhard Mosen invokes all three in his censure of the common marketing phrase The Contested Status of Illustrated Literature (1860—1890) 279 that a new illustrated edition “auf dem Weihnachttische einer gebildeten Familie [nicht] fehlen darf.” First, he portrays readers of illustrated fare as superficial and indolent, averring that gebildet once implied owning and knowing intimately the works of major poets, even when published “auf abschreckendem grauen Papier mit häßlichsten Lettern.” Second, he depicts the illustrator as an imposter who damages the text through the unavoidable “Beisatz seiner eigenen, umgestaltenden Phantasie.” Third, he mocks the German reading public’s inclination toward novels and tattered lending library copies which “der bücherkaufende Engländer so treffend mit dem Epitheton ‘thumbed’ beehrt.” Citing British habits, Mosen establishes a model of book ownership, intensive reading, and poetry at odds with purportedly shallow approaches to serious literature, foremost lending libraries and illustrated editions (65). Originating in the luxury debates of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, his rhetoric was neither novel nor short-lived. Well into the twentieth century, critics mobilized hyperbolic rage to defend Goethe as inaccessible to lesser reading publics (McFarland 136) and characterized illustration as an inherently duplicative and banal art form (Kracauer 302). The periodicals of the mid to late nineteenth century provide an expansive historical record of the illustration debates. Although nearly everything except literature was illustrated in the era’s literary and family magazines, the reviews in the periodical press serve as our primary indicator of how publishers justified, readers encountered, and critics debated the relatively new phenomenon of mass-produced illustrated literature. But periodicals functioned as more than the primary site of the debates. They also shaped the discussion in fundamental ways. Like critics of luxury who feared that periodicals’ format would foster lazy reading habits with books, debates about illustrated nonfiction appearing in periodicals laid the rhetorical groundwork for concerns about illustrated fiction in books. Hence, the competing notions of Volksverdummung and Volksbildung prevalent in 1860s discourses on illustrated periodicals recurred in discussions of the audience and effects of the illustrated Goethe edition two decades on. While the divergence of opinions on illustration can be traced, in part, to philosophical differences, market forces played a decisive role in publishers’ and critics’ embrace of illustrated books. Unsurprisingly, the editors of unillustrated periodicals such as Die Grenzboten proved the most adamant opponents of illustrated fiction while their counterparts mounted the most ardent defenses. In addition to justifying and promoting their own practices, periodicals were intricately intertwined with illustrated books in at least two additional ways. First, periodical publishers commonly produced book editions as well, often of the serialized fiction printed on the pages of their own magazines (Tatlock). Engaging in a circular marketing strategy, these publishers advertised their own products 280 Shane D. Peterson across media (Belgum 138—39), hence the prominent promotion of the illustrated Goethe edition in the publisher’s own illustrated magazine Über Land und Meer (1858—1923) (“Zu Festgeschenken”; “Zu Weihnachts-Geschenken”). Publishers also reviewed these books quite frequently, prominently, and favorably within the pages of their own periodicals. Second, the economy of illustration dictated that illustrators (and authors) in the mid to late nineteenth century rely on their income from periodicals much more than from book editions. Although illustrators frequently preferred the creative challenge of illustrating fiction to the largely duplicative copy work required by many periodicals, the latter provided steady income (Pauls 33—34). Moreover, periodicals and books drew from the same talent pool, with publishers regularly commissioning one or more of their magazine’s in-house artists to illustrate the subsequent book edition. Nevertheless, the illustration debates’ relevance was not confined to the literary market. Rather, the rhetoric reflects a broader historical moment, positioning illustration - and, in the case of an earlier generation, luxury - as a proxy for grappling with political and social concerns. In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, critics indirectly articulated their anxieties about the new philosophical tenets, political realities, and scientific norms of the Enlightenment via discussions of production and consumption practices in the publishing industry. One can read, for instance, these early critics’ fear of the imagination overpowering a reader’s intellect as both an outgrowth of and contribution to widespread ruminations on the autonomy of the enlightened individual and the elevation of the rational faculty. More than a half-century later, illustration’s advocates and detractors likewise mobilized changes in the book market to comment on and wrestle with far-reaching social and political changes, such as the nascent German women’s movement. Above all, all three tropes convey a consistent unease about class distinctions. Discussions of illustration as democratizing access to the German classics and broadening the reading public yield faint hints of the failed revolution of 1848. Meanwhile, the suggestion that elite readers comprise the appropriate audience for the illustrated Goethe parallels attempts by the fading aristocracy to restore its elevated status in the social hierarchy vis-à-vis the rising bourgeoisie. More direct, perhaps, is the implicit discussion of the German national project that the illustrated Goethe edition inspired. Using illustration as a cipher, each of the two central arguments expressed in Die Grenzboten finds its analog in the political arena, even a decade after German unification. While the call for the subjugation of the multitude of images to the text reminds one of a strong Prussian state (like a strong author), the critic’s disregard for a decentralized illustration by committee - that is, the assertion that a multitude of illustrators will yield a disorienting disharmony - subtly echoes Prussian anti-particularism. In the illustrated Goethe, therefore, The Contested Status of Illustrated Literature (1860—1890) 281 critics saw not only a consequence of political unification, but also a metaphor for the national project� Works Cited Belgum, Kirsten. Popularizing the Nation: Audience, Representation, and the Production of Identity in Die Gartenlaube, 1853 - 1900 . 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