In late Victorian and Edwardian children’s literature the bottom of the garden became a space haunted by increasingly infantilised flower fairies and dominated by children’s imaginary play. In Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden, Robert Louis Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of Verses and Rudyard Kipling’s Puck of Pook’s Hill, children play with fairies in semi-wild garden spaces. The bottom of the garden grows into a liminal space between the domestic manicured garden and the wild landscape beyond. It acts as a heterotopia, a place outside of all places yet anchored in a physical location, in which the complex divisions between nature and the domestic, childhood and adulthood, life and death are projected. Fairy figures haunt this space, acting as uncanny spectres, manifesting a distorted vision of human life. These landscapes of childhood play increasingly transcended into a nostalgic topography, especially after World War I, in which solace from adult worries could be sought. The Cottingley fairy photographs unwittingly evoked all these themes, with Arthur Conan Doyle transforming the picturebook flower fairies into occult Theosophical nature spirits, proof of an afterlife. Fairies allow us to reenchant the natural world, seeing a miniaturised reflection of ourselves within the wildscape.
An ecoGothic reading of John Ruskin’s garden at Brantwood
John Ruskin set out to create a woodland paradise in his garden at Brantwood but was ultimately betrayed by the landscape in which he hoped to find sanctuary. His attempt to domesticate nature was subverted by weather, pollution and unheeded plant growth, his anthropocentric reading of a benign garden replaced by a disorienting vision of an inhospitable landscape where humanity was subservient to the destructive agency of nature. This ecophobic resonance parallels the dissolution of certainty in Ruskin’s reaction to materialist science; the increasing proofs became impossible to undo, and the environment seemed to be conspiring against him. Ruskin’s declining mental health was mirrored in the unfathomable failure of his gardening projects, and in the dark skies overhead, in which he recognised a diabolic ‘plague cloud’. An ecoGothic reading of Ruskin’s garden exposes the role of environmental forces in his destabilisation, and re-evaluates his garden practice through the lens of ecophobia.
This collection draws together scholarship from across fields of ecocriticism, ecoGothic, garden history, Romantic and Victorian studies and environmental humanities to explore how the garden in nineteenth-century Europe could be a place of disturbance, malevolence and haunting. Ranging from early nineteenth-century German fairy romance to early twentieth-century turbulence in children’s stories, gardens feature as containers and catalysts for emotional, spiritual and physical encounters between vegetal and human lives. The garden is considered a restorative place, yet plants are not passive: they behave in accordance with their own needs; they can ignore or engage with humankind in their own interests. In these chapters, human and vegetal agency is interpreted through ecoGothic investigation of uncanny manifestations in gardens – hauntings, psychic encounters, monstrous hybrids, fairies and ghosts – with plants, greenhouses, granges, mansions, lakes, lawns, flowerbeds and trees as agents and sites of uncanny developments, leading to disaster and death, radical life-changes, wisdom and sorrow. These Gothic garden stories illustrate our anxieties related to destruction at any level, and the chapters here provide unique insights from across the long nineteenth century into how plant life interacts uncannily with human distress and well-being.
Gardens, religious tradition and ecoGothic exegesis in Algernon Blackwood’s ‘The Lost Valley’ and ‘The Transfer’
Christopher M. Scott
This chapter explores Algernon Blackwood’s ‘The Lost Valley’ (1910) and ‘The Transfer’ (1912) with a specific focus on their garden spaces. Blackwood’s childhood experience within gardens seemingly colours his portrayal of them as mystical landscapes in his fiction. Employing the ecoGothic within these narrative spaces, Blackwood constructs uncanny settings that demonstrate a nexus between familiar natural spaces and unfamiliar supernatural characteristics. Despite considering himself a Buddhist during a period in his life, Blackwood was knowledgeable about Judaeo-Christian ideologies due to his strict Christian upbringing. Consequently, Judaeo-Christian iconography exists within the supernatural garden settings in his narratives, and when combined with the function of the ecoGothic, Blackwood’s supernatural garden spaces establish dread through metaphorical connections to Eden and Original Sin. Blackwood’s ‘The Lost Valley’ and ‘The Transfer’ might anticipate late twentieth-century ecotheology through their physical landscapes that rhetorically emphasize how humanity could transcend postlapsarian paranoia in a fallen world.
Victorian representations of apple trees and orchards resonate with uncanny danger that has often been overlooked when the fruit is seen as a decorative background or simple allegory of the Edenic Fall. This chapter decodes the symbolism of apples and their trees in Victorian poetry and art to arrive at a deeper understanding of this ordinary food’s Gothic symbolism. Using ecocriticism and ecoGothic to allow an exploration of the orchard as an enchanted, liminal space, the chapter considers how that enchantment seeped into depictions of garden apple trees and ultimately into the apples and their sellers on London’s streets.
Plant monsters as ecoGothic tropes; vampires and femmes fatales
Plant monster fiction has previously received little attention outside post-colonial Gothic criticism. Even more recent ecocritical explorations have predominantly focused on environmental concerns in twentieth-century eco-horror rather than on plant monsters as Gothic tropes. This chapter examines gender stereotypes through the forms of uncanny plants, blending ecocritical with Gothic interpretation. Through gender associations of nature, vampiric and man-eating plant monsters in two late Victorian Gothic short stories – by H. G. Wells and Howard R. Garis – are established as ecoGothic tropes through female Gothic and material ecofeminist theories. These uncanny exotic flowering plants are offered as eco-femmes-fatales figures that use gender to blur the boundaries of human and nonhuman through bodily transgression. As embodiments of transcorporeality, these vegetal beings are revealed as ecoGothic monsters and ecofeminist activists in masculine domains.
EcoGothic destabilises our learned habit of anthropocentric organisation, of prime importance to an ordered garden, as demonstrated in all these essays. The chapters reveal vacillation between good and evil in textual and horticultural manifestations, acknowledging Milton’s Paradise garden as a spectral presence in garden and literary history. Material ecocriticism has provided opportunities for an exciting range of critical diversity in examining affinities between material entities and human anxieties. The gardens and their interpreters here represent expressions of ecocritical uncanny, including in the ecoGothic garden all those elements of vegetal sentience, of plant ‘monster’, of spiritually alive and enchanted gardens. Of most importance here is how the vegetal agent, as initiator or co-worker with Others, disrupts order for good or ill and shakes humankind out of complacency. A chapter overview follows; topics include Ruskin’s garden at Brantwood, Algernon Blackwood’s magical trees and H. G. Wells’s monstrous orchid.
In this chapter, Tennyson’s poetry is reconfigured as an ecoGothic collection of uncanny places, disturbed humans and distorted nonhuman relationships. Tennyson’s unhappy early life and his extreme grief at the sudden death of his friend, Arthur Hallam infiltrate many of his poems, but especially those that weave human and nonhuman nature into a web of stagnation, longing or disastrous action. ‘Mariana’, In Memoriam and Maud all feature gardens that contain and create material encounters between human and vegetal, in which plants appear to cooperate with or act against human interests. Gothic echoes of indecision, instability and entrapment in emotional prisons haunt the poems, even in Tennyson’s affection for his childhood garden at Somersby. Tennyson’s sensitivity to sound and association of sense to emotional response enable him to conjure encountered vegetal-human presences and to record their absence, their haunting, ghostly residues. His poetry of sensation stems from his desire to assuage his grief within nature and to create some sense of harmony beyond human, at times occult, that refuses happy endings.
Writing in mid-nineteenth-century America, Hawthorne chose various locations at home and abroad for his richly ambiguous tales and novels. The focus here is on three of Hawthorne’s well-known ‘Gothic’ texts. Each text uses gardens and outdoor settings, from the sun-drenched Renaissance parks and gardens of Italy to the often-inclement pioneering farmlands of Massachusetts, as the venues for dramas with diabolical aspects and subversive. Hawthorne is long renowned for his allegories, but new readings are here afforded by digging deeper into his radical thought with ecocritical and posthuman theoretical tools. However, the apparently superficial symbolism of luxuriant or thwarted plants and entangled gardens represents more complex ideological challenges than are generally acknowledged or than pertain simply to Hawthorne’s (and America’s) Puritan heritage or the search for a new Eden. By bringing Donna Haraway’s recent theoretical work on what she names the ‘Chthulucene’ to bear on Hawthorne’s elusive, ambiguous, nineteenth-century tales, correlations can be found between their respective concerns and the manner in which these are ddressed. Further, China Miéville’s similar endorsement of tentacles, the ‘tentacular novum’, is brought to bear, interrogating the difference between the more conventional Gothic ‘uncanny’ and the ‘new weird’ ‘abcanny’.
Gardens and wilderness in ‘The Man who Went too Far’ by E. F. Benson and ‘The Man whom the Trees Loved’ by Algernon Blackwood
This chapter looks at un-easy and disrupted gardens in the supernatural stories ‘The Man who Went too Far’ by E. F. Benson and ‘The Man whom the Trees Loved’ by Algernon Blackwood. Both tales feature gardens that lie in the heart of the New Forest in Hampshire with the wilderness of the Forest at their borders, and each follows the fate of a man who ‘goes too far’ in his desire to become at one with Nature. At the heart of the stories lies the garden: bordered, vivid, beautiful and supposedly safe. Yet Nature in both tales does not recognise or respect human attempts at demarcation between the wild and the civilised, the nonhuman and the human. Both Benson and Blackwood break down these artificial binaries, showing the aliveness of Nature, be it roaring ‘further out’ in the wild forest or subtly (and perhaps slyly) residing in the ordered flowerbeds of the garden.