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Real and Imaginary Travels 16th-18th centuries

 | 
Anne Bandry-Scubbi
, 
Rémi Vuillemin

Travelling and the Fashioning of Reality

“And now is the Time I Want It”

Laurence Sterne’s A Sentimental Journey. Read as Romantic Ramble Versus Ego Trip

Heidi Liedke

Résumé

S’appuyant sur l’introduction que donna Virginia Woolf au Voyage Sentimental, cet essai se lance dans une quête. On montre d’abord les raisons pour lesquelles l’ouvrage de Sterne peut être lu comme un récit de voyage à la fois conventionnel et distrayant. Puis on s’attache aux passages qui, de manière moins conventionnelle, représentent un type de voyage tourné vers soi et se caractérisent par des flâneries romantiques, ce qui complexifie le statut du texte. En poussant cette réflexion plus avant, certaines scènes sont lues de manière à faire ressortir le caractère égocentrique des flâneries de Yorick et la mise en scène de son personnage de voyageur. Le texte présente ainsi un voyage vers le moi et une célébration de l’individu qui annonce celle des Romantiques. Il s’agit donc d’un voyage qui glorifie dans un premier temps l’oisiveté mais qui donne en fin de compte une représentation de la liberté individuelle dans tout ce qu’elle peut avoir d’égocentrique. Le Voyage de Sterne est ainsi perçu comme un texte instable par le portrait qu’il propose de la relation presque parasite du protagoniste vis-à-vis des choses et des personnes qu’il rencontre sur son chemin.

Texte intégral

1When reading Laurence Sterne’s A Sentimental Journey, one is struck by the achronology and its “appreciation of the muddle of life” (Forster, 2005: 35). Changes of place occur quickly and the protagonist has numerous random encounters with people. Is Yorick still in France or already in Italy or has he returned to France in the meantime? One is at a temporal and spatial loss. Published in 1768, the text anticipates Romanticism because it presents an account of a journey to the inner self and Romantic like celebration of the individual. It is a journey that seeks, first and foremost, the realization of idleness. It does not stop at that, however, but rather evolves into something else: a performance of individual freedom and even egocentrism.

2Using Virginia Woolf’s introduction (1928) to A Sentimental Journey as a backdrop and primary point of reference, this paper goes on a quest. The first section establishes why the text can be read as a conventional, albeit entertaining, travelogue. The second section shows passages that, less conventionally, present an introverted kind of travelling and are characterized by Romantic musings. The third section then examines scenes which evoke the impression that Yorick’s musings aim at satisfying himself only, and therefore enable him to stage his traveller’s persona. Sterne’s Journey is precarious in its depiction of the protagonist’s almost parasitic relation to the things and people he meets along the way.

3In her introduction to A Sentimental Journey, Virginia Woolf, apart from praising Sterne, ascribes a certain monotony to his work. This monotony stems from the fact that Sterne is too concerned with “our good opinion of his heart” (Woolf, 1928: xiv). It appears that he is, to a great extent, concerned with writing something that will please his readers. There is a parallel between Sterne’s attitude and a phase in Yorick’s life when he, while in France, “[f] or three weeks together, [… i] s of every man’s opinion” (Sterne, 2008: 93) so as to have a comfortable life. Yet he cannot bear this “most vile prostitution” forever: he grows sick and leaves for Italy. His dismal state of mind before he leaves France shows the downside of wanting to please everyone and, to come back to Sterne’s position, writing something that will satisfy the readers by conforming to their expectations from the outset.

4Indeed, one must acknowledge the passages in Sterne’s text that strike one as linear in the sense that they are very conventional. For instance, when Yorick, in his belated preface, describes a catalogue of travellers, ranging from idle to vain to felonious, innocent, simple and, finally, sentimental (see 9-10), one is told emphatically that this is a travelogue dealing with travellers. The catalogue concludes with a self-characterization of Yorick as a sentimental traveller who travels “as much out of Necessity, and the besoin de Voyager, as any one in the class” (10, emphases in original).

5Passages that provide linguistic or socio-political observations resemble travelogues the most. Yorick can even translate “French looks and attitudes into plain English” (92). With regards to socio-political aspects, Yorick recurs to metonymies in order to, very cleverly, take one person or scene as representative of the entire nation instead of having to narrate in detail how he got from one point to another. The barber in Paris, for instance, whose wigs stand even after one dips them into the ocean, comes to represent every Frenchman’s way of thinking on a “great scale” (41). A Parisian shopkeeper couple, of whom the husband “sits commerceless in his thrum night-cap, the same rough son of Nature that Nature left him” (45) while the “legislative and executive powers” lie in the wife’s hands, comes to represent the French monarchy. The wife is equated with the ruling monarch and the husband stands for the French people. Here, Sterne is catering to a commonplace British conception that French women are given too much power. Again, he is providing his readership with remarks that confirm their beliefs.

6Some passages are so whimsical that they merely aim at pleasing his readers and evoke sensational feelings. In Montriul, Yorick describes a grotesque setting, where, all of a sudden, a “poor little dwarfish brisk fellow” is mentioned, followed by “an old soldier with one hand” and a poor woman with a dislocated hip (30-31). These people are probably beggars, yet their appearance is of theatrical quality: they are simply there all of a sudden, as if their spotlights had been turned on and they had been lurking in the shadows of the stage all along. Other scenes follow that in their absurd and crude comedy are of Shakespearian quality: when Yorick cannot find the right words for a letter to Madame de L ***, La Fleur gives him a letter from a drummer to a corporal’s wife, which Yorick uses as an inspiration. He basically only changes the names and sends the letter to his lady (40). In a shop in Paris, he meets a grisette with “one of the best pulses of any woman in the world” (44) the feeling of which is interrupted by the appearance of her husband. In the hilarious episode entitled “The Passport. Versailles” the Count mistakes Yorick for the Yorick character in Shakespeare’s Hamlet and thus helps him to get a passport very quickly and not end up imprisoned in the Bastille (72). There are several episodes like these which, because of their accuracy in every detail, make the reader dizzy. The text’s narrator Yorick does justice to his namesake from Hamlet, the jester. Woolf calls this property of the text the “philosophy of pleasure,” which advises one “to behave well in small things as in big, which makes the enjoyment, even of other people, seem more desirable than their suffering” (Woolf, 1928: xv). And indeed, the examples above show that Sterne’s cosmos is packed with “small things.”

7More interesting are the Romantic musings, written decades ahead of their time in what will become a tradition. Sterne’s motivation to write the text was “to teach us to love the world and our fellow creatures better than we do” (qtd. in Woolf, 1928: vi). Woolf concludes that “He has nothing to say of pictures or churches […]. He was travelling in France indeed, but the road was often through his own mind” (Woolf, 1928: viii/ix, emphasis added). Since the actual act of travelling from point A to point B on a map is of no importance to the narrator, he does not feed his readers with facts and figures about the sights he sees. For Sterne and Yorick, small things have a much greater importance than famous tourist attractions. Seemingly trifling matters make up the mosaic of Yorick’s life as a whole. Therefore, apart from the fact that, for instance, people speak French, where Yorick is or how he got there does not play any determining role. No matter if he is in France or Italy, a village or a city (at least there are chapter titles indicating that he is in Paris and Versailles), there is no reference to sights that readers would be able to associate with a particular city. What this technique also suggests is the ultimate interchangeability of places. All Yorick seeks is pleasure, primarily derived from amorous adventures and solitary enjoyment.

8It is a rather bold move to promise the reader an account of a Journey and then come up with “jerky, disconnected sentences” that are “as rapid and it would seem as little under control as the phrases that fall from the lips of a brilliant talker” (Woolf, 1928: vii). This jerkiness manifests itself in the episodic nature of the work. Instead of reproducing the linear progress of his journey, he produces a disorganized way of travelling stating that he “seldom go[es] to the place [he] set[s] out for” (Sterne, 2008: 65), and is “govern’d by circumstances” (66). What the reader witnesses here is rather the journey into Yorick’s cerebral windings than onto a long and winding road.

9There is one crucial moment when the reader loses his or her belief in Yorick as a reliable narrator. The moment is crucial because underneath the pleasant and innocent Romantic musings that form the surface of the text, there lurks a perverted, egocentric version of this celebration of the pondering self. This moment occurs when Yorick announces that “[i] t is time the reader should know it, for in the order of things in which it happened, it was omitted; not that it was out of my head; but that had I told it then, it might have been forgot now—and now is the time I want it” (56-6, emphasis added). He means the fact that he set out on his journey without taking his passport. This passage shows, however, that he is purposefully withholding information from his readers. It also shows that he, like a stubborn child, only does what he wants; the reader is dependent on Yorick’s moods and the reading experience is shaped by the author’s clemency (or lack thereof) and what he is willing to share with his readers at what point. Before turning the page, one cannot anticipate the next move, because the narrator is inscrutable. From this moment on, if not already earlier, it becomes difficult to believe what he says. The reader feels betrayed and fooled.

10In fact, already the very beginning of the text, the “sudden plunge” into the narrative (which opens with a random conversation) suggests that the reader will have to be patient with the author. The initial paragraph abounds with em dashes and a mix of fragments of speech uttered by the narrator. One does not know if he is talking to “[his] gentleman,” to himself, or to someone else. It is not even quite clear at first if he is already travelling or only about to leave his home country. Who is “I”, anyway? The “I” is addressing a certain Eliza and, as Tim Parnell points out in his introduction to the text, Laurence Sterne had a special relationship with a lady called Eliza Draper. This suggests that in the opening of the text, the narrator Yorick has not yet arrived in the story and Sterne himself is filling in for him. The rest of the narrative is more unequivocally written from the perspective of the fictional Yorick, but this first paragraph only confuses the reader.

11Virginia Woolf claims that the distance between reader and writer diminishes in Sterne’s writing, which makes the work “semi-transparent” (Woolf, 1928: vii)—a word that she, interestingly, uses in her essay “Modern Fiction” to describe life itself. If, thus, Sterne’s main motivation was indeed to capture the essence of life, it makes sense for him to weave a template of as many overlooked spots and “unobserved corner[s] up a dark entry” (Woolf, 1928: x) as possible. It is the project of Sterne’s narrator to give a voice to these corners in life that are normally overlooked because, according to him, one moment can be as valuable as “all the sentiments of a dozen French plays compounded together—and yet they are absolutely fine” (89). This explains his deliberate going off-course or, to use a term that was later used in the Victorian period, to travel off the “beaten track” because there is nothing truly valuable to see there.

12Woolf even explicitly calls Sterne “modern” and writes that he belongs much more to her age than his own because his writing differs so greatly from his contemporaries, Richardson and Fielding. Admittedly, in his categorical rejection of the guide-book and “its hammered high road” (Woolf, 1928: x), he does turn to the inner mind rather than to exterior events. But his realization of this decision is much more evocative of Romantic writings than of Modernist ones. In fact, some of the passages in A Sentimental Journey anticipate motifs in Romantic poems, such as William Wordsworth’s “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” (1807) or “Old Man Travelling; Animal Tranquillity and Decay, a Sketch” (1798), for instance: “I walked up gravely to the window in my dusty black coat, and looking through the glass saw all the world in yellow, blue, and green, running at the ring of pleasure” (Sterne, 2008: 41). Here the lonely pondering and narrating I experiences his environment in a highly subjective and intense manner.

13This brings about the aforementioned difficulty in stating clearly what genre Sterne’s text belongs to. He “undermines conventions of the novel and travel narrative respectively” (Chadwick, 1978/9: 195) and as a consequence leaves the reader with a feeling of insecurity and only a vague idea of how to evaluate the narrator’s words. Is A Sentimental Journey a novel? An experimental, poetic narrative? Or, after all, as some critics have found, a travelogue?

14The travelogue is in fact a fluid, hybrid genre, as has been pointed out by several scholars. Barbara Korte, for instance, when defining the genre, writes that “[c]rossovers with the essay, the letter, reportage, the sketch, anecdote or treatise are frequent, and occasionally […] even […] poetry” (9) and concludes that one can refer to the genre as a hybrid literary form. Therefore, it is impossible to say that a specific passage must not appear in a travelogue if it is to be a travelogue. Yet if there is a tendency in a text to include more passages of a particular kind, in this case passages characterized by an introspective, subjective style that indeed, in its emphasis and even celebration of the (lonely, pondering) poet evokes a Wordsworthian note, it is apt to call it Romantic travel writing aiming at depicting and capturing a proud celebration of individuality.

15Sterne’s narrator openly criticizes accounts of travels that, even though there is no quarrel about their generic status, do nothing but speak of the pains their authors suffered while on the road. He mentions one example of this, namely a traveller called Smelfungus who went on a similar trip to his but afterwards only related a tedious account of how miserable he had felt abroad. Yorick bemoans that the attempt at being erudite ends up being a display of depressing artifice. In fact, A Sentimental Journey is “sometimes seen as Sterne’s reply to Smollett” (Parnell, 2008: xxiv) who had published Travels through France and Italy in 1766. His work, in contrast to Sterne’s, contains many comments of a political and economic nature and is additionally characterized by a very acute and quarrelsome tone. But in Yorick’s (and/or Sterne’s) words, Smelfungus’s travelogue does not capture what really matters for it does “not cultivate the fruits [the world] offers” (Sterne, 2008: 24); Yorick, by contrast, would even find something to be affected by if he were in a “desart” [sic] and he would “fasten [his affections] upon some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to connect [him] self to—[he] would court their shade, and greet them kindly for their protection—[he] would cut [his] name upon them, and swear they were the loveliest trees throughout the desert” (24). What else is this passage if not a spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings? At the same time, this passage is too full of powerful feelings: the myrtle is “sweet,” the cypress is “melancholy,” and the trees are “the loveliest.” While this is a Romantic description of nature, it is staged to a high degree—a notion that will be elaborated upon in the third and final section.

16In contrast to other (travel) writers, Sterne is aware of the impediments brought about by the lack of languages and the connections and dependencies that make it impossible for us to communicate our sensations out of our own sphere (8). This is why the writer has to face the frustrating truth that she or he who is susceptible to life and “who interests his heart in every thing” (23) cannot write about everything s/he sees even though s/he would like to. Besides, his interest does not lie in the grand cathedrals and museums everyone is visiting—another attack on those authors of travelogues who merely enumerate the attractions they have seen to be able to say that “they have been there” (a phenomenon that is still wide-spread today). Yorick bluntly states a similar idea to his helper, Monsieur le Count, in Versailles and instead emphasizes that he conceives “every fair being as a temple, and would rather enter in, and see the original drawings and loose sketches hung up in it, than the transfiguration of Raphael itself” (71).

17Thus, the image of Yorick as a Romantic, lyrical dreamer manifests itself in numerous passages in the text. One reads the story of a wanderer who decided to go on a journey so spontaneously that he forgot to obtain a passport. In the same spontaneous fashion, he refuses to plan anything on his journey and goes wherever he pleases, to find “some smooth velvet path which fancy has scattered over with rose-buds of delight” (72). His idealization of nature stands very much in the Romantic tradition and his words are an appeal to be idle in the bosom of nature which stimulates, as he emphatically and somewhat enigmatically exclaims, the “great, great SENSORIUM of the world!” (98)

18Yet underlying all this Romantic praising and worship of nature is a dark note, namely the dark note of egotism. In fact, the first problematic point of this text is the title which promises a “sentimental” piece of literature. In her book Sentimental Figures of Empire in 18th Century Britain and France Lynn Festa defines sentimentality as “a rhetorical practice that monitors and seeks to master the sympathetic movement of emotion between individuals and groups of people” and, with regard to literary form, as “mov[ing] to locate that emotion, to assign it to particular persons, thereby designating who possesses affect and who elicits it” (Festa, 2006: 3). But in Sterne, this “emotion” only occurs on the surface. Indeed, Yorick does praise nature and declares his appreciation for the insignificant corners of the world on several occasions. I want to claim, however, that both the journey and the text retelling it are in fact purely self-centred enterprises. In a perverted form, A Sentimental Journey predates a tradition of travel writing of the Victorian period which rediscovered the individual as a feeling subject, which is why I am embedding Sterne’s text in the context of travel writing rather than the novel. But Yorick is a parasitic, i. e. extremely individualistic, traveller who, despite his many encounters with fellow humans and especially his amorous entanglements with women, does not derive his pleasure from his relation to these people and from being in relation to them. Rather, he only uses these encounters parasitically as a means of gaining self-centered pleasure from them and of presenting himself in a favourable light. “Parasitically” here is meant to denote that there is an excess of profit on the side of the narrator of the text. Thus, apart from bearing traces of the writings of the Romanticists, this focus on the interior is motivated by the fact that A Sentimental Journey is the story of an egoist.

19More poignantly put, the word “sentimental” is misused. The reader is made complicit in Yorick’s act of differentiation from other individuals and the outer world, which he achieves when he is having sentimental feelings about them. Thus, in contrast to Festa’s statement that “sympathy involves the reader’s experience of feelings specifically designated as belonging to another person, [and] it veers towards a perilous absorption in another’s affect and interests that may threaten the autonomy of the self” (Festa, 2006: 5), no such absorption occurs in A Sentimental Journey. This is because Yorick never truly experiences feelings “belonging to another person” but his own feelings always constitute the starting point for his superficial encounters with other people. Yorick is not a compassionate, but rather an egoistic protagonist. As Festa points out, the “sentimental community upholds a common identity, not by forging bonds directly between seemingly like individuals but by creating a shared relationship to a common but excluded object about which the community has feelings” (Festa, 2006: 4, emphases added). But what if there is not a community but only one individual? In this case, Yorick, the self-proclaimed sentimental traveller, develops a stance precisely toward or about other people and things and thus excludes them from his self-centered enjoyment. This can be illustrated by the snuff-box incident. When Yorick exchanges snuff-boxes with the monk, he does so, on the surface at least, to make up for his impolite behaviour (see Sterne, 2008: 17). However, this act is a necessary step for him in order to save face in front of a Madame who observes the scene. Yorick has to keep up and continuously perform his appearance as a decent traveller and promising lover. Afterwards, he has sentimental feelings toward the box because it reminds him of the honourable monk. At least this is what his text tells us. But the reason why he feels so attached to the box is that it reminds him of his own grand gesture—he is moved by the act he has done. Jacques Derrida points out that when it comes to the acts of giving and taking, “the giver’s self-awareness means that ‘he gives back to himself symbolically the value of what he thinks he has given or what he is preparing to give’” (Festa, 2006: 70). Yorick does not give the monk a pretty snuff-box, even though the one he gives him is much more valuable than the one he receives in return. What is more important is that he thinks that by giving the monk this present he has performed an act of benevolence for which the monk will always think highly of him. Yorick has, simply put, moved himself to tears by something he has done himself. The little snuff-box the monk gives him in return is a testimony of that. When Yorick looks at it, he is reminded both of his own good deed and of the monk, but in a rather inauthentic way, for, according to Festa, to “acquire sentimental feeling in the form of an object like a snuffbox is to shortcut the emotional labor that creates a human relation to the world” (Festa, 2006b: 80).

20As was indicated above, the title makes the reader expect something that is not going to happen. This is not only the case with regard to the word “sentimental” but also with regard to the word “journey”. The readers opening Sterne’s book at the time of its publication presumably expected to read a “genuine” travel book, such as Smollett’s account of French and Italian culture. After all, some chapters are headed by place names, which, at first glance, suggests a catalogue of encyclopedic entries about a number of sights and tourist attractions. This is, of course, a diversionary tactic.

21Yorick represents an extreme, hyper-individualistic version of this turn to the self. He, on his ego trip, is in fact doing nothing but presenting himself in the most favourable light. Woolf claims that, despite his “zigzag […] methods” he is telling us a story and that “the things themselves” also interest him (Woolf, 1928: xi). This is why his text is “a succession of portraits—the Monk, the lady, the Chevalier selling pâtés, the girl in the book-shop, La Fleur in his new breeches;—it is a succession of scenes” (xi; emphasis added). While Woolf interprets this as an almost lovingly detailed portrayal of people and moments, I want to put the focus on a different word here, namely scenes. My idea is that what this portends is a sense of theatricality and performance: Yorick is not travelling, he is performing his role of a traveller. He thus becomes a traveller deferred, for he is never writing of his actual travels but always only of his performance of travelling. It becomes clear that Yorick has a reason for jesting so much with words: he is solipsistically engaged in the act of telling, of juggling with language. He stages a theatre play through words. Therefore, A Sentimental Journey is at its core the enterprise of an egoist who announces the tale of a “journey” only to talk about himself (and maybe even to himself?) because he likes to hear his own voice.

22Apart from the theatre in Sterne’s exterior world, there is also the theatre going on in Yorick’s mind. On facing the possibility of being imprisoned for not having a passport, Yorick all of a sudden hears a starling reiterating that it “can’t get out” (59)—a phrase that moves the narrator but not because he feels sorry for the bird but because he feels sorry for himself and perceives the bird as a metaphor for his own situation. He starts to ponder:

I begun [sic] to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination. […] I took a single captive, and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then look’d through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture. I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferr’d. Upon looking nearer I saw him pale and feverish [… H]ere my heart began to bleed […] (Sterne, 2008: 61)

23The moment Yorick starts musing, time stands still. In fact, the details of his imaginary journey are alarming: there is cruelty in imagining the misery of a prisoner to make oneself feel bad but at the same time derive some sadistic pleasure from knowing that one’s situation is not as miserable. It is noteworthy that—even though he is talking about another person’s miserable fate—the personal pronoun “I” comes up seven times only in the abbreviated excerpt presented here. Yorick is not interested at all in this imaginary prisoner, he is more concerned with what this fantasy elicits in himself.

24The Maria episode constitutes the highpoint of Yorick’s egoistic sentimentality. When he sits down close to her, the “disorder’d maid” (94), and she lets him wipe her tears away, a curious merging of the two characters occurs: He wipes her tears away with his handkerchief, then steeps it “in [his] own—and then in hers—and in [his]—and then […] hers again” and as he does that he feels “such undescribable emotions within [him], as [he is] sure could not be accounted for from any combination of matter and motion” (95). I want to characterize this merging as parasitic because Yorick, much like in the snuff-box episode, does something to elicit from somebody else feelings of gratitude which prove that he is a decent human. In this episode, he does not even have to exchange physical objects with her, the only things that are exchanged are their tears. Still, the gain is higher for Yorick than in the episode with the monk, for, after Maria and her tragic situation move him so deeply, he is convinced that he has a soul (95). When he closes his description of this scene saying that he “touch’d upon the string on which hung all her sorrows” (96), one even gets the impression that he perceives Maria as an instrument he can play. This conflation illustrates that Maria is described in a dehumanizing manner; she is turned into a vessel into which Yorick can project his sentimental feelings of his own humanity.

  • 1 I would like to thank Professor Jill Campbell (Yale) for her critical remarks in her Spring 2013 s (...)

25A Sentimental Journey ends with Yorick grabbing a Fille de Chambre’s …— well, what exactly is it that he gets hold of? The text breaks off in the middle of the sentence (104). There are two reasons for this ending in medias res: Sterne died before he could continue writing the part about Yorick’s travels to Italy; but he also clearly wanted this first part to have an open, a puzzling ending. The text, which had bombarded the reader with a myriad of events, some more, some less trifling, ends with a blank space. The bold refusal to provide his readers with a sense of closure is another egoistic move made by Yorick. Why should he tell his readers what he managed to get hold of that night? He knows the answer and that is all he wants. In another Wordsworthian foreshadowing to which he adds a dark note, he is a traveller, and all his tale is of himself.1

Bibliographie

References

CHADWICK J. (1978/9): “Infinite Jest: Interpretation in Sterne’s A Sentimental Journey,” Eighteenth Century Studies 12.2, 190-205.

FESTA L. (2006): Sentimental Figures of Empire in 18th Century Britain and France, Baltimore, Johns Hopkins UP, 1-13.

FORSTER E. M. (2005 [1927]): Aspects of the Novel, London, Penguin.

KORTE B. (2000): English Travel Writing from Pilgrimages to Postcolonial Explorations, trans. Catherine Matthias, Basingstoke, Macmillan.

PARNELL T. (2008): Introduction to A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy and Other Writings by Laurence Sterne, Oxford, Oxford UP, vii-xxxiii.

STERNE L. (2008 [1768]): A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy and Other Writings, Oxford, Oxford UP.

WOOLF V. (1928): Introduction to A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy by Laurence Sterne, London, Oxford UP, v-xvii.

Notes

1 I would like to thank Professor Jill Campbell (Yale) for her critical remarks in her Spring 2013 seminar “The 18th Century Novel.”

Auteur

Albert-Ludwigs-Universität Freiburg

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