On the art of writing fiction

by Unknown

ON THE HISTORICAL NOVEL

Prof. A. J. Church

The historical novel

I must confess to having experienced a certain feeling of astonishment, not unmixed with alarm, when I was asked to write a paper on the “Historical Novel,” for the series “On the Art of Writing Fiction.” The phrase had an impressive sound. It reminded me of Ivanhoe and Quentin Durward, of Hypatia and Westward Ho! It seemed idle to think of such humble ventures as I had launched upon the world, in connection with the masterpieces of Scott and Kingsley. However, I comforted myself by reflecting that the very humility and limitation of my experiences might make them useful to beginners.

I will try to be practical, but I am afraid that I shall have to be, at the same time, somewhat egotistic. If I can give any useful lessons, these must be drawn from my own practice.

Size

Some business considerations

To begin at the beginning—what is the best size for the historical novel?—or, as we had better perhaps call it, historical tale? All my own have been of the one-volume kind, varying from fifty thousand to eighty thousand words, to employ the prosaic but useful measurement now in vogue among editors and publishers. And now, as my readers desire, I suppose, to earn their bread, or at least their butter, by writing, some business considerations may profitably come in. The demand for books in this country comes either from the circulating libraries or from private purchasers. It is the first of these only that, as a rule, buy the three or two volumed novel. There are a few exceptions, as, for example, Mrs. Humphry Ward’s Robert Elsmere. Hence novels are commonly published at a fictitious price—a price, I mean, that bears no practical relation to the cost of production, but is adapted to the circumstances of a temporary and limited demand. Some two score of writers, not of the first rank, have a public of readers sufficiently large to make such a demand on the libraries, that, at the fictitious price above described, a remunerative sale is obtained. A certain number of novels just pay their way. Many cost their authors sums more or less considerable. Now for the private purchaser. In the matter of buying books, the average Englishman, and still more the average Englishwoman, is parsimonious in the extreme. His or her purchases in this direction are commonly limited to a Bible, a Prayer-book, a book of devotion, possibly a volume of some popular author whom it is fashionable to have on one’s drawing-room table. Still, the average Englishman is not a stingy creature. He is generous in giving. Hence the books which he would not think of buying for himself, he will buy to give to others. Hence the institution of “Christmas Books.” After all, there is no present so easy, so convenient, so harmless, and so cheap as a book. Five shillings, and less, a sum for which one could not buy the cheapest of cheap jewellery, will purchase a quite respectable-looking volume. And as Christmas is the time for giving presents, so Christmas is the time for selling books. It is a fact which any publisher dealing in this kind of ware will confirm, that books of precisely the same character and merit, published in May and October (for the Christmas book has to be finished in July, or even earlier, to be published in October), have a very different sale. And a book, to be sold in any numbers, must be a single volume. Of course publishers have overstocked the market. The supply of late years has enormously increased, and now surpasses any possible demand. Still the fact remains, that the most hopeful prospect for a young writer is to produce a one-volumed tale that will take its chance among the crowd of “Christmas books.” And here, I think, the “historical tale” has a somewhat better chance of success than most of its competitors. The father, the mother, the uncle, the aunt, who is choosing a present of this kind, will often give a preference to a book that behind its first and obvious purpose of amusing, has, or is supposed to have, another more or less latent purpose of instructing. There is also a very important demand for school prizes, and the “historical tale” has a manifest fitness for supplying this.

Choice of subject

The dimensions of the book, then, being settled, the next question is, what shall be the subject? Greek and Roman history supply a large choice. And they have this advantage, that the authorities which have to be consulted are limited in number and extent. If I am writing a tale of the Athenian expedition against Syracuse, for instance, I know that the contemporary writers are few, Thucydides, Xenophon, Aristophanes, two or three early Orators, while Diodorus Siculus, Plutarch, and Cornelius Nepos may also be consulted as secondary authorities. Acquainted with these, one cannot be confronted with any neglected authors. Similarly, for a tale of the days of Nero, we have Seneca and the elder Pliny contemporary, and Tacitus nearly so, Suetonius and Plutarch a generation further off, and Dio Cassius more remote, but one who had access to good sources of information. Here again the limits are narrow. Still I could not recommend any one not well provided with classical scholarship to choose such a theme. There are numberless pitfalls. Even authors of ability and repute are apt to fall into some of them. I have seldom, for instance, read a story of Roman life in which the names were not all confusion.

Technical knowledge necessary

Something of the same kind of technical knowledge would be wanted for a tale of Egyptian or Assyrian life. In these cases the interest is remote, and the preliminary knowledge required in the reader rare. Where nine people know something about Miltiades, or Pericles, or Alexander, Julius Cæsar, or Trajan, or Belisarius, scarcely one has ever heard of Rameses II., or Amenophis III., or Queen Hatasu.

Jewish history has a fascination; but the risk of falling below the standard of dignity required is vast.

Modern history

I suppose the general impulse will be to take some subject from modern, preferably from English history; nor do I doubt that on the whole this will be the best course for most of those for whom I am writing. The authorities are accessible, and with proper industry can be mastered. Besides industry, however, there must be facility of access. Private libraries do not contain the necessary books. And I must warn my readers that to make sure of adequate acquaintance with any period of English history a very large amount of reading is needed. And if the acquaintance is not adequate, there are plenty of experts—and experts are commonly impatient of such frivolities as tales—ready to point out the fact.

Epochs of special interest, as, e.g., the War of the Roses, the struggle between Charles I. and his Parliament, the Revolution of 1688, the Jacobite rebellion, the Napoleonic wars, offer special attractions. As a rule, the more recent the time the easier it is to give an air of reality to the story.

Locality

It will often be found a good plan to take some locality with which the writer may happen to be well acquainted, to make this the scene of the story, and to group the characters and incidents about some distinguished person connected with the place. The story of Wyclif, for instance, in his latter days, might have the scene laid at Lutterworth.

Characters

Here comes in the question, How far is the distinguished person to take a part in the story? The answer will depend a good deal upon who he is. A great soldier can be clearly introduced much more freely than a great poet. The speech of the man of action need not have anything very remarkable about it. It will suffice if it be concise and vigorous. A poet, on the contrary, must not be allowed to talk commonplaces. As a matter of fact, poets often do so talk—non semper arcum—but they must not do so in a tale-writer’s pages. If I were to write a story of Stratford-on-Avon, I should not venture to do more than let Shakespeare be seen in his garden.

Method of telling

This suggests the question, Should the story be told in the first person or the third? The first person is the more difficult to manage. Heroines, for instance, who tell their own stories are often, I have observed, sadly self-conscious and affected. They commonly begin by depreciating their own good looks, and then go on to tell us of the conquests which their plain faces make. Young heroes find it equally difficult to speak of themselves without either bragging or “’umbleness.” On the other hand, the first person, if tolerably well managed, allows greater freedom. I may be permitted to illustrate this by an experience of my own. I once wrote a tale of which the hero is a young Royalist gentleman who fought for Charles I. This book being sent for review to one of the critical journals, came by some ill chance into the hands of an historical expert, who has a strong leaning to the Parliamentary side. The expert was pleased to say that I did not understand the nature of the struggle between Charles and his Parliament. He may have been right, but there was nothing in the book to show that I did not understand, for I had purposely made the young Cavalier tell his own story. A serene omniscient person writing in his study at Oxford doubtless knows all about it, about the belli causas et vitia et modos; but a hot-headed young man, who is supposed to give the impressions of the moment, fresh from exchanging blows with some equally hot-headed young Roundhead, being neither serene nor omniscient, is likely to know very little. The real mistake would have been to make him far-seeing and philosophical. The author will not escape the critics, at least if these are of the purblind expert sort, but he will have a good answer to them. And he will be able also to give a peculiar liveliness and a spirit to his narrative. I remember a story, by the author of the Schönberg Cotta Family, unless my memory deceives me, in which the tale is told in letters by two persons alternately, these belonging to the factions opposing. But letters are not a happy vehicle for fiction, though they have been employed by more than one great master.

Style

From the matter it is an easy transition to the question of style. In style it is impossible to be consistent or logical. If I write a tale of the first Jacobite Rebellion, I naturally make my characters talk as people talked in the early years of the eighteenth century. For this there are models in abundance, a few of the best kind. The Spectator papers, for instance, give a writer exactly what he wants in this respect. And if he wishes to see how admirably they can be imitated, let him study Thackeray’s Esmond, one of the very finest masterpieces of style that is to be found in English literature. Go a century back, and the task, if not quite so easy, is not difficult. The Authorised Version of the Bible is at hand for serious writing, and there are pamphlets and plays for what is lighter. A century more alters the case. Sir Thomas More’s Utopia is available, but to model your style strictly on the Utopia would be to make it too archaic. This is, of course, even more true of time still earlier. The characters in a tale of Wat Tyler’s rebellion would be half unintelligible if they talked in the English of their day, supposing that English could be reproduced, in itself no easy matter. One has to take a standard that is really arbitrary, but still practically keeps the mean between the modern and the archaic. For pure dignified English it is impossible to have a better model than the Authorised Version, and it may be used even for times earlier than the seventeenth century.

The notion of a “whitewashing” some well-known historical character is attractive to a writer, but it commonly makes a book somewhat tiresome. Writing up this or that theological or ecclesiastical view is still more to be avoided. This, however, will not prevent the employment of dramatic presentation of partisan views.

Accessories

You cannot be too careful about accessories, even of the most trifling character. I remember making the deplorable blunder of introducing forks among the belongings of an Oxford student of the fifteenth century. They were not used till long after that time. With this eminently practical caution I will conclude my advice.