David Mitchell: The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet (2010)

David Mitchell's fifth novel is his third to feature Japan as a setting, but does mark a new departure by being a historical novel. It is the story of Jacob de Zoet, a clerk working for the Dutch East India Company in the enclave on the island of Dejima near Nagasaki, in 1799 the only place where Europeans were permitted to trade with the Japanese (see the informative Wikipedia article on this here). The story starts when Jacob arrives in Japan, accompanying a new governor for the enclave, whose mission is to fight the endemic corruption among the Company traders, more interested in self-enrichment than the success of the Company as a whole. Jacob soon falls in love with an absolutely unattainable woman, a young girl of good breeding who is one of the students of a Western doctor on Dejima. (Her backstory is quite complicated, to explain how a woman who is neither a prostitute nor a concubine could meet a European, given that such women would normally neither be allowed on the island nor permitted to study Western medicine.)

The Thousand Autumns is a novel about culture clash, between two representatives of two countries effectively in decline. During the novel, the Netherlands is conquered by the French Revolutionary armies, after which its status as a colonial power is greatly lessened; the Japanese shoguns continue the policy of seclusion until 1853 (when the American navy forces the borders to be opened more fully) but even in 1799 it is pretty clear that this end is inevitable in the face of superior technology.

Like Ghostwritten, The Thousand Autumns has a supernatural element, in the doings of villainous abbot Enomoto. Through a bloody ritual involving the sacrifice of babies born to coerced and drugged nuns, he has gaind himself an unnaturally extended lifespan. It is tempting to believe that he is some kind of magic realist symbol, like the children in Midnight's Children, in this case an embodiment of the tyrannical and outdated isolationist regime of the Shogun. The picture of Japan on the cusp of the nineteenth century painted in this novel is pretty repellent, made up of fear, paranoia, and cruelty. Most of the European characters are not much better, either, being depicted as bigoted, uncultured, crude, and venal. Enomoto is not like most of the other Japanese characters, while the Europeans are less nasty but their vices are more widespread through the population.

With a historical novel, the question which is always asked is how accurate it is (though the answer does not necessarily make much difference to how enjoyable or interesting it is to read). Mitchell apparently went to a great deal of trouble to ensure that the details were accurate, but his own emotional reaction to the society may colour his writing about it; but even so, I would certainly not wish to have lived there and then. The attention to detail definitely makes the novel very convincing. This is not an episode of history I was particularly knowledgeable about, and it does make for a fascinating novel.

Not as good as Ghostwritten or numberNineDream, but more straightforward (and to my mind infinitely superior as a historical novel to Hilary Mantel's overrated Wolf Hall), I rate The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet at 8/10.


Edition: Sceptre, 2010
Review number: 1429

Imogen Robertson: Anatomy of Murder (2010)

Having enjoyed Robertson's first novel, Instruments of Darkness, I had high hopes for the sequel. These were, for the most part, realised. Her two detectives, naval wife Hannah Westerman and anatomist Gabriel Crowther, have become somewhat notorious as a result of the publication of lurid pamphlets describing the events of the first novel.

This means that towards the end of 1781 they are asked to look into a body found in the river Thames, a body of interest because it had been tied town to keep it from being found - a subterfuge which failed because the killer didn't take into account the action of the tide. The dead man turns out to be a former musician from the opera house, bringing the world of eighteenth century music which featured in Instruments of Darkness into this novel as well - perhaps an unlikely coincidence, but clearly allowing Robertson to write about a world with which she is familiar and comfortable: the case involves castrati, a French soprano in fact born in the London slums, and the relationship between the opera and high society. A suspicion of espionage - the novel is set during the American War of Independence after all - provides the driving force behind the crime and its aftermath, though this is never really very convincing. The mystery itself is not particularly taxing to unravel for the reader, but the story does manage to hold the interest nonetheless.

Anatomy of Murder is a lighter read than Instruments of Darkness, lacking much of the Gothic atmosphere of the earlier novel, despite the introduction of a Tarot-card reading fortune teller. The world of the opera in London is a brighter, more passionate one than the decaying manor in the depths of rural Sussex which formed the background of Instruments of Darkness. Though squalor and deprivation are depicted, London is never made as sinister as the countryside. Moving the setting to London allows Robertson to show her extensive background knowledge of a different aspect of eighteenth century England.

The misanthropy of Gabriel's character has been softened somewhat, too, though the lack of romantic tension between Gabriel and Hannah remains a strength: the avoidance of the crime genre cliché of the detectives who start to fall for each other because of working together marks out Imogen Robertson's work as refreshingly different from the norm. After all, people often work together in the real world without developing a romantic attachment.

Sometimes sequels can be read on their own without spoiling the first book too much, but Anatomy of Murder is not really one of these. It gives away a great deal which the first time reader of Instruments of Darkness would probably prefer to first encounter in its proper place. There is of course no reason why sequels need to be stand alone; but it is a warning that the earlier story should definitely be read first.

Even though less good than its prequel, Anatomy of Murder is still an atmospheric piece of historical crime fiction, with central characters who are consistently interesting - if not entirely likeable. It could do with a better and more convincing mystery, though, which is why I rate it only at 6/10.

Edition: Headline, 2010
Review number: 1428

T.H. White: The Age of Scandal (1950)

Published: Penguin, 2000

T.H. White is obviously best known for his Arthur stories, starting with The Sword in the Stone, and after that, for his book on falconry, The Goshawk. So a guess as to which period he would choose as the subject for a series of essays on history would probably be medieval. Instead, The Age of Scandal is about England in the second half of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth, roughly the reigns of George III and George IV. The book chronicles the scandals of the age (with a chapter on the Marquis de Sade taking it across the Channel), and is really a minimal narrative thread connecting excerpts from contemporary letters and diaries.

That White had views which now seem a little eccentric is evident from the very first sentence: "Well, we have lived to see the end of civilization in England." (Those who read the table of contents before this statement would have realised his eccentricity from the inclusion of an essay entitled Ears.) He believed that the essence of civilisation in England was the country house aristocratic culture that was effectively destroyed by changes in the property laws during the first half of the twentieth century - something which may have made this start seem less outrageous to a committed Tory at the end of Labour's first post-war government. It does seem that the rest of the book is devoted to prove something quite different: that there was nothing civilised about the late eighteenth century either.

On the other hand, he may well not have intended this to be taken seriously. Among his other suggestions that must surely be tongue in cheek is the suggestion that the reason that the French revolution failed to spread to England was that the English have a sense of humour. Later, White quotes an English description of King Christian VII of Denmark, which ends, "That is all that decency permits to be said, the rest must be imagined." Then, linking this to an account by a French writer who is much less discrete, he adds, "It need not be imagined, however, by people who understand French."

There are lots of interesting, amusing and enjoyable quoted documents in The Age of Scandal. It is not the place to look for in depth analysis, or indeed for anything (the lack of an index makes it almost useless for reference). White also expects a knowledge of the events of the period; people and events are referred to without explanation or further mention. But if you have a passing familiarity with the personalities, reading the highlights and raciest sections of contemporary accounts of them is fascinating. The bittiness which comes from being a collection of essays is something of a problem, with events referred to without being described elsewhere when in a more unified narrative they surely would be (scandals involving the sons of George III are a case in point; despite an essay on Royal Gossip, there are other scandals mentioned elsewhere that do not appear in that section at all). But otherwise this is a most entertaining read.

John Fowles: A Maggot (1985)

Edition: Vintage, 1996
Review number: 1256

In The French Lieutenant's Woman, Fowles wrote a knowing twentieth century version of a nineteenth century novel. A Maggot is more conventionally a historical novel, set in 1736 but despite fitting better into the genre, it shares much of the ironic self awareness of Fowles' best known work.

The novel starts with something very small - a group of travellers riding across Exmoor, who stop overnight at a small village before heading on again. But a few days later, one of the party, a mute servant, is found dead, having apparently hanged himself. The rest of the novel deals with an investigation, not so much an attempt to find out what actually happened, but to do so as a stage towards finding the rest of the party, who have completely disappeared and who included at least one important person. Thus, the form of most of the novel is records of the interrogations of witnesses, separated (to indicated the passing of time) by excepts from the Gentleman's Magazine, a journal of the time, apparently reproduced in facsimile. While outwardly more like The French Lieutenant's Woman, The Maggot actually has more in common with The Magus. The witness interviews reveal that the ostensible purpose of the trip to Exeter hides another more sinister motive; that the people involved are not who they seem to be; that what is really going on involves some kind of occult ritual.

Anthony Burgess described this novel as "subversive", and there are several ways in which this might be considered to be true. There are both overt and covert attacks on the ideas behind the class structure of Georgian society, some of which are fairly clearly meant to make the reader think about those in positions of authority today. The idea that someone from a higher class would necessarily be a better person is not one readily believed today, but some relic of it is surely part of our hunger for scandal about the morals of politicians and celebrities - do we now believe that people in the public eye should be better than we are? There are also attacks on religious hypocrisy, particularly when the political nature of the Anglican church of the time is compared with the unsettling intensity of the Dissenters. This doesn't have quite the same resonance with the modern world, however, and attacking hypocrisy is not exactly subversive. Dissent is a sufficiently important theme that it as a focus may be said to be another aspect of subversion in the novel.

The way that A Maggot is structured is another element which is more truly subversive. Historical novels are generally quite descriptive, because part of the aim of the genre is usually to convey their background to today's readers. Here, there is very little description, apart from that in the opening pages which are entirely of this form but which could be set in any time period in which groups of travellers rode horses across Exmoor when it was a remote dangerous wilderness and not somewhere frequented by tourists as it is today - in other words, any time before the arrival of the railways. After this beginning, atmospheric as good historical novels are supposed to be, yet not positioning the narrative in time or even (initially) in place, the historical context is mainly provided by the Gentleman's Magazine excerpts, which most readers probably find difficult to read as they're in extremely small type and a hard to decipher font, apart from their lack of relation to the story.

There is also literary subversion of the same type as in The Magus. In both novels, layers of deception are gradually exposed; but here the use of interrogation reports makes the revelations less effective, even though the reader will still spend most of the novel wondering what is really going on behind all the lies.

The way that the title refers to several aspects of A Maggot is not so much subversive as clever (and Fowles obviously thought it important enough to spell out why he chose it in the introduction). In one sense, it refers to the maggot as symbol of corruption, but a maggot is also a rather old fashioned term for an obsession. Several of the characters have obsessions, including the questioning attorney who is more interested in allegations of homosexuality than in the murder itself. But the novel itself arose out of an obsessive picture in Fowles' mind, of a group of horse riders in a wilderness. This became A Maggot's opening scene, and it is an arresting image. The literal meaning of the word also makes a surprising appearance.

While those who do not know Fowles' work will probably pick up A French Lieutenant's Woman or The Magus, A Maggot is definitely worthwhile reading for anyone who enjoyed either of the other two novels.

Mike Jay: The Air Loom Gang (2003)

Edition: Bantam, 2003
Review number: 1228

The most famously insane person of the eighteenth century was of course George III, one of the most celebrated madmen of all time. Yet his case is not as interesting in itself (rather than for who the patient was) as that of a contemporary Englishman, James Tilly Matthews. The turn of the nineteenth century was a pivotal time in the history of the treatment of the insane, as asyla began to be built which were more like hospitals than the prison-like buildings which preceded them, and the way in which Matthews was incarcerated turned out to be important in the precipitation of this change. Matthews' life and delusions are fascinating in themselves, as well as being unusually well documented (this fact meaning that he is one of the first cases where psychologists have been able to attempt to make a modern diagnosis).

The Matthews case basically begins, as does Jay's book, with a disturbance at the Houses of Parliament. Matthews interrupted the closing stages of a debate in the early 1790s, the one which lead to the declaration of war with revolutionary France, by shouting out "Treason!" from the Visitors' Gallery. He was led away and committed to Bethlem Hospital, the place that is the origin of the term "Bedlam". He remained there for a couple of decades until just before his death. His delusions were principally that a secret organisation was using a device called an "Air Loom" to control people's thoughts and precipitate a war between France and Britain. The really odd thing is that Matthews had actually been involved in secret negotiations with the revolutionary government, so that his delusions had some basis in reality. That of course was not acknowledged by the British government of the time.

So many elements come together in the Matthews case that it is easy to see why Jay chose him as the subject of his book. He has responded to the story with a book which is exciting as well as fascinating. In places it even seems as though it is a historical thriller rather than a non-fictional narrative. (It reminded me of "steampunk" novels, like K.W. Jeter's Infernal Devices, for example; this is partly because of the science fiction resonances of the air loom device.) The Air Loom Gang is very highly recommended; wonderfully written, engrossing.

T. Coraghessan Boyle: Water Music (1993)

Edition: Granta, 1998
Review number: 1119

The Georgian England portrayed in Hogarth's etchings is the inspiration for Boyle's lusty historical novel. Its spiritual home, where its best passages are set, is the gin soaked city of London, its alleys and gutters, whores and thieves. That is also the origin of one of Water Music's main characters, con man, vagabond, grave robber and would-be gentleman Ned Rise. His struggles against a capricious fate - every time he begins to make money, some disaster leaves him worse off than before - make his adventures entertaining reading. He is a comic rather than a realistic character, so the reader doesn't identify with him enough to feel much sympathy when his fortunes fail.

The major part of the novel, however, is set in West Africa, accompanying explorer Mungo Park's expeditions to the Niger river. The inhospitable country - the arid Sahel of his first trip, the jungle of the second - is more a commentary on the London scenes than a contrast with them. The misadventures of Park are reminiscent of Flashman (without the cowardice or a large part of the humour) and, even after Rise joins him, are unsatisfying.

Without Park, Water Music might well have been considered rather derivative of The Rake's Progress (both the sequence of prints and the opera based on them). Neverthess, it could have become the germ of a work which would be more satisfying than the novel as it is. Water Music is also reminiscent of Moll Flanders, though Defoe wrote many years before Boyle's novel is set. (Mind you, Handel's Water Music was also the product of earlier decades of the eighteenth century.)

In a note at the beginning of Water Music, Boyle warns the reader not to expect historical accuracy in the novel. He was interested in the feel of the years around 1800, not in getting all the details right. In many historical novels, though, the effectiveness of the background is a consequence of the author's research. At first sight, Boyle's not might seem to be an attempt to cover up laziness, but he clearly must have done some research, at least reading up on Park. In the end, there is probably little less that is historically inaccurate about Water Music than there is about many novels in the genre, even if it is clear that the London that it portrays is based more on Hogarth's drawings than on more sober descriptions. Boyle's disclaimer made me expect something like a fantasy novel which borrows some of its ideas from a historical setting, something like Jill Paton Walsh's Knowledge of Angels, or a cavalier treatment of history like the very silly George MacDonald Fraser Pyrates. This sort of freer setting might actually have suited Boyle better, though I found it difficult to see what he intended to say through Water Music, if anything.

I was interested and amused enough to read to the end of Water Music, but not, in the final reckoning, sufficiently impressed to bother looking out for any of Boyle's other novels.

Ann Barker: His Lordship's Gardener (1999)

Edition: Robert Hale, 1999
Review number: 871

It is clear from the outset that this historical novel is not intended to be taken seriously. The Earl of Lyddington returns from abroad to find that in his absence his sister has moved the village (where he hoped to have a drink in the pub before heading for home) as part of the improvements being carried out to the estate. Moving the village which obscured a fashionable view is a not unheard of action for the English aristocracy at this time; it is the way that the Earl mislays the village which is funny.

The story is a romance, complicated by the fact that the woman the Earl falls for, the daughter of the man redesigning his garden, is disguised as a man because women are not allowed to work. There is a wonderful moment when Lyddington, not yet knowing the truth but finding himself attracted to the friend he knows as Frank, summons the best looking of his servants to make sure he isn't starting to fancy men. The big flaw in the novel is that the moment he discovers the truth is not narrated, which means that the story jumps rather abruptly, which is disconcerting.

In the main, His Lordship's Gardener is an enjoyable, tongue in cheek version of one of the sillier literary genres, the Regency romance, rather in the manner of Elizabeth Peters.

Rebecca Jenkins: The Duke's Agent (1997)

Edition: Richard Cohen Books, 1997
Review number: 609

Like Anne Perry's Victorian novels, but not to the same exaggerated extent, The Duke's Agent presents something of the disreputable side of a historical period, in this case Georgian England. Here we have absentee landlords, dishonest magistrates, and the unpleasant tallyman, who was basically an unscrupulous debt collector who preyed on the poor.

When his steward there dies, the Duke of Penrith orders an audit into the estates he owns in the North East of England. He sends his remote kinsman Raif Jarrett, who soon discovers that something dishonest has been going on, though he cannot work out what as the account books have been stolen. A young woman is killed, and a fairly clumsy attempt is made to frame him for murder (though it is nearly good enough to make Jarrett the victim of a lynch mob). Thus he ends up trying to discover what happened to Sal Grundy as well as sorting out the Duke's affairs.

Basically a competent if not particularly complex detective story, The Duke's Agent has interesting characters and a well realised background. It is a pity that the publisher seems to feel that Rebecca Jenkins needs to be sold by mentioning her famous relatives - she is the daughter of that Bishop of Durham who notoriously denied the virgin birth of Christ - as The Duke's Agent is a strong enough novel to be allowed to stand on its own merits.

George Farquhar: The Recruiting Officer (1706)

Edition: Nick Hern Books, 1997
Review number: 585

Today we probably think of compulsory enlistment as a feature of the eighteenth century British navy rather than the army, mainly because it features strongly in such well known fiction as the Hornblower series. However, during the wars of the early part of the century, the Press Act allowed the involuntary recruitment of those with no visible means of support, and so army officers toured the country, to encourage voluntary enlistment with all kinds of specious promises and to press others with the co-operation of local magistrates. The activities of such a group of enlisters forms the basis for The Recruiting Officer, a comedy satirising the abuses for which they were notorious.

The abuses shown in the play include corruption (any bribe greater than the bounty paid for a new recruit secured his release), enlistment of infants so that other soldiers could draw their pay, debauchery (it was said at the time that they made enough women pregnant to replace the men enlisted).

Against this background, Farquhar sets a fairly traditional romantic comedy, with two courting couples delaying the inevitable happy ending, though even here there are digs at the society of the time. The obstacle in the way of Plume and Silvia is conventional (the objections of her father), but that which mars the courtship of Worthy and Melinda is more unusual. Worthy is of higher social standing, and had attempted to make Melinda his kept mistress for the (large) sum of 500 pounds a year. Then she suddenly inherited 20,000 pounds and became his social equal, and naturally resents his attempts to marry her now that it is acceptable to do so. Class plays an important part in The Recruiting Officer - another example is that the original audience would have understood that the lure of promotion held out to get yokels to volunteer was false, as it was not until the Crimean War that non-gentlemen could become commissioned officers.

The emphasis of The Recruiting Officer is not really on satire; it is meant to be a fun comedy. Thus, none of the characters are really unpleasant; they may be weak, tempted into abuses by the absurdity of early eighteenth century society or the system created by the Press Act. The characters are a great strength of this play, the male parts in particular avoiding melodramatic heroes and villains. (The female parts are rather blander.)

The Recruiting Officer remains a classic comedy which has retained its charm and sparkle. Since its satirical targets are long gone, the way that Farquhar made them secondary to the fun has ensured the survival of the play.

Henry Fielding: Tom Jones (1749)

Edition:  Everyman, 1998
Review number: 565

Tom Jones was inspired by Richardson's Clarissa; Fielding wanted to compete with the new depth of its characters. To modern readers, Tom Jones (and Fielding's writing in general) is far more readable than anything by Richardson. Fielding is a less limited writer; his tone is satirical rather than serious; and he doesn't constrain himself with an epistolary structure. The biggest barrier to enjoyment of Tom Jones is its enormous length (eight hundred pages divided into eighteen books); even in the eighteenth century criticism was made of its inclusion of incidents unnecessary to the plot, such as Tom's meeting with the Man From the Hill.

The plot is fairly basic and romantic. Tom Jones is a foundling, brought up by the rich and virtuous Squire Allworthy, causing his nephew and heir Mr Blifil to feel hatred and jealousy. As a teenager, Jones falls in love with Sophia Western, daughter of a neighbouring squire, but a roving eye and the calumnies of Blifil lead Allworthy to banish him. At the same time, Sophia runs away from her home to escape a match arranged by her father with the odious Blifil. Comic complications ensue, and everything is sorted out in the last four pages.

Though there is humour in the situations, such as the outraged husband trying to surprise his wife with a lover but going to the wrong room in an inn, most of the amusement is produced by Fielding's ironic commentary on events. It may be longwinded at times by modern standards (the entirety of the first chapter of each book is given over to it, for example), but it certainly works well most of the time.

In this edition, there are many notes. Most will be helpful to almost any reader - for example, few will realise without them that most of the Latin tags applied (and misapplied) by Jones' servant Partridge are not evidence of learning, but are taken from popular textbooks of the time. However, some of the notes are useless. To be told that Socrates was a Greek philosopher of the fifth century BC will not be useful either to those who did not know this nor to those who did.

Baroness Orczy: Eldorado (1913)

Edition: Hodder & Stoughton, 1939
Review number: 523

In Eldorado, one of the better novels featuring the Scarlet Pimpernel, he becomes involved in one of the most famous plots of the French Revolution, the attempt to rescue the child heir to the French throne from imprisonment in Paris. His ultimate fate is one of the unknowns of history, though it is almost certain that he died in prison. The main character in reality in the various plots which centred around him was the Austrian-financed agitator, the Baron de Batz. I think Orzcy's portrayal of him is basically accurate: an egocentric, who kept himself safe by betraying his friends and paying large bribes.

The Scarlet Pimpernel becomes involved in the situation when he makes his own plans to rescue the Dauphin, which are endangered when one of his agents falls in love with a Parisian actress. This romantic side of the plot is less sentimentally handled than in some of the other Orczy novels (though there are still plenty of passages that are better skipped). In the end, this part of the plot assumes more importance than the liberation of the prince, and this is perhaps a good thing, as it reduces the amount of space Orczy has available to eulogise the late eighteenth century Bourbons. Orczy's faults are apparent in the novel, but the story is strong enough to overcome them. just as happens (to a greater extent) in The Scarlet Pimpernel itself.

Baroness Orczy: The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel (1922)

Edition: Thames Publishing Co., 1960
Review number: 500

Though better than I Will Repay, The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel is far inferior to The Scarlet Pimpernel. The cloying romantic side of I Will Repay is omitted, yet the story is less interesting and less exciting than the first novel. Like the other Scarlet Pimpernel novels The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel presents a one sided view of revolutionary France, and here it is even less balanced than before. Almost every sentence is tinged with contempt for the poor of Paris, and those who ruled France are demonised to such an extent that it is difficult to see why anyone would have supported their rise to power. (However, to be fair to Orczy, there are many contemporary and near contemporary views of the Nazis or Saddam Hussein which equally remove any trace of humanity from them - people are more complicated than makes for simple stereotypes!) I would not want to condone their actions, but I do feel that no one can be pure evil.

Choderlos de Laclos: Les Liaisons Dangereuses (1782)

Translation: P.W.K. Stone, 1961
Edition: Penguin, 1961
Review number: 499

Long one of the most notorious of all French novels, Les Liaisons Dangereuses seems to have exerted quite a fascination in recent years, with three film versions (the updated Cruel Intentions, Valmont and Dangerous Liaisons). The idea of cynical manipulation at the heart of the novel perhaps resonates with Westerners in this age of distrusted mass media, making the interest of Hollywood studios somewhat ironic.

The plot of Les Liaisons Dangereuses is simple. The Marquise de Merteuil and the Vicomte de Valmont are debauched late eighteenth century French aristocrats, and for their amusement Valmont seeks to corrupt the virtuous and devout Presidente de Tourvel (her title derived from her husband's appointment in French provincial government).

The reason that the book was considered immoral is because it was felt that the bad are insufficiently punished (less was said about the good going unrewarded) and that the avowed intent of the author (to teach others to avoid the snares set by those like Merteuil and Valmont) is really a joke. Neither of these criticisms are likely to pose much of a barrier to the modern reader, and the brittle cynicism of many of the letters (it is an extremely well constructed epistolary novel) is more likely to sadden than to shock.

Of all the well known epistolary novels, Les Liaisons Dangereuses is probably the one which pays most attention to the ways in which real people actually write. The temptation when writing in this form is to get carried away by the story, and write letters which are far too long or too concentrated on one subject, that which advances the plot. The letters here are of a variety of lenghs, none too long to be written in a hour or so, and touch on other subjects (though all are relevant to the main plot).

The translation is eminently readable and enjoyable.

Guy Wheeler: Cato's War (1974)

Edition: Collins
Review number: 489

A rather disappointing realisation of quite an unusual idea, Cato's War seeks to provide a different viewpoint of the American War of Independence than is usually told, either in fiction or non-fiction. As Wheeler points out, British writers have tended to ignore the war totally, while Americans want to mythologise it, to pretend (for example) that none of the colonists fought for the British and, even more, that the groups of bandits looting from both sides did not exist.

Wheeler's novel follows one Colonel Cato, sent out to join General Cornwallis with the objective suggested by the commander of British forces, General Clinton, of raising a militia of loyalists in Virginia. The real reason that Clinton wants another officer from London is so that he can have a spy on Cornwallis, whom he does not trust, but Cato refuses to do this. This situation is part of Wheeler's thesis, which is that the war was brought about by stupidity in London and lost by the British through incompetence and division in their command. This is perhaps a reasonable analysis of the situation, but it is probably far easier to see in retrospect than was at all clear at the time (despite the words - which really amount to political speeches, often at rather unlikely moments - put into the mouths of several characters).

The preachy dialogue is one of several unconvincing aspects of Cato's War. Others include non-characters - different people are hardly differentiated from each other, with the exception of the brutal deserter Cook - and a far too sketchily realised historical background. (This includes such anachronisms as a 1970s reaction to adultery - accepted by all and even welcomed by the woman's relations.) The novel never really succeeds as a novel, and is one of those whose ideas are much more interesting than any other aspect.

Baroness Orczy: I Will Repay (1906)

Edition: Thames Publishing Co.
Review number: 485

In this melodramatic romance set during the French Revolution, the factor that has ensured it a measure of survival (the involvement of the Scarlet Pimpernel) is fairly incidental to the plot, as he is basically a supernatural element to bring a successful resolution in an impossible situation. It is the silliest and least realistic of the Scarlet Pimpernel novels, and it is also the one which has dated the most.

The plot is about revenge (hence the title, from Romans 12:19 paraphrasing Deuteronomy - "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord: I will repay"). Before the revolution, Paul Déroulède was wealthy enough to be accepted by aristocratic society despite his bourgeois oeigins until he is forced into a dued by the stupid Vicomte de Varny and kills his opponent. The Vicomte's father forces his devout daughter Juliette to make a solemn promise to avenge his death (even though this was honourable by the standards of the time). After the Revolution, Juliette is able to carry out this vow when she discovers that Déroulède is involved in a plot to rescue the imprisoned queen, even though she has herself fallen in love with the man supposed to be her enemy.

The ludicrous plot - almost bad enough for a third rate opera - is accompanied by a romantic style full of phrases which today seem extremely old fashioned. Sentences like "Man-like, he did not understand to the full that great and wonderful enigma which has puzzled the world since primeval times; a woman's heart" are hard to take seriously; they seem more like a deliberate parody of the worst of romantic fiction.

Baroness Orczy: The Scarlet Pimpernel (1905)

Edition: Heron
Review number: 471

The Scarlet Pimpernel is undeniably one of the world's great adventure stories, its hero attaining an almost mythological status in English speaking culture; Sherlock Holmes is one of the very few fictional characters to have higher prominence. It is not the writing which has made this happen - Orczy wrote a great number of other novels which have all sunk into oblivion - but the quality of the idea of the Scarlet Pimpernel, the romance of his actions.

Orczy's flaws as a writer are fairly obvious. Her characters are two dimensional at best (the only ones in the novel that even reach this level are the Blakeneys and Chauvelin). Her prose is fairly pedestrian, particularly when descriptive. The plot is obvious; most first time readers will guess the secret identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel pages before its revelation. The historical background is one sided, presenting a view of the French Revolution which is seriously distorted. And yet, the reader is drawn in, becoming engrossed as the climactic confrontation approaches. The drama of the idea is so strong that it overcomes all the barriers to enjoyment of the novel.

Horace Walpole: The Castle of Otranto (1765)

Edition: Penguin, 1972
Review number: 452

Until you read some Gothic novels, it may seem strange that they are not more popular today, as the origins of the modern horror genre and parts of science fiction and fantasy. Yet the only one which has consistently survived is Frankenstein, and it could certainly be argued that it is not really a Gothic novel. As popular literature, the Gothic novel reflected the tastes of the time, tastes which are not the same as ours today. (More recent popular writers, of whom Marie Corelli is perhaps the most obvious example, have disappeared from view for similar reasons.)

The Castle of Otranto is one of the first Gothic novels, formative of the genre. It is intended to read as though it were a medieval chronicle, though Walpole's idea of a medieval chronicle is as inauthentic as Walter Scott's idea of medieval dialogue. The story is of the supernatural downfall of the usurping counts of Otranto, followed by the restoration of the true dynasty. The castle is full of hidden passages and dungeons, though we never get any real sense of its geography; its importance is to be a stage for improbably events, not to be realistic in any way.

Rafael Sabatini: Scaramouche (1921)

Edition: Pan, 1961
Review number: 423

Like his contemporary Jeffrey Farnol, Sabatini was an immensely popular author of historical thrillers. Sabatini, however, seems today to be less dated, possibly because his novels are more literary and better researched, giving a greater sense that they are anchored in the periods in which they are set than Farnol's. His dialogue in particular is not so artificial.

Scaramouche is probably Sabatini's best known novel (though a couple of others were made into films which themselves are much more famous - Captain Blood and The Sea Hawk). Set in revolutionary France, it tells the story of the transformation of cynical Breton lawyer André-Louis Moreau into radical orator, fugitive, play actor and fencing tutor as he is swept into the turbulence following the murder of his friend Villemorin.

Unusually for popular fiction depicting the Revolution, no attempt is made to romanticise the aristocracy. They are frequently portrayed as a cultured contrast to a bestial peasantry. (This is what Baroness Orczy tends to do in the Scarlet Pimpernel novels, for example.) Instead, in keeping with Moreau's cynical outlook, neither side is drawn in a very positive light; mankind in general is bestial.

The troupe of actors joined by Moreau is a travelling group of improvisers, a traditional commedia dell'arte company. This section is the most interesting part of the novel, and the quality of Sabatini's research is shown by the way that he gives an excellent (one of the best short accounts I have read) summary of the traditional characters which make up such a troupe and some of the scenarios they used as the basis for their performances. He also, being a good writer, brings alive these pages with a sense of the atmosphere that these performances must have produced. Moreau eventually ends up playing the part of Scaramouche, the cynical plotter, both in the company and in his own life, hence the title of the novel.

Arthur Hassall: The Balance of Power 1715-1789 (1896)

Edition: Rivingtons
Review number: 359

Part of one of the earliest European histories aimed at the general reader, The Balance of Power summarises the complex politics of the eighteenth century. Now over a century old, it is hardly surprising that the view of history that is offered now seems distinctly old fashioned, but that is far outweighed by the book's man excellent qualities. In fact, it seems much less out of date than many history books written this century, because of the excellent writing.

There can be no doubt that Hassall had a wonderful gift for summarising complicated political manoeuvrings. Balance of Power is still worth reading if you want a straightforward account of this period, more dominated by the personalities of its rulers than almost any other. If, however, you want an account of the development of industrialisation in Europe or the social changes leading to American independence, the French revolution, imperialism or the capitalist system, you would be advised to seek out a more modern history.

Lawrence Sterne: The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman (1759)

Edition: Penguin, 1970

It is difficult to know where to begin in describing Sterne's famous work, as many commentators have remarked. It is not really a novel, such plot as it has being far too loosely structured for that. It purports to be an autobiography, but by the end of it we still know hardly anything of the life of Tristram Shandy. (Apart from scattered remarks, all we get are descriptions of the day of his birth, a day when he suffered an accident at the age of five, and a trip through France. We aren't even told enough to be definite whether the woman Jenny, mentioned in several places, is his wife or not.) In describing his opinions, the title is rather more accurate, though we probably get more of the opinions of Tristram's father than of Tristram himself.

I suppose Tristram Shandy is basically a parody of the memoirs of an eighteenth century gentleman. It is hilariously funny in places, though it requires some concentration to catch the jokes - I know a couple of people who found it impossible to get into. It certainly pays to keep a finger in the notes at the back of a copy, unless you speak Latin and Greek and are familiar with a vast range of literature from the classical period onwards, and know a fair amount about the wars of the early eighteenth century.

Tristram Shandy's importance in the development of the novel was in its narrative style, which prefigures many of the experimental writers of the twentieth century. It is not really concerned with the subject that it is meant to be about - which is why we learn so little of Shandy's actual life - but instead it is about whatever takes the fancy of the supposed author. It is full of digressions, imagined conversations with readers and critics, and Shandy as narrator gives a convincing impression of disorganised brilliance. Sterne, of course, has to be far more disciplined, so that Shandy never steps out of character. In an odd sort of irony, in fact, we are totally conscious of Shandy as narrator but never really aware of Sterne as his puppeteer.

This structure is meant to give us insight into the mind of Shandy, and is a direct precursor of one of the most important literary styles of the twentieth century, stream of consciousness. The book is full of conversations with readers and commentary on what is going on (statements like "I promise that the chapter on buttons will be written eventually, but I must give you the chapter on chambermaids first"). This may seem a little arch (though fashionably post-modernist) to our tastes today, but it can be very funny.

The work in the canon of English literature which is perhaps most like Tristram Shandy is Joyce's Ulysses. Both are universal in scope (Ulysses more subtly so) though apparently parochial; both establish a complex relationship between writer and reader. Both are funny and bawdy, though Tristram Shandy lacks something of the serious and pessimistic nature of Leopold Bloom; one is a product of the eighteenth century, the other of the twentieth.