Charles Dickens working at his desk
“The past is foreign country: they do things differently there.” So reads the opening lines of L.P Hartley’s The Go Between.
Any writer of
historical fiction almost needs to become a time-traveller, to ‘go native’ and familiarise
themselves with the cultural workings of the place in which their story will be
set - to draw their reader into that world without qualms as to authenticity
regarding the characters, settings or themes that, if placed in a contemporary
tale, might seem entirely alien.
A good starting
point for this cultural immersion is to read the work of established authors; those
from the nineteenth century, and the best of the Neo-Victorians now. That way
an author’s ear can attune to the nuances, rhythm and tone of the ‘foreign’
language used back then. My Victorian favourites are Wilkie Collins, the
Brontes, and Thomas Hardy; each one offering a unique style to define the age
they represent.
However, of all Victorian writers Charles Dickens is widely considered the master, his work rising above mere
plot and offering social commentary on almost every aspect of the world that he
inhabited. But here, a word of warning: attempts to emulate his work may result
in clichéd parody. A writer should never be
afraid to develop their own personal style, even when following the ‘rules’ or
restrictions within the chosen genre.
Not all nineteenth century literature adhered to
Dickens' formal tone. Moby Dick, written in 1851, begins with these strikingly ‘modern’
lines – “Call me Ishmael. Some years ago
– never mind how long precisely – having little or no money in my purse, and
nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a
little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off
the spleen, and regulating the circulation…especially when my hypos get such an
upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from
deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats
off…”
We still have the
formal Victorian phrasing to anchor us in the era, as exhibited in the phrase: ‘requires a high moral principle’. But,
at the same time, Melville creates a very strong vernacular; a tone entirely original;
a real, living character’s voice, who could belong to any age, who draws us
straight into his world.
However, it
must be admitted that Melville was American. Many writers prefer to emulate the
more English tradition of ‘Victoriana’ – that which has been so well observed
by the modern-day author Charles Palliser whose The Quincunx, according to many
reviews, ‘out Dickensed’ Dickens
himself. Most ‘Sensation’ themes are
covered, with lost or stolen inheritances, laudanum-addicted governesses, dens
of thieves, and asylums, along with doomed affairs of the heart. The narrator
is called John Huffam, the middle names of Charles Dickens. An audacious
decision, but justified, because Palliser’s writing is superb.
Sarah
Waters, who also excels in the genre, uses a spare and lyrical prose, rarely florid
or overblown, as illustrated in these lines taken from the start of Fingersmith – “My name, in those days, was
Susan Trinder. People called me Sue. I know the year I was born in, but for
many years I did not know the date, and took my birthday at Christmas. I
believe I am an orphan. My mother I know is dead. But I never saw her, she was
nothing to me.”
The reader
is immediately told that the narrator
has been orphaned – a common Victorian theme around which secrets and mysteries
can be woven into complex plots. Similarly, clues are laid in The Meaning of Night by Michael Cox, another stunning
‘Victorian’ novel which begins – “After
killing the red-haired man, I took myself off to Quinn’s for an oyster supper.
It had been surprisingly – almost
laughably – easy. I had followed him for some distance, after first observing
him in Threadneedle-street. I cannot say why I decided it should be him, and
not one of the others on whom my searching eye had alighted that evening.”
Oyster Shop by Boz
The novel is
‘placed’ immediately by the archaic use of ‘Threadneedle-street’
– and the fact of the oyster supper: a common meal in Victorian times and not
the luxury food of today. The language has a formality with words such as ‘had alighted’, all of which leaves the reader
in no doubt that the genre is Victorian.
The writer of
historical fiction must also ensure accurate scene descriptions, considering the houses, shops, theatres and bars from which many settings can be derived, not to mention the streets through which their characters walk or drive. There would be the creaking of carriages, the
jangling of reins, the clopping of hooves. And then, there would be the railways with the rhythmic chugging beat of the trains exuding their clouds of steam.
The expansion of
the railways was of huge significance. For the very first time this transport means enabled a mass mobility, even
though, as depicted in one of my novels, the less adventurous came to fear that “the motion and velocity might cause such a
pressure inside our brains as to risk a fatal injury – a nose bleed at the very
least.” Still, many did
travel to London which, to this very day, has a wealth of preserved Victorian settings.
18 Stafford
Terrace in Kensington remains just as it would have been with Chinese ceramics
and Turkey rugs, Morris wallpapers and stained glass windows – not to mention the
letters, the diaries and bills that provide an accurate insight into the
running of the house. For those unable to visit, there are countless images in
books, or via a search on the Internet. The nineteenth century saw the dawn of
the science of photography and that is why Victorian scholars have a distinct advantage over those
of earlier centuries. What better way to get a sense of interior or
exterior scenes, or to study the fashions that were worn, or to catch the glint of
life in an eye than by looking at a photograph. I can only agree with Henry Fox Talbot, one of the pioneers of
the art, who described the photographic art as ‘the genius of Alladin’s Lamp…a little bit of magic realised.’
As to the day to
day running of any Victorian residence, the relentless slog of housework would
have lacked any magic at all. But do not take my word for it. Why not read
Judith Flanders’ The Victorian House,
or go to an original source in Mrs
Beeton’s Household Management. In fact, Mrs Beeton offers advice on almost
any subject, from cooking, to fashion, to medicine - and her words occur in The Somnambulist; my fiction being melded with fact when the narrator quotes the book
as a means of objecting to the clothes she wears –
“I was looking through Mrs Beeton’s book, and
she wrote several chapter on fashion, and with regard to a young woman’s dress
her advice is very specific indeed. She says that” – and I had this memorized
for such a moment of revolt – “its colour harmonise with her complexion, and
its size and pattern with her figure, that its tint allow of its being worn
with the other garments she possesses.”
Other contemporary
factual works are still available today. Henry Mayhew’s London Labour and the London Poor is surprisingly readable while
giving a detailed insight into grim social realities. Very useful indeed when
researching the Victorian demi-monde was My
Secret Life by Walter - Walter being the most shocking libertine whose pursuit
of physical gratification led to many a melodramatic encounter, and the exploration
of a world that could not be any more different to what is generally perceived
as a moral, upstanding society.
I feel
quite sure that Walter would have visited Wilton’s (a music hall setting in
both of my novels) with all of its night-time clatter and bang, where
prostitutes called from the balcony to those who sat at tables below, with the
glisten of the lime lights glancing off the brass of the barley twists posts
around. No doubt he would have loved Cremorne – the Chelsea pleasure gardens
described in Elijah's Mermaid; that resort finally being closed down for ‘lewd and raucous behaviour’, of which
nothing now remains intact but a pair of ornate iron gates.
The Dancing Platform at Cremorne by Phoebus Levin 1864
Unable to visit
the actual place I read articles in Victorian newspapers (the archives
available online). I looked at paintings and adverts to gradually built a vivid
scene of lush lawns with statues and fountains, a banqueting hall, and a hot
air balloon, and regular theatrical displays – such as the infamous Beckwith
Frog who, along with several fish, performed in a great glass aquarium. Freak
shows were a popular, if not sordid, entertainment form - though the mermaid display
in my novel is purely the product of imagination. Even so, that image was
inspired when reading about Feejee Mermaids; the hideous monstrosities created
by grafting a monkey’s remains onto the body of a fish. Imagine the smell of
that!
And thinking about aromas, here is another writing prop to create a complete Victorian world; albeit one invisible. It may well be a cliché when describing nineteenth
century scenes to allude to the stench of filthy streets. But it would be wrong
to ignore the fact of the constant odour of rotting food, or the effluence from
horses who drew the carriages and carts, or the noxious stink from factories
exuding acrid yellow smoke. A skilful writer
might convey the intensity of common smells without a descent into parody, but
also to think ‘outside the box’, revealing less obvious fragrances, which, in
the case of The Somnambulist,
happened to be a perfume that came to have great significance within the
novel’s plot. For this I employed the Internet, seeking out aromas that a
Victorian gentleman might use and finding Penhaligon’s Hammam Bouquet, first
produced in 1872, and described by the manufacturers as ‘animalic and golden…warm and mature, redolent of old books, powdered
resins and ancient rooms. At its heart is the dusky Turkish rose, with jasmine,
woods, musk and powdery orris.’
Quite a vivid
description I’m sure you’ll agree. And quite a serendipity, because, after the
book’s publication I realised that
Hammam Bouquet is still in production today. I couldn’t wait to buy some, to lift
out the bottle’s stopper and breathe in the vivid scent that, until then, I had
only thought about – to close my eyes and step right back into a lost Victorian
world.
This article was originally published in Writing Magazine to coincide with the publication of Essie Fox's new novel, Elijah's Mermaid.
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