Ancient or modern: language in historical fiction by Carolyn Hughes

A couple of years ago, I joined a panel of published writers (a mix of historical novelists and crime/thriller writers) at an event held at the University of Portsmouth, before an audience of fellow writers and readers. One of the questions asked of me was how I dealt with language, given that my (then newly-published) novel, Fortune’s Wheel, is set in the 14th century, a time when people didn’t speak English as we know it, but spoke either Middle English, a form of French, or Latin, depending on their social status and education.

It was a question that had exercised me – and undoubtedly many other writers of historical fiction – a good deal, particularly in the early days of my career as an historical novelist, though I do still think about it now, a few books down the line.

When I began writing historical fiction, I asked myself whether I should attempt to give my 14th century characters “authentic”-sounding voices, or put modern language in their mouths. I made my choice, and have since been very happy with that choice.

However, in my PhD, completed at the same time that my first historical novel was published, and which addressed “authenticity” in historical fiction, I had given specific thought to this matter of language, weighing up the “ancient or modern” alternatives and assessing the pros and cons in terms of how I perceived they might affect “authenticity”.

When historical novelists (of any period) choose to have their characters speak in modern (20th/21st century) English, might that give the impression that the characters also have modern mindsets? Conversely, if characters are given dialogue that purports – or even contrives – to sound like, say, 14th century English, does that somehow give the impression that the characters also have authentic 14th century mindsets? I don’t believe that either case is necessarily true. But, from all my reading of historical novels, I have realised that by far the majority are in fact written in reasonably straightforward modern English – often with a touch of archaic phrasing or period terminology – and whether the mindsets that the words convey seem “authentic” often depends on other factors.

The 19th century novelist Henry James famously disparaged historical fiction. It was not the practicalities of the past that James thought difficult to describe, but imagining with any degree of realism, or perhaps “naturalism”, the inner lives of those who lived in earlier times. It was “mindset” he was talking about – people’s ideas, values and beliefs. Of course there’s no such thing as “a” mindset for a period: people in past times didn’t hold a single set of values and beliefs, any more than they do now, but there is undoubtedly a generalised difference between the inner lives of 14th century people and our own. It’s this difference that James apparently considered impossible to bridge, but from my reading of historical fiction I’ve deduced that most writers do in fact give the impression of bridging the gap pretty well. For imagining the inner lives of characters (historical or fictional) for readers to experience is surely exactly what historical novelists attempt to do.

Some years ago, in Clio’s Children, a blog for historical novelists, the writer John Yeoman raised this matter of language in historical fiction thus: ‘…to what degree can we legitimately – or even intelligibly – use language or literary forms authentic to a given period?’ (my italics). (‘Can the language of historical fiction ever be “authentic”?’, <clioschildren.blogspot.co.uk/2010_06_01_archive.html>)

Yeoman said that readers expected writers to have done their historical homework and, if they believed the language used was somehow wrong, their illusion would be shattered, regardless of whether their belief had any foundation. Perhaps the shattering of illusion applies particularly when the language is deemed too “modern”? Yet, said Yeoman, ‘how else can an historical writer communicate with a modern reader, except in a modern idiom?’, although this view is not universally held.

Of course, Yeoman is only one of many to have addressed this problem.


Hilary Mantel once said that ‘[historical novelists] don’t want to misrepresent our ancestors, but we don’t want to make the reader impatient.’ Too much period flavour, she said, slows the story and may even make readers laugh. When we have little idea how people actually spoke in the distant past – because we have no audio or even written records – we must simply imagine it. Mantel recommended ‘a plain style that you can adapt…not just to [your characters’] ages and personalities and intelligence level, but to their place in life.’ (Quoted in Writing Historical Fiction, Celia Brayfield and Duncan Sprott, p.135. Adapted from Hilary Mantel’s article ‘The Elusive Art of Making the Dead Speak’, Wall Street Journal, 27/04/12.)

The late Barry Unsworth said much the same: ‘You can’t make your characters speak in the language and idiom of their own time if the language of the period would seem archaic. It would put too much strain on the understanding and would seem false in any case.’ (Arlo Haskell, ‘Intensity of Illusion: a conversation with Barry Unsworth’, Key West Literary Seminar, Littoral (28/06/08) www.kwls.org/littoral/intensity_of_ilusiona_conversa/).

Unsworth, too, recommended using straightforward English, though he advised also ‘a certain kind of tactful formality’ and an avoidance of contracted forms (isn’t, don’t etc). (Arlo Haskell, ‘Barry Unsworth: The Economy of Truth’, Key West Literary Seminar, Audio Archives (7/10/09) www.kwls.org/podcasts/barry_unsworth_the_economy_of/) 

None of these writers has advised the use of “authentic-sounding” period language, perhaps because it is difficult to make such language sound right, and also to keep readers engaged with what might be a difficult read. As I have already said, my reading has shown me that most writers do not attempt to present voices in anything other than more-or-less modern English, although there are certainly (if surprisingly few) exceptions.

But I have concluded that, in most of the historical novels I’ve read that were set in the “Middle Ages”, the characters’ thought-worlds did seem acceptably mediaeval, what they spoke about reflected the social context of the time, and that held true regardless of the modernity or otherwise of the language used.

However, certain aspects of language can, at the very least, detract from the seeming authenticity of the characters’ words, and these include archaic or “difficult” language, and anachronistic language or ideas, both of which, in their different ways, can throw the reader out of the illusion the novelist is trying to convey.

For example, Ken Follett is one novelist who has been accused of using overly modern language in his mediaeval historical novels (Pillars of the Earth and World Without End). For some of his readers, their impression of undue modernity in the novel’s language does matter:

‘Obviously, a novel set around the 12th [sic – should be 14th] century could never be written in contemporary prose… But some concession needed to be made in order to emphasise antiquity, or it might as well be set in the present. …I found myself jerked out of the spell by the kind of prose and dialogue that I can hear on the street every day. And because it was written in modern English, it inevitably portrayed 20th century thinking.’ (An Amazon review from March 2011)

This reader doesn't quote any examples but does make an interesting point: is it “inevitable” that modern language portrays modern thinking? Not, presumably, according to the majority of historical novelists who use it. And it’s also true that a significant majority of Follett’s readers are evidently so engrossed in the story that the modernity or otherwise of the language is of little importance:

‘From the first page Follett conjures up the earthiness and superstition of those times. I can’t comment on how accurate it is as I wouldn’t know, but it certainly rings true and even if it wasn’t all completely correct, I don’t think it would really matter.’ (An Amazon review from November 2007)

This reviewer doesn’t mention language, but for them the authenticity comes in the small details of daily life. It “rings true” and, for them, that is what matters. For most of his readers, Follett’s language doesn’t detract from their enjoyment of his books, but if the language a writer uses does make readers stop and question the authenticity of the mindset that “thought” the words they have read, this will surely destroy the illusion the writer was trying to create.

For myself, I decided early on that I wouldn’t attempt to mimic the speech patterns of the 14th century, because I felt that “pseudo-mediaeval” dialogue might actually inhibit modern readers’ enjoyment, rather than give the narrative any greater credibility. I followed the advice of other writers, such as Hilary Mantel and Barry Unsworth, referred to earlier. The language I put into my characters’ mouths is broadly modern English, with some slightly “old-fashioned” phrasing just to give a sense of the past. However, I don’t follow closely Unsworth’s advice about formality and avoiding contractions. Rather, my choice is to use more formal, non-contracted, forms for higher status or educated characters, but to reflect the voices of the peasantry by using contractions (it’s, isn’t, shouldn’t). I accept that this is a relatively crude distinction and that, to some, the contractions may give the voices too modern a tone, but I’m satisfied that it works – for me, at least.

If you accept, as I have, that putting broadly modern language into the mouths of “historical” characters works fine, the question then might be how far it matters to the average reader if the language, and especially the dialogue, is littered (or even lightly sprinkled) with anachronistic words. (This is central to John Yeoman’s blog post on “authentic” language, referred to earlier.)

It’s obviously important to ensure that anachronisms of fact are kept at bay, but linguistic anachronisms, where words had not yet come into use or, more importantly, where they imply ideas that had not yet entered anybody’s mind, are equally likely to throw a reader out of the illusion. In the same article referred to earlier, Hilary Mantel said ‘[characters] mustn’t express ideas they could not have had, and feelings they would not have had. They did not draw metaphors from a scientific worldview, but from a religious one. They weren’t democrats. They weren’t feminists… The reader should be braced by the shock of the old; or why write about the past at all?’

In Mistress of the Art of Death, by Ariana Franklin, set in the 12th century – a favourite read of mine, by the way – occasional anachronistic expressions or metaphors creep in. For example, in ‘…it seems his guts...are giving him gyp’ (p.11), the expression “giving gyp” was possibly not used until the 19th century. And there is a perhaps more overt type of anachronism in: ‘The deer ran, scattering among the trees, their white scuts like dominoes tumbling into the darkness.’ (p.16). This is a really nice image but, as I understand it, dominoes had not arrived in Europe by the 12th century, so the story's narrator (a 12th century person) would presumably not think of using such a metaphor?

In his mediaeval novel The Ill-Made Knight, Christian Cameron occasionally uses words and expressions that are neither 21st nor 14th century. Both ‘...cooling my heels...’ (p.184) and ‘...swashbuckle...’ (p.32) are 16th century.

Both these novels, which use mostly modern and very accessible language, include a few anachronistic words and expressions that might destroy a reader’s illusion of the mediaeval world. One might say that an expression like “cooling one’s heels” is not exactly anachronistic, but more a “translation” of what the character was thinking about being kept waiting. Similarly, “giving gyp” is perhaps an accessible rendition of the narrator’s thought about a character’s pain. However, looking at it another way, both “cooling my heels” and “giving gyp”, while not being mediaeval, are also not really current expressions either, and therefore somehow draw attention to themselves. I suppose this can often be a problem with anachronisms – one might slip through unnoticed, yet if something sounds wrong, a critical reader will spot it and feel obliged to check up on it.

Anachronisms may be subtler. For example, in Julia Blackburn’s The Leper’s Companions, set in 1410, mentions of “kitchen”, “bedroom” and a fire burning in the “grate” don’t quite ring true for the period, when such room designations hadn’t yet reached peasant homes, and fires were generally still hearths in the middle of the floor. But is this perhaps to be too exacting?

One might ask, then, how far a degree of anachronism in a novel’s language, especially in the use of individual words, matters? How far does it detract from a novel’s “authenticity”? I have noticed these anachronisms, but many readers wouldn't, or not care much if they did. However, of those readers who do notice such things, some may not thereafter trust the writer's grip on the period, while, for others, at the very least their pleasure in the book might be diminished.

So one could say that, whereas anachronism does “matter”, perhaps the degree to which it matters is largely a question of taste?

In my own writing, I do try to avoid anachronism in language as well as in fact. I make an effort not to use words and phrases that first came into use much later than the 14th century. However, I’m not overly exacting with myself: I allow myself to sense when a word is not right, and, if necessary, replace it with something more suitable, but I do not examine every word. And I know that I use the occasional word that is anachronistic. Indeed, one I can think of is “hubbub”, a 16th century word of Irish origin and therefore in principle quite unsuitable for a novel about 14th century England! But I kept it in because I thought it had a mediaeval “feel” to it and I suppose I hoped that few readers would notice my gaffe. So, having allowed myself this latitude, perhaps I should not criticise others too harshly!

The Greatest Hits of Tacitus - By L.J.Trafford

This month my book, Vitellius’ Feast, was published. It is the last in my four book series that looks at the year 69AD. A year that saw four men compete to become emperor: Galba, Otho, Vitellius and Vespasian. It was Vespasian that triumphed and founded a dynasty that lasted 26 years.

Our best source for all the events of this tumultuous year is Cornelius Tacitus. A teenager in 69AD Tacitus wrote an account of this year, and part of the following one, called The Histories. At the time he was writing, under the Emperor Trajan, many of the men who’d played pivotal roles in 69AD were still alive. He was able to interview them about their experiences. This is unusual in ancient history where many texts are written hundreds of years after the events they describe. It is why The Histories is quite so detailed in its depiction of a very dramatic time.

I’ve carried a copy of Tacitus’ Histories in my handbag the last six years as my constant go to reference book whilst I wrote my series.  It’s done many miles in and out of London, it’s been on holiday with me to the beach, it accompanied me to the York Roman Festival in June this year. It’s looking battered. But loved.

I’ve now finished writing about 69AD. I have no need to carry my Tacitus around. I’m feeling ever so slightly sad about this. So I thought as a farewell to The Histories I’d select my all time favourite bits from that book. A compilation album if you like.

The Greatest Quote of All Time. 

Tacitus’ strength is that he is infuriatingly quotable. “They create a desert and call it peace” being

The author's own copy of Tacitus. 

one of many such dinner party enhancing chit chat. But beating even that into submission is this fabulous line on 69AD‘s first emperor Galba:

“So long as he was a subject he seemed too great a man to be one and by common consent possessed the makings of a ruler – had he never ruled.” 

Ooooo it’s good. And so very versatile. I dug it up for when Gordon Brown succeeded Tony Blair, the election of Theresa May and when Chris Evans presented Top Gear. The key is to pause ominously before concluding in as deep a voice as you can manage, ‘had he never ruled.’


The Marriage Mystery 

Calvia Crispinilla had been Nero’s Mistress of the Wardrobe. She was charged with dressing the emperor's favourite eunuch, Sporus. In the aftermath of Nero’s death she fled to Africa and incited the governor there, Clodius Macer, into a rebellion. When this failed we might have expected Calvia to go the way of other traitors in this era. But she doesn’t. She lives to a ripe old age unmolested by official forces for her past actions. Why?
Tacitus tells us that she secured:

 “Her position by marriage to a senior statesman” 

Intriguingly he doesn’t name the senior statesman. Which makes me suspect it was:

a) Someone very, very important and 

b) Someone still alive at the time of Tacitus’ writing. 

Insert your own scandal here. 

The Difficulties of Organising a Coup

Galba was overthrown on 15th January by Otho. However this coup almost took place four days earlier:

“They were on the point of carrying Otho off to their barracks as he was returning home from a dinner, but were scared off by the uncertainties of night-time, the scattered location of the troops throughout Rome and the difficulty of achieving coordination between men who were the worse for drink.” 

Not unlike those heavy nights after last orders, when someone pipes up “Let’s all go clubbing!” And everyone is well up for it. Until a lone voice says, “I think we’ve all had enough. Let’s get a cab.”

Otho’s difficulties in coup organising continued on the appointed day when he went to meet his troops and discovered there were only twenty three of them. Never mind, Tacitus tells us: 

“Roughly the same number of soldiers joined the party along the way.” 

They made their way to the barracks where the duty officer in charge was somewhat surprised by the appearance of Otho and his army of 46. But decided to go along with it and Galba’s fate was sealed.He was decapitated in the Forum after only 7 months of rule. 

Vitellius’ Two Generals

In a plot twist worthy of a soap opera, after Otho had murdered his way to power, he entered the palace as Emperor and discovered rather a lot of post from Germania. It was not good news. On 1st January – two weeks earlier – Aulus Vitellius had been declared Emperor by the German legions. Two of his generals: Caecina Alienus and Fabius Valens were marching an army some 70,000 men towards Rome. Which I think we can all agree thoroughly serves Otho right.
Caecina and Valens are two of Tacitus’ most finely drawn characters. They are quite, quite brilliant.

Fabius Valens. 

Tactius states that Valens' reason for championing Vitellius was that he felt that Galba was not

Emperor Vitellius

sufficiently grateful for the murder of  Capito, the Governor of Lower Germania. Valens had claimed Capito was bound on insurrection and he had nobly killed him before he could put his dastardly plan into action. 

 “Some people believed in a different story,” says Tacitus. He then outlines an alternative sequence of events whereby Capito is murdered for not going along with a Valens proposed insurrection. Our historian stays very much on the fence but given that Valens a few weeks later proposes *guess what* an insurrection, I’m going to leap off that fence and declare Fabius Valens done it, in the barracks, with a sword.
Tacitus’ portrait of Valens’ is not flattering. Marching his troops down from Germany to Italy he threatened to burn down towns unless they paid him much money. If that was in short supply he was prepared to accept women as a substitute. Valens’ greed continued when he reached Rome and he helped himself to “mansions, parks and the riches of Empire.”

He is classic villain material. At least until his death when Tacitus throws us this little tip-bit:

 “During Nero’s reign he appeared on the music-hall stage at the emperor’s coming-of-age-party, ostensibly at imperial command and then voluntarily. In this, he displayed some skill, but little sense of decorum.” 

You what?? This hard nosed, greedy, cruel Roman general of the last several hundred pages was actually quite a good performer on the stage? Did he sing? Did he dance? I NEED more details. Naturally Tacitus the tease supplies none. Leaving us free to imagine Fabius Valens as quite a nifty little dancer. If only he’d stuck with that talent.

Caecina Alienus 

Vitellius’ other general was, as Tacitus tells us:

“Young, good looking, tall and upstanding, as well as possessing inordinate ambition and some skill in words.” 

Given how meanly mouthed Tacitus is in dishing out the compliments I believe from this we can deduce that Caecina was six foot plus of charming man hunk.
Hilariously, after only being posted in Germania for a short while, Caecina went full native and was never seen without a plaid tunic and *shock* trousers. During his march to Italy he manages to upset a previously entirely peaceable Gallic tribe into war and attempts to besiege the town of Plancentia drunk and without any siege equipment (read more about that disaster here in a previous History Girls piece ).
Caecina is a great example of how to manage the trickiness of 69AD politics. He starts off being obstinately for Galba. This steadfast loyalty to the emperor lasts up to the exact moment Galba discovers handsome, young Caecina has been embezzling funds. With a prosecution looming Caecina suddenly discovers that Vitellius would be a much better emperor. After fighting his way down to Italy on behalf of Vitellius and then enjoying all the splendours that are available to the emperor's close aids, Caecina notes that Vespasian is doing better and switches sides again. 

It’s mercenary, it’s self seeking. But it works. Caecina makes it to the end of 69AD. Unlike loyal nimble on his feet Fabius Valens, who does not. 

Sticks and Stones may break my bones

Having discovered that bit too late that 70,000 men are marching towards him, Otho tried everything in his power to induce Vitellius to relinquish his Imperial claim.  Or as Tacitus puts it:

 “ Otho kept up a lively correspondence with Vitellius. His letters were disfigured by alluring and

Otho lets it all hang out. Credit Ricardo André Frantz

unmanly bribes.” 

Vitellius responds in kind with similar bribery.  And with no deal forthcoming the men: “accused each other of debauchery and wickedness,” says Tacitus and concludes “Here at least they were both right.” Tee hee.

Elsewhere: 

“The Vitellians dismissed their opponents as flabby and idle crew of circus-fans and theatregoers.” Ouch. 

The Othonian retaliation is nowhere near as good, the Vitellians are:

 “A lot of foreigners and aliens.” 

Fail. 

The Worst Assassins in the World 

So far in 69AD we have had the worst organised coup in the world which was abandoned due to everyone being too drunk. We’ve had the worst siege in the world, which failed because everyone was too drunk. Now we move onto the worst assassins in the world. Will it be because of booze again?
No, it’s not even that good. Tacitus sets us up for disappointment:

 “ Assassins were were sent by Otho to Germany, and by Vitellius to the capital. Both parties failed to achieve anything.” 

Vitellius’ agents got lost amongst the throngs of Rome and didn’t get anywhere near the Palace. In the close knit quarters of the German legions a sudden influx of fresh faced Italians asking questions were soon detected.  There is something cheerfully familiar about abject failure. We are so used to picturing the Romans as all conquering war machines that I love these stories of incompetence and general crapness.


Domitian Throws A Strop 

Though Vespasian’s forces defeated those of Vitellius’ in December 69AD, the new emperor himself didn’t reach Rome until the following year. Representing the Flavian Dynasty was Vespasian’s 18

Domitian in the Vatican. Credit Steerpike

year old son Domitian, who just happened to be in Rome at the time. He’d been getting on with whatever 18 year olds did in Rome (wrestling, poetry, moping) when his Dad was suddenly declared Emperor. Vitellius ordered him to be placed under house arrest and here he languished until his father’s army reached the city. 

There is quite a story involving a daring escape, a disguise and high drama. But that’s not the story I want to tell. My story is in the latter part of The Histories that deals with the beginnings of the year 70AD – so the year after the year of the four emperors.

The emperor is in the east and two of Vespasian’s generals were battling it out to be top dog of Rome: Muscianus and Antonius Primus. Muscianus is the governor of Syria who first persuaded Vespasian to go for the Emperor-ship in an early case of FOMO. Primus is the general who took Rome from the Vitellians. So they are both well qualified to be running the place until Vespasian gets there.
And the young prince, Domitian? He's not completely ignored. They give him things to do. He gets to address the Senate. He hands out honours and offices. They let him sign things. At a certain point the denarius drops and poor Domitian suddenly gets it:

 “Domitian realized that his elders despised his youthfulness and ceased to discharge even the slightest official duties he had previously undertaken. “ 

In other words he threw a strop and refused to do anything. Presumably hoping that would show Muscianus and Primus that they needed him. They didn’t. Domitian stropped about in the hope that someone would notice his absence, until his father turned up in Rome. And likely clipped him round the ear.


And so there you have it. My favourite bits from The Histories. I could have chosen lots more, maybe that time the Praetorian Guard stormed through an Imperial dinner party or perhaps the Second Battle of Cremona that was fought entirely in the dark or Caecina's daring ambush plan that resulted in him being ambushed. But that's the beauty of that book. Every line is a gem.

L.J. Trafford is the author of The Four Emperors Series set in 69AD.

Signs of The Times - Celia Rees

I'm lucky enough to live near Compton Verney in Warwickshire. I am a member there and visit often. The Art Gallery's six permanent collections include one of the world's finest collections of Chinese bronzes outside China, a cross section of works from the ‘Golden Age’ of Neapolitan art from 1600 to 1800, an outstanding collection of Northern European art and the largest collection of Folk Art in the U.K. It also puts on great exhibitions, some of which I've blogged about for the History Girls. Recently, I was meeting friend, fellow writer and sometime History Girl guest, Linda Newbery there. We were going to see their present exhibition, Whistler in Nature, but I arrived early, so I went upstairs to the Folk Art Gallery. 

Compton Verney

Folk Art covers many things, from 'primitive' painting to sculpture, metal working and wood carving. What interested me on this visit were the signs that hung outside shops and business to advertise their goods and services in a pre-literate age. People who could not read could see what was on offer by looking at the signs and before street numbers were common, at the sign of... was a common way of giving directions. The signs, often beautifully carved or painted, have gradually acquired recognition as art forms in themselves but what struck me, on this and other visits, is how they are still present in out streets.

Compton Verney Folk Art Gallery

Street in Leamington Spa 

The sign of the locksmith, the lock and key on display in the gallery, is replicated by a large Yale key on the pavement outside a locksmith's shop in the town where I live. 

Compton Verney

Oxford Market

A giant shoe, the sign for a cobbler's, is echoed by an equally large boot suspended outside a cobbler's and shoe repair shop in Oxford Market.

Signs, because they need no language, are international. Model pigs, pig or boars' heads, are universally recognised signs for a butcher's shop, in Ireland, England or Italy.

They are also sometimes inn signs, as in this example from Compton Verney.

Inn sign, Compton Verney

Pub and inn signs are perhaps the most common remaining examples of folk art still to be seen on our streets. Some traditional signs are still there, swinging outside the establishments they name, others, like this beautiful swan on display at Compton Verney, are preserved in folk art collections, while still others have been lost and discarded. 

Pub names change and with them their signs. The replacements are still, in their way, examples of folk art, reflecting new tastes and styles. My local pub has been transformed from the traditional Coventry Arms to the The Fat Pug.  Like it or not, times change and with them, the signs.

At least some do. Others survive, changed perhaps but still recognisable. The same symbol used to signify the same service, even though the function it symbolises is an anachronism. The universal sign for an Apothecary was the pestle and mortar, used to grind the ingredients used to make medicines, as in this example from Compton Verney. Simplified, stripped to it barest outlines, the same sign is currently the logo for Lloyd's Chemist shops.

A similar and universally recognised survivor from a pre-literate age is the striped pole of the barber's shop, the red and white stripes dating back to a time when barbers were barber surgeons, performing surgery and dentistry. This function of the barber's trade is now no longer practised but the vivid blood and bandage image is still there on every High Street. 

While thinking about this blog, I was struck by how signs and symbols are coming back into our lives through the emojis that are helpfully suggested to us to replace words when we are sending texts or messaging people on social media. Are we slipping back into a pre-literate age?  I trust not, but as this is my last blog of 2018, I'd like to wish all our readers...

Celia Rees

www.celiarees.com

THE GHOSTS WITHIN A CHRISTMAS CAROL by Penny Dolan

Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, In Prose. A Ghost Story of Christmas  was written in a single six-week burst of energy and, unusually at that time, appeared as one single volume.

Up until that point, Dickens had worked in serial form, writing sections at a time, planning almost as the chapter before appeared in print. 

Even as he scribbled away, bringing Scrooge into life, he was struggling with Martin Chuzzlewit, his American novel, and with fears about his own popularity as an author.

Dickens wanted A Christmas Carol to be seen as his book. 

He commissioned Chapman & Hall as his publishers and then chose the look of his new book. He wanted a handsome red cloth binding and a gold design on the cover while the gilt-edged pages would include four black-and-white woodcuts set within the text itself and four full-colour etchings by the artist John Leech.

A Christmas Carol was published on 19^th December 1843, reasonably priced at five shillings, and became the most popular book of the season.  By Christmas Eve, every one of the six thousand copies had been sold.  Dickens must have been delighted.

      

The novella quickly became a “national benefit”, according to Thackeray and, with its outspoken attack upon those who ignore the poorest in society, was seen as a piece of radical literature. Yet, at the same time, the story also celebrates family and food and fun alongside the Christian themes of mercy and love.

The story certainly feels haunted, in more ways than one. Even before their appearance in his story, Dickens recognised those two awful children, Ignorance and Want. He had become a friend of Miss Burdett-Coutts, a rich philanthropist with a deep purse, and so had been visiting Ragged Schools - schools set up by Evangelicals to save souls - so he could make practical suggestions to guide her charitable work.

However, when Dickens visited the Field Lane Ragged School, he had to walk through Saffron Hill, an area of London which had haunted him since his childhood: he had used it for some of the scenes with Fagin in Oliver Twist.

Once inside the school, Dickens found “a sickening atmosphere, in the midst of taint and dirt and pestilence, with all the deadly sins let loose and howling at the doors”. His companion left hastily while the unruly children, for their part, mocked Dickens stylish white trousers and bright boots.

Just as awful was the knowledge that Field Lane school was close to where he, as a boy, worked in a blacking factory. Dickens had been sent there by his bankrupt father, while his sister was sent to music lessons. The young Dickens was utterly ashamed of his fall from respectability, especially when he was placed in public view in the window, a disgrace that he felt so deeply that he kept it secret until almost the end of his life.

Revisiting the area, witnessing again all the filth, disease and vice of that “doomed childhood”, and the hopeless sense of destitution must surely have fed into the darkness of his Christmas Carol.

Dickens brought jollity to the story, of course. He was someone who loved parties and celebrations and surprises and plays and conjuring tricks and the playful side of his character is very much there in the joyful scenes and resolution of A Christmas Carol.

Yet even the plenty is ambiguous. Dickens, the self-made man, knew that it was his pen that brought in the good things that he and his extended family enjoyed and the money they spent.

Yet, a little like Scrooge, Dickens was a man for whom money and time were almost everything. He was cautious about his household expenditure, and spent phenomenal time and energy visiting or lecturing or going on long night-walks where he plotted his stories. Dickens, like many who have known poverty, was haunted by the fact that he had to be successful.

Furthermore, his worries were increasing: his wife was about to have another baby, another child that he had to keep fed and clothed and out of the gutter. Dickens enjoyed being with children, although very noticeably on his own terms, but he was worried about the cost of them. At the same time, he was growing far less fond of his poor, low-spirited wife Catherine and rather more sentimental about pretty young ladies that reminded him of his youth.

Scrooge’s memories of his own childhood echo those of his creator: does his miser draw on the ambivalence and shadow within Dickens?

Sadly, within two weeks of publication, Dickens had reason to feel even more ungenerous and suspicious. A simplified version of A Christmas Carol was issued by a pirate publisher and though Dickens immediately sued and won the case, the publisher also immediately declared bankruptcy and Dickens was forced to pay the court costs himself and felt he had been almost ruined by the whole venture. Moreover, errors in production costs meant that Dickens made hardly any money from that first beautiful edition. God Bless Us Everyone indeed!

Six years afterwards, however, in 1849, Dickens started to give public readings of A Christmas Carol. These proved so richly popular and rewarding that Dickens kept telling his strange, enigmatic Christmas ghost story until his own death, performing at the Bradford Alhambra, in 1870.

And, probably, if you look around locally, someone will be continuing that same tradition, and reading Dickens Christmas Carol this winter too – a tale that’s still, sadly, just as apt for our own age.

A Happy Christmas to you all.

Penny Dolan

Note: In this post, I’ve drawn on my own reading of Peter Ackroyd’s impressive biography of DICKENS, first published in 1990.

The Mary Rose, by Sue Purkiss

So - you've spent years in search of the wreck of Henry VIII's flagship, the Mary Rose, which you know has lain under fourteen metres of water in Portsmouth Harbour since 1545 - somewhere. In 1971, after three years, you find four timbers: the frames of the port side of the ship. So far so good - but it's buried under four centuries of silt.

For the next eleven years, teams of divers, archaeologists and engineers work on releasing the ship from its muddy shroud - remembering always that this is the grave not just of a ship, but of the 500 men who went down with her. The enterprise is not financed by the government: it has to be paid for. So there's all that side of it to consider too. It probably helps that you acquire an influential backer in the form of Prince Charles, who dives down to see the ship for himself, and to lend a hand.

Eventually, in October 1982, the great moment arrives. 60 million people all over the world watch the longest outside broadcast yet undertaken, as an enormous floating crane, the Tog Mor, slowly raises a steel cradle in which nestle the remains of Henry's once-proud ship. Klaxons sound from all the vessels gathered to watch: a gun salute comes from Southsea Castle, where two years before his own death, Henry watched as his ship sank during an engagement with a French invasion fleet. It's a moment of high drama, a story of achievement against huge odds. Everyone holds their breath: something could still go wrong.

The raising of the Mary Rose, from Visit Hampshire

But it doesn't. The ship arrives safely at its new home, a dry dock in Portsmouth Harbour, next to that relative youngster, Nelson's Victory.

But then what?

What you have is historic and romantic and a tangible link with the world of the Tudors - but it is basically half a ship, and it's incredibly fragile. Its timbers have been preserved under the silt which excluded oxygen and all the organisms which happily munched on the half that wasn't covered up - but as soon as the wood is exposed to the air, it is at risk.

Clever scientists work out what to do about the wood. From the moment she emerges from the sea, pumps attached to the lifting frame begin to spray her with water, and this will continue for many years - except for a few hours a day, when the archaeologists can do their work. A shelter is built above her. The water washes the salts out of the ancient timbers, and she is sprayed with ployethylene glycol to stregthen them. Then, in 2013, the sprays are turned off, and large air ducts take on the job of removing the water from the timbers, now that they have been stabilised.

So that's the preservation side taken care of. But part of your remit is to establish a museum to house the Mary Rose and all the artefacts which were found inside her - and how do you do that? The SS Great Britain, Brunel's beautiful ship, which I've written about here before, was also battered by the elements and by the years - but it was possible to restore her to the extent that you can see her now almost as she was when she was a 'living' ship. That was never going to be feasible with the Mary Rose. So how was she to be displayed?

The solution the architects (Wilkinson Eyre and Pringle Brandon)found is breathtakingly clever. The museum is on three levels, corresponding to the lower decks, main decks, and upper decks. On each gallery, you walk along a passageway with glass partitions on either side. On the right is the cross-section which is what remains of the ship itself. You can see the cabins, the gunports - the whole structure of the ship. On the left, you can see the objects which were found on the deck you can see on your right. And what a wealth of objects there are: weapons, of course, as this was a warship - but also the personal possessions of the men on board, and the tools of their trades.

The Mary Rose - picture by Rosie Smith

There are also moving tableaux on board the ship, showing groups of sailors about their tasks - holograms, perhaps? I don't know, but whatever they are, they're very realistic. The passageway you walk along dips, and somehow you have the impression that you're on a moving ship - I don't know how they manage this, but they do. It's all very clever.

Then when you leave the viewing gallery, there's a section with displays of the artefacts and explanations of what they have learnt from them. So for instance, you are shown what was found in the surgeon's cabin, and given notes on each object - what they were used for, what they tell us. And they have reconstructed from some of the skeletons what the living men may have looked like, and have made videos using actors who look similar to show them using the objects found - so the surgeon wears the hat which was found, and the leather shoes, and demonstrates some of his intruments.

I'm fascinated by the ways that museums and art galleries have found in the last twenty or so years to display their artefacts. There are some beautiful extensions and remodellings, such as in the Ashmolean and the British Museum and the Rijksmuseum, and such clever uses of technology, as in the Museum of European History in Brussels, the Flanders Fields Museum in Ypres, and this Mary Rose Museum. Sometimes, it seems that when you look out at the world, you see so much horror. It's as if civilisation is going backwards, not forwards, and as if nothing has been learnt from history. But in this area, the reverse is true. So much has been and is being learnt, both of history, and of how to display it and make it meaningful. Thank heavens for museums!