Tag Archives: historical fiction

Book review: The Last Witchfinder: A Novel

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The Last Witchfinder: A Novel by James Morrow. New York: Harper Perennial. 2007. 560 pages.

The last dodo. The last passenger pigeon. The last wilderness. The last fill-in-the-blank usually evokes a sense of sadness, loss, and finality. The Last Witchfinder, the over-the-top epic about a sister and brother dedicated to opposing world views in a time of rapid advancements, celebrates the last — we hope — of ignorance at a truly devilish level. Unlike the harmless dodo, the pretty passenger pigeon, or the soul-searing wilderness, the last witchfinder is an repulsively compelling creation, a stubborn holdover from an irrational time, when as much evil was committed in the name of the Good Lord as Satan could hope for.

Jennet Stearne and her brother Dunstan arrive on the scene in England just as the Age of Reason is taking root. Their story isn’t told by the standard omniscient human narrator. Instead, it’s recalled by a more lasting, if questionably reliable, witness to the Enlightenment and all that’s happened since — Newton’s Principia. That this novel requires a little more imagination and suspension of belief is obvious when a book takes the place of a human author, while the humans are the mere subjects. Sometimes Morrow’s odd device breathes a little academic vitality into the narration, but more often the Principia‘s interjections and commentaries are too intrusive, forced, awkward, and lengthy to be effective. The imagination carries one only so far.

Jennet and Dunstan are molded differently by their shared experiences. Their father, a witchfinder, makes his living by producing the proofs that condemn marginal or eccentric members of society, usually women, to gruesome state executions. His sister-in-law, a half-informed but intellectually curious devotee of Newton, becomes a threat to the beliefs of the past that fuel his existence. When she is condemned as a witch, Jennet makes it her mission to use Newton’s work to disprove the concept of demons and witches. Her brother, his father’s son and blinded by his lust for Abigail Williams (the star witness at the Salem witch trials) and religious ecstasy devoid of spirituality, clings aggressively to the past, seeking witches where there are no hints of any and becoming the last witchfinder even as the practice is dying in the shadows of the Englightenment.

Morrow uses some of the same devices found in early English novels like Tom Jones (Henry Fielding) and Tristram Shandy (Laurence Sterne), with chapter summaries and narrator intrusions and commentaries. At points, The Last Witchfinder is engaging, amusing, interesting, imaginative, and thought provoking. In his effort to emulate the likes of Fielding and Sterne, however, Morrow overdoes the diversions, ancillary incidents and characters, and irrelevant details. Never quite clearly defined, Jennet’s mission is too easily sidetracked by too many improbable adventures and events, and the center section bogs down in its lack of focus. It’s only when Dunstan, in his crazed unspiritual righteousness and deformity, returns to the scene that the plot picks up and the story comes back to life. The final meeting between Jennet and Dunstan is electrifying.

In a society that seems to be becoming more anti-intellectual, The Last Witchfinder is refreshing to the mind. Its premise and execution are flawed, but much of Jennet’s journey is at least disturbing, interesting, and fun.

18 August 2012
Copyright © 2012 Diane L. Schirf

Book review: Master and Commander

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Master and Commander by Patrick O’Brian. Not recommended.

Master and Commander is the first in a series of Jack Aubrey/Stephen Maturin novels, this one set in the early 1800s. After meeting Dr. Maturin at a concert by annoying him, Aubrey learns he has been promoted to master and commander (with honorary title of captain) of His Majesty’s sloop Sophie. How Aubrey earned this promotion is unclear, as his womanising ways seems to have irritated his commandant and everyone else, although women seem to have played a role in obtaining it.

There are several problems with Master and Commander. The first is O’Brian’s fixation on his knowledge of sailing and sailing terminology. At one point, he spends pages having a crew member explaining the rigging in painstaking — and painful — detail to Dr. Maturin. There is little purpose to this, as most laymen will find it difficult and tedious to follow, and a knowledgeable person will want to skip it altogether. It adds nothing but volume to the book and proof that O’Brian did his research.

O’Brian provides no historical context for the story. England is at war with France and Spain, but even Bonaparte is rarely mentioned. The characters reference naval actions like the battle of the Nile, but these incidents have meaning only to the characters since the reader is never privy to the context or greater strategy.

While Aubrey, Dr. Maturin, James Dillon, and the master are interesting characters, most of the rest of the crew is intentionally faceless. The men in key positions, like the bosun, are rarely referred to by name. Even Marshall is known primarily as “the master,” making the attempt to give him a personality by alluding to him as an apprehensive pederast futile.

There is neither much story nor much action here. It takes the first quarter of the novel for Sophie to leave port for the first time under Aubrey’s command. The novel’s big battle, during which Sophiemiraculously defeats a bigger, better-manned ship, is so hurried and poorly recounted that there is no tension or suspense about how the encounter will play out or end. The victory evokes no sense of exhilaration in the reader, so the ensuing letdown (no promotions, no cruise) loses its emotional impact.

Even the most intriguing aspect of the novel, the relationships between Aubrey and Dillon, Dillon and Dr. Maturin, and Aubrey and Dr. Maturin, are poorly drawn, partially because the point of view is inconsistent. As a clinician and researcher, Dr. Maturin is the relatively objective observer and link between Aubrey and Dillon. He knows Dillon’s secrets (as well as his own) and the thoughtless bias behind Aubrey’s anti-Papist rants, but is reduced to expressing his thoughts and feelings of affection, frustration and disgust mainly to his journal, as though he were documenting an illness.

Master and Commander has tremendous potential, but O’Brian doesn’t have the literary skills or ability to craft a great read. His prose is ordinary at best, and history, drama, suspense, plot, and even characterisation are given short shrift. For more compelling naval adventures set during the same period, read the Horatio Hornblower series, which is much better conceived and written and which is far more evocative.

Note: The colours of the movie tie-in edition cover are pastel blue and yellow — a very odd choice, given the subject matter and target audience.

20 March 2005
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: Lieutenant Hornblower

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Lieutenant Hornblower by C. S. Forester. Recommended.

Lieutenant Hornblower, set in the early 1800s during the Napoleonic Wars, is the second book chronologically in the 11-part Horatio Hornblower series. Forester is a master of combining exciting plots, recognizable characters, realistic naval and period information, and interesting historical detail. As you read Lieutenant Hornblower, you will see how even modern science fiction television and films, from Star Trek to Star Wars, owe a debt to Forester’s story-telling technique.

This time, Hornblower is seen from the perspective of a more senior lieutenant, Bush, as they serve aboard Renown. Bush, himself a decisive, strong, if unimaginative, leader, finds himself redefining and expanding his concepts of leadership and command as he observes Hornblower’s interactions with his junior and senior officers. Hornblower subtly guides them to the actions and decisions that he wants from them without overstepping the top-down chain-of-command structure of the 1800s British navy, in which the captain enjoys the omnipotence granted by the king over crew and officers alike. Hornblower’s approach even anticipates today’s most current thinking about the nature of corporate leadership.

As a character, Hornblower can be too perfect. His suggestions and his actions are always on target and successful, and it is he who saves Renown and her mission time and again. Even when he makes a rare mistake, for example, overheating the shot so that it will no longer fit in the cannons, the error does not affect the outcome of the venture.

Forester tries to humanize Hornblower, whom Bush notices carefully hiding his emotions and frailties-even hunger and poverty-lest anyone perceive his weakness. Interestingly, Hornblower survives the paranoia of a mad captain, the indecisiveness and incompetence of an inept first lieutenant, harrowing sea and land battles with the Spanish, and delicate diplomatic maneuverings with the Spanish and with the highest levels of naval representatives, only to succumb to an unattractive but smitten woman.

Throughout the novel, there is one recurring question that Hornblower avoids answering. Bush asks it, as does Buckland, the lackluster first lieutenant. Depending on how you perceive the underlying situation-and what you believe the real answer to be-you could see it as a positive reflection on Hornblower’s character, or a disturbing aspect of it. Forester deliberately raises this point repeatedly; it adds mystery and a human dimension to a character who could otherwise have become a stock hero, always correct and always victorious (at least in war and politics).

If you’re like me and love sea adventure, Lieutenant Hornblower is a must-read. Forester is able to explain the workings of a sailing vessel and the machines of war without sounding overly technical, mechanical, or tedious. He portrays the harsh discipline of the British navy so well that you will understand why sailors rapidly disappeared when the press gang was spotted; there was little question of patriotism, only one of self-preservation. Forester also plants in the imagination the horrors of war, where even lieutenants can be cut in two by cannonballs or tormented by mad captains, where decks become slippery with the blood and guts and limbs of the fallen.

Lieutenant Hornblower is an exciting, fast-paced read that may convince you to investigate the rest of the series.

30 June 2004
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: In a Dark Wood Wandering: A Novel of the Middle Ages

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In a Dark Wood Wandering: A Novel of the Middle Ages by Hella Haasse. Highly recommended.

This historical novel has its own interesting history. It was written by a Dutch author virtually unknown in the United States, then an English translation was begun by a postal employee who spoke no Dutch. After his death, it was lost for decades in a closet. The final English translation was completed more than 40 years after the novel was written by a Chicago editor who also spoke no Dutch — but who did have the opportunity to get the author’s approval.

In a Dark Wood Wandering: A Novel of the Middle Ages is the fictionalized account of the life of medieval poet and statesman Charles d’Orléans, son of Louis d’Orléans and Valentine Visconti, nephew of Charles VI, known as the Mad King or the Well Beloved. The plot is historically accurate and linear, beginning with the time of Charles’ birth (although not focusing on it) and using that occasion to fill in the historical and character blanks for the novice to French medieval history. Unlike other reviewers, I found the first 100+ pages a fascinating setting of the stage, during which the author succinctly conveys the familial, personal, and political relationships of France’s houses, primarily Burgundy and Orléans.

Although it is clear from the outset that Philippe the Bold of Burgundy is the nemesis of a united France and Louis Orléans (his nephew, brother to Charles VI, and father of Charles d’Orléans) is his less selfishly motivated, more trustworthy counterpart, the novel does not fall into the trap of black-and-white villains and heroes. Burgundy and his successors are not evil personified; they are men who know how to look out for their own power. Louis and Charles d’Orléans, both flawed in their occasional lack of will and indecisiveness, in their own way look after themselves, but also attempt to keep France’s greater interests in mind. The most poignant moment early on is a conversation between Louis and his insane brother during one of his rare moments of lucidity — and the ensuing reversion of power to Burgundy.

Charles is born into not only all the internal conflicts within France and the ongoing battles with England, but into a war he must wage lifelong with himself — the conflict between his poet’s soul and his inherited role as a statesman and leader of the House of Orléans. A scholar at heart, he must lead his house against Burgundy and his men against the English at Agincourt, where he is captured. Held prisoner for 25 years in England, Charles uses the time to become one of the leading poets of the Middle Ages, yearning for ideals of love, peace, and beauty — the very things that have escaped him all of his predestined life. He will not find them upon his return to France, as he is once more swallowed by leviathan internal and external conflicts and the need for his skills as a negotiator/arbiter. He is, as he says in one poem, “all rusted over with nonchaloir [nonchalance].” Finally, he promises he will “not disavow the deepest desires of [his] heart” and “no longer give [himself] up to the sin of unhappiness” — a promise his position, his role, and the demands of political reality never allow him to fulfill.

The novel features an array of complex characters and their relationships and interactions, a compelling plot, a fascinating time in the history of England and France, and a spectacular background portrayed in brilliant colours as in a tapestry. Best of all, the novel is meticulously researched and as historically accurate as any fiction can be. Partway through the book, I realised that this novel could, if handled correctly, make a near-perfect epic movie.

In a Dark Wood Wandering has inspired me to look into the life and poetry of Charles d’Orléans, the history of Louis d’Orléans and Charles VI, incidental characters such as François Villon and Agnes Sorel, and so much more. For the history buff, the medieval tinkerer, or the person who likes a thoughtful tale, I highly recommend In a Dark Wood Wandering. Let’s all be grateful that it was rediscovered at last.

7 October 2001
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: The Other Boleyn Girl

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The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory. New York: Simon & Schuster, Inc./Touchstone, 2003. 672 pages.

Today there are still jokes about how Anne Boleyn lost her head, but life as a wife of Henry VIII was no laughing matter. In The Other Boleyn Girl, Philippa Gregory gives a fictional account of Henry’s most famous queen from the perspective of her sister, Mary. Gregory tries to capture a sisterly dynamic understandable to contemporary readers. Anne and Mary are opposites in appearance and temperament; loyal to one another out of obligation, not love; and, we are told, lifelong rivals. Oddly, that rivalry never quite materializes here other than in spiteful and venomous words and feelings. While Anne seethes with ambition and resentment, Mary is too passive a personality to be a match for Anne, nor does she try to be. As portrayed, the conflict between the sisters is more petty than powerful.

Gregory’s choice for Mary to serve as narrator, as though it were her memoir, detracts from the sense of history. A Tudor-era aristocrat like Mary does not seem likely to set her story down in such detail after the events have passed. It might have been more effective to frame the story as a researcher’s discovery of Mary’s journals and letters. When handled adroitly, this type of framing device can make the characters and story more immediate and less obviously fictional. Another alternative would have been the omniscient third person, which might have been more convincing. As it is, I could not suspend my disbelief in Mary’s voice, with its anachronistic nuances and sensibilities. She sounds more like a modern author than a 16th-century woman remembering the recent and difficult past.

Therein lies another problem — Mary never explains why she wrote all of this down, why she delves into such detail, or who she expects the reader to be. It might have made more sense if she had said she wanted her legacy to be the true story of her and her family’s role in Anne’s rise and fall, that she wanted her own name to be remembered, or that she was writing for her children and Anne’s daughter, the Princess Elizabeth. We never know her purpose, which is strange because we learn from her that the Boleyn family does nothing without a reason. Given how poorly Mary’s memories reflect on all the Boleyns and Howards, including herself, it become even more of a mystery why Gregory chose this format.

The Other Boleyn Girl draws readers in the same way that 1980s night-time dramas drew in viewers. Never particular about morals and influenced by time and events, Anne becomes as ruthless and desperate for power as any soap villainess, with her family’s encouragement and support. Mary, once favored by king and family, is tossed aside when she proves to lack the will and desire to usurp the queen’s place. She chooses her own path, never losing sight of her rivalry with Anne and never envious of Anne’s sacrifices and sufferings.

Historical inaccuracies aside, including details about Mary and her children, Gregory fails to capture the larger world in which the Boleyn drama was enacted. She refers to France and Spain and their rulers, and the pope, but the complexity of the world outside Henry VIII’s court and its politics is relegated to the background, brought forward in snippets only as needed. Henry himself is portrayed as hunting, gaming, and dancing from morning until night, with only an occasional concern for the kingdom’s business or for the intrigues of his enemies and allies. The world here seems narrow and confined because it is only the world Mary sees — Mary, the other Boleyn girl who pretends to remain naive and who tries to focus on her own life, only to be drawn again and again into Anne’s drama.

Gregory tries to use the story of the Boleyn girls to illustrate women’s issues during the 16th century. As Mary notes, women are only pawns in the marriage game, played to achieve position, power, and wealth. It’s clear, however, that men who lack power are pawns as well; George Boleyn and Henry Percy are forced into miserable marriages. The lesson here is less about the vulnerability of women to the whims of men than about how people of both gender were played for power.

Despite Gregory’s comments about the charges against the Boleyns, found in the book’s end matter, Mary witnesses (and, significantly, remembers in detail) enough clues to know whether Anne and George were guilty of the crimes for which they were beheaded. This is disappointing, because Gregory’s hints, if not her stance of ambiguity, ignore the logic and the politics behind the charges.

Even at the end, Gregory misses an opportunity. Mary does not hear Anne’s last words and does not include them in her work. This makes no sense, as they were recorded and can be read today. Gregory fails to weave in the available documented details that would have added real-life drama and interest to the story. Why would Mary not reflect on the final message of “the other Boleyn girl,” given her inside knowledge of Anne and her willingness to write about her and the other Boleyns?

With its compelling historical setting, The Other Boleyn Girl had the potential to be an engaging if inadequate and flawed historical fiction. Don’t rely on it, as I have heard some do, for your knowledge and understanding of Henry VIII, his court, or the Boleyns.

12 April 2008
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf