The historical novel : $b An essayButterfield, Herbert
History
The historical novel : $b An essay
Butterfield, Herbert
Historical fiction -- History and criticism
Atmosphere eludes the analyst. It might almost be said that to define
it would be to explain it away. Probably the novelist most successful
in producing it would be unable to describe how the thing is done. It
is part of its essence that you should not see its working; if you
detect scaffolding anywhere there is disillusionment and you are back
to earth again; if you discover the spell it revenges itself upon
you and sulks, and though you may admire the cleverness of it, it is
magic no longer for you. It likes you to forget it, and captures you
unawares, and then you will recall how it was atmosphere that stole
you; but hunt it, and you thwart it, and put yourself out of tune for
it. You may remember that some book was a world, and that world showed
itself in its atmosphere, and the atmosphere was everywhere, but you
cannot put your finger upon a printed page and say “it is here.” In
this it is worthy of its name, it defies immediate apprehension. It
will not meet you in the face. It is a conspiracy.
Various ages of history have their atmosphere--the Middle Ages, the
Renaissance, the eighteenth century; but atmosphere does not move in
step with history, does not belong merely to epochs. Countries and
localities have it--like the Highlands of Scotland, or Hungary; and the
atmosphere of Puritan London is not that of the contemporary Paris. The
peasantry of Scott and the racy story-world in which Dumas was himself,
come to us with their atmosphere; and a monastery or a diplomatic
circle or the court of some king may carry theirs in a similar way.
These are definite areas that cover the lives of men, and they have
not merely characteristics but characters of their own. They are not
simply modifications of one another any more than Rome is Wapping with
a difference. Each is a fresh canvas and in calling them to mind we mix
our colours and our emotions differently every time; each leaps in turn
as a whole into our minds, so that we think of them as being not merely
varied groupings of notes, but different tunes altogether. Each, like
a personality, has its particular way of looking at the world and its
peculiar attitude to things, and this comes out in a particular twist
of mind in men, peculiar tricks of thought and prejudices and shades
of feeling. The peasantry of Scotland must have a different sort of
jokes, a different range of allusions from the courtiers of Louis
XIV. Various of these regions of life and circles of activity must
have their special phraseology, even a kind of dialect of their own.
Atmosphere belongs to a region that is a life, an identity, a world in
itself, and a peculiar synthesis; and he who has the atmosphere must
have found--or rather felt--the synthesis.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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