Magazine article New Statesman (1996)

Where History Stops, Fiction Starts: Novelists Have a Duty of Care to the Past

Magazine article New Statesman (1996)

Where History Stops, Fiction Starts: Novelists Have a Duty of Care to the Past

Article excerpt

How true are "true stories"? How accurate are the historical events in a novel? How far can a writer "go" with the facts? And, anyway, don't great writers make it all up from scratch?

These questions, which have long interested and troubled me, are brought sharply into focus in Christopher Nicholson's fine recent novel Winter. The story is set in the mid-1920s, in the last years of Thomas Hardy's life. While the old man is infatuated with Gertrude--a young actress 60 years his junior (and the model for Tess)--his neglected second wife, Florence, a mere 40 years younger than Hardy, lives in his shadow in their cold home.

It is a bitter life for Florence in which one of her duties is to deal with her famous husband's daily postbag. One reader of The Return of the Native, a literal-minded lepidopterist, writes to ask which particular amber-coloured butterfly on Egdon Heath the novelist was describing, because the reader has often been on such Wessex heaths and has never spotted this species.

It is the kind of question--understandable if tiresome--that I sometimes get asked after giving a talk. Someone holds up a hand. "On page 197 you say so and so. How do you know this? Where did you get that?" Fair enough, I suppose, as I have based a number of my stories on what you might call the footnotes of history--forgotten or unearthed episodes in the lives of such figures as Rodin, Churchill, Robert Louis Stevenson, W E Henley, Reinhard Heydrich and Alfred Munnings. What the questioner really wants to know is if I am playing fast and loose.

In truth, of course, there was no amber-coloured butterfly, as Hardy (or Nicholson) reflects:

   Doubtless the letter-writer would
   be disappointed by such information;
   well, but it was the truth. Just like
   the butterflies, Egdon itself, that vast
   expanse of heath described at the
   start of the novel, did not exist and
   probably never had; it was a piece of
   fiction that stood at a certain remove
   from reality. He hated these literary
   detectives, who failed to grasp the nature
   of art: that it was a shaping of reality,
   not reality itself.

Like the lepidopterist, but in a much more damaging way, Florence reads every word her husband writes as a realistic account of his inner self. She cannot begin to understand, though he has often tried to explain, that he is not the "I" and that the I is not the "he": "The relationship between he and I was close; they were blood brothers, but brothers often differ greatly."

In his own shaping of reality Nicholson has Hardy at his desk fantasising about eloping with the young actress. For the dry and defensive Hardy, his marriage to Florence is dead. Her neuroses bore him. Caring more for his pen than for his wife, he has settled for domestic silence. However, cover his tracks as Hardy might, "he", Nicholson suggests, is the "I" of the poems. The "I" is "he". Usurped and disturbed Florence may be, but she senses what is happening. She knows the fires that burn in her distant and offhand husband.

I was immediately absorbed in Winter. And I stayed in it. I was back at Max Gate in the 1920s. There was pain on all sides and it felt true in the most important sense. I cared for all three central characters, not to mention the dog Wessex. Although I admired Thomas Hardy: the Time-Torn Man by Claire Tomalin--she dealt with the Gertrude Bugler episode in four pages--I was more lost in the world of Nicholson's short novel than I was in her substantial biography. Fiction had brought things to life for me as only fiction can. Sticking to the facts does not necessarily take you to the heart of the matter, to the truth beyond events. Shakespeare did not stick to the facts when he recast history, nor did T S Eliot in Murder in the Cathedral.

Two of my novels--Wilfred and Eileen (1976) and Summer in February (1995)--were based on real events, and both were "given" to me. …

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