When in Rome...

I'm currently reading Imprimatur, the runaway international bestseller by the Italian journalists Monaldi and Sorti. I'm interested in this book on two main levels: it's set in the 1680s, a period that's been a second home for many years now; and the differences in style and content between this and the genre that I inhabit are proving to be quite fascinating. The book has become famous, even notorious, because of being banned in Italy (allegedly because of pressure from the Vatican), essentially because it claims that Pope Innocent XI secretly funded the 'Glorious Revolution' that brought William of Orange to power in Britain. Now, Britain might have the most absurd and draconian libel laws in any democracy, but it's hard to imagine any work that denigrates a historical figure from 300 years ago receiving a nationwide ban; it hardly reflects well on the maturity of free expression and political discourse in Italy, but then, neither does Silvio Berlusconi. (On the other hand, I should think that Imprimatur makes just as uncomfortable reading in the average Orange Lodge as it does at the Vatican, especially when allied to the various theories suggesting that 'King Billy' was gay.) To historians of the period, the story of Innocent's financial support for William is old hat, and in the political context of the 1680s it made perfect sense for the Pope to assist those who opposed his arch-enemy, Louis XIV of France; only those who have no understanding of the realities of history would find the story outlined in Imprimatur offensive.

As it is, Monaldi and Sorti are much stronger on papal than on Anglo-Dutch history; for example, William was certainly not the rival Protestant candidate for the British thrones in 1683. But their setting - a Rome tavern during a time of plague, with the Turks besieging the walls of Vienna - is memorably claustrophobic, and their characters are well drawn. (I like the fact that the English character is named 'Edward di Bedfordi', surely a nod towards the large Italian community in modern Bedford.) On the other hand, their willingness to include long passages of detailed historical description, to digress at length and to rely on many long uninterrupted monologues are all tendencies that would have agents, editors, publishers and (no doubt) readers castigating a humble scribbler of Restoration naval fiction, and probably rightly so. Or does it mean that Anglo-Saxon editors, publishers etc have a very low opinion of the intellects and concentration spans of Anglo-Saxon readers? But at least those Anglo-Saxon readers have the opportunity to read different styles of novels set in the seventeenth century and then make up their own minds, unlike their counterparts in Italy!  

Lies, Damned Lies, and Dodgy History

Here comes a general election, and with it the inevitability that for the next few weeks we'll be subjected to dubious historical allusions and comparisons galore. The last few days have seen much talk of coalition governments, so journalists in search of a headline have decided arbitrarily to apply the term 'Kingmaker' to Nick Clegg - despite the fact that the word has overwhelmingly negative connotations, even if one leaves aside the wholly unlikely concept of 'Clegg the Kingmaker'. (The much-maligned BBC provided an exemplary explanation of the historical origins of this term, allowing a knowledgeable historian to do most of the talking; would that many other employees of the BBC and other media did likewise.) There's also been some discussion of previous precedents for hung parliaments and/or coalition governments. One allegedly eminent political writer who shall remain nameless (oh, all right, it was Fraser Nelson of the Guardian) got horribly tangled between the two, assuming that the number of years of minority government in the 20th century were identical to those of coalition government; wrong, as coalitions provided the government for a grand total of twenty years (1916-22 and 1931-45). We're already seeing the frenzied gloom-and-doom merchants hold forth on the evils of minority governments and coalitions, ignoring the fact that the vast majority of the world's democracies get on perfectly well under such conditions. (Think of such notoriously unstable tin-pot third world backwaters as Germany, the Republic of Ireland and...umm...oh yes, Wales and Scotland...) Coming soon, presumably, will be the earnest discussions of the constitutional role the queen would have in the event of a hung parliament, all of which will probably ignore the fact that during her reign she has been far less involved in, and certainly has less room for manoeuvre in, deciding on the government of the UK in such an event than do the likes of the Belgian monarch or the average Governor-General of Canada or Australia.

So stand by for a flood tide of ill informed, lazy or simply wrong history, trotted out to back up particular agendas or to add impressive-looking 'facts' to relentlessly superficial reporting. One final example: the 'poshness' of the Camerons has been an easy target, and it's almost become a mantra to refer to 'Sam' as 'a descendant of Charles II' and 'Dave' as 'a descendant of William IV'. OK, fair comment up to a point, but let's have a little perspective here - thanks to his remarkably active nocturnal proclivities, there are thousands of descendants of Charles II (Rupert Everett, for one, which might be why he provided one of the best-ever screen portrayals of the king*), while Gordon Brown is probably descended from King Robert the Bruce - most Scots are, just as most English people are descended from King William the Conqueror. Royal descent isn't particularly special, it's just a matter of how far back in your family tree it happens to be. Moreover, there seems to be much less focus on the fact that the PM is perfectly entitled to call himself Dr Brown, given his doctorate in History; but then, perhaps the fact that he was educated to such a high level doesn't fit comfortably with projecting the image of a modest man of the people, in contrast to 'David-Old-Etonian-Descendant-of-William IV-Cameron'? Just a thought.

(* Everett is surely unique in having played both Charles I and Charles II on screen - respectively one of the shortest and one of the tallest kings in British history, not to mention bearing virtually no facial resemblance to each other.)  

Archive Wars

I’ve been disappointed with the comparative lack of activity on the Action 4 Archives website in recent months. Essentially, this site was set up in response to the threatened (and now implemented) cutbacks at the National Archives, Kew, which mean that the building now closes on Mondays and has also culled significant numbers of specialist staff. However, this is merely the tip of a very large iceberg. Across the UK, archive services are under threat due to a dangerous combination of funding cutbacks (thank you once again, investment bankers and inept politicians alike) and insensitive or simply incompetent management. Unfortunately, archive services are often looked on as an obvious target for cutbacks so that funding to so-called front line services can be preserved, and in many cases they have responded by trying to be as ‘populist’ as possible. Many local record offices have cut their hours and/or staff; and very often they, like the National Archives, have jumped on the ‘Who Do You Think You Never Were in a Million Years’ genealogy bandwagon, subordinating the interests of serious researchers to those of gaggles of talkative pensioners intent on tracking down their great-great-grandparents as loudly as possible. Researchers are often timid creatures, and do not like to make a fuss. However, the evidence of what happened at the National Maritime Museum (see archived blogs, Oct. 2008 onwards) suggests that organising and making as great a fuss as possible can achieve results. Museum management originally proposed to close all research facilities completely for over six months to ensure that their new wing was completed in time for the Olympics, when the equestrian competition will be held in front of it. A ferocious campaign of protest followed, much of it originally generated from the ‘grass roots’ through the various online maritime history forums (notably this one). Even the normally torpid learned societies weighed in, and with political, media and legal channels all being explored, the museum made a number of major concessions (albeit not enough to satisfy all of those who study there). There has been a similar success story at the National Library of Wales; partly as a result of public pressure, the library has reversed the Saturday closures that it introduced last year.

However, a narrow focus on opening hours and staffing runs the risk of overlooking the many other aspects of current archive practice that actively work against the interests of serious researchers. Leaving aside the manifold ‘quirks’ (to be charitable) of the British Library and the idiocies imposed at archives nationwide in the name of ‘Health and Safety’*, these include the widely differing policies on digital photography, still prohibited in too many institutions but which, if permitted, saves researchers significant amounts of time and effort and also saves staff time they would otherwise spend on reprographics; the huge variations in policies on reader admissions (what is the point of many record offices having their own pedantic reader ticket requirements when the CARN scheme exists?); and above all, the distinctly dubious practice of some archives claiming that they, rather than the heirs-at-law of the original creators, hold the copyright on original materials deposited with them, thereby enabling them to levy exorbitant charges for reproduction. Don’t get me wrong, most archivists, librarians and other staff in this sector do an outstanding job, despite being neglected by their employers and taken for granted by many of those who use their services. Above all, archive services are not optional extras, to be bolted on or cut back depending on political considerations and financial pressures. It’s a hoary old cliché, but they are literally the repositories of the nation’s collective memory, and we should treasure them.

(* For example, the other day I was deeply reassured to find a guide on how to wash my hands prominently displayed in the gents’ loos of the National Library of Scotland, as the hands which I would shortly be using to handle irreplaceable 17th century manuscripts were evidently covered in bullshit and I hadn’t been taught the skill of washing them at the age of two or thereabouts.)