Venice Inscribed (i): Donna Leon

‘Venice Inscribed’ is the title of a course I taught several times at Cambridge. I always enjoyed it, for Venice – which I first experienced forty years ago and have visited over twenty times since – never disappoints. If I haven’t been for a while, I get withdrawal symptoms. I have them now. And when that happens, I like to re-read one of my Venice books or, better still, buy a new one. This time I have bought three.

The first is Beastly Things (2012), by Donna Leon.  I think I’ve read all but two of her Commissario Brunetti novels. At first, I read them with huge enjoyment and admiration; latterly this tailed off somewhat, but I am pleased to say I think Beastly Things is among her best.  It is certainly topical: the plot hinges on contaminated meat getting into the food chain, and the chapter in which Brunetti comes face to face with death in an abattoir is as impressively written as it’s sickening to read.

But Leon’s hallmark is dialogue.  Chapter by chapter Brunetti goes around Venice, talking to people, never raising his voice, never wasting words, always probing. For light relief, there are conversations back at the Questura with his boss, the egregious Patta, after which he nearly always needs a drink and a tramezzino at the bar by the Ponte dei Greci or, if it’s midday, he heads home for lunch with Paola.

After twenty novels and counting, you might think there is little new to discover about the home life of the Brunettis. These days Leon plays down the emphasis on Paola’s cooking; perhaps that recipe book based on the Venetian food she prepares between marking essays on Henry James – she teaches at the University - and drinking prosecco was a spin-off too far. But Beastly Things does spring one surprise. On the wall of Paola’s kitchen hangs a priceless painting:

I don’t know why I bother to keep teaching,’ she said, and Brunetti did not remark that it was because she loved it. ‘I could stop. We own the house, and you make enough to support us both.’ And if things got rough, he did not say, they could always pawn the Canaletto in the kitchen.

Would you really hang a Canaletto (a gift from Brunetti’s ultra-patrician Venetian father-in-law) in the kitchen where you cooked fegato?

I confess this wasn’t the only time I was unconvinced. For the past few books I’ve found odd words or sentences that don’t ring true. In Beastly Things, I was astonished to see the word ‘underpass’ used for sotoportego, those covered passageways that in Venice often connect one calle with another. Underpass just seems wrong, and I’m puzzled to find it here: whether in the US (Leon is a New Yorker) or in the UK, an underpass is a road or path that goes under another road. I don’t remember tripping up over words such as this in earlier books.

I have always trusted Leon’s knowledge of Venetian topography, but here too there’s now a problem. During his tour of the abattoir, Brunetti has kept his fist so tightly clenched that on his way home he cannot stop his hand trembling:

   As soon as the vaporetto pulled away from the embarcadero, Brunetti’s curiosity overcame him, and he took his hand from his pocket. He spread his fingers flat on his thigh, but instead of looking at them, he turned his eyes towards the angel flying above the dome of San Giorgio, still visible in the swiftly fading light.

   He felt no tremor against his thigh, but before he looked, he raised his fingers a centimetre above his leg and left them there for a few seconds as he continued to consult with the angel, placed there centuries ago. (pp.221-2)

Alas, the angel isn’t on top of the dome of St. Giorgio Maggiore – he’s on the pinnacle of the

campanile. (It’s St. George above the dome.) What’s more, he hasn’t been there for centuries: the original angel was taken down only a few years ago, and I’ve seen him on display inside the church. The angel Brunetti admires is a replica. I’m almost ashamed of such pettifogging pedantry; however, to check whether or not Donna Leon’s style and vocabulary really have changed over the past ten years, I’ve gone back to one of my favourite books, A Sea of Troubles.  I’m afraid my original copy (paperback 2002) was a victim of my library cull , but I’ve found another in a charity shop, this time a 2009 edition. I still think the opening description of Pellestrina is one of Leon’s finest chapters, and I have enjoyed once more the discreet literary echoes – Brunetti’s description of Signorina Elettra as ‘so young and so untender’ for instance, and the ‘topless, endless sky’ above the laguna (topless, surely, as in towers of Ilium, and not otherwise). I vividly recall, from my first reading of the book, the shock of Bonsuan’s death – Bonsuan, the faithful boatman who pilots the police launch for Brunetti, and is murdered at the climax of the novel:

Because the shadow cast by Bonsuan’s body fell down the stairway, blocking the light, Brunetti looked down at the first step to see where to set his foot. When he looked up, he saw that Bonsuan had sprouted a branch. Even before he registered the impossibility of this, the panic he’d felt during the storm leaped at him. Men don’t grow branches; pieces of wood do not grow out of the chests of men. Not unless they have been pushed in from the other side. (pp.298-9)

Which is indeed what has happened. Except that now it is no longer Bonsuan. To my astonishment he has been airbrushed entirely from the 2009 edition, and replaced by someone else: Montisi, whose seven-letter name can conveniently fill every gap created by the excision of poor Bonsuan’s.

WHY? Diligent desk research (sc. extensive googling) has produced no answer. But I have my own theory: after years of following Brunetti, I suspect the explanation involves threats, money, family honour and lawyers: in Donna Leon’s novels, it usually does.

Adrian Barlow

The third Venice book I have been reading is Watermark, by Joseph Brodsky. I’ll write about it in Venice Inscribed (ii).

[photos: (i) Andrea Palladio’s church of San Giorgio Maggiore, begun in 1566; (ii)  the dome of San Giorgio Maggiore, with St. George, as seen from the Campanile and looking up the Giudecca Canal.

Read my previous and subsequent Venice posts, written at different times between 2011 and 2016 :

Venice at the edges
Venice Inscribed (ii): Joseph Brodsky
Venice Inscribed (iii): Ruskin and EM Forster
Venice Inscribed (iv): Henry James
Venice Inscribed (v): Mr Ruskin and Mr Street

The Great War: writers, historians and critics

Nothing that I have blogged about in the past four years has been so widely and so rapidly read as my last two posts: Why reading matters (more than ever) and What larks? Birdsong, the Great War and cultural memory. Look at the column on the right : you’ll see they are already well up in my ‘top ten’ blogs. (How could I have known fifty years ago when I used to listen to Alan Freeman on Radio Luxembourg that one day I should have a top ten of my own? Or that ‘blogging’ would become not merely a word but an activity one could indulge in without shame.) I’m grateful to everyone who wrote to me on the subject of historical and literary responses to the First World War, and have decided to devote this post to these responses. A couple of them can be read in full underneath ‘What larks?’; the rest were emailed directly to me. My thanks to all, for giving me so much to ponder.

The first message I received pointed out that the same tension between historical and literary representations of the Great War could be found in Holocaust Studies. Which made me wonder whether this tension is a generic problem, perhaps a fault line between the arts and the humanities: literature on one side, history on the other. Indeed, the second message assured me that this tension has applied to the representation of war ever since Homer’s Iliad was attacked in Dio Chrysostom's Eleventh Discourse for not telling the truth about the Trojan War.

I confess I had to look up Dio Chrysostom [40-120 CE], but found him in an excellent blog, The Ploughman. The post is headed, We are hard to teach, but easy to deceive: Dio Chrysostom’s Homer:

There is no doubt that the Iliad and the Odyssey are masterpieces of literature, telling “a true story” of human nature, but they are not, in Dio’s view, retelling the truth about what actually happened. There is a difference.

An old friend and colleague described a line of thought my blog had prompted: ‘I was wondering, he wrote, ‘what kind of poetry Rupert Brooke might have written had he survived long enough to experience Gallipoli or the Western Front. Did only the poets have a chance to attempt any description and explanation?’ Another friend took me gently to task because ‘your latest blog doesn't say whether there can be any common ground between historians and literary critics.’ He went on:

I remember being astonished when I heard a WWI historian say that Haig's battle strategies were 'unduly criticised' and 'ultimately successful'. This seems to be the mentality of Haig himself who could envisage (and work for) a victory that left the Allies with only 10,000 soldiers as long as that was double the remaining 5,000 Germans. Anyone who sends 58,000 men to their deaths on the first day of the Somme, instructing men to walk, not run towards embedded and impregnable German machine gun emplacements, is hardly a successful general. It may be true that the majority of British people regarded the War as well-won, but only because their sense of duty, community and patriotism, as well as underinformed trust in politicians and generals, was far greater than it is now - and part of that long, withdrawing disillusion starts with Haig and Co.

Peter and Liz would have agreed. They wrote:

We were not sure what myths people entertain about that war. We feel that it was a truly futile and utterly appalling bloodbath, run by some very callous men, in which the ‘policy’ of ‘going over the top’ was tantamount to mass suicide and the firing squads at dawn equally miserable and inhumane. Have we got something wrong somewhere?! 

But it was Vivien Whelpton who offered the most detailed critique of what I had written. I have her permission to quote at length:

 I see faults on both sides of the divide - the reluctance of readers of the literature (and English teachers!) to see knowledge of the history as important, and the readiness of historians to condemn the literature without studying it.  In the classroom Owen is often seen as an 'easy' way to interest reluctant kids - boys especially – in poetry and there is a lot of lazy teaching of his work; Sassoon is similarly abused because his epigrammatic poems are so accessible.

The historians have tempered their views somewhat; few of them would now take the hostile stand towards the literature of early revisionists like Correlli Barnett and John Terraine.  Furthermore, one only has to watch some of the programming that appears on television to understand their frustration that an historical interpretation of the war, around since at least the 1980s, has still not received popular recognition.

As you say, the real issue is their tendency to 'treat the literary writing about the Great War as bad history and the writers as unreliable witnesses not as poets and novelists'. The 'reliability' of the combatant poets and their right to speak with authority (and here I come up against the 'combat gnosticism' sceptics as well as the historians) have, I feel, been unfairly questioned.  We are reading reliable witnesses - even though they are not writing history - or journalism. The issue of 'bad history' is more relevant when we come to the contemporary novelists.  Is there a difference between an 'historical novel' and a novel set in an historical time period?  My own view is that if you set your novel in a particular time period, even if your themes are 'timeless', you have a duty to be faithful to the history.  Faulks needed tunnels in 1918 for artistic purposes; did that entitle him to have them, even though, with the mobile warfare of 1918, there wasn't any tunnelling?  I don't think so.  And, for both Faulks and Barker, the clichés have been just too easy to exploit. Barker's Regeneration trilogy I think very fine, and very thoroughly researched, but Life Class turns out all the cliché-ridden scenes.  There are other writers, John Boyne in The Absolutist for example, who not only exploit the popular myths but make little attempt to produce accurate history.  Dan Todman is absolutely right to say that 'audiences often believe that works of fiction communicate “deeper truths” about the war because they reflect their own misconceptions.' 

As far as your passage from Birdsong is concerned, I would pick out 'We hear nothing from our commanding officer' - as simply, and without accuracy, taking the 'easy route' of exploiting one part of the First World War popular myth - the lions led by donkeys part!  Then there is Stephen's view that 'This is not a war, this is an exploration of how far men can be degraded.'  This is not an authorial view, but, given the extent to which the reader is invited to identify with Stephen, it might as well be.  Again, it is too easy.  ALL war is about human degradation, but war does also bring out some of the strengths of human beings.

Which brings me to the historians' own myths:  camaraderie and enjoyment!  I am not suggesting that these were not an important feature of the First World War, but to stress them to the exclusion of the more negative aspects is really to create a counter-myth.  It is also important to acknowledge that support for the war was obtained and maintained by a propaganda machine that cultivated the (already prevalent) myths of the period - chivalry, sacrifice, nationhood, civilisation (as opposed to Kultur), 'masculinity' etc.  (One of the most important aspects of the writings of Owen, Rosenberg and others is the ways in which they 'split open' these assumptions.)  This was a war about the balance of power - you couldn't sell it to the British public like that; it was also a war which had to be fought 'attritionally' until the necessary developments in technology and tactics came about.  In other words, of course the generals knew that their methods were going to be, for the first few years, vastly 'expensive' on manpower and would not achieve 'break-through', but they had little choice - they needed to wear down German manpower.  However, they couldn't acknowledge publicly that the 'wastage' was essential.  (Hence the vital importance of myths of sacrifice.)

Some of the best writing about the war is in the memoirs - Blunden, especially, but also someone like Guy Chapman.  Are memoirs 'witness' or 'literature'?  This brings out the simplistic nature of any attempt to separate the two.

So I think that the historians are entitled to demand 'good history' in literature.  But the issue of 'witness' is a much more complex one.

Again, my thanks to all who contacted me, whether I have quoted from your messages or not. Further comments will be received with interest and acknowledged. Meanwhile, I shall continue to ponder these things (especially the teaching of the Great War and war poetry), and may return to them in future. My next post, however, will be on something completely different.

Adrian Barlow

[illustration: German 1914 – 1918 war memorial, at Ettlingen, Baden-Württemberg. I discuss this memorial in my chapter ‘Mixing Memory and Desire: British and German War Memorials after the Armistice’ in  The Silent Morning: Cultural Responses to the Armistice (T.Tate and K. Kennedy eds. M.U.P. 2013, forthcoming)

The hyperlink for ‘combat gnosticism’ (see above) takes you to the valuable War Poetry blog, written by Tim Kendall. I strongly recommend a visit.

Details of the English Association’s international Centenary Conference on British Poetry of the First World War, to be held in Oxford in September 2014, can be found here.

What larks? Birdsong, the Great War and cultural memory

Apologies that this blog is longer than usual.  It is the first in what is likely to become an intermittent series of posts about the literature of the Great War, leading up to next year’s centenary of the outbreak of war in 1914.

We are walking with Dash on Leckhampton Hill, on one of the first really bright days of the year. The Vale of Gloucester is in haze below us: no chance of seeing the Malvern Hills today. I have written about Dash, the springer spaniel, once before in A Blog on the Og. She’s somewhat older now, and scampers more sedately, no longer chasing everything that moves. Just as well, for on top of a low tree, well within barking range, a young thrush is singing its heart out – ‘the throstle with her note so pure’, according to Bottom the Weaver. We pause to enjoy her song, for thrushes are less common these days, before heading on up towards the Devil’s Chimney and the Iron-Age camp at the top of the hill.

And now the song of the solitary thrush is replaced by a different singing, a shrill rustling sound from many birds – but where are they? A beech tree on the edge of a field seems the most likely place, but there is nothing to be seen on its bare branches except the tenacious dead leaves from last year. The sound is extraordinary: a massed choir singing at speed and from time to time abruptly cutting itself off in full flow. Absolute precision: song, then silence, then song again.

Then a different sound, as the dead leaves on the tree turn into tiny birds that lift off singing as they shoot upwards– an exaltation of larks in the literal as well as the collective sense. We watch them, entranced, ‘music showering on our upturned listening faces’ as Isaac Rosenberg puts it in ‘Returning, We Hear the Larks’. I suppose Rosenberg’s poem is, of all WW1 poems, the one that most closely links the trenches with the idea of birdsong:

Death could drop from the dark

As easily as song –

But song only dropped …

z

War poetry has been much on my mind recently, and will remain there for the foreseeable future for three reasons. First, I’m helping to organize an international conference on British Poetry of the First World War, to be hosted by the English Association at Wadham College, Oxford, in September 2014. Second, this time next year, I shall be guest-editing a special edition of The Use of English, which will focus on the literature of the Great War. Third, and more immediately, two weeks ago I took part in a fascinating two-day ‘Teacher-Academic Exchange’ at the Institute of Historical Studies in London on ‘The First World War in the Classroom’.  

This workshop was a forum for debate between teachers of History and English in Secondary and Higher Education. How differently do English and History teachers approach the First World War as a subject? How do these approaches differ in the school classroom and in the university lecture theatre? Now that the Great War has slipped from personal memory (with the deaths of the last veterans) into cultural memory, should teaching the First World War in schools be made to reflect recent academic research into the subject?

These were some of the central questions we debated for two days, led on our way by a challenging keynote speech from Professor Dan Todman. Writing for a BBC blog, Dan Todman has in the past pointed his accusing finger directly at English – war poets, teachers, academics, recent novelists – both for mythologizing the Great War in the first place and then for misrepresenting the reality of the war by exploiting readers’ misconceptions for their own ends:

Sassoon and Wilfred Owen could be used to evoke an emotional reaction against war which engaged students and satisfied teachers, but which utterly misrepresented the feelings of most Britons who lived through the war years…. Although works like Faulks’ ‘Birdsong’ are fiction, audiences often believed that they communicated ‘deeper truths’ about the war, because they reflected their own misconceptions. [http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/worldwars/wwone/perceptions_01.shtml]

I think what worries historians of the Great War most is cultural memory. They see it deriving from a mythologized past, not from historical research. Books such as Samuel Hynes’ A War Imagined: The First World War and English Culture, Paul Fussell’s The Great War and Modern Memory and Jay Winter’s Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning make them uncomfortable. Indeed, last autumn in Oxford at a Study Day on War Memorials and Memorialization, I heard a distinguished military historian declare, ‘When I hear the name Jay Winter, I want to reach for my gun.’ Seriously, he said that.

Myths, mythology: misrepresentation, misconceptions. Here is a representative passage from Birdsong of the kind I suppose some historians distrust. It comes from a conversation between the central character, Stephen Wraysford, and a frightened fellow officer, Weir, while they are sheltering from a heavy bombardment:

   The dugout shook with the reverberations of a huge shell. The lantern swung on the beam, the glasses jumped on the table, and bits of earth fell from the ceiling. Weir gripped Stephen’s wrist.

   ‘Talk to me, Wraysford,’ he said. ‘Talk to me about anything you like.’

   ‘All right. I’ll tell you something.’ Stephen blew out a trail of cigarette smoke. ‘I’m curious to see what’s going to happen. There are your sewer rats in their holes three feet wide crawling underground [Weir was in charge of miners conscripted to dig tunnels under German lines]. There are my men going mad under shells. We hear nothing from our commanding officer. I sit here, I talk to men, I go on patrol and lie in the mud with machine gun bullets grazing my neck. No one in England knows what this is like. If they could see the way these men live they would not believe their eyes. This is not a war, this is an exploration of how far men can be degraded. I am deeply curious to see how much further it can be taken; I want to know. (Birdsong: Vintage 1994, p.122)

For myself, I want to know in what particulars this passage presents an unreliable picture, historically or psychologically, of front-line life and attitudes in the immediate run-up to the Battle of the Somme. And should I accept the contention that ‘audiences often believed that [works of fiction like] Birdsong communicated ‘deeper truths’ about the war, because they reflected their own misconceptions’? Significantly, this statement misrepresents readers of fiction as ‘audiences’, as if reflective reading of a novel like Birdsong were a passive shared activity like watching a film.

Still, I’m quite happy to agree with Dan Todman in insisting on a balanced assessment of the War at the time of the Armistice:

Notwithstanding the enormous casualty lists, in 1918 many Britons thought they had achieved a miraculous deliverance from an evil enemy. They celebrated a remarkable military victory and national survival. For those who had served in the trenches, and for those left at home, the war experience encompassed not only horror, frustration and sorrow, but also triumph, pride, camaraderie and even enjoyment, as well as boredom and apathy.

Indeed, but I don’t think the surviving war poets themselves would have disagreed that this was what ‘many Britons thought’. Read, for instance, what Edmund Blunden wrote to introduce a revised edition of his Undertones of War (1928):

This book, which was written with no grander ambition than to preserve some of a multitude of impressions, and admirations, is a sketch of a happy battalion – happy in spite of terrible tasks and daily destruction. I have been blamed for casting a romantic light on such a damnable subject as real war. But I did no more than put on paper what most of my companions felt too.

This surely chimes uncannily with Dan Todman’s description of what ‘the war experience’ encompassed: ‘camaraderie and even enjoyment’. But notice how Blunden is careful not to claim to be providing an historical record of the war, or writing from an historian’s point of view. His book will consist of ‘impressions’, it is to be a ‘sketch’. It is based on memory (and was in fact written in Japan, where Blunden had almost no access to his own written records – as he is at pains to explain.)

Much of the mischief, it seems to me, comes from treating the literary writing of and about the Great War as bad history and the writers as unreliable witnesses, not as poets or novelists. The war poets saw themselves and their poetry looking forwards, not back. Isaac Rosenberg wrote to Laurence Binyon in 1916:

I am determined that this war, with all its powers for devastation, shall not master my poeting; that is, if I am lucky enough to come through all right. I will not leave a corner of my consciousness covered up, but saturate myself with the new and strange conditions of this life, and it will all refine itself into poetry later on.

 And Sassoon, writing a Foreword to the Complete Poems of Isaac Rosenberg (1937), saw in poems such as ‘Break of Day in the Trenches’ and the poem with which I began, ‘Returning we Hear the Larks’

the poems that he might have written after the war, and the life he might have lived when life began again beyond and behind those trenches which were the limbo of all sane humanity and world-improving imagination. For the spirit of poetry looks beyond life’s trench-lines.

The wartime section of Birdsong itself, we should not forget, ends optimistically. As Stephen Wraysford emerges from the tunnels, the war is over and his life has been saved, thanks to the German soldiers with whom he had been trapped underground. It’s an ironic take on Wilfred Owen’s iconic line from ‘Strange Meeting’: ‘I am the enemy you killed, my friend.’  Birdsong is of course a book steeped in the poetry of the Great War – as is Susan Hill’s Strange Meeting, as is Pat Barker’s Regeneration – and so it is no surprise that, as Stephen picked his way back towards the British lines, Sebastian Faulks adds the final necessary detail:

A lark was singing in the unharmed air above him.

Too obvious? A cliché image? Almost, but rescued by that resonant adjective ‘unharmed’.

Adrian Barlow

I have written much more fully about the myths and mythologizing of World War 1 in my book The Great War in British Literature (C.U.P. 2000)

Previous posts of mine relating to the Great War include:

Close Reading:war memorials

Edmund Blunden today

Edward Thomas at Buchy