ON VICTORIAN FICTION...

“The past is foreign country: they do things differently there.” So read the opening lines of L.P Hartley’s The Go Between. 

Any writer of historical fiction almost needs to become a time ­‐ traveller, to ‘go native’ and familiarise themselves with the cultural workings of the place in which their story will be set – to draw their reader into that world without qualms as to authenticity regarding the characters, settings or themes that, if placed in a contemporary tale, might seem entirely alien. 

A good starting point for this cultural immersion is to read the work of established authors; those from the nineteenth century, and the best of the Neo‐Victorians now. That way an author’s ear can attune to the nuances, rhythm and tone of the ‘foreign’ language that was used back then. My Victorian favourites are Wilkie Collins, the Brontes, and Thomas Hardy; each one offering a unique style to define the age they represent. 

Charles Dickens at his desk

Of all the Victorian writers, Dickens is generally considered the master, his work rising above mere plot and offering social commentary on almost every aspect of the world that he inhabited. But here, a word of warning: attempts to emulate his work may result in clichéd parody in any but the most skillful hands. A writer should not be afraid to develop their own personal style, even when following the ‘rules’ or restrictions within the genre. 

But not all nineteenth century literature adhered to Dickens’ formal tone. Moby Dick, written in 1851, begins with these strikingly ‘modern’ lines – “Call me Ishmael. Some years ago – never mind how long precisely – having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation...especially when my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off...” 

We still have the formal Victorian phrasing to anchor us in the era, as exhibited in the phrase: ‘requires a high moral principle’. But, at the same time, Melville creates a very strong vernacular; a tone entirely original; a real, living character’s voice which could belong to any age, which draws us straight into his world. 

However, it must be admitted that Melville was American. Many writers prefer to emulate the more English tradition of ‘Victoriana’ – that which has been so well observed by the modern­‐day author Charles Palliser whose The Quincunx, according to many reviews, ‘out-Dickensed’ Dickens himself.

Sarah Waters, who also excels in the genre, uses a spare and lyrical prose, rarely florid or overblown, as illustrated in these lines taken from the start of Fingersmith – “My name, in those days, was Susan Trinder. People called me Sue. I know the year I was born in, but for many years I did not know the date, and took my birthday at Christmas. I believe I am an orphan. My mother I know is dead. But I never saw her, she was nothing to me.” 

The reader is immediately told that the narrator has been orphaned – a common Victorian theme around which secrets and mysteries can be woven into complex plots. 

Similarly, clues are laid in The Meaning of Night by Michael Cox, another stunning ‘Victorian’ novel which begins – “After killing the red-­‐haired man, I took myself off to Quinn’s for an oyster supper. It had been surprisingly – almost laughably – easy. I had followed him for some distance, after first observing him in Threadneedle-­‐street. I cannot say why I decided it should be him, and not one of the others on whom my searching eye had alighted that evening.” 

The novel is ‘placed’ immediately by the archaic use of ‘Threadneedle-­‐street’ – and the fact of the oyster supper: a common meal in Victorian times and not the luxury food of today. The language has a formality with words such as ‘had alighted’, all of which leaves the reader in no doubt that the genre is Victorian. 

The writer of historical fiction must ensure accurate scene descriptions - and inspiration is everywhere, with many of us surrounded still by Victorian architecture; all the houses, shops, the theatres and bars from which settings can be derived. And then there is the transport – the sounds of creaking carriages – the jangling of reins –the clopping of hooves – the rhythmic chugging of the trains, exuding clouds of cinder-flecked steam. 

The expansion of the railways enabled, for the very first time, a mass population mobility, even though, as depicted in my own novel, The Somnambulist, many came to fear that “the motion and velocity might cause such a pressure inside our brains as to risk a fatal injury – a nose bleed at the very least.” 

Still, many did travel to London which, to this very day, has a wealth of preserved Victorian settings. 

Drawing room at 18 Stafford Terrace

18 Stafford Terrace in Kensington remains just as it would have been, with Chinese ceramics and Turkey rugs, Morris wallpapers and stained glass windows – not to mention the letters, the diaries and bills that provide an accurate insight into the running of the house. For those unable to visit, there are countless images in books, or via a search on the Internet. 

As to the day to day running of any Victorian residence, the relentless slog of housework would have lacked any magic at all. But do not take my word for it. Why not read Judith Flanders’ The Victorian House, or go to an original source in Mrs Beeton’s Household Management. In fact, Mrs Beeton offers advice on almost any subject, from cooking, to fashion, to medicine. Her words occur in The Somnambulist; my fiction being melded with fact when the narrator quotes from that very book as a means of objecting to the clothes that her mother forces her to wear – “I was looking through Mrs Beeton’s book, and she wrote several chapter on fashion, and with regard to a young woman’s dress her advice is very specific indeed. She says that” – and I had this memorised for such a moment of revolt – “its colour harmonise with her complexion, and its size and pattern with her figure, that its tint allow of its being worn with the other garments she possesses.” 

Other contemporary factual works are still available today. Henry Mayhew’s London Labour and the London Poor is surprisingly readable while giving a detailed insight into grim social realities. Very useful indeed when researching the Victorian demi-monde was My Secret Life by Walter. Walter was the most shocking libertine whose pursuit of physical gratification led to many a lurid and melodramatic encounter – the exploration of a world that could not be any more different to what is generally perceived as a moral, upstanding society-­‐ and at its head the ‘mother queen’ who ruled with her royal sceptre of iron respectability. 

Even so, I feel quite sure that Walter would have visited Wilton’s (a music hall setting in both of my novels) with all of its night-­time clatter and bang, where prostitutes called from the balcony to those who sat at tables below, with the glisten of the lime lights glancing off the brass of the barley twists posts around. No doubt he would have loved Cremorne – the Chelsea pleasure gardens described in my second novel, Elijah’s Mermaid. However, those gardens were eventually closed for reasons of ‘lewd behaviour’ and nothing of them now remains but a pair of ornate iron gates. 

Cremorne Gardens

Unable to visit the actual place I read articles in Victorian newspapers (the archives available online), and sites such as www.VictorianLondon.org. I looked at paintings and adverts to gradually built a vivid scene of lush lawns with statues and fountains, a banqueting hall, and a hot air balloon, and regular theatrical displays – such as the infamous Beckwith Frog who, along with several fish, performed in a great glass aquarium. Freak shows were a popular, if sordid, form of entertainment, though the mermaid display in my novel is purely the product of  imagination. Even so, that image was inspired when reading about Feejee Mermaids; the hideous monstrosities so popular in Victorian travelling shows which were created by grafting a monkey’s remains onto the body of a fish. 

A Feejee mermaid

Imagine the smell of that! And here is another writing prop to create a complete Victorian world, albeit one invisible. It may well be a cliché when describing nineteenth century scenes to allude to the stench of filthy streets. But it would be wrong to ignore the fact of the constant odour of rotting food, or the effluence from horses who drew the carriages and carts, or the noxious stink from factories exuding acrid yellow smoke – what were known as ‘London Particulars’. 

A writer might also try to convey the intensity of common smells without a descent into parody; by thinking ‘outside the box’ and describing less obvious fragrances, which, in the case of The Somnambulist, happened to be a perfume that came to have great significance within the story’s plot. For this I employed the Internet, seeking out aromas that a Victorian gentleman might use. I found Penhaligon’s Hammam Bouquet, first produced in 1872, and described by the manufacturers as ‘animalic and golden...warm and mature, redolent of old books, powdered resins and ancient rooms. At its heart is the dusky Turkish rose, with jasmine, woods, musk and powdery orris.’ 

Quite a vivid description, I’m sure you’ll agree. And quite a serendipity, because, after the book’s publication I realised that Hammam Bouquet is still being produced today. I couldn’t wait to buy some, to lift out the bottle’s stopper and breathe in the vivid scent that, until then, I had only imagined – to close my eyes and step right back into a lost Victorian world.