Literary Travellers Then and Now by Elizabeth Laird

Just back from travels in Kerala, around the south western corner of India. Here's a picture to set the scene:

The backwaters in Kerala

Florence Nightingale

I've been musing on the nature of tourism. The modern experience of travel is, frankly, shallow and artificial compared to that of our literary forbears. I've been reading Winter on the Nile by Anthony Sattin, which follows the journeys of Florence Nightingale and Gustave Flaubert, who both (though they never met) happened coincidentally to be sailing in the leisurely fashion of the day up the Nile to visit the antiquities. Their journeys took months. Nightingale, in particular, prepared herself assiduously.

She learned to decipher heiroglyphics. She read everything she could find on the religion of ancient Egypt. She recorded every thought and every impression in her letters and diaries. She had time to do it, too. Her journey took many months. She spent days in each place, sometimes returning again and again to a particular temple to allow its charm and meaning to soak into her mind.

Flaubert took a more laddish approach, spending much time in the local brothels, fascinated by the women he met there, then spending hour after hour lounging on the deck of his Nile houseboat, ostensibly doing nothing, while, no doubt, Mme Bovary began to take possession of his mind.

On the very evening of the day that my husband and I left snow-bound London, we were sweltering in the heat of Cochin as if transported by a genie. Victorian travellers would have found our approach hopelessly frivolous. I can't pretend to have learned a single word of Malayalam, and certainly never tackled its script. Instead of writing letters home, we skyped our children from time to time, and babbled to them (forgettably) about what we'd been doing. Instead of sitting for hours with a sketchbook on my knee and a pencil in my hand, I snapped away with my camera, taking far too many photographs.

It's clear from Nightingale's letters that her experience in Egypt had a profound effect on her. She had time to muse, to gain insights into the places she visited and her own reactions to them. We, on the other hand, spent no more than three days in any one place, and then sped on, afraid of boredom. We simply didn't give Kerala time to change our lives and our perceptions as Nightingale did in Egypt.

We had one great advantage, however, over Nightingale and Flaubert. They would not have found any novels by Arab writers in bookshops in Cairo or Thebes which could have given them instant yet profound insights into the minds and lives of the people they encountered. We were luckier. In India, especially in Kerala, there is a wealth of fiction that offers us mental short-cuts, taking us into the heart of people's lives.

Arundhati Roy's justly famous novel, The God of Small Things celebrates Kerala in unforgettably beautiful writing, taking one to the heart of the place and the people.

The backwaters near near Arundhati Roy's
childhood home in Kerala

David Davidar'sremarkable historical novel, The House of Blue Mangoes, follows the lives of one family from colonial times through the travails of the independence movement to the India of the present day. It's a book of great beauty, of atmospheric descriptions and memorable characters.

And for those who want to laugh out loud while they learn more about India than they ever thought they could, Shashi Tharoor's masterpiece, Show Business, takes Bollywood by the throat and shakes the truth out of it, in ways that you'll never forget.

        

(Michelle Lovric is experiencing IT problems and will be back in this slot on 10th December. We are grateful to of our Reserve History Girls, Elizabeth Laird, for providing us with today's post).

A historical character you might not know by Elizabeth Laird

This is a variant on our occasional series of "Historical characters we just don't get" by sundry History Girls and a wonderful opportunity to introduce you to Elizabeth Laird, who has just joined us as a Reserve HG. (You can read all about her on the About Us Page).

Photo by A Mortensen

                                            Prince Alemayehu of Abyssinia 

Prince Alemayehu of Abyssinia

If you've never heard of Prince Alemayehu of Abyssinia, I feel quite proud to introduce him to you. He's gripped my imagination for many years, and I hope he'll touch your heart, too. A poignant, romantic figure during his short life, Alemayehu's story just won't go away.

The scene of his childhood was the mountain fastness of Magdala, the seat of his father, the Emperor Tewodros of Abyssinia (modern Ethiopia). A man of great vision, intelligence, drive and erratic temper, Tewodros had muscled his way to the throne, subdued his enemies and united Abyssinia under his strong rule. But he wanted, more than anything else, to make alliances with the European powers who were increasingly influential in the lands and seas bordering the Highlands of Abyssinia in the 1860s.

Emperor Tewodros's capital at Magdala

To this end, he wrote letters to Queen Victoria. They were in Amharic, the ancient, beautiful script of his mother tongue. No one in the Foreign Office could read them, and no one thought they were important. They were put into a drawer and forgotten.

Tewodros waited impatiently for an answer. He grew increasingly frustrated, and at last, irritated by what he perceived to be the arrogance of the few Europeans who had made their way to his capital, he threw them into prison and clapped iron chains round their ankles. They included the British consul.

The Emperor Tewodros

It took years for the British to respond, but when at last they did, their reaction was extreme. They assembled a huge army consisting of British and Indian troops along with their horses, elephants, rapid assembly guns, a build- yourself-a-railway kit, and, most important of all, the new weapon of choice for an imperial army – the Snider rifle. Journalists accompanied the army, and artists sent back their depictions of the country and the people by means of the newly established telegraph system.
It took this extraordinary expeditionary force months to sail to the port of Zulla on the Red Sea, unroll their railway across the desert (one of the hottest places on earth), and ascend the narrow, treacherous paths that led hundreds of miles up into the Highlands where Tewodros was waiting, filled with excitement at the thought of seeing a modern European army in action.

The British Expeditionary Force on its way to Magdala

The outcome, of course, was never really in doubt. In spite of the incredible courage of the Abyssinian soldiers, the Snider rifles were invincible. A short, sharp battle soon gave the British control of Magdala, which would be immortalised by the triumphalist British in the name of many a Victorian street and pub. Tewodros, having fought to the very end, until he was almost the last man standing, saw that the game was up, and shot himself.

He left one legitimate son, the seven year old Prince Alemayehu, and a young queen, Tiruwork. Before he died, the Emperor is said to have instructed Tiruwork to entrust Alemayehu to the care of General Napier, who was in command of the British forces (and whose statue glares into Hyde Park from the top end of Exhibition Road). He probably guessed that in the power vacuum that would ensue after his death, the boy's life would be in danger. He also wanted his son to learn what the west could teach him, to become a new, modern kind of ruler.

General Sir Robert Napier

In the aftermath of the battle, the British shamelessly looted the imperial treasury. Tewodros had amassed in Magdala a huge hoard of works of art, exquisitely painted manuscripts, gold crosses, church vestments and icons. Ethiopia is the oldest Christian country in the world, and its artworks are unique and of enormous value. These treasures were picked over by an expert sent especially for the purpose from the British Museum (they're still there), and the rest was auctioned off to the troops.
When the conquering army had reduced Magdala to a smoking ruin, they set off down the mountain paths for home. Alemayehu and his mother went with them.

Queen Tiruwork was already ill, and after a few days of being bumped along in her litter, she died, probably of TB. Little Alemayehu, who had already lost his father, his home and the world he had grown up in, was now entirely alone.

General Napier put the little boy into the care of Captain Speedy, one of those wildly romantic Victorian soldier adventurer figures, who had learned Amharic in an earlier expedition to Abyssinia. Over six feet tall, with red hair and masses of whiskers, Speedy and the little boy formed a deep and unlikely friendship.

Captain Charles Speedy in Abyssinian dress by Julia Margaret Cameron

Back in Britain, little Alemayehu was taken at once to meet Queen Victoria, who adored children and rather fell in love with him. She saw that Alemayehu was comfortable with Speedy, and arranged for him to be paid to foster the little prince. When Speedy married, shortly afterwards, he and his new wife became loving surrogate parents.

Speedy, a career soldier, was posted to India are year or so after returning to Britain, and Alemayehu went too. He seems to have been happy enough in the cantonment, playing with the other children, but it was not to last. The Chancellor, Robert Lowe, insisted that he be brought back to Britain and sent to a proper English public school. After all, thought the good Chancellor, he would only be morally corrupted by associating with Indian children.

So Alemayehu was put into the charge of the headmaster of Cheltenham School, Dr Jex-Blake, who had nine daughters and a cold wife. When Jex-Blake transferred to Rugby School, Alemayehu went with him.

The Entrance to Rugby School

It has to be said that Alemayehu did not shine at school, at least not in his academic work. He came bottom of every class. But he loved sport, especially Rugby football, and was popular with his classmates. His holidays must have been rather bleak. No one knew what to do with him. He was shunted round between the families of courtiers and government officials, and often taken to see the Queen at Osborne on the Isle of Wight, or Balmoral.

Prince Alemayehu as a schoolboy at Rugby

The army seemed to be the obvious destination for Alemayehu. He duly started officer training at Sandhurst, but he was very unhappy there, and Victorian racism meant that everyone assumed that a black officer could not possibly be put in command of white troops.

Before any further decisions could be made, Alemayehu developed pleurisy while staying with his tutor Cyril Ransome (the father of Arthur Ransome) in Leeds. After a short illness, he died. He was nineteen years old.

Queen Victoria was very upset to hear about the death of "dear, good Alemayehu". "It is too sad!" she wrote in her journal. "All alone in a strange country, without a single person or relative belonging to him... His was no happy life".

She arranged for him to be buried in the Royal Chapel at Windsor. There is a plaque to his memory by the west door.

The story doesn't end there, however. British historians, writing from the point of view of conquerors needing to justify their vastly expensive military adventure, wrote off the Emperor Tewodros as a blood thirsty madman. Modern Ethiopian historians have revised this view. Violent and erratic he may have been, but Tewodros is now widely admired as a social innovator, powerful soldier and clever politician.

A (rather fanciful) depiction of the Emperor Tewodros giving audience accompanied by his lions

There is, and always has been, widespread indignation in Ethiopia at the looting of the national treasury, and increasingly urgent calls for it to be returned. There is a move, also, to have the mortal remains of Prince Alemayehu removed from the Royal Chapel at Windsor, and reburied alongside later emperors in the Holy Trinity Cathedral in Addis Ababa.

I have always been fascinated by the "Abyssinian campaign" (as the Victorians called their imperial adventure. I gave in to inner urgings at last, and wrote a novel about Prince Alemayehu. It's called The Prince Who Walked with Lions, and it was published earlier this year by Macmillan.

We're destined to hear more about this tragic young prince. The poet Lemn Sissay (himself an Ethiopian) has chosen him as the subject of his Great Lives broadcast with Matthew Parris, coming soon on Radio 4.

(All photos Creative Commons or out of copyright)

Ferreting About - Celia Rees

I spent this weekend at the Children’s Writers and Illustrators ‘Joined up Reading’ Conference organised by The Society of Authors . The Conference is a wonderful chance for authors to get together, catch up with old friends, make new ones and attend various talks and sessions about writing related things. There was a good showing of History Girls (past, present and (maybe) future) and many of them came with me to a session on Sunday morning run by authors, Gillian Cross and Elizabeth Laird.

The title of the session was: The Art of the Soluble: how do I ferret out what I need to know? Gillian and Liz are very experienced, highly acclaimed writers. They have won major prizes, been short listed for everything, written I don't know how many books between them on all sorts of subjects. Neither is 'grand', although they could be; neither show any trace of arrogance, although in terms of achievement and reputation, they have every right to do so. They are the opposite: disarmingly modest and generous to a degree.

I like them both enormously, but what I admire most is their courage.They are brave writers committed to following the idea, no matter how difficult, or how big a challenge. They are also very versatile. Following the idea means that neither of them will be pinned down to one genre, one age group, one subject. They are also pretty fearless. They don't back away and they don't back down.

There are lots of things to be scared of in writing, mostly to do with different kinds of failures from minor to epic, and it's good to know:

a) That other writers feel this way.

b) What they do about it.

Gillian nailed the first, confessing to feeling 'terrified' when she first had the idea for Where I Belong, a book that was going to involve Somalia and Fashion when she knew almost nothing about either, but once she had the idea, it wouldn't let her go, so she set about finding out. This is what she does, no matter what the subject or setting: going to libraries, Amazon, AbeBooks, the internet, talking to people, watching films, studying maps and clips on YouTube, building up information, gathering detail, until she's got enough to write with accuracy and authority. As she spoke, the table in front of her piled up with maps of the Horn of Africa, fashion magazines, every kind of book from Somali poetry to The Devil Wears Prada as well as the fashionista's mood book she kept while writing.

As for b) (see above) Liz Laird said that we have to find what we're frightened of, face it and do it anyway, because the idea won't go away. She speaks from experience. Her novel A Little Piece of Ground was written from a Palestinian point of view and some of the responses to it were extremely hostile and deeply upsetting, but she knew that might happen and had to deal with it. Liz added her own material to the growing heap on the table. Not least, a volume of the diary that she has kept for many years. This is a uniquely personal and valuable personal resource. She doesn't have to wonder what she was doing on a particular date, she knows, so she didn't have to struggle to remember the incident that sparked her book, Oranges in No Man's Land, all she had to do was go to the appropriate diary.

Neither writer was at all 'precious' about the amount or kind of research they undertook for their books, whether they were writing contemporary or historical fiction. They did not really differentiate between the two forms, using similar resources for both. Liz warned against including too much research when writing historical fiction, citing the lack of period detail in Jane Austen. If J. A. didn't feel the need to fill page after page with minute descriptions of dress and modes of transport, then maybe the historical novelist should take a leaf out of her elegant notebook. On the other hand, a thorough knowledge is vital. Gillian mentioned the writer, Jill Paton Walsh who, to her horror, discovered a vital piece of information which could have invalidated an entire historical novel. 'What does it matter?' someone said to her, 'No-one will know.' To which she answered, 'I will know.'

This is a blog about historical fiction so I have to mention the closing speaker at the Conference,. Allan Ahlberg. He is a writer who combines all kinds of qualities: modesty, playfulness, courage, intelligence, wit and grace. I regard his book, Peepo, as one of the great works of historical fiction and it never fails to make me cry.