I had a double tingle when I came across this novel: the first tingle because Norah Lofts was a local writer who often wrote (beautifully) about the area where I live; and the second tingle because I hadn’t known that she’d written a book about a chap (her famous novels are all about strong women).
As it turns out, this novel doesn’t have a local East Anglian setting. It tells the story of Walter Raleigh’s life and adventures in the West Country and London, as well as in more exotic locations such as Spain, Guyana, the Canaries and Trinidad. And although it’s a (fictional) biography of Renaissance-man Raleigh, there’s an even more famous and imposing character ever present, in the form of the aging, mercurial and malicious Queen Elizabeth I, who dominates pretty much everything that the ambitious young adventurer does and thinks.
At first, because of the comfortable round typeface and the short chapters, I thought it might be a history book for children. I was soon disabused of this idea.
The short chapters - each covering a specific time and place - form an episodic structure that moves rather abruptly forward through time. At first I found this rather hindered a comfortable reading experience. It was too obvious and clunky, like film editing inelegantly done.
No sooner had I worked out who people were (sometimes quite challenging in the early chapters, especially where people have family names as well as aristocratic titles) then the chapter ended and I found myself thrust into an entirely different scene with a different set of people. It made the characters seem rather flat and two dimensional - less like a novel and more like a history book with awkward gaps.
This jolting episodic structure reminded of Norah Lofts’ first novel, “I Met a Gypsy”, published just the year before, which uses a similarly disconcerting technique to represent the passage of time. In fact “I Met a Gypsy” is more like a set of random, stand-alone short stories which are connected only by the shared DNA of some of the characters.
But this challenging writing style is also a reminder of Norah Lofts’ interesting development as a writer. It’s curious and sad that she’s generally dismissed these days - certainly by the “critics” - as just a purveyor of historical romantic fiction for women. This slightly denigrating label prevents us from seeing how unconventional - and challenging - her early writing was. I noticed, for example, that the contemporary reviews of her first book were hailing her as a new, modern voice - comparing her with Thornton Wilder, the American literary heavyweight with his metaphysical preoccupation with change, chance and time.
So if we think about this second book of hers without the hindsight of knowing how her work subsequently developed, we realise that it might actually be surprisingly “modern” and experimental in its stylised structure.
But a book being clever doesn’t necessarily make it pleasurable to read. Happily the elegiac thoughtfulness and tenderness of this novel very much compensated for my initial irritation with its clunky structure.
The novel deals with so much more than historical fact. The objective dates and locations that initially seem to control the narrative gradually become much less significant than the subjective dimensions. These are the timeless themes that Norah Lofts writes about so eloquently and poignantly: tenderness and cruelty, power and futility, memory and oblivion, past and present, the enduring and the ephemeral.
Here are some of sentences relating to these themes that particularly moved me:
- “People who do not feel Time’s passing can never value it properly. To see each day as a gift that will be gone in the evening … there is something of inspiration in that” (p35).
- “Over it all there hung that faint mist that hangs over a golden day in autumn when the year had looked into the eyes of winter, and turns from the sight, trying to blind herself with the bright banners of bracken and beech and rowan, and wakes to find that overnight the first frost has turned the banners to cerements” (p84) [“Cerement” is a word that Shakespeare, who pops up several times as a character in this novel, uses to mean burial shrouds.]
- “He had reached an age when that first faint fore-shadowing of the year’s decay set him dreaming of other years that had gone downward into the oblivion of winter” (p99).
- “Troubling things eloquent of the many dead who have noted and loved them in past years, and now do so no more” (p99).
- “The pearl-divers died after three years of the work, coughing up lumps of their misused lungs. But he did not see the ghosts, only the shining orbs that would gleam on the neck and fingers and ears of the Queen” (p114) - part of a biting commentary by Norah Lofts on the shocking human cost of global trade and colonialism.
- “Unless I get what I want now I shall go down in history, if I go down at all, as the man who was so infatuated with Queen Elizabeth that I once put down my cloak to keep her feet dry” (p158).
- “What does it matter? The great and the obscure, they sleep at last in the dust and none can tell one from the other” (p176).
- “Will one of the men whom you call your friends love you as much as [small son] would if you spent an hour teaching him to ride or read?” (p176).
- “Do you ever think when you look back over your life, how different it would have been but for some quite accidental thing? We don’t make our lives, really, do we?” (p260).
- “All that wit and grandeur, those rages, that kindliness, all that courage, that learning, that life, that whole being, reduced to something that must be lifted upon men’s shoulders and put away and forgotten” (p218).
On a final, flippant note, I was particularly tickled by the pompous West Country mayor, received by Raleigh with such gentle courtesy, who describes the trials of civic responsibility (“I don’t mind telling you that I find a Town Council harder to manage than a ship in a gale” p40) in a way that Norah Lofts was perhaps to experience herself twenty years later when she too served as a local councillor of a town in my part of the world.
PS. I’ve just realised that the novel’s title doesn’t mean “now here was a proper man’s man”, a real alpha-male adventurer. Far from it. I think instead the title is a direct reference to gravestones which crop up several times in the novel during rather morbid conversations about mortality. “Here lies a man” [Hic aecet] is the epitaph once carved on a gravestone - now probably crumbled, collapsed and long forgotten. Walter Raleigh is dust - but his deeds and poetry live on …