I know it’s old. You have to remember that I still have a hard time thinking of music I used to listen to in 1981 as “classic rock.” Anyway, this is worth a gander. P’raps it only applies to academic military history but I don’t think so. Take a look.
OK, sorry. Long silence punctuated only by self-promotion. Been working on The Next Book. Just about finished proposing it. More to come, and soon. It’s a big departure for me, but it should prove to be fun. For me, at least.
In the meantime, here’s my latest piece in Military History Quarterly, sans some of the illustrations that make articles in glossy history magazines so darn pretty. I’ve been wanting to write about the battle of Lundby (Second Schleswig War, 1864, Denmark vs. Prussia) for years and years. It’s hard getting Americans interested in it, though it’s a fascinating (and important) battle. But thanks to my friend Bill Horne at MHQ, it’s in print now.
…when I wax snobbish and say that history should be left to professional historians. My wife brought this article in HuffPo to my attention just a little while ago. It’s not so much the minor errors that bug me (nobody “renamed” Steuben’s regulations; Ben Franklin barely lifted a finger to help Steuben, because his much-less-famous colleague Silas Deane was the one who pushed for Steuben’s advancement in the Continental Army); it’s not just the tried-and-true-but-nonetheless-wrong “factoids” about Steuben that have been made “true” by constant repetition (e.g., “he actually wasn’t even a real Baron” — yes he most certainly was — he had been awarded, legitimately, the title Freiherr, and as any German immersing himself in the Anglophone world, he translated his title into French…hence “Baron”). Those are really minor errors, and as far as I know my book (Drillmaster of Valley Forge) is the only work that refutes them. Nor is it all that shocking to a person of my political leanings that Steuben might have been gay. What bothers me is the use of historical figures in current political/social debates in which they have little place. Was Steuben gay? Was “gay,” as we understand it today, even a concept in the eighteenth century? Did Steuben have one or more homosexual encounters? Is that enough to consider him gay? Was he bisexual? Was he asexual?
Having been — as far as I know — the only historian to have gone through Steuben’s papers (and the correspondence of others about Steuben) at any length since John McAuley Palmer wrote his biography of Steuben back in the 1930s, I can say with a fair amount of certainty that the jury is out on all those questions. We just don’t know. I’ve been through this material and I have yet to find a single instance (no offense intended to the author of this article) in which anyone referred to Steuben as a “sodomite.” He was likely accused of pederasty while still in Europe, before his coming to America in 1777-78, but further details have been lost to time. Was he close with his aides? Certainly. Was he their lover? Who the hell knows. There’s simply no evidence one way or t’other, and excerpts from Steuben’s correspondence to his aides — which make frequent reference to his “love” for his friends — reveals nothing out of the ordinary for written correspondence between men in the late eighteenth century. There’s at least equal evidence to suggest that he had a romantic tie with at least one close female friend during his life in Europe. So what does that mean? Heterosexual? Bi?
But this has all been left out of “the history books,” hasn’t it? Surely Americans would be ashamed to know that one of the key figures in American military success in the Revolution might have been — gasp — gay? Undoubtedly there are those who would feel somehow offended by this revelation…but a surprise? No, not hardly. Every now and again there’s an article, or a chapter, or an encyclopedia entry that includes Steuben in the list of famous gay men in American history. Google it and see for yourself. So, no, no real shock at all.
What am I trying to say here? I’m not sure entirely. I guess what I want to convey is that…what difference does it make? Who the hell cares? We can’t say anything definitive about Steuben’s sexual orientation or his romantic life. It may be — and this is what I suggested in Drillmaster — that Steuben was so tightly-wound inside that he found it impossible to have a truly intimate relationship with anybody. Of course it shouldn’t make any difference, and there’s far too many people out there for whom it would make a difference. I find that sad. But it does no one any good to warp history to suit current political debates.
Shameless plug: buy Drillmaster of Valley Forge and judge for yourself!
You’d think that I’d be able to take a joke by now. One of the reasons I chose history as my profession was – frankly – that it’s funny. Bleak, yes, depressing, yes, but hilarious all the same, provided that you have a sense of humor that can countenance the truly awful. Unfortunately, try as I might, my sense of humor doesn’t extend quite so far as I’d like. I still can’t abide glaring, easily avoided, senseless errors on film or TV. Or poorly worded history. That’s why, for a good long while, I stopped watching The History Channel (and this was long before it became populated with pawn-shop owners and antique pickers). I remember a little factoid inserted with commercial breaks on THC years ago, that boldly proclaimed an interesting little historical tidbit: “Did you know…that Queen Elizabeth I relied on sixteenth-century astrologers when making important decisions?” Or something very much like that. What I clearly remember was the emphasis on “sixteenth-century,” as if it was the age of said astrologers that made this fact interesting, rather than that a European sovereign would take astrology into account when making decisions. I observed to my wife at the time that I didn’t find anything especially interesting about that. If, on the other hand, Elizabeth I had relied on thirteenth-century astrologers, or twentieth-century astrologers…well, then that would have been interesting. Maybe even a little disturbing. My wife didn’t find my observation very funny. After a while, neither did I. I should have been able to laugh at the ten-second spot on The History Channel, but I couldn’t. It just annoyed me.
I’m sure a great many of us can point to several – maybe dozens, maybe hundreds – of errors in period films – matters of material culture, perhaps, or chronology, or both. And I suspect that many of us, sometimes, get so annoyed by these errors that we find it hard to enjoy period films. I managed to make it through Shekhar Kapur’s Elizabeth (1998, starring Cate Blanchett), despite everything that was wrong with it…though I couldn’t get past the fact that Cecil (played by Richard Attenborough) appeared as an old man, and that Elizabeth inexplicably fired him at the film’s end (in 1572???). But I couldn’t make myself watch more than a few minutes of Kapur’s 2007 sequel, Elizabeth: The Golden Age. Once Swedish ambassadors appeared in Elizabeth’s court – purportedly in 1585 – to seek the queen’s hand in marriage for their master, Erik XIV, I just couldn’t bring myself to warch any more. You see, Erik XIV was deposed in 1568 – seventeen years before the scene in question – and died in 1577.
Again, I should have just laughed this off and moved on, the way one laughs off bad acting, incongruous writing, and horrible special effects in a movie like Plan Nine from Outer Space. But I couldn’t. It’s history, after all.
I have the same problem with jokes. Not all jokes. Just the kind that are based on history—the kind that give the uninformed listener the impression that this is sophisticated humor, because it’s based in erudition. Jokes that have the appearance of cultivation and learning because they are not coarse and because they make reference to some shared assumptions about history that, presumably, all educated people have. Like these ones…
I just got this from a member of my family. The source? Some forwarded email. Doesn’t really matter where it came from. It purports to be something written by John Cleese (of Monty Python fame, to all you young’uns). I have no idea if Mr. Cleese actually wrote it or not, but the alleged authorship helps to set the tone. No matter how silly Monty Python humor got, it never devolved to the purely sophomoric potty humor of Benny Hill, always ending with somebody chasing somebody else in fast motion to the tune of “Yakety Sax.” But with Monty Python it was different. You always had the impression, when you watched Monty Python, that these were jokes and skits written by truly learned people. At least I did, when I was thirteen and watching the Flying Circus for the first time.
In this case, it’s a series of jokes about how various European nations have responded to security concerns raised by heightened tensions in Syria and elsewhere in the Middle East. It’s “national stereotype” humor – possibly one of the least sophisticated varieties of humor – and most of them are predictable. The English are stuffy and tend to understate things. The Scots are prone to anger and belligerence. Germans can be arrogant and militaristic. Et cetera, et cetera. Nothing new to see here, folks.
But national stereotypes (and all stereotypes, for that matter) – though I would argue that they’re really not all that funny – only work in humor if there’s some measure of truth in them, if those stereotypes indeed involve an exaggeration of truth.
So here we get to the French again. Here’s what it says: “The French government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror alert level from ‘Run’ to ‘Hide.’ The only two higher levels in France are ‘Collaborate’ and ‘Surrender.’ The rise was precipitated by a recent fire that destroyed France ‘s white flag factory, effectively paralysing the country’s military capability.”
OK, quasi funny at best. Very very clever. But it’s not based on anything in reality that would make the stereotype work. [See my earlier posts on misguided popular notions of alleged French maladroitness in warfare here and here.] The French surrendered once, and some French citizens collaborated once…only in World War II. Only in World War II. No other European state – no other state in the Western world, not even the United States – can claim the kind of record of military success that France has. It wasn’t all that long ago that the US military in fact sought to emulate the French, and there were many reasons for doing so.
I’ve probably harped on this point enough, though I doubt that it will ever change anything. To most Americans the French will always be those snobs who look down their noses at us though we saved them – so the story goes – in both world wars, but who are themselves incapable of fighting a war. I’ve run into more than a few American soldiers who saw the French in action in Somalia in the early ’90s, and they knew what the French were capable of. Most important, the French have history on their side, so to speak.
There’s another one. This one, inexplicably, is about Spain. Not usually the butt of European stereotype jokes. Here it is: “The Spanish are all excited to see their new submarines ready to deploy. These beautifully designed subs have glass bottoms so the new Spanish navy can get a really good look at the old Spanish navy.”
Again, clever clever, ha ha ha. Glass-bottomed submarines…really good look at the old Spanish navy. But what in the hell is this referring to? Is there any particular reason that the Spanish navy is worthy of ridicule? Does it stand out, historically, as being any better or worse than most European navies? Is this an English reference to the 1588 Armada? Maybe someone could fill me in here. It sounds suspiciously like an old-school Polish joke sans any reference to the old Polish fleet using screen doors on their submarines. Yes, I know, it’s just a joke…but it’s a joke that’s supposed to be rooted in some historical episode/truth – and the Spanish navy has no particularly negative historical reputation. But it sounds so erudite…it must relate to something.
Years ago (I’m pretty sure it was 1997), Saturday Night Live did a skit about a (fictional, obviously) vaudeville duo (one of them was Nathan Lane) whose specialty was crude ethnic humor. Eventually they got to the French, and the song was just, well, brilliant. “I eat babies! I drink pee! We must be French, French, French!” Immediately afterward, another actor offered commentary on the piece: “They really didn’t know much about the French.”
When I read that forwarded email, that old SNL skit was the first thing that popped into my mind.
Thanks to Derek Beck for a very kind review of Whites of Their Eyes.
Just had to post this — a favorite topic from my geekish adolescent past (Confederate ironclads were one of my favorite topics — especially the genuinely crappy ones, like CSS Georgia).
Sorry for the prolonged silence, folks. Hard at work on next book idea … soon. In the meantime, especially for Thirty Years’ War buffs, this is definitely worth a look. The full-text German version is even better.
Back again soon — PL
Sorry for the prolonged silence. I had hoped to follow up the previous posts much more quickly, but life — in this case the needs of my aging parents — took precedence. More coming. I’ve had it all bottled up inside for the past couple of weeks. Look for more very soon. In the meantime, as I was sayin’…
So…American readers prefer American history. And they prefer stories with which they’re already familiar, characters to whom they’ve already been introduced if only briefly. The American reading public, such as it is, isn’t necessarily moved to read or buy books about new or different things. Big surprise. Once you get over the whole “I can’t believe that that many people would actually fork over the money for Glenn Beck’s Being George Washington [“George Washington as you’ve never seen him!” Indeed!] when there are so many less objectionable alternatives available outrage, then our collective reading tastes are not all that shocking.
What may be shocking – okay, not shocking, more like “unexpected” perhaps – is that academic historians have their comfort-zones too, their own range of the familiar, the acceptable, the preferable. The boundaries of those comfort-zones aren’t exactly the same as those of the general reading public but they’re there all the same, and in many cases they’re no more rational or defensible. These prejudices come in all flavors: geographical, chronological, topical, methodological. Sometimes they’re prompted by broad trends in the profession (witness, for example, the overwhelming popularity – among academic historians, that is – of social history since the Sixties); sometimes they’re prompted by short-term methodological fads. Just look at the program for a major national or international conference, like the American Historical Association, and you’ll see what I mean. Sometimes those comfort-zones reflect current political or economic realities. In history departments across the USA, Asian and African histories are hot – while medieval or early modern Europe is distinctly less so.
In part, that’s because some historical fields simply draw more budding scholars than others, just as some topics attract more enthusiasts outside the profession. American readers are drawn to the Civil War; so are many would-be historians in Ph.D. programs. The same goes for World War II. The Third Reich. Victorian Britain. Tudor England. The American Revolution. Military history in general.
And, conversely, there are fields in history that don’t inspire much interest at all. They may be interesting – I hold that any field in history is interesting if approached the right way – but students, like readers, aren’t drawn to them. It doesn’t help that – for many of the more arcane topics – there are few if any specialists representing these fields in history departments…which in itself is a reflection that these areas don’t inspire enthusiasm.
I know, because for most of my professional career I’ve worked in such a field: Scandinavian history, specifically Danish history. Very interesting to Danes, as one might expect, and to Scandinavians. Not so much to Europeans outside of Scandinavia. Very little to Americans. For me, it’s been a genuinely lonely experience. It’s one of the reasons – unconsciously taking a page from the late, great Henry Steele Commager, though I can’t pretend to Commager’s erudition or prolificacy – that I have largely abandoned Danish history for American. Although there’s something to be said for carving out your own little niche, after a while one feels as if one were pleading plaintively to be heard, trying in vain to convince the academy that your chosen field is worthy of study. From the moment that I first read C.V. Wedgwood’s Thirty Years War when I was twenty-one (incidentally, still my favorite narrative on the war), I knew that Denmark and the lands ruled by the Oldenburg kings together made up one of Europe’s great regional powers, and that in the political calculus of the early seventeenth century Denmark played a bigger role in international affairs than did, say, the England of James I. I knew that, at the height of its power, Denmark had one of the largest and most technically proficient fleets in European waters, that the kingdom controlled the Baltic trade on which England and the Netherlands depended, that the king of Denmark was the wealthiest sovereign in all of Europe, that he ruled over a state that in sheer territorial extent eclipsed everything else on the Continent save Habsburg Spain. I wanted to secure for Denmark – and Norway and Iceland – a place in the narrative, the way that the late Michael Roberts had done, or almost done, for Vasa Sweden.
And in that aspiration I would be terribly disappointed. I wasn’t entirely alone. There was, and is, a small community of scholars – in North America and in the Anglophone world in general – who have dedicated themselves to the study of Scandinavian history. But it’s not, or at least hasn’t been, enough to change the established narrative of European history. Twenty years ago, Scandinavia was all but invisible in the more popular Western Civ textbooks employed in college survey courses in the States. Sure, a few events or personages from Scandinavian history would put in an appearance. Gustavus Adolphus. The “Danish” and “Swedish” “phases” of the Thirty Years’ War. Maybe Charles XII (and then only as a foil to Peter the Great). Tycho Brahe. Søren Kierkegaard. Niels Bohr. And that would be about it. But it hasn’t changed in the years since, despite all of the very good material on Scandinavian history to appear in English. The Protestant Reformations in Scandinavia have earned, at best, two sentences in the same Western Civ textbooks that give a couple of full pages to the Reformation in Scotland. Does that mean that the Protestant Reformation in Denmark-Norway and Sweden-Finland was somehow less important than that in Scotland? No. It just means that that’s what the textbook authors knew, that’s the course that’s dictated to them by the prevailing narrative.
That’s only one example. It just happens to be one that I know really well. But it raises a larger question, one that goes way beyond the narrow confines of the history of a single region: why do certain topics, geographically-defined or otherwise, fade from view? Why do we, as historians, push them to the side and ignore them? I think for Denmark, for Scandinavia, and for any region or polity that has dropped by the wayside, the answer isn’t all that obscure. It’s mostly a matter of teleology – meaning, here, that we (academic historians as much as the general public) have a hard time separating ourselves from the present and taking the past on its own merits. We tend to focus on what’s been important in the past couple of generations and not on the more distant past. Ever notice, around the time of the dawn of the millennium (meaning the fake one in 2000, not the real one in 2001), that every cable TV documentary about the “one hundred most important people of the millennium” always included John F. Kennedy near the top? Nothing against JFK, but can we really say that there are not a hundred people in the past thousand years who might deserve the sobriquet “important” more than he?
We tend to think about history from the standpoint of the near-present; history – or, rather, historians, for a narrative can’t exist without authors to shape it – also tends to reward winners. It’s an old aphorism, of course, but there’s much truth in it. To quote Robert Frost’s excellent book on conflict in the early modern Baltic world: “History, it is often suggested, is written by the winners. Yet losers also write history; they just don’t get translated.” Frost was referring mainly to Poland, once one of the most important, most sophisticated, wealthiest states in Europe, and until fairly recently all but ignored by historians outside of the Baltic, but the sentiment could be applied almost universally. In early modern Europe, for example, it goes a long way towards explaining the virtual exclusion of Habsburg Spain from the established narrative. Anglophone historians all but ignored Spain until the 1970s. Before then, Spain appeared in Western Civ textbooks only sporadically and usually in a very bad light – especially as the necessary “bad guy” in the story of the 1588 Armada.
I could go on and on about the varieties of history – and not just geographical ones – that, to my mind, have been left out of the narrative. But what do you think? What stories have been left out, and why?
This is going to be a two-parter.
Once upon a time I had lunch with David McCullough.
Yes, the David McCullough. And no, I can’t claim that I know him very well. Forgive the explanatory aside, but it so happens that my brother enjoys a certain degree of celebrity in the Boston area, and he, in turn, had made Mr. McCullough’s acquaintance. [Sorry for the mention, bro, but I’ll keep it vague from here on.] It was the autumn of 2003, and my brother – God bless him – had decided that I needed to get away from writing academic monographs and into writing bigger history. It was not something that I was all that eager to do in 2003. Like a lot of academic historians, I harbored a certain contempt for “popular history” as a genre. [Yes, I’ve since had a tremendous change-of-attitude; see my post on amateur and professional historians here.] But my brother had great ambitions for me, and he dragged me, kicking and screaming, into the world of trade publishing. I’ll be forever grateful to him for that.
Anyway, my brother was firmly convinced that if I were to chat with Mr. McCullough then I would cast aside my reservations and jump with both feet from one world to the other. In the long run, it worked. In the short run, not so much. Lunch went great, mind you, once I got over being star-struck (which doesn’t happen often for me). Good Lord, I thought to myself after about ten minutes of conversation with Mr. McCullough, I’m sitting across the table from the Voice of Ken Burns’ Civil War. There was something disconcerting about that.
But more disconcerting was Mr. McCullough’s advice. I had waxed eloquent, describing my idea for a popular narrative approach. It was a story that I had run across in my days as a Scandinavianist. A truly great story about a Lutheran parson in seventeenth-century Denmark who had been (possibly) falsely accused of murder, railroaded to his death on the block, and later avenged by his son. Full of murder, treachery, and all good things. It was too narrow for an academic monograph, and anyway an academic approach would have drained it of all its blood and vigor. Mr. McCullough seemed to like the idea. It was indeed a very good story, he remarked. “But have you given any thought to writing it as fiction?”
I felt as if I had been slapped. Fiction? What the hell? No, I thought, no, I won’t write it as fiction, because it doesn’t need to be fictionalized. Did The Return of Martin Guerre need to be fictionalized? Fortunately I didn’t let my frustration get the better of me. “Well, of course that’s a possibility. But I’d rather write it as non-fiction.”
Mr. McCullough proceeded to teach me a lesson that I didn’t want to hear but definitely needed to hear. What he told me, in essence, was this: Americans like to read about history. Their history. Nothing against Europe, but unless it involved World War II or Hitler or the Tudors then – generally, for of course there were occasional exceptions – then by and large Americans weren’t all that interested. Or, rather, no major press would likely take a chance on it. But Denmark? No. That wouldn’t work, not as non-fiction. Americans don’t read about Denmark, or don’t buy books about it, anyway.
I simply couldn’t believe that. Or I wouldn’t. A good story was a good story, no matter what the setting. Was I supposed to believe that Americans would rather read yet another biography of George Washington or Abraham Lincoln than something new, exotic, bloody, and scandalous?
So for the next twelve months I tried to convince myself that David McCullough couldn’t possibly know what he was talking about. I wrote up what I thought was a very good proposal for my Danish story – and, since I was on sabbatical at the time, I even wrote up a first draft of the completed book. I then peddled my proposal to every literary agent I could find in the US who dealt with “history” or “narrative non-fiction.” Not a nibble. Nothing. Not even rejection letters. Not even form rejection letters. I had just about given up when my brother sent me a review of McCullough’s 1776, a review that lamented the lack of books on the military history of the American Revolution. I thought it over for a few minutes, had a minor epiphany, and the idea that later became The Drillmaster of Valley Forge was born. Now, when I sent out my new proposal – for a biography of the Baron de [von] Steuben, I got responses. Mostly rejections, but lots of interest. And finally an email from a man named Will Lippincott, who shortly thereafter would become my agent. The proposal for Drillmaster wasn’t any more compelling than the one for the Danish story. But it was American, and it included such comfortably familiar things as Valley Forge and George Washington. Hence it was assured of an audience.
How often do we hear that some topic – some allegedly neglected topic – “isn’t in the history books”? It’s got to be one of the most irritating popular phrases about history, right up there with “[some event/person/development/invention] changed the course of history” (that’s so wrong on so many levels, not least because – I hate to break it to you, but…history doesn’t have a course), or “history repeats itself,” or the whole “France has never won a war” meme. [Oh God! I finally used the word “meme”! What’s next – remarking that something is “impactful” or “empowering”?] But “not in the history books”…I don’t know where to start with that one. I understand that it can mean that something is not common knowledge, but saying that it’s “not in the history books” seems to argue that historians have deliberately ignored it. What the phrase usually means, though, is “I’ve never heard of this before but I’m not about to take responsibility for my own ignorance.” You might have to delve into something more detailed than a coffee-table book, or – gasp! – actually read academic literature, but I can assure you that at least nine times out of ten, whenever you hear that something isn’t in “the history books” it actually is. The same thing goes for nearly every book, article, or documentary that purports to tell “the untold story” of one topic or another. Invariably the story has been told before, likely many times. I think it’s just another manifestation of that “history as the Everyman discipline” phenomenon, that people who are clearly not experts in any field of history feel qualified to proclaim that historians have ignored an important topic.
No matter. My point is this: on the one hand, we – Americans, that is – say that we want to hear the untold story, that we want to know those things that weren’t revealed to us in “the history books”…and yet collectively we seem to shy away from topics that are unfamiliar. Occasionally, compelling narrative, by itself, is enough to draw attention; witness Nathaniel Philbrick’s In the Heart of the Sea and Erik Larson’s Devil in the White City, each of which tells a story that would be unfamiliar to most Americans.
In academic history, there are very obvious factors driving what it is that historians write about and what they don’t write about – that will be my Part 2 – but for now I’m curious:
How much popular, narrative history is truly original? Or at least novel?
How much covers familiar territory?
And will our thirst for George Washington biographies ever be slaked?
PS That Danish idea? For those of you — and I suspect there’s not many — who read lots of Danish literature, here’s a clue — Blicher’s Præsten i Vejlby, without the parts that Blicher made up. Yes, I’m going to write it. And yes, it’s going to be a novel. Took me long enough to figure it out, eh?
I imagine that this will be a recurring theme for a while – I had thought that one single post would address it sufficiently…until the discussion about reenacting and living history blossomed (well, maybe that’s a tad hyperbolic … but it did get some discussion). The notion of what I like to call “history as everyman discipline” came up, and I think it merits some discussion. Plus I’d like to hear what you think, in particular about a very elementary (and deceptively simple) question:
What, precisely, is a historian, and what does a historian do? What makes someone a historian?
I was trained to be a historian (that’s what Ph.D. programs in history are supposed to do, anyway), and I do history for a living, as a college professor and as an author. And I still have no idea how to answer that question.
But first an anecdote. It has a point, I assure you.
A few years ago, my grad assistant was photocopying some Danish texts for me, using the Xerox machine in the history department office. A couple of my colleagues were interested enough to take a look at the papers being copied. One of them observed, only half-joking, that reading Danish wasn’t too difficult, since he recognized a couple of the words (Danish, like English, is a Germanic language, and there are indeed a few Danish words that are identical or nearly so to their English equivalents – hundrede, for example means “hundred,” though it sounds much much different). He brought this to my attention, observing that he must already be literate in Danish because he understood these few words. I remarked that – by that same logic – I must be a mathematician, since I know some numbers and recognize nearly all of them on sight.
I don’t think he understood my point – which was that knowing a couple of things about a particular subject isn’t the same thing as mastery of it, or even a reasonable understanding of it.
I think that many people – the public “at large,” if you will – have the same kind of attitude towards history and historians. If you have a deep interest in history, and have memorized a few facts and are able to recite them at will, then you are a historian, since we all know that history is nothing more than memorizing stuff. I hear this from students all the time, usually undergrads who are new to history as a profession. Some of them don’t fully understand the difference between a “teacher” and a “scholar” (and that can certainly be forgiven them – there are plenty of “teachers” at the college level who don’t really practice scholarship per se); few entirely get the concept that interpretations of the past change over time, and that there can be more than one way of looking at, or understanding, the past. So, to them, a historian is someone who has learned lots of facts about the past and is able to arrange them into some kind of intelligible narrative. There’s no need for analysis, of course, “just the facts” – because as we all know (or so I’ve been told), “history repeats itself.” [Lord, how I hate that phrase…it’s so wrong. Back to that later.]
That practice – the aggregation of “facts” about the past just for their own sake – is what historians call “antiquarianism,” and it’s not the same thing as “history” as historians practice it (or tell themselves that they practice it). Antiquarians usually tell a story. Usually. At best, an antiquarian narrative reads something like “this happened. Then something else happened. Then yet another thing happened” – a plain narrative, that is. At worst, there’s no narrative. Take a look at many local histories – accounts of the history of an individual American county or town, for example – and especially the self-published ones. You’ll see what I mean. Often the author leaps from topic to topic as the whim strikes him/her without even trying to create something that reads like a story.
Professional historians often make use of antiquarian studies. I know I used quite a few older histories of Boston and other Massachusetts towns when I wrote Whites of Their Eyes, and sometimes such works included information that has since been lost in the documentary record. Absolutely invaluable, in other words. Even then, the material couldn’t always be trusted. That’s not my point here. The point is that professional historians endeavor (not always successfully) to wring some meaning or greater significance from their study of the past. Narrative, in these terms, is incidental to analysis – which is why, sometimes, the most important research produced by historians is presented in a way that the “lay public” – non-specialists – would find rough-going, even downright dull, and why academic historians who are able to bridge the divide between “academic” and “lay” audiences do so because they know how to write compelling narrative. [Simon Schama, David Hackett Fischer, and Edward Lengel come immediately to mind.]
I think that’s why, at least in part, professional/academic historians get annoyed, frustrated, or otherwise upset by our general tendency to label anyone who knows something about the past as being a “historian.” I know I have, although I can’t say it really upsets me anymore. Sometimes, at book signings, someone will ask me about my research and then say something like “My husband is a historian, too. He reads all the time. I’ll bet he’s read at least a dozen books about the Revolution…or maybe it wasn’t the Revolution, but some kind of history stuff. And he’s been to all the battlefields and knows just everything about them.” Sometimes I get an email from a reader who declares himself to be “a fellow historian” – and then reveals that he hasn’t actually been trained as a historian but he’s read a lot about it, and that what makes him a “fellow historian” is his enthusiasm for the topic. To someone who has spent four to twelve years in a Ph.D. program in history, digesting the contents of thousands of books, learning not just one research field but a broad range of history, mastering perhaps a few languages and – likely – paleography too (paleography is the study of old handwriting; for anyone who has ever, without preparation, attempted to read original manuscripts from eighteenth-century America, or Elizabethan England, you know exactly what I’m talking about), and then devoted a big chunk of one’s life to immersion in archives and libraries to master a particular topic, then … well, let’s just say it’s all too easy for such a person to respond, “No, sorry, you’re not a fellow historian. You’re someone who likes history a lot, and there’s a huge difference.” When a History Channel documentary on the sinking of the Titanic features an interview with a Titanic buff – someone who has spent his life reading about the Titanic, and labels that person as a “Titanic historian,” we’re likely to think “Unless you can put the Titanic’s sinking in the broader context of maritime history, or the history of technology, or the social history of the Anglophone world, then you’re not a historian – you’re someone who knows a lot about the Titanic, and they’re not the same thing.”
If those outside the all-too-tight-knit and exclusive circle of professional historians don’t know what it is that historians do, to a great degree that is the fault of historians themselves, who rarely “speak” to the public and mostly communicate among themselves. Even highly educated and literate people outside the community of professional historians are frequently unaware of what historians do and what they hope to accomplish. A friend and former colleague of mine, a noted historian of modern Russia, once told me about a dinner conversation he had with a biologist from his university. After listening to my colleague tell her about his research, the biologist asked, “Isn’t that expensive?” Well, yes, of course it is, my colleague noted, pointing out that grants and other external funding are much harder to come by in the humanities than in the sciences. No, the biologist continued, that wasn’t what she meant. “I mean the translations. With all those books and all those tens of thousands of manuscripts written in Russian, especially from the eighteenth century, getting a translator to render those into modern English would cost a lot, wouldn’t it?” My friend was dumbfounded by the observation, but after a brief pause it struck him: why would anyone outside of history know that professional historians do all this themselves? To us, it’s just part of the training – if you’re going to study Russian history, for example, you’re going to have to learn modern Russian – to read it, of course, but also to speak it and write it (so you can communicate with research contacts and leads, and to get along day-to-day when you’re doing archival research abroad). You’re going to have to learn the dialects that were in frequent use during the period you’re studying. You’ll probably have to learn several other languages besides, especially if you’re dealing with a topic that has any kind of international dimension. And you’re going to have to learn the paleography (sometimes several paleographies), plus anything else that you would have to know to understand the context of a letter written in a distant time and place – different conventions about calendars, for example, or money, or bureaucratic titles. Years of preparation goes into one’s first venture into the archives, or else it would be impossible to understand any of the research material. You don’t go through that preparation because it’s going to make you wealthier, or more famous. You do it because that’s what’s necessary before you can call yourself a historian.
A great example from recent literature. Michael Crichton is of course famous for his relatively sophisticated fiction, so I was expecting a real treat when I first read his book Timeline. Not a bad book, after all, but what struck me most was that Crichton had no idea about how historians worked. I won’t go into great detail here, but the main characters – academic historians – are conducting a study, historical and archaeological, of a medieval French castle. Besides the fact that Crichton seemed to be unfamiliar with the concept of historical archaeology, the thing that was oddest was that the scholars directing the project had to rely upon a whole host of specialists do provide advice on all sorts of things that, apparently, the historians couldn’t do themselves. Like a “graphologist.” What this individual did in Timeline was to make sense of the handwriting styles of the period for the historians. It’s news to me. I’ve never worked with a “graphologist” during my career. Because, in our little world, historians aren’t historians unless they can do that kind of work themselves. A historian of medieval France who couldn’t decipher medieval French paleography and read it quickly – nearly as fast as he could read his native language – probably wouldn’t be able to get a Ph.D. I think in this case Mr. Crichton may have been better attuned to the sciences, in which collaborative work is the norm, where historians tend to do most of their work alone.
So…where am I after all these ramblings? Right back where I started. What makes someone a historian? Is it having a professional degree in history? If so, then the most famous historians in America today aren’t actually historians. Doris Kearns Goodwin, Nathaniel Philbrick, David McCullough…none of these have Ph.D.s in history, but they’re clearly historians. Certainly I’m not about to not think of them as historians. Although this is based purely on impressionistic evidence, I would venture to say that the vast majority of those who have published “popular” history with any of the Big Six houses over the past couple of decades are all in the same boat. Professional journalists are disproportionately represented among the writers of popular history, and while there are some among that throng who I don’t consider to be historians that doesn’t mean that none of them are historians in my view. And, for that matter, having a professional degree in history doesn’t necessarily make you a historian, either. Or at least not a very good historian. [I can think of a couple of prominent history Ph.D.s who aren’t particularly astute as historians.] I guess the best I can come up with right now is that I know a historian when I see him/her.
What do you think? What makes someone a historian?
Mid-ranking northern monarch. Couldn’t have said it better myself. Besides what it says about the divorce from Catherine of Aragon (which isn’t entirely new, but at least Dr. Fletcher puts it at the front of the queue), it’s nice to see a historian of Tudor England noting that Tudor England wasn’t exactly at the center of the known universe. Check this out:
It’s been a few days since my last post; I’ve been swamped with things that I have to write, that have kept me away from what I want to write…like this blog. I have something coming tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m responding to yet another query as to the origin of the banner illustration (above). I found it while working on my Frederik II and the Protestant Cause book, probably the book I’m proudest of. Not that it reads quite like my trade titles (hint: it’s written for academics), but I’ve never put so much research into anything I’ve ever done before, and this book took LOTS. Much of the book deals with King Frederik II’s attempts to create an international Protestant alliance to counter what he (and other Protestant sovereigns, like Elizabeth I) saw as an international Catholic conspiracy. This is a drawing of a fireworks display that was executed to celebrate the christening of the infant heir-apparent of Denmark, Frederik II’s eldest son, the later King Christian IV of Denmark, in 1577. The description of the event indicates that this was fully mechanized…and quite ingenious. A Landsknecht (soldier), carrying a burning torch, advanced from the building on the right of the drawing, crossed the bridge, and thrust the torch into the mouth of the pope (figure in the center of the square at left — the individuals on the corners were just meant to be monks, probably Jesuits). Then the head of the papal effigy caught fire and he exploded. I’m not sure what specific message it was supposed to convey…but I’m sure the notion of an exploding pope was a happy one for Lutheran Denmark at the time.