HISTORICAL FICTION: THE STREET PHILOSOPHER – Matthew Plampin/Harper Collins (London) – 2009
This thoroughly engrossing historical novel ultimately turned out to disappoint.
THE STREET PHILOSOPHER begins at the dawn of the Crimean War with the arrival of illustrator Robert Styles, dispatched from London’s Courier publication. He is to round out a press trio comprised of the veteran correspondent, Richard Cracknell and his associate, Thomas Kitson. Kitson is new to the post of war correspondent, having previously handled art criticism in London. He was selected for his descriptive style. He had great admiration for his senior’s aggressive style in obtaining information. The Irishman Cracknell was a colorful character: rotund, fond of drink, women and good at obtaining information at the camp and on the battlefield.
Styles arrived at the preparing battlefield on a steamer, along with Mrs. Madeleine Boyce, the wife of Lt. Commander Boyce. It was obvious that Styles was quite taken with the beautiful young Madeleine. It was also obvious that Cracknell had taken an immediate dislike of Styles, wondering why his publication had picked this rather delicate artist to help cover the war. We soon learn that Cracknell is having a passionate affair with Mrs. Boyce. While Kitson was busy describing the gory details of the war and Styles depicted the gruesome scenes, Cracknell brazenly wrote pieces meant to discredit the pompous, egotistical and incompetent officers and demeaning the dreamy Styles. As Cracknell’s pieces became more and more controversial, the Courier sold more copies. He was becoming a celebrity. The muckraking Cracknell was particularly anxious to discredit Boyce and Capt. Wray, both proving to be scoundrels. It was most helpful that Cracknell was bedding Mrs. Boyce. Not only did she detest her husband for his abuse, but was willing to share any information she could with her lover. She’d only stayed in the Crimea because she was desperately in love with Cracknell and he fed that romance for his own purposes.
We are taken through horrendous battlefield injuries, poor decision making and the spread of cholera. Kitson is increasingly alarmed about the mental state of Styles. He is totally fixated on his gory drawings and Madeleine Boyce. He tries to convince Cracknell to send the troubled young man back to England. Instead, Cracknell continues ignore him. As the British and French armies progress in the direction of Sebastopol, the ever-vigilent Cracknell looks for ways to uncover the evil deeds of Wray and Boyce. He notices that in the midst of battle, that Wray is given a note, summons Boyce and he leaves in the opposite direction of the battlefield with two soldiers in tow. Cracknell gathers Kitson and Styles and they follow him. They arrive at what is the country home of the Tsar. It seems unoccupied. They wind up in the kitchen and find they are not alone. An obvious Russian accent is heard. He is in the company of Boyce, and the two soldiers who are standing guard. Hiding, the journalistic trio listens carefully. The Russian is unlocking a cabinet and heading to the basement. He comes back with what appears to be a painting. Kitson, the former art critic recognizes the painting as Raphael’s Pilate Washing His Hands,considered lost for centuries. This is a priceless treasure! Boyce kills the Russian and one of his soldiers. He keeps the other one, who is rather feeble-brained, as his personal assistant. He leaves the scene with the treasure hidden in a cart. He doesn’t realize there are further witness, the most prominent of which is just aching to exact monumental revenge.
Using Madeleine and other intelligence, Cracknell knows that Boyce will need an intermediary to get the art treasure back to England. As predicted, Boyce summons rising industrialist Charles Norton to the Crimea. He knows he can turn the greedy Norton into a war profiteer for his purpose of smuggling. Norton is given lucrative contracts and tasked with carrying out the art. He readily agrees.
As the battles drag on, the three employees of the magazine follow the campaign. Styles is far gone. He has beaten off a Russian soldier by shooting him. Kitson again asks that Styles be sent home, to no avail. At this point, Cracknell exposes Boyce and Wray in print. This creates a scandal at home and with a letter to the editor anonymously written by Boyce, Cracknell is fired and Boyce is promoted. The fires of revenge are burning in Cracknell.
In a particularly difficult battle all three are cornered injured. Cracknell wanders off with his injury but Kitson and Styles are dispatched to the makeshift army hospital. Cracknell is now on a freelance campaign against his enemies. He lingers in the Crimea as the war winds down but keeps away from the battlefield. Kitson, thinking that Styles has been sent home, stays near a port city to heal his wounds. He works as a nurse there and is happy in his new role.
When Kitson gets word that Styles is still in the Crimea, he knows the erratic young illustrator is in grave danger. He is no longer afraid of killing or even dying. Kitson goes back to the field in search of Styles on the front lines. He finds him there. What he doesn’t know is that Styles was in what was Cracknell’s former tent and viewed and illustrated what was clearly Cracknell and Madeleine having sex. Styles died in the battle and Kitson’s dislike of Cracknell turned to hatred. A soldier who hated Boyce circulated the drawings around the camp. Cracknell got wind of this and seized the illustrations. He enlisted the soldier who hated Boyce the most virulently and made sure that they got to Boyce. Boyce more than suspected the affair, but when he saw the very detailed drawings, he went into a rage and killed his wife, blaming it on a Russian intruder.
Kitson returned to England, but knowing he was a witness to Boyce’s crimes, settled in Manchester. He took a job on a minor publication, he kept a low profile as a gossip columnist. Therein comes the title. This position was called Street Philosopher in that era. He prayed that he would just be left alone.
All characters came together in Manchester, including Norton. The plot thickens as Kitson falls in love with Norton’s rebellious daughter. Cracknell is driven by revenge and hires thugs to kill both Wray and Boyce and to undermine the wealthy and criminal Norton.
Plampin has a fine writing style interspersing the Crimea and Manchester and brings his experience as an art and culture expert of 19th Century England. He engages the reader by making him or her weigh the motivations for truthtelling. One has to evaluate whether the better man is Cracknell for getting the back story out or Kitson in his artistic verbiage but not engaging the powers that were as Cracknell did for his own purposes.
My major criticism of the book is that Plampin didn’t take a moment, prior to the story, to explain the factors leading to this war. All we really learn is that there is an alliance between England and France to fight Russia. We aren’t even told who won this war. I was not happy to have to research this on my own. Here’s what I was able to glean from a history professor who wishes to remain anonymous:
“The Crimean War grows out of the Great Power Game and the balance of powers established after the Napoleonic wars. Within that game, as one power ‘grew’, the configuration became ‘unstable’–it’s kind of a plate tectonics theory of what foreign affairs are about. The ‘growing’ power was Prussia. And others were declining–most notably Austria/Hungary. Then there was all kinds of debate over what made a country ’strong’–population? economic development? getting colonies? foreign trade? And how did you assess your power and the power of others? The site hints at some of the considerations–Russia wanted access to the Mediterranean and was viewed as a potential ‘threat’. I think the whole game was dangerous, and eventually came crashing down in World War I. I don’t know anything about why Britain and France decided on such a pre-emptive strike, what they hoped to gain from it, and I haven’t followed the literature–I’m sure there are people making careers out of exploring the diplomacy.
“As now, diplomacy has very limited use, and distracts from real things (water, pollution, starvation) but elites go on playing these games. (And is it possible to stay out of them? That was/is the issue of ‘isolationism’) The Great Power Game is often called ‘realism’, as played by Bismarck and Kissinger and Brzezinsky. I think A.J.P. Taylor wrote the old classic book on the diplomacy up to world war I, but could be wrong on that too. I guess Plampin doesn’t have diplomats as characters; maybe he thinks the game is absurd, or maybe he thinks that his audience would know what it was ostensibly about.”
It could be that Plampin wanted to keep this as vague as possible so we would apply this appalling war to an overall observation of the futility of war. I think this missing information is really necessary (and I’ve written to the publisher to convey my message to Mr. Plampin); otherwise, this is just another compelling story which happens to be set in war and you can fill in the blanks. Plampin DOES inform via an end note that there is no such painting as Pilate Washing His Hands.
It’s sad that Plampin didn’t incorporate Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade”, written in 1854:
The Charge Of The Light Brigade
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Memorializing Events in the Battle of Balaclava, October 25, 1854
Written 1854
Half a league half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred:
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns’ he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’
Was there a man dismay’d ?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Some one had blunder’d:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do & die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d & thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army while
All the world wonder’d:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack & Russian
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke,
Shatter’d & sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse & hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder’d.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!