I like fiction. I like history. I like historical fiction.
When discovering this book on Mini Book Expo, I was intrigued. Historical fiction fascinates me. It's educational but usually brings a personal light to things, and that subjective view reveals nuances, ambiguities, emotions that simply aren't often found in a purely historical tome. Usually. Usually that's how it works. Reading praise, unpaid blurbs, for Heyer's book, I thought I might be on to a new source of good historical fiction. And a 2007 reprint (by Sourcebooks) of a book originally published in 1937 should indicate some merit to the book, no?
No. Heyer's book fails deliciously, astoundingly, and (oh ho ho) infamously. We open with a small social gathering in which all characters and players are gossiped about in order to be introduced. Is that a moment of wit when it is said that tying a cravat is an inborn skill, not something everyone can master? Is it a slight? Is it a combination of the two? Unfortunately, the focus on clothing is paralyzingly shallow. That would be where the realism fleets in for a moment or so. But the contrived introduction of characters through gossip is painfully amateur. No one has a real opinion for themselves, but they spit out insipid background details that are too bland to even set the scene. And the stilted and stifling conversation does nothing to lure me in; I am demanding, and if such language is used, there ought to be a reason, whether based in history or in mockery of history or in mockery of historical writers. But I don't think that's the case in An Infamous Army. I suspect that blind romanticism may be at play, and here Heyer would just be manipulating the Battle of Waterloo into something more easily understood by herself: fanciful language with little basis in reality, pretty dresses, and the notion that all this imagined romanticism has left the world by the time she gets around to writing the book.
Oh, yes, the Battle of Waterloo is in here somewhere. In fact, once the characters are properly introduced through unnaturally crafted dialogue, they seem to fade out. In comes a history lesson. The distinct separation between sections of fiction and history, in use of language but no visual division on the page, creates a laughable effect. I can't fault Heyer for her historical research, and when she writes in the Author's Note that she avoided studying French historical records—presumably because that might give her non-French characters an inappropriate omniscience—I do find myself offering her great respect.
But dear lord, I think the respect ends there. This is bad fiction alternating with history lessons. The fiction leaves headaches from constant cringing at frivolity and hardly makes use of real history. As I've said, I'm demanding. In historical fiction, I expect history and fiction to be so entwined that I am inspired to do research so as to determine what is true and what is not. Heyer's book leaves me completely apathetic.
To be fair, a book published shortly after the Great Depression may have been meant for mere entertainment and escapism; then, if ever, I'm sure it was needed. If anyone could have afforded it. I suppose I could be generous and examine the book within the context of that time as a desperate attempt to get away from life, but the absence of real hardship in this writing is rather inexplicable. We have here a book around a battlefield, a book also written during genuinely difficult times, and yet there's no real sense of urgency or sacrifice or injustice of living. Dry history combined with shallow fiction. It's escapism at its best, but literature of the weakest sort. Yet in order to be escapism for people like myself, a book needs to be slightly relatable. History presented as archaic stories does nothing for me. Fiction full of shallow obsessions that aren't social commentary does nothing for me. It's not escapism for me, it's not reality for me, it's not literature, and it only passingly involves history.
And there's the crux of it all: this book wasn't written for me. In the Author's Note, Heyer says this book was an ambition of hers. Of hers alone. Something to do for herself. Suddenly, we have a woman in the 1930s who disregards all that's going on around her to fulfill her own damn desire. And suddenly, I have more respect for Heyer the woman than Heyer the author. Her book is not a success in literature, but a success for herself. I suppose that's something.
Note: It has been suggested that I give this book five out of five stars if it contains mention of time-travelling cats from the future. Unfortunately, Heyer once again falls short. I withhold a star rating.
