Jesse Freedman | 'To Feel Fiercely': Tradition, Heritage, and Nostalgia in English History | The History Teacher, 39.1

'To Feel Fiercely': Tradition, Heritage, and Nostalgia in English History

Jesse Freedman
Friends Select School

"And all times are one time, and all those dead in the past never lived before our definition gives them life, and out of the shadow their eyes implore us."

—Robert Penn Warren

"...Into a past linked to the present hour only by the continuity of memories."

—Anaïs Nin

IN THE SUMMER OF 2004, under the dreaming spires of Oxford's colleges and cathedrals, I posed the following question to five Englishmen and women: Is history a physical burden or is it, in effect, weightless?

My question, which owes much to the writing of Franco-Czech novelist, Milan Kundera, was meant to probe the relationship between my British interviewees and their nation's storied past. Indeed, even before posing my question, I had supposed that the responses which I would receive from my informants—an artist, an administrator, a teacher, a university student, and a porter—would differ in ways both profound and dramatic from those offered by a comparable group of Americans. Contributing to this supposition was my belief that Americans understand history to be weightless, and that our nation is underwhelmed as well as frequently unaware of the past. From my English interviewees, I was expecting—almost craving—blood, sweat, and tears as they discussed the epic drama which I have always believed to be English history. Yes, I wanted my interviewees—these five individuals with whom I worked, both directly and indirectly, while in Oxford—to reveal a preoccupation with the past, an obsession, an awareness entirely different and entirely more sincere than that of their American counterparts, about whom I could conjecture, but with whom I would not directly discuss these issues and questions. Ultimately, I had a fundamental suspicion that the English view history differently and more intimately than do Americans, and my goal was to uncover the roots of these contrasting approaches to the past.

Throughout the summer, which I spent as a residential advisor on an American teen program, English history assumed, as I suggest, an epic quality. And while the monumentality which I felt with regard to England's past was the product of the nation's immense historical continuum—a continuum, a timeline, which extends to the Roman occupation of the British Isles, and of which, I believed, the majority of English men and women would be both aware and proud—my sense for England's 'epic' past had much to do, at the same time, with the ability of this epic timeline, this entity which we call English history, to operate as a physical burden. Thus it was via my initial, Kundera-like question that I hoped my interviewees would confirm that I had not romanticized England's past, but that I had come to recognize—rather like the English—that history is a living thing, and that its restoration, its recovery, requires an appeal to the imagination. As one of my interviewees, Helen Post, a member of the Office of Student Information at one of Oxford's oldest women's colleges, Lady Margaret Hall, proclaimed: "people must feel fiercely about their history." I admired Helen for the courage and pride which her words revealed.

Like Helen, another of my interviewees, Brian Clack, a cerebral, bohemian teacher in his late-thirties, provided me with what appeared—initially, at least—to be a trove of erudite and particularly 'European' responses to my most immediate question. "History humbles you," said Brian as we walked through our home for the summer, Lady Margaret Hall. The past, he continued, with a pained smile, insists that each individual recognize the sense of "mutability" and "temporality" associated with life. Feelings of "pastness" and "history" are, as Brian suggested, hardly a function of age or time; they are, instead, a result of the individual's ability to "feel small," and thus admit that he or she is "part of something much bigger"—that he or she is part of English history.

Brian had given me exactly what I wanted to hear, and with it, I was reminded of the exchange between Tess Durbeyfield and Angel Clare in Thomas Hardy's famous late nineteenth-century novel:

    "Never mind about the lords and ladies. Would you like to take up any course of study—history, for example?"
    "Sometimes I feel I don't want to know anything more about it than I know already."
    "Why not?"
    "Because what's the use of learning that I am one of a long row only—finding out that there is set down in some old book somebody just like me, and to know that I shall only act her part; making me sad, that's all. The best is not to remember that your nature and past doings have been just like thousands' and thousands', and that your coming life and doings'll be like thousands' and thousands'."
    "What, really, then, you don't want to learn anything?"
    "I shouldn't mind learning why—why the sun do shine on the just and the unjust alike," she answered, with a slight quaver in her voice. "But that's what books will not tell me."

Brian continued with lofty references to work of Spengler, Nietzsche, and Wittgenstein, and thus imbued our discussion of English history with a weight, a sense of tangibility, which I had not encountered in my study of America's past. The weight of England's historical continuum fostered a subsequent discussion regarding, what I labeled, 'physical manifestations of the past.' This is to say: if we know that English history, unlike American history, spans millennia, and if we know, in addition, that certain figures and places existed, we must necessarily encounter the physical remains of these places and times, and we must wonder, then, as to the wonderful ability of history—itself an invisibility—to manifest itself today. "Yes, there is something distinctive and recognisable in English civilization," wrote Orwell. "It has a flavour of its own. Moreover it is continuous, it stretches into the future and the past, there is something in it that persists, as in a living creature." Soon, Brian and I were discussing the 'physicality' of history and, gradually, the capacity of humans to 'feel' the past and its undeniable momentum.

Interestingly, but perhaps not surprisingly, each of my interviewees referred to British imperialism as the primary contemporary example of this physical burden. Paul Saville, Artist in Residence at St. Clare's College, Oxford, and the director of the program for which I worked, smoked incessantly as he assured me that the physical dimension of English history manifests itself in the "collective guilt" now associated with the Empire's lasting effects on places such as South Africa and India. Like Paul, another of my interviewees, Jon McIntosh, a recent graduate of Cambridge University, and a kind, gregarious friend, told me of the "burden of guilt" linked with British imperialism. The weight of history is real, regardless, my interviewees reminded me, of whether past events are now considered morally reprehensible or not.

And while it seems clear that the effects of British imperialism are among the most striking examples of English history and its tangible manifestations, I was more interested, throughout my interviews, in posing questions pertaining to early English history and that mystical sentiment frequently evoked when studying the crucible of this history: the countryside. That I skirted a discussion of British imperialism should not, then, come as a surprise, for my goal was to access the past—the past prior to the American experience, the past of King Arthur, the past which, I supposed, overwhelmed the English and which generated intense feelings of having, as one of my interviewees stated, "years of history behind you."

Thus I posed a set of questions meant to uncover the relationship between the age of a nation and the ability—and willingness—of its people to remember. For while I desperately wanted to believe Paul when he argued that national age "enhances [collective] memory," I felt that my other interviewees, particularly Jon, might suggest otherwise. As I searched for clarification and, I hoped, confirmation of my initial suspicions regarding the power of an 'enhanced' national memory—one which allows members of a nation to 'feel' their past and its effects—the notion of historical weight returned. And as it did, I asked my interviewees to reflect upon a question which had preoccupied me throughout the summer. "Must a medieval castle or figure have more weight, more of that 'epic' feeling, than a recent historical site or personage, simply as a result of its age? That is, must William the Conqueror be considered more 'weighty' than Thomas Jefferson, solely because the historical experience of which he is a part outdates that of Jefferson by more than seven-hundred years?" While my goal in posing such questions may have appeared as intended to establish a hierarchy of histories, it was, in reality, an attempt to account for the different feelings which Americans and British experience when investigating the past. The responses of my interviewees soon led me to believe that differing conceptions of collective pride could account for this discrepancy. Gradually, it became clear that I would require a deeper understanding of the relationship between the historical site and national memory—for at the bottom of this relationship lay the essence of the Englishman's 'feelings' with regard to his nation's past.

Those archetypical medieval castles for which Britain is so famous function, said Brian, as "touchstones in [an] understanding of the English countryside." Indeed, the manicured dilapidation of English castles and historical sites—including, most notably, Stonehenge—"reinforce a feeling of rootedness" and they allow individuals to "place themselves in a tradition." Like Brian, my final interviewee, Barry Mowby, a brusque yet alluring porter at Lady Margaret Hall, characterized his immediate reaction to the archetypical castle as one of "curiosity." For Barry, Stonehenge generates "thoughts of imagination." The sense of wonder and curiosity associated with the historical imagination signaled, to my unabashed delight, an element of reverence for the past, and thus the capacity of the English people to actively and collectively remember.

If Brian and, to a certain extent, Barry and Helen, were willing to embrace the rarified air surrounding England's famous historical sites, Jon and Paul, two men separated by more than thirty years, appeared, to my surprise, rather unwilling to indulge in the mystical sentiment of which I had expected Englishmen to be proud. Jon and Paul both acknowledged the "atmosphere of history" associated with places like Westminster Abbey, Bath, and Shakespeare's home, Stratford-upon-Avon. Paul even went so far as to reference the "poignancy" of certain towns where historic preservation has become the locale's raison d'être. "We're not here to capture an image," noted American novelist, Don DeLillo, with regard to history and collective memory, "we're here," he wrote, "to maintain one." Despite a willingness to recognize the sense of history surrounding York or Cambridge, Bath or Stratford, Jon, like Paul, could not identify a mystical feeling after having viewed such historical sites, and I wondered if the absence of this mysticism implied a lack of reverence as well. "Castles function as huge sculptures," said Paul, but these sculptures, these weighty, DeLillo-inspired images, do not always engender the spirituality or mysticism which I, as an American student of history, had supposed.

Though Jon would not indulge in a sense of historical mysticism—or, what he might have called, historical romanticism—he proudly remarked that "everyday in [England], you will be reminded" of the past, and that "you will be reminded of the heritage" of which you, as an Englishman, are a part. Because this heritage, he continued, may be contained in the cobblestone road or the medieval church, Jon, like Brian, appeared to have located a sense of tradition within the larger context of history—and this, it seems to me, is a dynamic which, with the exception of the history associated with the Civil War, the American Revolution, and the bombing of Pearl Harbor, is largely removed from the contemporary American experience. "As the city is renewed each day," wrote Italian novelist, Italo Calvino, "it preserves all of itself in its own definite form: yesterday's sweepings piled up on the sweepings of the day before yesterday and all of its days and years and decades...[thus] submerging the city in its own past." The past overwhelms us, suggests Calvino, and we are constantly reminded of Orwell's "living creature": the English historical continuum.

Discussions regarding the significance of places like York and Stratford turned my mind to those American towns which serve as sites of historical memory as well. Consider, for instance, Gettysburg, Lexington, and Philadelphia. Do these towns emit 'historical feelings,' and, I wondered, do people living in places like Gettysburg remember differently, or more acutely, than their counterparts living in Tulsa, Los Angeles, or Bangor? The words of my interviewees seemed to suggest that the strength of the relationship between personal and collective memory, much like personal and collective history, is very much a function of pride and heritage. And if, as Barry declared with happiness and certainty, the preservation of English history and heritage has "united Great Britain under a common cause," we must wonder as to the presence of this 'cause' in the United States. Has history and, by extension, the heritage which it creates, imbued American cobblestone with a tangible sense of the past? Certainly, the battlefields of Gettysburg and Appomattox, much like the aging churches of Puritan New England, evoke in Americans a sense of history. But to what extent do Americans 'feel' this history? Is the American sense of the past as profound and, at times, tragic, as that which afflicts the Englishman?

This much, I knew:

My interviewees could identify an element of pride associated with the past, and though the specifics of this pride and its foundations remained vague, it seemed clear that British notions of tradition, heritage, and rootedness differ greatly from the same notions—be they comforts or burdens—in America. Surely, tradition, heritage, and rootedness exist in America, but not, it is increasingly my sense, on a national scale. Tradition is associated with elite colleges and winning athletic programs; rootedness is the stuff of the family tree as well as the more general quest to maintain a connection with the different cultures and lands from which we, as a nation of immigrants, have come. What, for instance, is the desired effect of museums dedicated to the American Revolution? Are these museums meant to evoke or elicit a sense of rootedness? Largely, I think not. They function as experiments in American pride—a pride which has little to do with collective rootedness. If the medieval castle ultimately functions, as Paul suggests, as a sculpture, might it also serve as a museum, and might this museum further contribute to England's tradition of tradition? Architecture, buildings, and castles always, said Brian, "express some kind of aspiration to transcend our limitations." With some two thousand years of history behind it, England now witnesses its tradition, its heritage, transcend time.

Paul's comments, much like those of Jon, gradually made me wonder, however, whether my small pool of interviewees—and, by extension, the English more generally—were as preoccupied with their history as I had initially supposed. For as I reviewed my notes, it became clear that the rootedness and pride which I felt the English would associate with their past was, in many cases, more accurately described as an understanding or interest in a particular historical episode. The English love their past; indeed, they are, as Barry reminded me, "a little bit smug that [they have] had all that history." Yet a complete understanding of this "small island," as Helen described it, is not as simple as it may appear. Whereas a 'total' understanding of American history is possible because of the nation's relative youth, an understanding of English history—according to many of my interviewees—must be restricted to particular episodes. There is, said Jon, a "selective" component of English history, and the English thus derive a sense of pride and accomplishment from their episodic understanding of the past. After all, said Paul, "it's very hard to imagine England young."

If the immensity of their history has forced the English to focus on particular historical episodes so as to claim that they do, in fact, 'know the past,' it stands to reason that the episodes which are known are known quite well. The Victorian and medieval eras of English history have always fascinated popular audiences, and thus the castles, tea rooms, and pubs for which England is now famous function, to a certain extent, as living memorials, as public commemorations of the past. "Popular imagery paints a picture which is actually not true," said Paul with regard to John Constable's depiction of the nineteenth-century English countryside, and I found myself applying his words to contemporary manifestations of England's past.

That places in England, including Oxford, are, as one of my interviewees noted, literally "drenched in history," suggests that the English may be—for better or for worse—a complacent people, a people willing to rest on their laurels and the enormity of their history. Yes, the people of England are, at times, living a "late-life," said Brian; they are cynical with regard to change and are distanced from America's "vibrance of youth." The sense that the past is 'better,' and that it may function as a bottomless well of pride, contributes, I learned, to notions of collective identity in England—a nation which is, admittedly, more homogenous than the United States. Nevertheless, English culture, wrote Orwell in 1941, is one of "solid breakfasts and gloomy Sundays, smoky towns and winding roads, green fields and red pillar-boxes." A pleasant image, indeed.

Complacency, however, increasingly struck me—as well as my interviewees—as the wrong word for the English, for such a characterization would seem to imply indolence, and English pride, particularly with regard to the past, is the result of an active collective imagination. Englishmen recognize the potential for history and historical studies to function as a form of escape, and while some, including John and Paul, reluctantly embrace this sense of escape, its presence suggests that the English are not complacent as much as they are nostalgic. Ultimately, it was this word, this characterization, which unlocked many of the distinctions between American and English history as well as between the American and English people.

Nostalgia implies pride. And in Britain, the source of this pride appears wedded to simple, serene, select images from the nation's past. Orwell's depiction of English history, like those of Constable, Turner, Locke, and Churchill evoke in the Englishman a reverence for the historical continuum of which he and his family imagine themselves to be—and to have been—a part. Nostalgia implies a conditional existence—the English, as Paul suggested, "would like to believe" that the Arthurian past "was true." It is the historical imagination that allows the Englishman, in his nostalgia, to recover those episodes which, in the past, brought the nation pride and shame, honor and disgrace. Nostalgia functions not as a desire to reclaim the past—but rather, as a desire to reclaim those elements which contributed, slowly and deliberately, in both positive and negative ways, to what is now known as 'the past.' Englishmen admire the Victorian Era and the age of the early Wessex kings, but the medieval coat of arms, much like the Victorian novel, is only a small part in a larger force, a larger entity, most aptly characterized as England.

Notions of English nostalgia allowed me to return, once more, to America's relationship with its past, and I found myself wondering if Americans are a nostalgic people. Do we long for the past? Do we experience collective nostalgia, and if we do, what are its roots?

My sense, particularly after having spent a summer in a town which so actively embraces its past, is that Americans rarely exhibit an overt preoccupation with their collective past—indeed, the very notion of a 'collective' American experience is, itself, a challenging one. Contemporary American nostalgia is largely confined to an appreciation, it seems, of those eras during which American citizens most actively embraced democracy. We, as Americans, are a proud people, but our pride, particularly as it pertains to our history, may be understood, as one of my interviewees noted, as rather "superficial." Much—but certainly not all—of the American historical experience is without collective suffering, and thus our pride, which is the product, Helen reminded me, of the good and the bad, suffers as well. History exists not despite poverty; "poverty," remarked Helen, "is the history," and to "shy away from events in the past" is to ignore those conditions which contributed to the construction of contemporary pride and identity.

Ultimately, it is democracy which transcends time in America. This is the force which propels our history and which defines our collective aspirations. We have a tradition of democracy and this, I think, is a tradition profoundly different from one in which it is the history, itself, which transcends time. What we would recreate in America today is part of a continuum, but it is a continuum dedicated to the perfection of this thing we call democracy, this complicated—and at times divisive—idea which continues to follow its own embattled trajectory. The unraveling of this continuum does not inspire nostalgia, however, for it is—politics aside—democracy which we enjoy today and democracy upon which this nation was founded more than two hundred years ago.

It is, wrote the Nobel Laureate Czeslaw Milosz, as if in the "pools of history" a "corroded surface will mirror a face different from the one you expected." I had anticipated that the English would exhibit an unyielding love for their past, and when I searched the 'pools' of their history, I found, to my surprise, a selective, sometimes tempered, love. The mysticism which I associated—and which I continue to associate—with English history is best described as a response to English nostalgia, which, I learned, exists in that critical space between reverence for the past and the act of romanticizing it.

If, in the future, Americans become a nostalgic people, will they crave the era in which we now live? Perhaps, if the answer to this question is yes, we will know that we have 'made history,' and that we have incorporated our own time into the larger continuum of America's past. For if Americans become a nostalgic people, the nation's history will have been endowed with a profound sense of weight, and Americans will, for the first time, ask themselves whether 'a lot' of history is more to know, or simply more to forget.

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'To Feel Fiercely': Tradition, Heritage, and Nostalgia in English History

Jesse FreedmanFriends Select School

Jesse Freedman
Friends Select School