The Confusion, by Neal Stephenson

In this second of Stephenson’s Baroque cycle of novels, the author continues his story of Jack Shaftoe and his new buddies, all of them slaves, and Eliza, his companion and lover from Volume One.  The Confusion, published in 2004, opens with Jack and his friends as prisoners of the Berbers in Algiers in 1689. Then shifts, in its dual focus, to Eliza maneuvering herself into the court of French King Louis XIV. These alternating scenes begin with Jack freeing himself from captivity with a thrilling move from being a galley slave to capturing a ship whose presumed treasure of silver from Spanish America miraculously turning into gold. It is an ironic metaphor for the alchemy that fascinates not a few historic characters that fill this volume.

Meanwhile Eliza inveigles herself as a double-agent into the complicated politics of the French court. Which becomes more complicated when she plots to turn paper notes into silver coins for French invaders to spend when invading England. How the invasion’s potential failure, which she hopes for, also brightens Eliza’s financial success is, however, difficult to follow. Indeed, the author is more fascinated than I by this blend of politics and finances.

Not to be ignored is the considerable research behind the vivid recreation of these scenes from the past. Which includes the interaction among the author’s fictional characters and actual historic figures, like the intellectuals Isaac Newton and Gottfried Leibniz. But more than in Stephenson’s Volume One, this is a fictional story woven through history, rather than one guided by history. It is also a story of the Enlightenment era, which prompts reverberations between its moment of fictional history that explores the development of mathematics and our current era in which the development of mathematics has evolved into our computer age.

Also of note is the author’s apparent delight in the use of language. This becomes obvious when he focuses on the swashbuckling adventures of Jack, first as he steals the new-found gold from a business partner of Eliza, then escapes by ship across the Mediterranean and survives an ambush in Cairo. Where, incidentally, he kills the father of the man Eliza has been forced to marry back in France. After we visit Eliza again—who is both seeking her illegitimate son, kidnapped by an enemy banker, and plotting to foil the French invasion of England—we find that Jack, unwelcome by the powers in Europe, is now penniless in India. Because a pirate queen has stolen his team’s gold, and he is surviving by donating blood to insects (don’t ask) in a hospital for birds and animals. The scene is gruesome, absurd, and presumably appeals to those with a sick sense of humor.

But it leads to another intricate plot in India, in which Jack and his buddies open up a trade route controlled by mercenaries. They do this by boiling camel dung and human urine to create phosphorous, and wearing the phosphorous at night to terrify the mercenaries. Jack is rewarded with a brief kingship, during which he constructs a great ship of teak, the Minerva, using gold re-invested by the pirate queen. And this soon puts our heroes, and the reader, on the road to the East. Many such scenes, whether in Cairo, India, France, or Germany, reflect the author’s endless fascination with finding new stories to dramatize his blend of history, adventure, and science.

Whereupon, we return to London, and to the Daniel Waterhouse whom we had met on the opening pages of the first volume. It is now two or so decades earlier than that opening, and Daniel is involved with long, impenetrable discussions with John Locke, Isaac Newton, and Nicolas Fatio. Frustrated by England’s financial uncertainty, Daniel is now planning to depart for Massachusetts, hoping to turn the intellectuals’ mathematical speculations into a machine that will be a forerunner to today’s computers. Meanwhile, his intellectual friends are forming a Juncto to tackle English finances. All of which seems to provide no link to the stories of Jack or Eliza, until the Juncto recognizes a need to establish a Bank of England to foster English commerce, and they name Newton head of the London mint. Which, note, Jack will be commissioned to destroy in Volume Three.

Still another connection to Volume Three is a young woman named Caroline. She is the daughter of a Prussian friend of Eliza. She is fascinated by science and becomes a friend of Leibniz. Indeed, it is this Caroline who has opened Volume One by urging Daniel Waterhouse to return from Massachusetts to Europe in order to resolve a scientific dispute between Isaac Newton and Leibniz.

This novel seems to be properly entitled, The Confusion. Not least, as Stephen Metcalf writes in the New York Times, because “we’re treated to endless levees, epistles, political-economical-metaphysical discursions, and Stephenson’s favorite, conspiracies.” Or as the book jacket says: “A great adventure ensues, rife with battles, chases, hairbreadth escapes, swashbuckling, bloodletting, and danger…that will place the intrepid band at odds with the mighty and the mad, with alchemists, Jesuits, great navies, pirate queens, and vengeful despots across vast oceans. Meanwhile, back in Europe…”

…We join Eliza, who is traveling into Germany to visit Herr Leibnitz in Leipzig but also her kidnapped son. To keep in touch in the 1690s, however, communication is by letter, even coded at times, and her constant communications with naval pirate Jean Burk and other officers, diplomats, financiers, and court figures allows the author to condense such financial maneuvering, still confusing, into summary reports, rather than having to dramatize such maneuvers at length. This is an easy way to cover a lot of ground, but its cumulative plotting is at the expense of clarification.

The remaining drama of the volume focuses on Jack Shaftoe. First, he heads south toward the tip of what is now India. Along the way, he is fascinated by the creation of Damascus steel. Or is it the author who is fascinated by still another blend of invention and history?

Stephenson continues here to be exercising his imagination rather than his intellect, changing the political, cultural, and/or physical setting in order to sustain our interest. For example, Jack enters a region dominated by a female pirate warrior, but their friendship has unexpected limitations. He then encounters a Japanese Jesuit, whose history he learns. Thus, there are few connecting links, little logical development from one story or confrontation or setting to the next. Except, some of those confrontations, such as the queen challenging him to swim with crocodiles, are dramatically powerful.

The Japanese Jesuit seems to be introduced in order that Jack’s new ship, the Minerva, might take our heroes back to Europe, via Japan. Jack is aboard, of course, with many of his ex-slave companions, all sailing under Captain van Hoek, a Dutchman. In Japan, they trade Indian goods for mercury (quicksilver), which is needed in the Mexican silver mines. They make an adventurous escape from a Japanese harbor, and enter an even greater adventure, beautifully described, of crossing the Pacific. They do so by following a wealthy Spanish galleon, which founders and sinks, leading to the rescue of a Jansenist priest and a court lady.

Both these characters will betray Jack in what is supposed to be a final twist—as will also one of his own companions. But the betrayals are unconvincing, more betrayals by the author of the reader, by pulling these surprises out of thin air. It is part of a final effect that puts Jack in severe jeopardy, before he is saved and commissioned to undertake a new mission that will be told in Volume Three.

Reviewer Andrew Leonard sums up in Salon the broad itinerary of his hero’s adventures: “Jack spends quality time bouncing around the Mediterranean, stealing gold in Cairo, laboring as both a peon and a king in India, gallivanting in Japan and the Philippines, and being imprisoned in Mexico. Our boy, Jack, gets around.” While Eliza: “is immersed in French court intrigue and experimenting with the new forms of finance that are maturing….Stephenson is as fascinated with the evolution of the concept and practice of ‘credit’ as he is with the sword-and-piracy shenanigans of Jack. And he is equally fanciful in his treatment of both.”

Stephenson blends bulldog research and a rich imagination, and combines them to create fascinating set-pieces—from palace and financial intrigue to naval battles, smallpox, hurricanes, and swimming with those crocodiles. But because of a lack of linkage, such scenes betray a failure of authorial discipline, at the expense of an integrated whole. As if the author is more intent on dreaming up enough drama to fill 800 pages than on bringing his story and his characters together, and satisfying the reader emotionally.

My reaction to this volume is quite different from my reaction to Volume One. I think this may be because the adventures here are strictly fictional. They have a basis in history, but the historic figures do not control this book, the fictional ones do. But also different because the author seems more interested in introducing new drama than in tying his dramatic scenes together. For example, the linkage between Jack Shaftoe and Eliza is close in the first volume, while here they live their separate lives throughout the novel. Nevertheless, I am still interested in Volume Three. I only hope it is more concentrated both geographically and thematically. (April, 2017)

Bring Up the Bodies, by Hilary Mantel

The reader is immediately eased into this 2013 successor to Mantel’s earlier novel, Wolf Hall, this world of Henry VIII, Thomas Cromwell, and the new queen Anne Boleyn. As they discuss the complicated era in which they live, we enter a world of politics, personal rivalries, religious issues, and international relations. And it involves up to 70 historical figures, which are, fortunately, listed in five pages at the beginning of the novel—to which one must refer constantly.

First, we meet the King and Thomas Cromwell on a visit to Wolf Hall, the family home of the Seymour family. They toy with and debate each other over the ordinary issues confronting both themselves and the kingdom, and we listen like a fly on the wall. Then we get closer to Cromwell on a trip into the heart of England that gives us another feel of the era. During all of this, we observe Henry’s concern for succession and the future of his reign. This involves Lady Katherine, the king’s ex-wife who is dying, her daughter Mary (Queen of Scots), Anne’s daughter Elizabeth, almost a baby, and Henry’s desire to have a son as a successor.

We also witness the waning influence of Anne, her denial of it, the King’s early interest in Jane Seymour, and Cromwell’s trying to balance his own interests with those of the King. Should the possible future queen, Mary, be allowed to visit her ill mother? Should Katherine be comforted by visits from friendly emissaries from Europe? Can Cromwell display human sympathy for her and also be loyal to his King’s political needs? And how can he serve the king while acknowledging Queen Anne’s determined use of her waning power—a queen Cromwell himself detests.

But after this absorbing beginning, the book slows down, and is filled with maneuvering. This is when Cromwell agrees to help Henry replace Anne with Jane Seymour. Anne is determine to hang onto her power, and particularly warns Cromwell not to oppose her. Meanwhile, the Seymour family, aware of Henry’s fascination with Jane, joins forces with a former regime, which includes Catholics, to regain power. Henry himself is concerned mainly with having a son, which he determines Anne cannot give him. And Cromwell, who depends on Henry for his power and who despises Anne, must maneuver carefully if he is to betray Anne but not betray Henry.

As a result, there is considerable talk, as the various plotters seek out each other’s positions, each other’s goals, and plan their own strategy. But there is little forward movement, little action that prompts a reaction. The talk itself is interesting, and the revelations about each character are interesting, but it is mainly Cromwell trying to out maneuver others, and meeting little resistance. In the end, there is only occasional drama.

There is a moment of drama when Anne is arrested—her denials, her acceptance of her fate—and taken to the Tower of London. There is another when Henry is frustrated that the case has not been made about Anne’s adultery, and he rails against Cromwell, threatening him if he fails to make the case. There are also brief references to Cromwell working too much with those of the former regime in order to please Henry and take down Anne—and the suggestion that they will betray him when they no longer need him.

But the main concern of Cromwell as the book moves toward the end is to make the case against Anne, that she committed adultery with various men, and that this is treason—for which she can be executed. And so Cromwell conducts a series of interviews with her suspected lovers. One interview with an innocent musician, Mark, has a moment of drama, as Cromwell browbeats him psychologically until he breaks down. (One review says the scene recalls the McCarthy era and its red-hunting.) The other interviews are fascinating in themselves, as Cromwell tries to get each man (McCarthy-like?) to confess to adultery with Anne. But conversation is conversation; it is not action, as intellectually interesting as it may be. So while Cromwell believes he is successfully building his case, there are no substantial confrontations between equals that cause a new effect. It is more intellectual dueling.

One might note, in passing, that Mantel in this novel has recognized one criticism of her earlier novel. And so here she identifies her hero, when it is not clear that the “he” she is referring to is Cromwell. Another stylistic note is that again she writes this novel in the present tense. And, again, it does not concern me, even helping to achieve an immediacy for a content that, as I said, is often more an intellectual debate than a dramatic confrontation. Note, in fact, that the word “bodies” in the title refers to the prisoners, for, as they are about to be brought before the authorities, they are already being considered as guilty and executed.

If I am less taken by this novel than by Wolf Hall, I think it may be because that novel was about Henry separating himself from the Catholic Church, whereas this novel is about him separating himself from Anne, his wife. The former has far broader political, philosophical, and religious implications, while this separation is purely a personal one. Henry was once fascinated by, but now cannot stand, Anne. And his new emotional whim for a non-descript Jane Seymour has for me far less impact than duels with cardinals, popes, and a future saint. Whereas with Wolf Hall, I was interested in Henry, in his supposedly desperate motivation, why he was doing what he was doing, he has now turned into a typical shallow husband, claiming he wants to have a son but perhaps simply seeking a fresh woman for his bed. And the interest here moves primarily to Thomas Cromwell.

For her ending, Mantel makes the interesting decision of omitting any account of the trial of the four condemned men or of Anne herself. Perhaps because she sensed that after Cromwell’s individual confrontations with these men, nothing new remained about their situation or their denials that could be introduced at their trial. For her dramatic ending, she chose, instead, to describe in detail the execution of Anne, and it is, indeed, a powerful scene. And what she leaves us with, on the final pages, is a public suspicion of Cromwell in some quarters—that “if this is what Cromwell does to the cardinal’s lesser enemies, what will he do by and by to the king himself?” Presumably, it is a foreshadowing of the novel to come.

The major creation of this novel is, of course, Cromwell. It is Cromwell, not Henry, who drives this book, who creates guilt for men who may or may not be guilty. But who overpowers them with his wit and his intelligence. Just as he understands and anticipates Henry’s every wish, so does he the reactions of these possibly innocent men, an innocence of history’s merely rumored trysts with Anne. James Wood in the New Yorker sums up Cromwell concisely: “brutal, worldly, reticent, practical, unsentimental but not without tenderness of a kind, Biblically literate but theologically uncommitted, freakishly self-confident but perilously low on friends.”

And Mantel, who is in full command of this novel, has herself chosen to draw a remarkable portrait of a man whom historians have often presented as a cruel, heartless, and selfish villain. Whereas, she sums up one description of him almost poetically; indeed, as one would an interesting hero: “His speech is low and rapid, his manner assured; he is at home in courtroom or waterfront, bishop’s palace or inn yard. He can draft a contract, train a falcon, draw a map, stop a street fight, furnish a house and fix a jury. He will quote you a nice point in the old authors, from Plato to Plautus and back again. He knows new poetry, and can say it in Italian. He works all hours, first up and last to bed.”

From now on, Henry’s story will likely become repetitive, as he seeks out new queens. Nor will his monumental ego any longer shake the world. It is Cromwell who will interest us now. We know from history that he will meet his fate in 1640, but we do not know how he will lose the power he has here. There are foreshadowings, yes; but how will it happen, since he is so intelligent, so clever, and so loyal to Henry? The third volume that Mantel has promised us reportedly will be called The Mirror and the Light. May its era be as richly presented as here, but may this new novel also probe the interior of a Cromwell now so sure of himself. May it probe his weaknesses, his second-guessing, and his doubts. And may it probe, above all, his conscience. (November, 2014)