Lady Jane Grey: An Historical Tale
Instead of hanging about with Victorian religious fiction, let's briefly amble through the not-so-sacred halls of late-eighteenth-century pop fiction--the output of the Minerva Press, to be more precise, a publisher not commonly associated with high quality literature. The novel of the day is Lady Jane Grey: An Historical Tale (2 vols., 1791) [1], one of the handful of Reformation-era historical fictions predating Sir Walter Scott's duology The Monastery and The Abbot (both 1820). In all honesty, this novel will get about a sentence in the final version of Book Two (Sophia Lee's The Recess [1783], which we know interested Scott, gets far more space), but it may help clarify what makes my religious historical novels different from all other novels (or most other novels).
First, the plot. (Such as it is.) Lady Jane Grey is an epistolary novel, with the bulk of the epistles passing back and forth between Lady Jane (who needs no introduction), Lady Anne Grey (an invented cousin), and Lady Laurana(a fictional Catholic prisoner in the Tower, released by Queen Jane). Jane's fate, as one might expect, falls under the heading of "foregone conclusion." (Her terminally naive and self-sacrificing goodness reminds us that the Victorians weren't the only ones who found her an "appealing symbol of feminine powerlessness" [2].) Laurana's life, however, offers a corrective parallel: she falls in love with a neighboring Catholic prisoner, Courtney, who after being released is elevated to the status of Earl of Devonshire; Mary, however, thinks inconveniently Lustful Thoughts about the newly-made Earl, which makes it expedient for him to exit (whether or not pursued by a bear). The somewhat-besieged Elizabeth is not, alas, much better, so he abandons England and the momentary allures of the Evil CourtTM for a life on the Continent with Laurana. Laurana's epistles, meanwhile, contain an inset narrative about her Miraculously-Discovered Cousin Clara, who enters a convent after the Evil Machinationsadditional TM of her beloved's father ultimately lead to her husband committing suicide in a fit of pique (this, needless to say, being a remarkably inconvenient outcome). Luckily, Laurana and the Earl manage to refrain from self-termination, and they live happily ever after, along with Anne and her father, who have managed to escape the perils of Marian England.
Now, despite the background, this novel has virtually nothing to say about religion. It has plenty to say about Evil Catholicsone more TM, but if a Klingon unacquainted with the niceties of Christian theology read the novel (presumably after several bouts of blood wine), he would be none the wiser about what a "Catholic" was, let alone a "Protestant." No Eucharistic controversies, no angst about the Pope, no grumbling about "tradition." We're into volume II before somebody utters the words "I would not have the Scriptures of truth concealed from me in a language I did not understand, but with them in my hand, I would pray for enlightened grace to understand them aright" (II.67). Later, Laurana announces that her conversion is largely thanks to "an English bible which was lent me" (II.130). The only substantive difference between Protestant and Catholic, as far as the narrative is concerned, lies in sola scriptura and, concomitantly, the right to a vernacular Bible; we hear nothing else about theological or liturgical topics, let alone debates. At the same time, the narrative enshrines Bible-reading as the primary means of conversion, albeit in the context of consultation with Protestant clergy--although, again, Laurana can't be bothered to tell us what she discussed. (The Recess used a similar strategy: the twin heroines, secret daughters of Mary, Queen of Scots, convert to Protestantism at some point, but it's not even possible to pinpoint when or why that happens.) Conversion neither provides the turning point of the narrative, as it will in Victorian religious historical fiction, nor constitutes a change with an actual difference.
Moreover, the novels to which I've usually subjected my innocent readers foreground controversy. Characters name and debate theological hot-button topics of the day, marshal their prooftexts, supply purportedly telling quotations from this author or that; there are trial scenes (themselves lifted from martyrology conventions), sermons, Biblical exegeses. Controversial novels often act like portable mini-archives, useful repositories of data points with which to whack one's opponents. For that reason, plots tend to be about the practical consequences of dogma unfolding in time and space. As a result, controversial novels tend to provide no leeway for discussions of toleration--in fact, toleration tends to be a dirty word. Lady Jane Grey, however, anticipates Walter Scott in being ostentatiously, if not actually, evenhanded. Laurana, after all, has been in the Tower because "her crime was an adherence to her religion, which was the Catholic" (I.118); as she points out to Lady Anne, under Edward's reign, "the spirit of persecution was very prevalent even among Protestants, although they greatly condemned the Catholics for it" (I.122). Once the Marian persecutions begin, Lady Anne concedes Laurana's point (II.68), and decries "persecution" in general--and yet, the novel contrasts Lady Jane's authentic but necessarily short-lived commitment to "liberty of person and conscience to all" (I.147) and Mary's similar, and similarly short-lived, commitment, which ends because of her Catholic prejudices (whatever they rest in). Differences of Protestant and Catholic thus emerge at the level of character, rather than stated beliefs. In the end, the novel has nothing good to say about anything related to Catholicism as a religion--even Laurana dislikes convents--and implies that Catholic persecution is innate, whereas the Protestant variety is merely contingent.
Despite the actual plot, the novel manages a relatively happy ending, thanks to its emphasis on a virtuous, romantic retirement over the quest for worldly wealth. Lady Jane's parents were happy and loving, but fatally marred by their yearning for power. Jane and Guildford Dudley were also happy and loving, but (thanks to an unsourced quotation from David Hume masquerading as an eye-witness report) Jane blames herself for not resisting the allure of the Evil CourtTM. By contrast, the converted Laurana and Devonshire, along with Lady Anne, wind up secretly retreating to the French countryside (at least, that's what they seem to be doing...), there to live perfectly private lives in exile. In a sense, Laurana and Devonshire transcend Jane and Guildford by rejecting their political trajectory; the good life is the silent life. It's notable, though, that the novel does not end with what I've called the "Elizabeth ex machina," in which Elizabeth I's accession miraculously ends persecution and reverses the plot's swing toward martyrdom. Instead, the novel leaves us hanging in the midst of the Marian persecutions, adding a hint of uncertainty to the characters' futures.
[1] Some of the letters were actually reprinted as real just a few years ago; see here for more information.
[2] Billie Melman, The Culture of History: English Uses of the Past, 1800-1953 (Oxford: Oxford UP, 2006), 166.