On today's menu, the author of the immensely successful Flaubert's Parrot is serving a large, juicy slab of that ever-popular and often belittled genre, historical fiction. Esteemed British novelist Julian Barnes has returned, this time with more than a little dash of the eager detective novelist—Dan Kavanagh—whose identity he assumes from time to time. In his new novel Arthur & George, Barnes/Kavanagh embarks on a spelunking expedition in early 20th Century Britain. The treasures that await him there are considerable. With a grand flourish, he unveils a world defined by racism, class, and above all, by two men who are great in their own right. One is an unknown Birmingham solicitor, George Edalji, made famous by a miscarriage of justice. The other is much more famous, a paragon of the good old boys' values and the creator of Sherlock Holmes: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Both are historical figures, no less real than Irving Stone's Van Gogh. In his novel, Barnes takes the lives of these two British citizens and from them, creates a universe of breathtaking clarity and originality.

This universe is, above all, psychological; Barnes attempts to inhabit the minds of his Arthur and George. He is not interested in the exploits of Sherlock Holmes, or, for that matter, in George's publication, Railway Law for the "Man in the Train. " Instead, he is fascinated by Arthur the person, the figure who manhandles his way through life, determined to be much more than the creator of a fictional detective. Barnes's Arthur has boundless energy and infinite curiosity. In short, he is a professional meddler, dabbler and explorer (and a very successful one at that). This is a man who "thrived on action, on having an urgent plan to implement," whether it be joining the Society for Psychical Research or adopting the profession of Sportesmann extraordinaire.

Bounding from one project to the next in pursuit of adventure, he happens upon George, a middle-class man of Indian descent. George becomes the unwitting, unlikely and sometimes stubborn recipient of Arthur's energy. But George and Arthur are both vehicles for a greater purpose: Barnes's incisive and probing psychological investigation.

Barnes develops his characters' psychological blueprints along the line of their familial and societal upbringing. While Arthur pursues fame and glory on his allotted pages, George quietly grows up in the rural vicarage of his father. George is unassuming and far from ambitious, yet it is his experience that is singularly responsible for the novel's omnipresent theme of racism. He lives in a society permeated by racist attitudes that quickly determine the trajectory his life. The young George, unaware of his special status as a half-Parsi and half-Scot, guides the reader through his gradual awakening. This young man has been "brought up to believe in hard work, honesty, thrift, charity and love of family," and staunchly adheres to his status as a British citizen. But his mixed-race family is an anomaly in their working-class district, and is subject to increasingly violent hostility.

In the beginning, the issue of race is never confronted point-blank, but unfolds in subtle interactions and hinted prejudices. When the family begins receiving threatening letters, George's father responds by emphasizing the nobility of their Parsi heritage. The peripheral characters mention George's ethnicity in passing, but again, it is not the dominant factor in the Edaljis' lives.

When George is falsely convicted of maiming horses, however, these subtleties are discarded. A knight in shining armor arrives in the form of Arthur, who quickly mounts a full-fledged attack on racism. This is a deft move on the part of Barnes himself. His characters become all the more intriguing in the reversal of the obvious; Arthur, rather than George, recognizes and confronts racism. Barnes is a master of this sort of slight-of-hand, creating a multi-faceted and nuanced psychological landscape.

Barnes is at his best in his creation of the two distinct voices of Arthur and George, two worlds that circle each other and eventually collide, without suffering the loss of their respective characteristic qualities. These parallel worlds unfold in alternating chapters, most often entitled "George," "Arthur," or some combination of the two—a structure that effectively allows for the gradual expansion of both the story and the protagonists. The stomping grounds of the two historical figures are compelling, and convince the reader of their veracity and insight.

But this insight presents a problem of its own; the reader is constantly aware of the man playing with this universe and subtly adjusting the trajectory of one world to complement the orbit of the other. After all, the narrator slips in and out of the characters' minds with great facility, erasing the line between objective narrator and subjective character.

Furthermore, George and Arthur at times appear to be mouthpieces for Barnes's psychological views. George can seem a little too undemanding and willing to suffer—he comes to enjoy the daily routine of prison life—while Arthur isa little too much the quixotic crusader. Barnes is determined to stick to his carefully thought-out characterizations. The detail, consistency and vivacity of these portraits, however, compensate for the limited range of character.

This leads us to Barnes's treatment of the female sex. For a story so soundly grounded in this imperialist "man's world," Barnes attributes much of Arthur and George's psychological motivations to women. Where the men are somewhat simplistic, the women often appear as caricatures. Not bad for a mystery novel—Sir Arthur would probably have approved—but in this case, it is a little disappointing. There is Maud, the stoic sister who stands by George through thick and thin: "She was his source of hope, she would keep him from falling." Well, ok. A sister can perform this function. But then there's "The Mam," Arthur's mother. She is of the strong, resolute mother-type, a woman conducting an affair with a much younger man in the absence of her alcoholic husband. She is a woman who feeds Arthur on dreams of chivalry and knighthood—the woman Arthur lives to protect and please. Even his eventual love affair is conducted only after the approval of this fantastic figure. And Jean and Touie, Arthur's two love interests, are similarly limited in scope. Touie plays the role of the ever-suffering, meek and loving wife, and Jean, that of the younger woman who gives Arthur new life (or—gasp—could she be after his money?). George is lucky enough to escape romantic entanglement with any cardboard figures. If only the reader had similar good fortune.

Despite these limitations, Barnes's achievement is stunning. Consider his depiction of the times. While certainly not an expert on British society, historical or otherwise, I found Barnes's portrait or early 20 th Century England colorful and fascinating. The landscape he illuminates is enthralling, a land of men taking the 7:39 to New Street, while others are being seduced by both spiritism and British values. Barnes's sentences never degenerate into the statement of plain fact; they always bear the irrefutable seal of a master storyteller. History, mystery and relationships are all bound by a single thread—the singular and impressive style of Barnes the writer. And if the reader wishes that both Arthur and George would show a little more spunk—a little more rebellion against Barnes's clever manipulation—the richness of language and riveting historical story more than compensate. Barnes has succeeded in cracking a different sort of case from any Sherlock Holmes ever attempted to solve. He has discovered the code to turn-of-the-century Britain. It lies not in fact, but in psychology.

 

Kara Riopelle fondly remembers a time when she enjoyed the simple pleasures of a Sherlock Holmes story.