The term "historical novel" awakens some awkward connotations nowadays. We think of the Count of Monte Christo, of Ben-Hur, of various historical films; we picture adventure, intrigue, costumes, heavy swaths of bright colors, overly theatrical language, a mixture of politics and love, and the reduction of great events to the level of petty individual emotions.

Social and political considerations do their part to discredit this class of novel even further. An author who sets about to depict events of the past that have run their course is suspected of wishing to avoid the problems of the present day, of being in other words a reactionary. From depicting the past, so goes the suspicion, it is a short step to glorifying the past. In truth, many of today's historical novels offer nothing but more or less cleverly constructed images in exaggerated colors which are intended to entertain and distract the reader from the needs of the present by singing the praises of a past that is fuller, brighter and better.

For my part, I admit to loving historical novels with a passion. I do understand the prejudice against this form of literature, but it is a prejudice. Ever since my youth it has disturbed me that of the literary works that survived their own epoch, so many dealt with historical rather than contemporary subjects. Homer, to take an example, desires the creation of a dictatorship and wishes that the Greeks might have a strong central government. But he gives shape to this longing not by criticizing contemporary conditions, but rather by depicting the catastrophe that arose centuries earlier from disputes among the self-seeking princes in Greece; and he lets a king who died in antiquity give voice to his demands. The tragic playwright Aeschylus desires to reform Athenian judicial procedures. To achieve this purpose he depicts the legendary actions of a man named Orestes in ancient times and the dispute among the gods and men to resolve them in court. All of the surviving Greek tragedies with a single exception are transplanted into a remote, mythological era. Likewise, the authors of the New Testament, whenever they expect something new or revolutionary from their contemporaries, set their thoughts in motion by writing history, historical novels, in order to draw forth their arguments from a carefully arranged view of the past. The authors of the four Gospels unquestionably saw themselves as heralds of new and revolutionary truths; still they called upon events of some sixty to ninety years earlier to justify these truths. If ever an epoch considered itself revolutionary, it was the Renaissance: of the stories told by the leading Italian writers, a great many are placed in the past as are nearly all of Shakespeare's dramas.

I have often studied the great and established historical works of literature from this point of view, asking myself whether they present history or mythology for their own sake, whether their authors were enticed by colorful costumes and settings, and whether they intended to give shape to contemporary or historical subject matter. In every case I have come to the conclusion that the artist had no other intention than to give expression to his own (contemporary) attitudes and a subjective (but in no sense historical) view of the world, and to do so in a way that these could be perceived directly by the reader. Whenever he chose to use historical wrappings, it was for the purpose of elevating the subject out of the personal and private realm in order to set it on a platform and achieve a degree of distance. Tolstoy when creating War and Peace did not wish to write a history of the Napoleonic campaigns but rather wanted to present his (contemporary) ideas on the subject of war and peace, while August Strindberg in writing his historical dramas and sketches without a doubt wished only to present himself, his era, his ideas, no less than in his autobiographical novels. When these two authors place a temporal distance in front of their characters and ideas, it is surely for the sake of improving our perspective according to the principle that it is easier to recognize the shape of a mountain range from a distance than when you are in the midst of the mountains themselves.

This brings us to the answer to the first of the two questions that the author of historical novels is repeatedly asked. This question is: if your content is contemporary, why don't you select contemporary subjects instead of subjects from the past?

Permit me to answer this question based on my own experience as an author. I have written both contemporary novels and historical ones. After closely examining my conscience, I venture to state that in my historical novels I intended the content to be just as modern and up-to-date as in the contemporary ones. It never occurred to me to write about history for its own sake; costume and historic trappings have only been a means of stylization, a means of achieving an illusion of reality in the simplest way. Other writers may place their conceptions at a greater spatial distance, perhaps in some exotic locale, in order to set them off with greater clarity; I for the same purpose have removed mine to a certain distance in time: that is the only difference.

I cannot imagine that a serious novelist, when working with historical subject matter, could ever regard historical facts as anything other than a means of achieving distance, as a metaphor, in order to render his own feelings, his own era, his own philosophy, and himself as accurately as possible.

Both positive and negative motives interact whenever I find myself induced to place contemporary subject matter in historic raiments. Sometimes I fail. If I attempt to arbitrarily stylize parts of my plot, they remain what they are; if I leave them in contemporary dress, they remain at the level of a simple account, a suggestion, a passing thought and do not develop into an image. Or when I work with the present, I feel the lack of any conclusion. Things remain in flux; assuming that a series of events in the present is concluded, and to what extent, remains arbitrary, and any ending I might write seems to be a random act. In depicting present-day conditions I have the uncomfortable feeling that a frame is needed; it is like a rare aroma that escapes and evaporates when we cannot replace the stopper in the bottle. Add to this that our restless times hasten to turn every form of the present into the past, so that if today's world is to become history in only five years, why should I not be free to choose a world as far in the past as I wish in order to give expression to a subject I hope will still be alive in five years? There are times, too, when I fear that if I work with contemporary persons and events, I might not be able to keep them free of the shadows of trivial and petty personal concerns and thus sacrifice the equilibrium that is the prerequisite of any work of art.

Years ago I set out to show the path of a man from deed to indolence, from action to contemplation. I was tempted to demonstrate this idea using a contemporary figure; that of Walter Rathenau. I tried and failed. I moved the subject back two hundred years and described the path of the Jew Josef Süss Oppenheimer. In so doing I came much closer to my goal.

One topic that has deeply moved me as long as I can remember is the conflict between nationalism and internationalism in the heart of a single individual. If I were to tackle this theme in the form of a contemporary novel, I fear my presentation might be overshadowed and contaminated by personal grudges and resentment. I chose therefore to transplant this conflict into the soul of a man, the Jewish historian Flavius Josephus, who, it appeared to me, had experienced it in the same way as so many do today, with the difference that he did so 1860 years ago.

I hope I have retained the peace of mind to judge things fairly; still I believe I can do a convincing job of depicting the persons who-1870 years ago-put the torch to various central buildings in Nero's Rome, poor, foolish implements of the feudalists and militarists of their day that they were, and indeed do a more convincing job of it that I could of describing the people who two years ago set fire to the Reichstag in Berlin, poor, foolish tools that they were of the feudalists and militarists of our own era.

This, then to the first of the two questions. The second question which our kind encounter again and again is this: if a reader is so interested in the past, in history, would he or she not be better off to reach for a precise, scholarly presentation instead of the fictional construct of a novelist?

Well, the reader in search of instruction and information from a historical novel is falling into the same error as an author who might try to compete with a historian. What is a historian, anyway? It is someone who uses facts to record the development of humanity. The author of the historical novel, however, as we have seen, has no such goal in mind, but rather a portrayal of himself and his view of the world. There exists, I am suggesting, between the conscientious author of historical novels and the conscientious historian the same difference that exists between a composer on the one hand and a researcher into the problems of acoustics. Asking the author of historical novels to teach you about history is like expecting the composer of a melody to provide answers about radio transmission.

I have always made an effort to render every detail of my reality with the greatest accuracy; but I have never paid attention to whether my presentation of historical facts was an exact one. Indeed, I have often altered evidence which I knew to be documented if it appeared to interfere with my intended effect. Contrary to the scientist, the author of historical novels has the right to choose a lie that enhances illusion over a reality that distracts from it. Hindenburg scolded the artist who painted his portrait for incorrectly reproducing the buttons on his uniform: the painter Liebermann had different views on portraiture. It is not difficult to demonstrate that Homer, the authors of the Bible, Shakespeare, and countless other writers of historical works down to the present day have been surprisingly bold and cavalier in their handling of documented reality.

Success proves their case. Their books, their imaginary legends, epics, dramas, novels, their invented characters and deeds, their "lies" turn out to have more life in them than the facts which scholars have faithfully passed along with the aid of all the material they have critically sifted and sorted through. That contemporary of the Maccabees who made up the story of Queen Esther has had a greater influence in the long run than the historians who chronicled the facts of the rebuilding of the Jewish national state. For most people even today , the imaginary figure of Haman is a much more vital and viable enemy of this same national state than the real King Antiochus who provided the historical model. Perhaps 500 persons apart from myself know that the prototype of Landvogt Gessler was a certain feudal official by the name of Peter von Hagenbach, a discovery that has not yielded anyone any benefits besides the ten pounds Sterling I received for writing the article in which I revealed this discovery of mine. Everyone, however, knows the imaginary figure of William Tell, whose familiarity has had all sorts of tangible consequences. In most cases, a good legend or a good historical novel is more believable, gives a truer picture, is livelier and more suggestive than a precise rendering of historical facts.

I should add that it is open to debate whether what we call the writing of history these days is truly scientific. This is not to minimize the historian, who, armed with the facts and Hegel's philosophy, attempts to discover fundamentals and rules for human development. But would someone who gathers historical data according to a different system be able to make the same scientific claims? However he sorts his materials, does he not by the very way he arranges facts yield up a subjective view of history?-Is he not at best producing art? That old skeptic Talleyrand summed up his experience in a single sentence: "Nothing is easier to arrange than the facts." And Lytton Strachey came up with the happy formulation: It is obvious that history is nothing more than the combination of accumulated facts. If these facts are assembled without artistry, however, the result is no more history than butter, eggs and parsley can claim to be an omelette.

To the extent that the writing of history is an art, it is inconceivable without the principles enunciated by Friedrich Nietzsche. In his book, Untimely Thoughts on the Uses and Disadvantages of History in Our Lives, he insists that history is worth pursuing only as it contributes to life. Once the sense of history becomes autonomous or universal, it begins to erode life; it is up to the malleable forces of life to hold history in check. Let life itself form the role of history according to present and future needs.

The scientist may raise serious objections to the preceding sentences; the author of historical novels will endorse them with both hands. Like the philosopher, the author views his task as one of establishing a clear connection between life and history, and of making the past bear fruit for the present and future.

Benedetto Croce, continuing along the path laid out by Nietzsche, came to the following conclusion: "A sense of the present is the truest characteristic of all living history, as opposed to a mere chronicle." He was driven into exile because the Nazis did not agree that it was the purpose of the past to become part of the present; rather they wanted to lead the present back into the past. Theodor Lessing restated Nietsche's conclusion in the sentence: "History gives meaning to the meaningless." He was murdered by the Nazis, who, to be sure, like to claim Nietzsche as one of their own-the Fuehrer had himself photographed under a bust of Nietzsche-but their mandate is one making sure the senseless remains senseless.

Both the historian and the novelist view history as the struggle of a tiny minority, able and determined to make judgments, which is up against a vast and densely packed majority of the blind, who are led by their instincts and unable to think for themselves.

I believe it is important to depict episodes from earlier phases in this struggle. Reminders of earlier victories and defeats, legends, and historical novels seem to me to be a weapon we can well use at our present stage in this eternal struggle. Our opponents, incidentally, are aware of the value of this weapon; they are recasting human history in the form of sentimental myths, according to their ideological precepts, and they are also busy heating up the historical novel in some of its stalest forms.