Letters in fiction: Robert Harris, Gill Hornby and me!

The Absent Heart is very much a novel about letters and how they defined Frances Sitwell’s relationship with Robert Louis Stevenson, but it’s not a novel of letters. I’m actually quite a fan of the epistolary novel and, with all of the R.L.S.’s letters to my heroine at my disposal, I could have gone down that road. But these letters are published and have been for many years. They are well-known, if only by the cognoscenti, and even if I had sought permission to use them (the main edition is in copyright) it felt wrong to write what would have been in essence half a novel by simply filling in the gaps.

In the end it was Frances Sitwell’s lost replies that were the more intriguing, and although I composed a few letters on her behalf, it was the effect of the correspondence I needed to convey: – its charm and vivacity while Stevenson was alive, and the jealousies those letters engendered after his death.

It seems letters are a topical theme. Robert Harris in Precipice transcribes the letters of Asquith to his mistress written as war broke out across Europe. The story is all the more astonishing for being true. He wrote to Venetia constantly, including during cabinet meetings. It’s implied that the Gallipoli disaster was partly affected by his attention being elsewhere. (Presumably the modern-day equivalent would be scrolling WhatsApp during a crisis!)

What did puzzle me in Precipice was the nature of their relationship. Despite the number of letters exchanged, I couldn’t feel real passion between them. Mentions of what went on when the car window blinds were closed suggests a full affair, but I didn’t get the feeling of physical attraction, more a kind of mental dependency on the part of Asquith. Of course the same might be said of R.L. S., whose letters to Frances became a kind of diary, a daily confessional. And letter-writing (or emailing, or posting on social media) can itself be addictive.

Then we have Miss Austen currently airing on BBC where Cassandra delving into Jane’s letters gave me quite a frisson, recalling as it did Frances’s treasure trove. In some ways the period feels closer to The Absent Heart, and although this is about sisters and families, the acting (terrific cast) and the script give plenty of scope for heart-felt emotion.

When Asquith left office, he burned his personal correspondence just as Cassandra burned Jane’s letters and R.L.S. burned Frances Sitwell’s. Lost letters, burned letters, treasured letters, all great sources for the novelist. I can only promise you that The Absent Heart is more about passion than politics, and if it ever makes the screen, I’ll be pleading for Keeley Hawes as Mrs Sitwell!