Calvin and the witches

What is the historical novelist's responsibility to truth?

Jean Calvin, one of the main architects of the Protestant Reformation, was the spiritual leader of Geneva in the sixteenth century and is still a figurehead and symbol of the city today. He is a key character in my book All the Parts of the Soul; indeed the title is a quotation from his Commentary on the Psalms:

“I have been accustomed to call this book An Anatomy of All the Parts of the Soul, for there is not an emotion of which anyone can be conscious that is not here represented as a mirror.”

There’s no doubt that hundreds of witches were executed under Calvin’s authority, but what did he really think about witchcraft? And this question leads to another more general question for writers, particularly of historical fiction – how much responsibility do we have to interpret real people with authenticity?

Jean Calvin was a refugee from Catholic France who based himself in Geneva from 1536 until his death in 1564, and wielded enormous power as the city’s spiritual leader. He preached and wrote tirelessly and involved himself in the details of every aspect of city government and the lives of Geneva’s residents. He established a welfare state and an education system, teaching the city’s children to read. Known for his austerity and strict interpretation of the Bible, his reputation has a controversial side, in large part due to the death of his former friend, Michael Servetus, who he authorized to be burned alive in 1553 over a theological dispute.

I’m not aware of Calvin featuring as a character in any other historical fiction books, movies or television series, so I had a blank canvas with which to work, and I found that his voice came to me very easily. This is in large part because of the wealth of evidence he left behind – sermons, letters, books – I often lifted portions of these to use as his speech in the novel.

I have portrayed him as a rather sinister character, who manipulates a young magistrate into doing his dirty work, and turns a blind eye as innocent people are tortured. He did plenty in his lifetime to merit this sinister portrayal. From murdering his friend over a matter of theological doctrine, to banning dancing and public baths, he took uncompromising to a whole new level. Before his arrival in Geneva, in the years 1495-1531 less than a dozen witches were executed in Geneva. But during his period of influence, more than 500 people convicted of witchcraft were executed during a period of only two years.

            As for the particular story told in my book, the Geneva city records state that in 1545 Calvin sent an investigator to the village of Peney and urged his government to “make a legal inquest against such witches in order to extirpate the breed from that land.”

Calvin mentions witchcraft in other sermons; in his strict interpretation of the Bible, he followed Exodus: ‘Thou shall not suffer a witch to live.’

“By all this we see that although other vices were to be pardoned, yet this one ought to be punished and utterly rooted out. Therefore, if we want to be taken for God’s people, let us see what this word abomination signifies; namely, that we must beware of sorceries, enchantments and other similar things. Such things have always been despised. However much witchcraft has reigned… it is a monster, a shameful thing.”

But did he really believe this? Perhaps I am thinking anachronistically, but I can’t help wonder whether this rational, logical thinker - determined to wipe out superstition and magic, determined to keep people in line, to keep women in the home – this guy knew very well that ‘witches’ were healers, and that folk beliefs were fairly harmless. For Calvin, stamping out witchcraft was about controlling all aspects of people’s lives, and ensuring they stuck to the new religion with no temptations from the magical aspects of the Catholic faith. There’s no doubt that Calvin was at war with the Devil – but the Devil was civil and religious disobedience. The key is in his recourse to legal arguments:

“And if Judges and Magistrates do their duties, it is certain that they will no more tolerate them than they tolerate murderers. Why? It is an overthrowing of God’s service and a perversion of the order of nature. If this is tolerated, is it not making war on God? Let us note that if we want to be taken for Christians…”

If Calvin was a cynic who used witchcraft accusations to his political advantage, does it make his actions worse than if he really believed? Yes - although the nuances of belief were so in flux at this time. People were being asked to change everything they had thought about the world, and to stake the fates of their souls on it.

Whatever Calvin really thought, I appropriated his voice. I put words into his mouth. Sometimes stealing from other reformers and witch hunters such as Martin Luther and Jean Bodin, occasionally just making them up. No doubt there will be historians who would disagree with my portrayal of Calvin. For example, William Monter is a historian of Geneva who has been rather kinder to Calvin, pointing out that Genevan witch trials often ended in acquittal or banishment rather than execution. In his fascinating book Plagues, Poisons and Potions: Plague-spreading Conspiracies in the Western Alps 1530-1640, William H Naphy shows that plague-spreading became conflated with witchcraft and complicated the issue enormously. Successive bouts of plague were the biggest threat to Geneva at the time, and the city’s government was desperate to contain it by any means, and particularly by means of fear.

So it’s not clear whether Calvin’s attitude to witchcraft was based on genuine fear or pragmatism – most likely it was a combination of both. But it does raise the question – what is my responsibility, as a writer of historical fiction, to tell the truth? I’m confident about the facts because I did so much research. But what about the characters – their words and thoughts? There are other real people in my book – Anton Froment, Marie Dentière and others – and while I meticulously researched their actions and historical roles, I also blithely invented conversations between them, sixteenth century banter about what they might have said in private.

I have always refused to watch the Netflix series The Crown. I don’t have any particularly strong feelings about the royal family either way, but I feel distinctly uncomfortable about the invention of scenarios between real people who are still going about their private lives. How much time has to pass before it becomes ok?

Last week I watched the movie about Mary Anning, Ammonite, hoping to learn about her legacy as a palaeontologist, but it was mostly about a passionate love affair between Anning and geologist Charlotte Murchison. It was a beautiful film, but pure speculation – there’s no evidence they ever had such a relationship. Does it matter? Apparently some of Anning’s relatives objected, others thought it was nicely done.

I don’t think anyone is going to sue me for misrepresenting Calvin almost five hundred years after his death. In order to bring the past to life, we must strive to be accurate as possible, but there are times when we need to use a bit of imagination. The role of the historical novelist is to combine research with creativity in order to arrive at authenticity. To be passionate and dispassionate at the same time.

But I must admit that I do feel a bit guilty every time I walk past the huge statue of Calvin on the Reformation wall in the Parc des Bastions, or when I have a Calvinus beer. I used to visit the Cimetière des Rois, where Calvin is buried, on a regular basis (I like graveyards, what can I tell you), but I’ve been giving it a wide berth since I wrote All the Parts of the Soul. In case he haunts me. I’m sorry Calvin. But you made a great villain in my book.

Order All the Parts of the Soul HERE

Buy the Reprobation series HERE