Ulinka Rublack, in her introduction to a recent symposium at the Institute for Historical research, argued that it was time for us to revisit ‘microhistory’. Partly, she said, this was because microhistory had been explicitly challenged by Jo Guldi and David Armitage in their History Manifesto for being too focused on narrow and specialist histories at the expense of the ‘big picture’. However, Rublack also suggested that microhistory has been misconstrued by the tendency among even sympathetic scholars only engage with the ‘classics’ of the genre – especially Carlo Ginzberg’s The Cheese and the Worms and Natalie Zemon Davis’s The Return of Martin Guerre – rather consider the wealth of new microhistories that have been written in recent decades.
As someone long fascinated by microhistory, it was wonderful to be able to come along to this event. I’ve written about defining it, branding it and defending it before on this blog, and I’ll be running an MA module on microhistory at Birkbeck in the coming year, so I was keen to hear more about the current scholarship, and I was not disappointed. It was a excellent event and it touched on facets of this concept that I had hardly considered before. It would be far too ambitious to attempt to summarise each of the six speakers much less the discussion that followed, but I thought it might be productive to draw attention to two angles that particularly caught my attention.
Microhistory as a meeting place
There has been a surge of interest in so-called ‘global microhistory’ over the last few years. One of the finest examples is John-Paul Ghobrial’s work on Elias of Babylon and it was great to have him in attendance, contributing to the discussion. Yet, whereas Ghobrial and other global microhistorians – including Natalie Zemon Davis herself in her work on Leo Africanus – have followed particular people in their treks around the world, several speakers here emphasised the way the microhistory of specific ‘liminal’ sites could also offer a way into transnational history.
Maxine Berg talked about Nootka Sound, a cove not far from my home town in the Pacific Northwest which became an important place of encounter and exchange in the late eighteenth century. Within a few years of Captain James Cook’s first visit in 1778, the Sound had turned into a valuable point of contact between the local First Nations people who could offer sea otter pelts and the European traders offering iron and copper, who then traded the pelts on to China, where they were a highly sought luxury item used even in the robes of the Emperor himself. The sources for constructing a microhistory of Nootka Sound are not as voluminous as the wonderful inquisitorial records of early modern France or Italy, and getting at the perspective of First Nations peoples is especially difficult, but the potential value of this focus was obvious.
Indeed, Benjamin Kaplan has proven this in his book on a remarkable incident in a Dutch-German border village in 1762. A kidnapping at a baptism led to violent confessional clashes and, conveniently, a voluminous legal record. At the symposium, he talked about how studying the ‘borderland’ nature of this environment enabled him to approach broader questions of religious conflict and coexistent that would otherwise be missed. What is striking in both Berg and Kaplan’s cases is the small scale of the places they chose. One could talk about international trade or inter-confessional relations in a major early modern metropolis such as Amsterdam or London, but by tightening the focus to zoom in on a liminal area inhabited by only a few hundred or, at most, a couple thousand people, they are able to bring the tools of microhistory to bear on the concerns of global history.
I think we can go further still and suggest microhistories of particular localities – even if they are not obviously ‘borderlands’ – can usefully illuminate much bigger historical forces. Emma Rothchild talked about her current work on the French village of Angouleme, a place notorious for its backwardness yet remarkably full of individuals with direct connections to the French Caribbean and other distant lands. I suspect the same might be said of some of English villages that have been microscopically examined, such as Terling, Earls Colne, Myddle, and Chilvers Cotton.
The close study of a locality, then, need not be parochial. By piecing together the lives of the inhabitants through careful record-linkage, it may be possible to see how extra-local networks of trade, religion or politics could intersect in a single inauspicious site.
Microhistory as archival immersion
The acute importance of primary sources is a crucial aspect of self-declared microhistories. This not to claim that other histories use archives rarely or uncritically, merely to say that microhistorians have a tendency to discuss their sources more directly, explicitly and fully than others. To take an extreme example, it is difficult to imagine a microhistory that relied mostly on secondary material, whereas this is common among macrohistories working on the global scale.
As Ghobrial noted, there is thus a tendency for microhistorians to become philologists, interrogating and contextualising a specific set of primary sources from dozens of angles, including reading them ‘against the grain’. But does the key source have to be an ‘extraordinary’ document or ‘exceptional’ collection? Must microhistories be based on the sort of rich material that Carlo Ginzberg found in the Italian inquisitorial archives?
The symposium suggested that this may be a misconception. Rothchild’s project began when she found a 1764 marriage contract signed by over 80 different witnesses in a small French village, surely an unusual document according to any definition. Yet she said that the vast majority of the information she has discovered has come from much more ‘ordinary’ sources, mainly banal parish registers, illuminated through an ‘obsessive’ process of record-linkage in order to construct biographies of the villagers and map out the networks through which they were connected. Unremarkable records can reveal remarkable stories.
This comes through even more clearly in relation to the so-called ‘archival turn’ in early modern historiography. Scholars have become increasingly concerned with the nature of the sources themselves – rather than their ‘content’. This is something that historians like Natalie Zemon Davis have long practiced – see, for example, her Fiction in the Archives – but it has now come to the fore in a wide variety of recent work. For example, a good many of the pieces in the excellent collection on The Social History of the Archive published last year might be interpreted as microhistories. It is even more notable in a recent book by Marisa J. Fuentes entitled Dispossessed Lives: Enslaved Women, Violence, and the Archive, which presents a series of micro-studies of particular women in eighteenth-century Barbados. Here, the failure of the archive to present the perspective of the ‘dispossessed’, or even to offer substantial details about their lives, becomes a central part of the story. Although Fuentes only uses the term ‘microhistory’ in passing, I was struck by the way that her work pushes this methodology forward by showing how reducing the scale of examination can enable us to see both the women themselves and the ‘archival violence’ through which their stories were preserved.
Although neither Fuentes nor the contributors to the The Social History of the Archive were speakers at the symposium, it seems like we should be looking to scholars like these if we want to answer the question of ‘what is microhistory now?’ As Rublack implied in her introduction, and as Tom Robisheaux noted explicitly in the concluding discussion, there is a new generation of historians emerging who are embracing the form but whose approach is unconstrained by the methods and debates of Davis, Ginzberg and other pioneers.
Microhistory as a brand may have lost some of its ‘radical’ appeal, but the potential of ‘small histories’ to speak to big questions is stronger than ever.