A Little History of the World

“And just so that ‘Once upon a time’ doesn’t keep dragging us back down into that bottomless well, from now on we’ll always shout: ‘Stop! When did that happen?’ And if we also ask, ‘And how exactly did that happen?’ we will be asking about history. Not just a story, but our story, the story that we call the history of the world. Shall we begin?”

As the final lines of his first chapter, Gombrich defines history for the reader, while also neatly summarizing his project. The seemingly impossible task of understanding and examining the stories of people like us is best done through history—that is, asking “how” and “when.” History is the study of human stories.

“Now let’s take a last look at these people dressed in skins [...] They were people just like us. Often unkind to one another. Often cruel and deceitful. Sadly, so are we. But even then a mother might sacrifice her life for her child and friends might die for each other. No more but also no less often than people do today. And how could it be otherwise? After all, we’re only talking about things that happened between three and ten thousand years ago. There hasn’t been enough time for us to change! So, just once in a while, when we are talking, or eating some bread, using tools or warming ourselves by the fire, we should remember those early people with gratitude, for they were the greatest inventors of all time.”

Gombrich closes his chapter on prehistory by emphasizing one of his central themes, that the human experience is unchanging throughout time. In both a lament and an ode to the qualities of human beings, Gombrich reflects on human weakness and virtue in his reminder that we have more in common with those from the past than we do not. A remembrance or appreciation of those who created the things we take for granted is a motif throughout the book, and his unexpected description of prehistoric humans as “the greatest inventors” challenges the reader’s notions of invention.

“So, whenever we are glad that the week is nearly over, and Sunday is coming round again, we must spare a thought for those hills of rubble in that hot and marshy plain, and for those fierce kings with their long, black beards. For now we know how it all fits together.”

Gombrich begins his chapter on Mesopotamians by asking the reader if they know how the days of the week came to be. In concluding the chapter, he details how the Babylonians and Assyrians created the names of many of our days, answering his initial question. This simulated conversational style directs the narrative of many chapters. He encourages the reader to consider the Babylonians when using this artifact of their cultures.

“It is said that he spent his time there repairing and regulating all the clocks. He wanted them to chime at the same time. When he didn’t succeed, he is reported to have said: ‘How did I ever presume to try to unite all the peoples of my empire when I cannot, even once, persuade a few clocks to chime together.’ He died lonely and embittered. And as for the clocks of his former empire, whenever they struck the hour, their chimes were further and further apart.”

Gombrich, in describing the end of the reign of the Emperor Charles V, concludes his description in a parable-esque tale. This passage his style of historical retelling. The dates and names of historical events and people are less important than the personhood and the lesson to be learned behind a historical figure. Instead of ending his chapter on Protestantism with a concrete date or conclusion of events, he ends the chapter with a metaphor, choosing to emphasize the uncontrollable and unavoidable nature of change.

“[T]he Athenians grew rich and could at last afford to make use of their great gifts. And now I can hear you asking: ‘But what exactly did they do that was so great?’ And I can only say ‘everything’. But two things interested them most and these were truth and beauty.”

In his chapter on Greek cities, Gombrich makes no secret of his admiration for the Athenians and their innovation. He simplifies their inventions of art, philosophy, poetry, theater, and logic as “truth and beauty,” and while this is in some ways a simplification meant to translate the importance of the Greeks to children, it also provides insight into the author’s high opinion of the Greeks, which remains evident throughout the book.

“I could tell you lots more about the Athenians—about their historians and their doctors, their singers, their thinkers and their artists, but I think it would be better for you to find out about them yourself, one day. Then you’ll see that I haven’t exaggerated.”

Departing from his account of events, Gombrich acknowledges his limits with his own audience. He recognizes that he is telling a story to children and therefore outwardly recognizes that he cannot fully address the accomplishments of the Athenians. Instead, he promises the reader that they will, ultimately, see for themselves that which he has briefly alluded to.

“Wrecked, and in a state of utter confusion, the vast and peaceful thousand-year-old empire was forced to bow to the demands of Europe’s merchants. This was China’s reward for teaching Europeans the art of making paper, the use of the compass, and—regrettably—how to make gunpowder.”

In his retelling of the Opium Wars and the resulting open trade between China and Europe, Gombrich utilizes his flair for irony. He points out that if not for Chinese invention, Europeans could not have devastated the country as they did. In this dichotomy, it is clear that Gombrich views the Chinese as the moral superiors, and the irony he highlights here is tragic.

“It so happens that vanquished Asia Minor is the scene of the famous story of the Gordian Knot. It went like this. In the city of Gordium there was a temple, and in it an old chariot whose shaft was held fast by a strap that was tightly and intricately knotted. Now it had been foretold that he who could untie the enchanted knot would become master of the world. Alexander wasted little time fiddling with a knot that was clearly far worse than the sort you get in your shoelace when you are in a hurry. He did something my mother never let me do: he took his sword and simply chopped it through. The story’s meaning is twofold: Alexander would conquer the world in fulfillment of the ancient prophecy, and he would do it with the sword. As indeed he did.”

In describing the life of Alexander the Great, Gombrich employs multiple legendary tales about the ruler. This is repeated throughout the book, and he uses these stories to impress upon the reader both the characteristics of the individual and the cultural understanding of the individual. Not only does he describe the pertinent traits of Alexander, but he also describes the cultural memory of Alexander by retelling the legends that are associated with him, therefore describing both the historical and the mythical character of Alexander.

“[H]aving lost the little political power they once had, the Greeks went on to be the bearers of the greatest intellectual force there has ever been, the force we know as Greek culture. This force was protected and preserved in some very special fortresses. Can you guess what those fortresses were? They were libraries. Alexandria, for instance, had a Greek library that held around seven hundred thousand scrolls. Those seven hundred thousand scrolls were the Greek soldiers who set off to conquer the world. And that empire is still standing today.”

In his retelling of the series of conquests that define the history of Western Europe, Gombrich takes care to always emphasize the ways in which ancient, or even extinct, cultures are preserved through this conquest. Gombrich concludes his chapter on Alexander the Great with a metaphor that describes the preserved history of Greece. He draws a parallel with the narrative of this chapter, a story of military prowess, by describing Greek culture as an army.

“So Shih Huang-ti’s burning of the books was all in vain, and if you thought he was right, you were mistaken. It’s a bad idea to try to prevent people from knowing their own history. If you want to do anything new you must first make sure you know what people have tried before.”

Gombrich frequently uses historical events to present a parable for the reader. Instead of speaking solely about the failure of Shih Huang-ti’s censorship in the context of his time and society, Gombrich makes a far broader point, implying that this is a pattern that appears over and over again in history.

“One day—but there’s no hurry—you may come to read the Bible. Nowhere else will you find so many stories about ancient times so vividly told. And if you read them carefully, you may find that you now understand many of them better.”

In describing ancient civilization, Gombrich frequently references the Bible as a source of both history and legend, with the expectation that the reader may be familiar with the text. He takes care not to endorse the Bible as anything other than a source and expresses his intent to enhance the understanding of the past for his audience.

“If you weren’t a Christian, a Jew or a close relative of the emperor, life in the Roman empire could be peaceful and pleasant.”

Gombrich reiterates throughout his history the tension between the prosperous and the suffering. In statements like this, he also utilizes a sarcastic tone, acknowledging both the potential luxury of Roman society and its cruelties. Gombrich alludes to the tension of all human society: The privileged thrive at the expense of the underprivileged. While he goes on to list the innumerable wonders of Roman society, the author couches these descriptions in a condemnation of those who were cast aside from Rome’s prosperity.

“Marcus Aurelius hated war. He was a gentle, quiet man, a philosopher, who loved nothing better than reading or writing. We still have the diary he kept, much of which was written during his campaigns. Almost everything he wrote in it was about self-control and tolerance, about enduring pain and hardship, and about the silent heroism of the thinker. They are thoughts that would have pleased the Buddha.”

Frequently, Gombrich describes one historical figure by comparing him to another. By doing so, he builds connections for the reader, synthesizing one seemingly isolated historical figure with another by describing what they may or may not have in common. By doing so, he does not necessarily describe the figure more precisely, but instead encourages the child reader to think critically about the people and events that they encounter throughout the book.

“Have you ever watched a storm approaching on a hot summer’s day? It’s especially spectacular in the mountains. At first there’s nothing to see, but you feel a sort of weariness that tells you something is in the air. Then you hear thunder—just a rumble here and there—you can’t quite tell where it is coming from. All of a sudden, the mountains seem strangely near.”

In his chapter titled “The Storm,” Gombrich begins by describing, in vivid detail, the progression of a thunderstorm. Though the storm serves as a simile for the invasion of the Huns, the detail he provides in the comparison reveals not only his flair for descriptive language, but also his desire to provoke the imagination of his young audience.

“Eventually you come to a bigger oasis [...] inhabited by white-clothed, brown-skinned men with black hair and piercing dark eyes. You can tell that these men are warriors. On their wonderfully swift horses they gallop across the desert, robbing caravans and fighting each other, oasis against oasis, town against town, tribe against tribe. Arabia probably still looks much as it did thousands of years ago. And yet it was in this strange desert land, with its few, warlike inhabitants, that perhaps the most extraordinary of all the events I have to tell took place.”

While Gombrich is attempting to continue his motif of vivid storytelling, full of descriptors of setting and characters, he utilizes tropes of the Eastern “other” that are dehumanizing. Stereotypical ideas of the region being “strange” and tribal reinforce conceptions of different races and cultures that today would not befit a historical survey.

“If conquest was easier than it is today, ruling was much harder. Messengers had to be sent to distant and inaccessible places, warring peoples and tribes had to be pacified and reconciled, and made to look beyond their old enmities and blood-feuds. If you wanted to be a good ruler you had to help the peasants in their misery, and you had to see that people learnt something, and that the thoughts and writings of the past weren’t lost and forgotten. All in all, a good ruler in those days had to be a sort of father to the vast family of his subjects, and make all their decisions for them.”

In his introduction to the rule of Charlemagne, Gombrich explains the difference between conquering and ruling. The abilities of a ruler, and rulers’ treatment of their subjects, is often touched on in his synopsis of their lives.

“The history of the world is, sadly, not a pretty poem. It offers little variety, and it is nearly always the unpleasant things that are repeated, over and over again. And so it was that, barely a hundred years after Charlemagne’s death, in times of chaos and misfortune, hordes of mounted warriors from the east invaded yet again, as the Avars and the Huns had before them.”

Using a poem as a metaphor, Gombrich implies a kind of predictable structure to history. Patterns, repetition, and themes are as prevalent in reality as they are in poetry. By making this analogy, he anticipates the reader’s impression of a redundant story. Additionally, Gombrich makes his opinions of the invaders clear. The Eastern invasions are characterized as an unfortunate recurring event, and their appearance is always unwelcome and sinister in his history.

“I am sure you have heard of knights of old from the age of chivalry. And you have probably read books about knights and their squires who set out in search of adventure; stories full of shining armour, plumed helmets and noble steeds, blazoned escutcheons and impregnable fortresses, jousting and tournaments where fair ladies give prizes to the victors, wandering minstrels, forsaken damsels and departures for the Holy Land. The best thing is that all of it really existed. All that glitter and romance is no invention. Once upon a time the world really was full of colour and adventure, and people joyfully took part in that strange and wonderful game called chivalry, which was often played in deadly earnest.”

Significantly, Gombrich does not attempt to bring the wild imagination of his audience down to a more somber reality. Instead, he relishes in the embellished descriptions of history that reside in society’s well-known legends and tales, always highlighting the fact that much in those legends was true. He describes the fascinating worlds of the past, like Europe during the Age of Chivalry, with the glamor of a fairy tale.

“You may have seen one of these castles. But the next time you do, don’t just think of the knights in chain mail who lived there. Instead [...] spare a thought for the people who built them. Towers perched high on tops of mountain crags, walls hung between precipices. All made by peasant serfs, men deprived of liberty [...] it was they who had to split and carry the rocks, haul them up and pile them on top of each other. And when their strength gave out, their wives and their children had to take over. A knight could command them to do anything. Better a knight than a serf any day.”

Gombrich often departs from his descriptions of historical marvels, prosperity, or power to describe the contrasting experience of those whose labor allows them. He urges the reader to imagine not those who lived in medieval castles or Egyptian pyramids, but those who built them.

“All that the Arabs had learnt and experienced in the course of their conquests around the world was now brought back to Europe by the crusaders. In a number of ways it was the example of those they looked on as their enemies that transformed the barbaric warriors of Europe into truly chivalrous knights.”

Gombrich’s descriptions of history often utilize irony. Here, he condemns Crusaders and the hypocrisy of their actions, while also pointing out that the knowledge and culture of those they fought was more aligned with their proclaimed morals than their own behavior. Gombrich presents ironic situations like this to build complexity into his history and is able to give attention to different historical perspectives by doing so.

“How nice it would be if, suddenly, heralds were to ride through the streets crying: ‘Attention please! A new age is beginning!’ But things aren’t like that: people change their opinions without even noticing. And then all of a sudden they become aware of it, as you do when you look at your old school books. Then they announce with pride: ‘We are the new age.’ And they often add: ‘People used to be so stupid!’”

One of the central themes of A Little History is the universality of human experience and the common misapprehension that changes and their trajectory must have been as evident to people in that time as they are to those in the modern world. Gombrich frequently acknowledges this fallacy and guides the reader towards considering just how different the world looks in retrospect.

“Thanks to railways and steamships the world became much smaller. To set off across the seas for India or China was no longer a perilous adventure into the unknown, and America was almost next door. And so from 1800 onwards it is even less possible to see the history of the world as only that of Europe.”

Here, Gombrich makes clear the perspective of his history. It is, despite its occasional departures to the East, a history of Western civilization, and the histories of places like China and India are largely described as features of Western development. This quote acknowledges a departure from the typical focus of the book—the history of Europe—and the attention that will now be given to other cultures as a result of international politics and relationships gaining new relevance.

“Imagine time as a river, and that we are flying high above it in an aeroplane. Far below you can just make out the mountain caves of the mammoth-hunters [...] This is the sea the Phoenicians sailed across. What looks like a white star shining over there, with the sea on either side, is in fact the Acropolis [...] in those forests, beside the river, that the first monks converted and educated the Germanic tribes. [...] Here are the Turks encamped outside Vienna [...] and we can already see Moscow burning over there, and the wintry land in which the soldiers of the Last Conqueror’s Grand Armée perished. Getting nearer, we can see smoke rising from factory chimneys and hear the whistle of railway trains [...] But below us and in front of us there is nothing but mist, mist that is dense and impenetrable. All we know is that the river flows onwards. On and on it goes, towards an unknown sea.”

Gombrich, as an art historian, was very interested in the idea of visual perspective. This interest is evident in his use of simile to describe our relationship with time. He often asks the reader to imagine a physical landscape and uses this basic structure to sketch out broader concepts about human history.