When the action is about to get portentous, the skies darken. The heavens open, the thunder strikes and the literal storm adds visual emphasis to the metaphorical storm. John Ruskin first noted the tendency for writers to ascribe emotional states to natural elements in his 1856 work Modern Painters.
So what are we to make, in the light of last night’s events, of the fact that the European monsoon has been brewing? The prevailing westerly winds from the Atlantic weaken at the end of spring, pick up again at the beginning of June and bring with them waves of rain-laden depressions that can last into July. Are we really to suppose that this is but weather? Shall we call this meteorology? Is it not fate?
The weather has told important stories before. On the heath, where his nature is laid bare, Lear confronts the storm, daring it to do its worst: “Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! ... And thou, all-shaking thunder, Smite flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!” Which is olde English for come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.
Perhaps even more apt, drenched to the skin on the doorstep in Four Weddings and a Funeral, Andie McDowell exclaims, in a line that surely presages current affairs: “Oh, is it raining? I hadn’t noticed.”
What is it called again, that idea that the weather tells you something about the future? The idea that the elements comment upon the fates? The notion that the weather might be issuing its verdict on the Cabinet, what’s the name for that again? Oh yes, the pathetic fallacy, that’s it. The pathetic fallacy.