Quantcast
Channel: The History Girls
Viewing all 2764 articles
Browse latest View live

'Ten Handy Ways to Poison your Spouse - Part 3' by Karen Maitland

$
0
0

Poisoning of Queen Bona of Poland (1528-1572)
Artist: Jan Matejko (1838-1893)
The queen was murdered by her trusted officer
on the orders of King Philip II of Spain.
We are now in the Dog-days of summer, when the dog-star, Sirius, rises with the sun and was once thought to increase the sun’s heat “making dogs mad, women wanton and men commit foul crimes.” So, this seems a good month to add another Top Ten to my list of ‘Ways to Poison your Spouse.’ (8 June 2016). This month we look the bizarre means by which murderers in history have attempted to introduce the poison to their victims.

Poisoning your victim’s food or drink is most obvious method, but you have to have access to the food intended for the victim, which is not easy if you are attempting regicide. And what if the victim can’t be relied upon to eat that cake you sent them, without offering a first slice to someone else?

1) Poisoned Chalice– Rather than poison the food or drink, why not make the goblet or trencher itself poisonous, so that any innocuous food or liquid served in it becomes lethal. That was the goal of François Belot, a member of the French King’s bodyguard in the 17th century. He claimed to have devised a method that would make a silver vessel permanently lethal so that no matter how many times it was washed or how many victims drank from it, it would still kill. His method involved stuffing arsenic into a live toad, then crushing the toad in the vessel, while reciting spells. Unlikely as it seems, he was believed and acquired a great reputation for procuring the means of murder. Even the Commissioners of the Chambre Ardent or Chamber of Poisons, thought him guilty, and in 1679, sentenced him to be executed by being broken on the wheel. Though by then Belot was protesting he’d merely done it as a means of obtaining silver cups and trenchers.

2) Poisoned Flower– This was a medieval fiction, which in later centuries was not thought possible, except that there have been two cases which might make it seem more credible. In 1909 in Austria, suspicions were aroused when a ‘pious’ prisoner kept demanding flowers to put on an altar he’d made in his cell. It transpired that he had instructed his wife to obtain atropine or hyoscyamine, put it in a quill and insert the quill into the calyx of a carnation, binding it with thread as a florist would do. The poison did reach him by this method.

In the 1930’s, a London lavender seller was found to be hallucinating and taken to hospital where he died. His pocket contained a bottle of oil of mirbane (nitrobenzene) which he had sprinkled on the lavender he was selling to increase the perfume. It was thought that he’d inhaled the toxic vapours given off and poisoned himself.
Catherine of Medici (1519-1589)
Artist: Workshop of Frances Clouet (1510-1572)
Musee Carnavalet

3) Poisoned Dagger– Obviously the simplest method is simply to coat the blade in poison, thereby ensuring that even a flesh wound is fatal. But more subtle were the knives made in the late 16th and 17th century, designed to murder the user of the knife. The knives had a mechanism concealed inside the handle. When pressure was exerted on the cutting edge, three sharp spikes sprang out of the handle and pricked the hand or fingers of the person holding the knife. The moment the pressure was relaxed or the knife dropped, the spikes vanished. If the murderer was lucky, the spikes might even inject the poison straight into a vein.

4) Poisoned Bed– In 1908, Mary Kelliher went on trial in Boston, charged with the murder by poison of her husband, three children, sister and sister-in-law over a period of three years. After the death of her daughter, all the other family members were exhumed and found to have died of arsenic poisoning. No one knew how it had been administered until the bed was examined in which all the victims had at some time slept. The mattress was found stuffed with hair impregnated with arsenic which, the prosecution claimed, had been deliberately put there by Mary, so that her victims would absorb it while they slept. But the jury weren’t convinced and Mary was acquitted, though only after she been held for 15 long months.
Hercules poisoned by the Shirt of Nessus
Painting 1413-1415

5) Poisoned Marriage– According to an Indian legend, the Queen of Ganore murdered Rajah Bukht by impregnating his marriage robes with poison, which, when he sweated in the intense heat, caused severe and fatal burns. There are many legends of poisoned robe murders in India, which are probably more allegorical than literal, similar to the classical tale of Hercules and the shirt of Nessus. Nevertheless, forensic researchers in India have shown than impregnating cloth with cantharidin, which in India is extracted from the telini fly, can cause severe blistering, excruciating pain and necrosis resulting in death from shock.

6) Poisoned Glove Box– In 16th century France, the fear of poisoning had reached epidemic proportions. It was suspected in almost any death where the cause was not immediately obvious, and while most stories were unfounded, they do reveal that the rich and noble were almost afraid to touch anything in case it might prove fatal. For example, when Jeanne d’Albret, mother of Henry IV of France, died after a four-day illness, rumour spread that she had been murdered by Catherine de’ Medici who sent her a pair of gloves in a box with a false bottom containing belladonna, henbane, opium and a few other nasties, which not only poisoned the gloves, but released a fatal vapour while poor Jeanne slept. But an autopsy revealed Jeanne died of natural causes.
Jeanne d'Albret, Queen of Navarre (1528-1572)
Portail des collections des musees de France.


7) Poisoned Gold– Cardinal of Lorraine was another supposed poison victim of Catherine de’ Medici. He was rumoured to have sicken and died after handling gold coins on which nicotine had been smeared, though more likely he died of respiratory illness brought on by walking barefoot in a procession.

8) Poisoned Candle– Pope Clement VII is said to have been poisoned by an arsenic-impregnated torch or candle carried in front of him in the procession. This has long since been discredited, but in 1810, Michel Eugene Chevreul invented a process for making cheap composition candles. In 1835/36 these were very popular in England, until a Professor Everitt, working late one night, noticed a strong garlic odour from the candles, indicative of heated arsenic, which subsequent testing proved to one of the ingredients. Not healthy to breathe in, though amount it released probably wouldn’t kill you. But perhaps inspired by this, Edgar Allan Poe, in The Imp of the Perverse (1845) had the narrator murder his victim with the fumes from a poisoned candle.

9) Poisoned Shoe– Legend has it that John, King of Castile, died after wearing a pair of boots impregnated by poison by a Turk. This is undoubtedly pure fiction, but more recently a man did accidently poison himself with his footwear. In 1904, a young man became unconscious and died four hours after going to a dance. It was found he’d been poisoned but no knew how, until bottle of shoe blacking was discovered in his room. He had cleaned his shoes and as he danced, the blacking had soaked onto his socks and been absorbed into his skin via his feet and ankles. The blacking had contained nitrobenzene, which had passed rapidly through hot, sweaty skin.
The Wanstead or Welbeck Portrait of Elizabeth I
C.1580-1585
Artist: Marcus Gheeraerts the Elder 

10) Poisoned Saddle– Edward Squire, a scrivener from Greenwich, was persuaded by a Jesuit, Richard Walpole, to try to kill Queen Elizabeth I. Squire was instructed to take a bladder of poison concealed in his gloved hand, prick it and press it down on the pommel of the Queen’s saddle, where she would be sure to rest her hands and afterwards would transfer the poison to her mouth and nose by touching her face. He did as instructed, but the plot failed, because the queen didn’t arrive at the stables. Having inveigled his way aboard a ship with Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex, Squire then smeared the rest of the poison on the wooden arms of the dinning chair used by the Earl in an attempt to murder him, only to find it had no effect. Nevertheless, he was denounced, and hanged, drawn and quartered for his attempts.

Invisible Children by Eleanor Scott

$
0
0
For July, we have a second guest post in place of Caroline Lawrence's usual spot, as Caroline has left us. Please welcome Dr Eleanor Scott.


Eleanor Scott is an archaeologist and writer best known for her academic work on the Roman world and the archaeology of children and gender. She is the author of The Archaeology of Infancy and Infant Death. She also researches and writes about the remarkable Gertrude Bell. Her forthcoming books are previewed on her Open Access website.

EleanorScottArchaeology.com 
@Dr ElScott

The Invisible Infant
Fourteen thousand years ago, an infant or small child - perhaps only a year or so old - was crawling, perhaps toddling, and playing in the vicinity of a camp fire in a dry river bed in Egypt. Probably the daylight was starting to fade, and the evening was beginning to cool, and the child sensed that the time for sleep was near. She yawned, shivered, and squatted down and defecated on the ground. One of the older children or adults nearby picked up the little lump of faeces and tossed it into the fire, where it sizzled briefly. The lump hardened as it baked and then dropped through the fire and lay amidst the ashes on the ground. There it remained in situ for millennia until excavated by archaeologists in the 1980s.

Children, especially infants, have been relatively invisible in the past; but they were not of course absent. Finding them archaeologically has tended to focus on their early deaths and pathologies, through the discovery of their skeletal remains. But other stories can be told of children’s lives – such as their diet, and how they played and learned, if we have a mind to - using weird and wonderful pieces of evidence like the little burnt coprolite from Wadi Kubbaniya. Many infant coprolites were found by Gordon Hillman and his team, and analyses of their contents revealed not just the presence of small children around the campfires, but also information about their diets, daily lives and routines.

A very broad range of plant foods was collected, processed and eaten by the Paleolithic people in the wadi, including large quantities of root vegetables, palm fruits and acacia seeds, and food processing at the site had been carried out using the large numbers of grinding stones and mortars. Spectrometry tests suggested the grinding of the tubers of nut-grass and club-rush in particular. Could this grinding process, the archaeologists wondered, have produced pulp for infants to eat? This idea tied in well with the coprolite evidence. The infants’ faeces were analysed and found to consist of finely ground plant mush, which would be suitable for weaning purposes.

Wadi Kubbaniyah – Grinding Stones and Sand
A quantity of sand was also present throughout the charred matrices of several fragments of the fine-textured infant faeces. An infant crawling on sand will ingest the occasional handful, noted the archaeologists, while this is seldom true of adults. Most human infants begin to crawl by around six months, with some managing this feat as early as four months. This, and the fact that the faeces were probably wet when they hit the fire give us a fascinating insight into the way in which infants spent much of their time crawling ‘loose’ in the camp and pooing when they needed to, their faeces then being collected and disposed of on the fire in a fashion which has been observed amongst a number of hunter-gatherer tribes around the world..

The children of Wadi Kubbaniyah allow an insight into the early learning experiences of infants and children in prehistory. These infants, even at a very early age, appear to have been free to move unfettered around the camp site, learning by means of experience and through the interventions of older children and adults what to touch and not touch, and what was safe to taste, hold and approach. Children’s natural dislike of bitter-tasting vegetation, which is the predominant taste of poisonous foods, and their fear of snakes and snake-like shapes, would have afforded some protection, and watchful older humans listening out for the infants’ tell-tale penetrating cry a great deal more, but the infant’s own learning was essential for its long-term survival and social growth.

As an archaeologist, the Kubbaniyah example further raises something of paramount importance that is all too often overlooked when analysing excavated sites - the significance of infants and young children in the patterning of the artefacts found around camps and settlements and within houses, in all archaeological periods. Infants will pick up, carry and deposit any number of small objects within the area in which they are permitted to move freely. Many parents will have observed their own small children push coins and other small objects down the cracks between floorboards, into little excavated holes in the garden, and even into bins and down drains. A great many small household objects become ‘lost’ subsequent to their being collected and hoarded by a child.

A ‘Finds Tray’ of Children’s Objects from Under Garden Decking
Archaeologist Tony Wilmott recalled to me how objects moved around a compound he visited in Africa as the result of children’s agency:

‘Some years ago I visited a friend who works as a potter in Bakau in the Gambia. He lived in a compound which houses about 20 families, and had at the time two children under eight. There were plenty of other children in the compound as well. The paucity of manufactured playthings was remedied by the use of wasters and breakages from Idi's kiln with which they played for hours in swapping, collecting (‘Pokemon’), hoarding and hiding games, pretending the sherds were cars (‘Scalextrix’), boats and trains, and (in extremis) using them as missiles. It was at the latter point that the games were usually terminated by parents. The result, however was that the sherds remained where they lay, liberally scattered around the compound and trampled and buried in the dusty earth’

Children’s imaginative play is a human universal. Pretend play, or ‘symbolic play’ – a term first coined by Jean Piaget in 1962 – is considered by many influential developmental psychologists to be intrinsic to the human condition. The details of play vary between cultures, but the use of play by infants and children to make sense of their worlds, and especially to give an emotional sense of meaning and order to incongruities, is part of the human condition. Play and early learning – including free movement and grabbing handfuls of sand to eat - is related to the emotional experience of the child. Pretend play, particularly repetitive play, allows the child to miniaturise its world and express otherwise unsafe emotions (including fear, anger, distress, and disgust), as well as curiosity, joy and excitement, in a more controlled fashion. Play is also how the child learns to manipulate mentally the representations which make up human experience of the world.

The children of Wadi Kubbaniyah crawled and walked in the sand, and ate and played; and they left behind traces of the key parts of their lives in which they were making sense not only of their prehistoric environment but also their emotional, human world. And fourteen thousand years later, we can feel that connection to Paleolithic Africa, through the visibility of these infants exploring their humanness.



(Images: The Invisible Infant by Robert D Scott; Wadi Kubbaniya image public domain via Wiki Commons; ‘finds tray’ is mine)

Judith Kerr , 14 June 1923 – 22 May 2019, My Kind of Author - Celia Rees

Carnivorous hotels - Michelle Lovric

$
0
0
Until very late in its pre-publication life, The Wishing Bones was called The Hotel of What You Want. Naturally, that’s because it’s about a hotel where exactly what you don’t want is what befalls you. Indeed your worst nightmares would be pleasant daydreams compared to the evil operations of ‘The Hotel of What You Want’.

There was always going to be a hotel novel. I love hotels. I am a child of hotels and a grandchild of hotels. Hotels are in my blood. Up until my twelfth year, my grandparents ran and lived in a grand hotel called the Carrington in the genteel Blue Mountains resort of Katoomba, a few hours by train from my home-town of Sydney, and several decades behind the city that was even then an edgy combination of chic and brash. Katoomba was my first experience of time-travel, and I loved it.

The Carrington Hotel , perched above Katoomba railway station,
Blue Mountains, in 1890: City Library and Wikimedia Commons. 
The air up in Katoomba was dry and spicy with the scent of Eucalyptus; the shops sold old-fashioned sweets and the world’s most grotesque dolls, known as ‘mountain devils’. These were complicated horned seed-pods of the wild honey flower, dried and mounted on pipe-cleaners and then dressed in dreamy ball-dresses. I collected mountain devil ladies of fashion and created auto-ethnographies for them - sadly, none extant.
Katoomba Street was almost as sleepy as this when I used to frequent it.
 State Library of New South Wales, Wikimedia Commons.
But the best thing about Katoomba was the Carrington, and I adored almost every inch of it. I was a child who hated growing up in Australia. I craved Europe and the old world. The Carrington delivered every possible old world trope: fluted columns, a suit of armour in the hall, a grandfather clock, stained glass windows, conservatories, the billiard room.
The entrance to the Carrington -  Sardaka and Wikimedia Commons

Even then I had a passion for architectural detail
In the dining room of my memory stood stalwart Chinese vases, far taller than a child. Behind them was a good place to hide from the cook who was known to hate and rumoured to eat children. A magnolia tree bent over the swimming pool, casting its blooms into the water like waterlilies. Romantically, it even snowed occasionally in Katoomba. The railway station was next door to the hotel; trains chuckled quietly to themselves all night.

My favourite place was probably the little minstrels’ gallery above the ballroom. There was a sad dearth of minstrels. So that eyrie became the den for myself, my sisters and a cousin. Being the spoilt grand-spawn of the bosses, we were served an almost fatally sweet cherry cordial that the staff called ‘Dragon’s Blood’. (Orange juice would have probably tasted better, but we were not going to pass on Dragon’s Blood.)

There was even an element of Gothic horror. The Carrington’s plumbing was terrifyingly percussive in the night. Click, howls and growls emerged from the radiators. The bedrooms were reached via endless corridors clad in vivid Turkey carpet, thick enough to mask creeping footsteps. I was terrified of the black lioness sculptures that lurked in unexpected corners up there. I felt their eyes swivelling to watch me. I felt their breath on my neck. I used to run past them as fast as I could, my heart beating fit to burst. And yes, in The Wishing Bones, those black lionesses stalk The Hotel of What You Want, one of those screamingly obvious warnings that guests in haunted houses never ever heed, making them almost complicit in their own murders.

The Carrington was in my mind when I started writing The Wishing Bones, though by this time both my writing and my life had transferred to Venice. In Venice, I found a shabby building that seemed to be melting into a quiet canal. It had the appropriate hidden entrances and a water-gate convenient for the disposing of bodies. So this was the building I chose when elaborating on an idea for keeping English tourists both entertained and detained in Venice: pink window awnings containing dioramas with mechanical models inside to represent all those exciting cities in Europe that it would, in truth, be uncomfortable, hot and dusty to visit.

In my dioramas, I was initially inspired by lantern-box shows or mondi nuovi, as the Venetians called them, could be seen on the streets in the eighteenth century, providing magical-seeming glimpses of other worlds and wild creatures, apparent ghosts and devils. In fact, it is thought that the magic lantern or ‘lantern of fear’ was invented by Giovanni Fontana, a Venetian, in the fifteenth century. In the time when this book is set, an era before movies, televisions or computer screens, the dioramas of the Hotel of What You Want would have seemed like magic. The fresco below by Giovanni Domenico Tiepolo shows crowds clustering around a Mondo Novo. It comes from the frescoes of the Villa di Zianigo, courtesy of the Web Gallery of Art.

But I am not the first person to think of miniature tableaux of moving parts inside an eyelid-shaped awning. The artist Mariano Fortuny Marsal (1871–1949) made his home near San Samuele in Venice in the late nineteenth century. This dashing portrait of him comes from Wikimedia Commons.

In 1899, Fortuny began to experiment with lighting and scenery engineering for the theatre. In April 2012, when I was starting to think about the Wishing Bones, his theatrical models were on display in the Venetian palazzo that now bears his name. They included a structure like a delicately pleated eyelid that could open and close. Fortuny also made ‘cloud machinery’ of painted glass on tilting frames. In his time, electric light was available to illuminate the ‘moving clouds’. In the world of my novel, there are only lanterns, plus small wind-up automatons and delicate toys that could be powered by the warmth of a candle.

I’d written the second draft by the time I found out I was also not the first person to think of a hotel as a useful place to kill guests and harvest their body parts for money. Researching the history of hotels, I came across the 19th century case of Herman Webster Mudgett, whose establishment in Chicago had more in common with an abattoir than a hotel. I found a 2003 book by Erik Larsen The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair That Changed America.

a reliquary box of tiny bone fragments
from different saints
Science Museum, courtesy of Wellcome Images
At first I was a little crestfallen But my book’s set in 1740, and in Venice. It has other elements: a cruel convent where children are worked as slaves. fake saints’ relics, mermaids, vampire eels and prophecies. So I decided that Mudgett was a suitable research resource. After all, the task of the fantasy novelist is to create a believable scenario. Mudgett’s grisly techniques actually worked, so I prepared myself to read and learn. Larsen’s book is fascinating, twinning the story of the psychopath Mudgett with that of the decent people who battled against all odds to create a stunning World Fair.

 One of the first known serial killers in America, Herman Webster Mudgett, trained as a doctor – and went by the name of Dr Henry Howard Holmes. However he discovered that murder could be more lucrative than medicine and better suited to his chilling talents for seduction. Mudgett was well-groomed, exquisitely dressed, well-spoken and the owner of a pair of hypnotic blue eyes plus the classic villain’s droopy moustache. He looked good in a hat. Like many psychopaths, he possessed an ability to make women fall hopelessly in love with him and to believe everything he told them – right up until the moment when he murdered them. Also in keeping with his psychopath trope, even as a child he’d had a morbid interest in the killing and dissecting of animals. His lack of squeamishness around corpses led him to a scam even when still a medical student: stealing and mutilating teaching cadavers to try to claim insurance pay-outs in faked names.

In Mudgett’s time, Chicago was home to the Union Stock Yards, the great abattoir of its day – a fact that was probably not lost on him. The city was also about to host the World’s Fair, which would bring hundreds of thousands of visitors to the city. So it was there that Mudgett opened a three-storey maze of a hotel in 1893. Its official name was ‘The World's Fair Hotel’ but its grandiose size led locals to call it ‘The Castle’ . It was not a welcoming place, being gloomy and dark. The layout was illogical and unfriendly. The room rates were not expensive. But that was because Mudgett made his real profits from selling the corpses of the guests and employees he murdered.

Mudgett had changed builders several times during its construction so that no one but himself knew all its secrets. Those included airtight rooms set up as gas chambers, a soundproof vault and a greased chute for discreetly dropping the bodies of his victims down to the basement so that he wouldn’t have to drag them through the corridors and down the stairs. In the basement were an operating table for dissecting the bodies and a special kiln for incineration. Mudgett sent some remains to an ‘articulator’ who prepared the skeletons for sale to medical schools.

Over several years, Mudgett got away with uncountable crimes. He may well have kept his victims alive in their sealed rooms for long periods before he killed them. Suspicion was eventually aroused by the large quantities of chloroform he bought and the number of missing girls who had at one time or another stayed or worked at the hotel. It was also discovered that all employees had been obliged take out a life-insurance policy in Mudgett’s name.

Mudgett eventually confessed to 27 murders but he may have killed ten times that number. He persuaded some victims to take out life insurance policies that named him as the beneficiary. So he earned from their deaths twice over. Mudgett, who had three wives at the same time, was eventually arrested and tried after he kidnapped three children and killed them in different cities in America. His dissecting chamber was discovered in the subsequent investigation.

A fire conveniently destroyed much of his carnivorous hotel before the full story could be uncovered. However, detectives had already located a vat of acid containing eight human ribs and a skull, his incineration kiln and his dissection table, human hair in a stovepipe, blood-stained overalls, high heeled shoes, a dress and substantial quantities of quicklime. Also found were a shoulder blade, a hip socket, a foot bone and more ribs.

While in prison, Mudgett wrote three different sets of confessions and a memoir, all full of lies. Some of the people he claimed to have killed were still alive. But many more missing people seemed to have crossed his path. Of himself, he said, ‘I was born with the devil in me. I could not help the fact that I was a murderer, no more than the poet can help the inspiration to sing -- I was born with the "Evil One" standing as my sponsor beside the bed where I was ushered into the world, and he has been with me since.’

 The Chicago Times-Herald wrote: ‘He is a prodigy of wickedness, a human demon, a being so unthinkable that no novelist would dare to invent such a character.’

He was hanged in Philadelphia on May 7th, 1896, leaving elaborate instructions for his own burial to ensure that no one would ever dismember or dissect his corpse. His coffin, he insisted, had to be encased in concrete and buried ten feet deep. Mudgett of course knew better than anyone what kind of disrespect could befall a dead body.

Some of Mudgett’s diabolical ideas turned out to answer problems I had set myself in my plot. My dark fantasy was more than equalled by his reality. Mudgett had added baroque curlicues I could not have dreamt up.

Not surprisingly there's any amount of lurid and tasteless material online about Mudgett. If you’d like to see images of the hotel, this is one of the least offensive videos. I earnestly suggest you avoid the others.

The Wishing Bones has had a long gestation and it changed more than its title along the way to publication. A year after I started it, the wonderfully shabby Venetian building I'd chosen for it had a makeover and was painted a crisp russet red. Its romance died. So did its loucheness and decadence. It looked almost suburban. If I didn't live in Venice, I would have felt the need to find a new Hotel of What You Want. But I do. That meant I knew that humidity would reclaim those walls within a few years. And so it has. By the time The Wishing Bones is year old, that building in the Calle Racheta will look pretty much as it did before the owners spent all those euros on it.

A few years ago I went back to the Carrington. It had been ‘done up’. To me, it seemed as if it had been ‘done over’. It felt corporate, unwelcoming. Even if I’d been allowed to do so, I would not have wanted to go upstairs to inspect the black lionesses or put my ear against the ululating radiators. I feared both lionesses and antique plumbing been purged. I did not check on the minstrels' gallery or the tall vases in the dining room. Being in prosaic company at the time, poetic memories were not evoked: the modern Carrington did not dent the porous old container in which I keep them.

And perhaps that’s for the best. They're still safe where they are.


Michelle Lovric’s website

The Wishing Bones is published on July 25th

New website pages about the book can be seen here.

A shorter version of this story has appeared in COLLECTED, writings from Royal Literary Fund Fellows on the RLF website.

Let's Talk about the F-word by Susan Vincent

$
0
0


I’m a dress historian. Since this is my first blog for The History Girls, I thought I’d clamber onto my soapbox (I don’t need much persuading) and rant a little about ‘fashion’ – or the f-word as I like to call it. Although I swear like the proverbial trooper, as a dress historian ‘fashion’ is a word that seldom sullies my lips.

So why is this? What have I got against the F-word?

First off, fashion is only a tiny part of the bigger dress system and it plays only a supporting role in the life-long drama of us and our clothes. Let’s think about this for a bit. In childhood – from babygrows to school uniforms – we’re not wearing fashion. Let’s face it, for the most part we’re not even wearing things of our own choice.


Then we grow up … and that makes surprisingly little difference. What we wear to work has to meet dress codes, whether those codes are overt (as in uniform) or unarticulated (as in what colleagues wear and line-managers expect). At home we relax in garments that we deem comfortable and practical – things to wear on the sofa watching Netflix, or when cleaning the bathroom. Special, ritual occasions also have their own sartorial norms and expectations. Think wedding dresses – the bride and the guests – suits, and even funeral wear.


All these are finessed by fashion, but their fundamentals lie much deeper. Then in older age our relationship with fashion becomes even more distant, as the clothes that are made for young bodies no longer fit, and as growing physical incapacity weighs in to influence us.


And don’t get me started on the other factors that impinge on our choice of garments. As every one of us knows, we make purchase decisions not on the basis of fashionability alone, but also within the constraints of price, fit, fabric, availability, body image and subjective aesthetics. I might like a trend, but loathe it on me. Or I might like it on me, but it’s uncomfortable, or too expensive, or entirely unsuitable. (What you do mean, historians aren’t wearing diamond tiaras this year?)


We even wear garments – or let’s be specific here, I even wear garments – that I don’t much like, but have bought in desperation at not finding anything to fit my body and my needs any better. In these cases, it’s the least worst option.





My point is that most of what we wear – most of what anyone has ever worn in the past – is not fashion. And as a dress historian, what I am interested in is how people have lived their lives with and through these clothes of theirs.

How has a person’s garments helped shape their physical experiences and their emotional lives, their memory and their relationships? What can dress tell us about much bigger cultural ideas – about decency, health, technology, work, wealth? Looking at dress, what can we read about ethnicities, age and gender? What are the economics and politics of production? How are garments obtained, maintained, re-used, and disposed of? What effect does the life cycle of clothing have on the environment? on resources? on the health of the workers who made them?

The list of questions is endless, but by using the word ‘fashion’ we shut down the conversation we can have with clothes. We limit our view of this whole, rich sartorial world. It’s like being interested in food, but looking only at cordon bleu cooking and the experience of dining at restaurants.

 

There’s actually much more to my dislike of the F-word – when you look closely at fashion even as a sub-category, it wobbles alarmingly and threatens to disappear, and I actually suspect that fashion is not a thing at all, but an idea and an aspiration. However, this will do for a start.

In the meantime, if you’ve enjoyed the – yes, I do have to use the word here – fashion plates in today’s blog, then take a look at the Rijksmuseum and the Metropolitan Museum of Art (at the Costume Institute Fashion Plates). Both have wonderful online collections of costume prints, and far too many hours can be frittered amongst their delights…

Susan Vincent






PS
If you're interested, the images above are, in order:

1. ‘Bonjour! Chapeau, de Camille Roger’, Gazette du Bon Ton, 1921. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Costume Institute (Women 1921, Plate 018)

2. ‘Théorie de l'Art du Tailleur: Costumes d'enfants’, October 1837. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam (no. RP-P-2009-3155)

3. ‘Godey’s Fashions for February 1872’, Godey’s Lady’s Book, Philadelphia, 1872. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Costume Institute (Wedding 1870–1929, Plate 006)

4. Journal für Fabrik, Manufaktur, Handlung, Kunst und Mode, Leipzig, 1796. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam (no. RP-P-2009-2753)

5. ‘Costume Parisien, Cheveux à la Titus’, Journal des Dames et des Modes, 9 April 1799. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam (no. RP-P-2009-1425)

6. ‘Costumes Parisiens, Robe de chambre’, Journal des Dames et des Modes, 1913. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam (no. RP-P-2009-1779)

7. Wenceslaus Hollar, ‘Winter’, London, 1643. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam (no. RP-P-OB-11.250)





Playing in a Mystery Play

$
0
0

“Mystery plays and miracle plays are among the earliest formally developed plays in medieval Europe. Medieval mystery plays focused on the representation of Bible stories in churches as tableaux with accompanying antiphonal song. They told of subjects such as the Creation, Adam and Eve, the murder of Abel, and the Last Judgment. Often they were performed together in cycles which could last for days.
So says Wikipedia. What it doesn’t say is that they are great fun to perform in and really help to bring a community together. I know this because I played “God the Son” in a mystery play put on outside my village’s wonderful Norman church in late June. We were blessed with wonderful (if hot!!) weather and all went (relatively) well.

We started with auditions in November last year. I was assistant director, but got pulled into performing in the first play "The Deluge", as God the Son:

Eat not this fruit ne me displease... 
  So great of might is my potency

  All things shall be wrought by me

  I am one God, in persons three

Knit in one substaunce.



The play fell into two halves: in both, God punishes humankind for their sin and removes them from the environment that sustains them; and in both, the woman is tempted by the devil. Although though venial, Noah's wife plainly displays more empathy with the sinners who have died. The visual references in the first half were mediaeval, while the second half was played in modern dress.

Mr and Mrs Noah had a difficult relationship:
she showed little empathy for her husband.
The director told us not to be intimidated by the look of the text on the page. It had been written for the ear not the eye, and we were told to think of it as a kind of vocal score, and that the language is comprehensible and entirely alive when played with appropriate speech rhythms and action. When he adapted our versions he preserved the sounds and rhythms of the original as far as possible. As he said, it is that rather than understanding each word that  is the basis of most spoken communication.



Learning lines on a tombstone

The colloquial English speech rhthms focused on alliteration and rhyme. We were told to forget anything we'd been taught about Shakespearean blank verse or how to read aloud the King James Bible. Still, many found lines such as this (said by Adam):
                                    
I dare not touch thine hand for dread                     
  Of our lord God omnipotent.
If I should work after thy rede,
  Of God our maker, I should be shent.

The ‘Creation and Fall’  we played derives from the N-town cycle that originated somewhere in East Anglia, possibly Lincoln and Bury St Edmunds. We do not know how the text was originally performed. The first half of Noah, ‘Building of the Ark’ ,comes from Newcastle-upon-Tyne, where it was performed by the Guild of Shipwrights - so when Noah says that he is no wright and doesn't know how to build a boat, it got a lot of laughs. The remainder of Noah comes from York, where it was played by the sailors and fishermen on a pageant wagon.



Noah was played (by itself) in the Rose HIll Community Centre before a very large group of children from the Youth Club, who enjoyed it immensely and seemed to have no problem with the language.

Mrs Noah is nearly pulled out by the Devil

 Our two big performances were on 29 and 30 June. The play first began in the thatched Village Hall with the creation of the world and the banishing of Lucifer. Then we all processed to the churchyard through the days of creation.

Now heaven is made for angels' sake  The first day and the first night.










The second day water I make.


A very blonde and smily Son flicking water on the audience.
The director told me off for smiling too much.
                                                                                                       




















The third day tree and every growing thing
  Both herb and flower of sweet smelling

  The third day is made by my working.

   Sun and moon and stars also                               

  The fourth day, I make the same.                  

                                      
wild beasts
 The fifth day, worm and fish that swim and go,  
Birds and beasts, both wild and tame.
tame beasts




 The sixth day my work I do,

  And make the man ‘Adam’ by name.                  

In earthly paradise withouten woe

  I grant thee biding - lest thou do blame. 



 Flesh of thy flesh and bone of thy bone; Adam, here is thy wife and mate:


Self-explanatory, really

 Noah had a different cast:

The Devil in Noah was a sly one...

The God in Noah sends her angel to tell Noah to build the ark
The director warned us: "Many of the rhymes in the Noah plays work phonetically in Geordie or Yorkshire, but not in southern accents. Rather than try to replicate systematically a northern accent, I would rather celebrate the diversity of Englishes that members of the cast bring with them from different places, and if this helps achieve some of the rhymes that would be great - I'm not expecting to resolve all of them."



Mrs Noah and her 'daughters'



  And so, God "in person three" was an all-female  deity: English Father, Australian son and South     African Ghost. Adam (also female) was Scottish;   Eve was Swiss; The Devil came from Yorkshire; Mrs Noah was Czech. Noah's children were a mish-mosh indeed. And it worked!!



Being medieval, the attitude to women caused some gasps when the Holy Ghost admonished Eve:

and bear thy children with great groaning...
 Woman, thou soughtest this sinning

    And bade him break my bidding.

    Therefore, thou shalt be underling.                        

To man's bidding bend.

    What he biddeth thee, do thou that thing

    And bear thy children with great groaning

    In danger and in death-dreading

Into thy life's end.   




 


 My star moment? When I banished the Devil:


Thou wicked worm, full of pride,

    Foul envy sit by thy side.

    Upon thy gut thou shalt glide

As worm wicked in kind.

    Till a maiden in middle earth be born.                    

    Thou fiend, I warn thee beforn.

    Through her thy head shall be to-torn.

On thy womb away thou wind.













Archangel

The second day water I drink
I mustn't forget to mention our wonderful musicians who played early music with aplomb:


And finally, the real star: Beautiful St Mary the Virgin church, Iffley, Oxford. 
Completed  circa 1160

Dudley's Devil, Ghost Wives And Pit Bonk Wenches by Susan Price

$
0
0
Dudley Castle, Wikimedia, Trevman99
"The Devil stood on Dudley's keep
And far about Him gazed,
And said, 'I never more shall feel
At Hell's fierce flames amazed."

If I look across the valley from my house, I can see Dudley Castle on the opposite hill.

A former owner, John Dudley, was executed for trying to put Lady Jane Grey on the throne and as a child I used to be told that it was 'one of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit.' Parliament's guns were set up where the present day Castlegate roundabout is, just by the 24-hour Tesco's. (It's a long way from the castle and gives you an idea of just how big a castle's outer baileys were.)

But the rhyme above refers to the period when industry came to the Black Country, the period from, roughly, 1760 to 1860: the Industrial Revolution.

My Scottish partner has just told me, flatly, that 'nobody knows where the "Black Country" is.' So I'll tell you. It isn't Birmingham. That overgrown village with too high an opinion of itself is to the south-east. 

The Black Country was an area of small towns and villages until Industry arrived -- and Industry arrived because of the district's geology. Dudley Castle is built of limestone and the 'Seven Sisters' caverns beneath it are quarried from limestone. Where the Black Country isn't limestone, it's basalt, streaked with rust from the iron in it. Alongside enormous quarries there were enormous 'marl-holes': holes from which marl, or clay had been dug. And through the Black Country ran the massive thirty-foot coal seam. It was said to be the only place in the world where ladders were needed to cut coal.
Cutting coal in 'the thick seam' -- Wikimedia, no restrictions
Clay to make bricks to build factories; iron-ore for smelting iron; limestone to act as a flux for the iron; and coal to fire the furnaces. All of it within a small region which meant little time and energy would be spent hauling raw materials over roads little better than dirt tracks. Once canals were cut -- and the Black Country has many 'cuts' or canals -- the iron and coal could be floated right up to the factory's own quay.

Within a short time, the Black Country became a place of brick-works, coal-mines and iron-works. Coal had been mined and iron worked in the district for centuries. Small, family run mines were common where the thirty-foot seam came close to the surface and 'Smethwick' means 'the town of the smiths.' There had always been back-yard nail and chain shops in Dudley, Oldbury and Cradley Heath. But these had been small-scale cottage-industries, worked as and when demand was there or when the work-shop owner felt like it. At other times, they tended their pigs, chickens or vegetable patch.

But the 'Revolution' meant more mines and deeper; more nail and chain shops, more foundries, more steel mills. There was a sudden steep increase in exploitation too. It was the kind of capitalist free-for-all that the Tories are itching to return us to, if they can only get rid of all that nannying red-tape from the EU: all that wimpy stuff about workers' rights and air and water purity.

There was none of that fuss-potting in the old Black Country. The Agricultural Revolution had forced people off the land:
'They hang the man and flog the woman
Who steals a goose from off the Common--
But leave the greater villain loose
Who steals the Common from the goose.'

People poured into the Black Country from surrounding English counties, from Wales and from Ireland. They came to a place where there were no laws against child labour: children worked in factories and were lowered into mines on the end of a rope, to spend all day down there, in the dark, and hauled up again after dark had fallen. Many fell to their deaths or were brained by objects falling from above. There were no safety rules, no guards on machinery, no minimum wage, no welfare -- not even something as inadequate as Universal Credit.

Great mechanical hammers pounded day and night, 'wildfire' burst out above ground from ill-kept mines, and a great dark cloud of smoke and soot obscured daylight. It's said that, at night, the red glow from the foundries and forges reflected off the underside of this cloud of smoke.  

"The Devil stood on Dudley's keep
And far about Him gazed,
And said, 'I never more shall feel
At Hell's fierce flames amazed."

The old Black Country was Hell on earth for most.


 It's the setting of my book, The Ghost Wife.

The book was partly inspired by the Dudley Devil. He isn't an invention. His name was Theophilius Dunn and he was born in Netherton, a village near the town of Dudley, in 1790. He made a living as a witch, telling fortunes and 'finding things lost.'He was called 'Devil' because, like 'cunning man,' it  was a name for a witch. He was known locally as 'Owd Offie.'

He was supposed to have been such an accomplished witch that 'great personages' came in carriages from as far away as Scotland to consult him. Despite such claims, he seems to have been the usual con-artist, doing business at the all the local 'Wakes' or fairs, from a tent decorated with occult symbols. He sold charms and potions.

Theophilius Dunn hanged himself in 1851, at the age of 61. One story has it that he foretold the day of his own death. When that day came, finding himself in good health, he was so annoyed at the thought that one of his predictions wouldn't come true, he made sure it did.

My devil comes to a sticky end too, though not by hanging and I'd like to make it clear that my devil, though inspired by Dunn, is not intended to be a portrait of him. My devil, Amadeus Warley, is far more wicked. And, of course, has genuine supernatural powers.

One of the characters in the book, Rattle, goes to visit the Devil and has to walk through the town of Dudley (called 'Dudham' in the book) through its streets of slum dwellings, where blood and guts were washed downhill from the market-place beneath the castle walls and where the din of hammers rings out on all sides. Dudley was a nailing town.

Rattle is a 'pit bonk wench' -- a girl who usually works on the pit banks, loading coal onto carts, or carting away waste earth and rock to the 'pit bonks.' In my childhood, if a girl or woman was untidy or grubby, they were accused of 'looking like a pit-bonk wench.' The chains of figures cut out of newspaper to amuse children were always called 'pit-bonk wenches.' That, or 'brickle wenches' who were very similar wenches who worked in brick yards.

Pit bonk wenches
 
The pit bonk wenches you did not mess with. Old photographs usually show them dressed in skirts, bonnets and big boots and grimy as anyone would be who worked loading coal all day. I think they'd dressed in their best for these photos, though, as the tales I was told as a child always described them as wearing an old flat cap that had once belonged to a male relative and often one of his old jackets too. And a pipe in the corner of the mouth.

I've never seen photos of them wearing trousers but they did. They often rode astride on the horses that pulled the carts and were climbing on and off carts all day. It was easier to wear trousers.

The Ghost Wife herself is not inspired by the Black Country at all. She stems from my reading of sinister Icelandic folk-tales about 'followers' -- a kind of ghost which attaches itself to a particular family and follows them relentlessly through generations. This is usually said to have happened because of a curse inflicted by a witch. The witch -- who was as often male as female -- created the ghost by murdering some luckless beggar and then sends the ghost against his or her enemy, to torment them or spy on them.

In the book a 'Methody' farming family had a rather less religious ancestor who drowned a beggar girl in order to create for himself a witch's familiar. The witch died -- but his familiar continues to haunt the farm-house and attaches herself to some unfortunate young man in every generation. As the Dudham Devil remarks, the classical writers would have called her a succubus.




Paperback

 

Ebook













Thanks to Susan Price for this post. Antonia Senior will be back next month

Markyate Manor – Home of The Wicked Lady

$
0
0
by Deborah Swift 

I am not the first writer to be inspired by the life and legend of Lady Katherine Fanshawe. The first novel based on her life was by Magdalen King-Hall who wrote a book called The Life and Death of the Wicked Lady Skelton in 1945. I have a copy and it is exciting reading, though long-winded in the telling by today’s standards. The book was a smash hit in its day and was made into a film - The Wicked Lady. 

The film starred Margaret Lockwood in the title role as a nobleman's wife who secretly becomes a highwayman to relieve her life of boredom. The mystery of why she would take such an extreme action was the sensation of its day – women were supposed to be safe at home doing the housekeeping! The film had one of the top audiences ever for a film of its period, 18.4 million – a staggering number. I can remember my mother talking about it as one of her favourite films.

It was such a hit that the film was re-made in 1983 and starred Faye Dunaway in the lead role, but the film was a total disaster and earned Faye Dunaway an award for the Worst Actress.

The legend is set in and around Markyate Manor. The name Markyate is derived from the Old English words mearc and geat and means 'the gate at the boundary', presumably the boundary between Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire. On the original site was a hermitage, which housed the nun Christina of Markyate. Known for being taken over by heavenly visions, she gathered quite a following and she founded a priory on the site under Benedictine rule. More about Christina's extraordinary life can be found here

The Priory did not fare well during the Dissolution and was demolished in 1537. The much more elaborate Markyate Manor was built on its footprint, although it is still sometimes known as Markyate Cell - the cell being the original hermitage. George Ferrers retained the name when he bought the land in 1548. The Ferrers family controlled this land when Markyate Cell was the home of Katherine Ferrers, also sometimes known as The Wicked Lady

Markyate Cell

After the death of her husband, Katherine’s mother re-married. The land was soon under the iron control of Katherine’s step-father, Sir Simon Fanshawe. Worse, at only twelve years old, Katherine was forced into an arranged marriage with his nephew, Thomas Fanshawe, so that he could retain control of the estate.
Picture from Project Gutenberg

After that, the story gets even more interesting as the legend credits Katherine with being a notorious highwaywoman. She lived in the house through the years of the turbulent English Civil War, much of it alone as her menfolk were away fighting. She finally died there, so the legend goes, having been mortally wounded trying to rob a coach on Nomansland. 

Her ghost has been seen dressed in highwayman clothes riding her horse at full gallop, and even in 1840 when part of the manor was destroyed by fire, the blaze was blamed on Lady Katherine. Whilst helping to put out the fire several locals said that they felt a ghostly presence and feared they were being watched by her ghost. But unsurprisingly, she is not the only ghost that haunts this building - in the late 1850s workmen repairing a wall saw the figure of a nun. Perhaps this was the anchorite Christina? The nun has been seen several times since, walking in an avenue near St John's Church.

In 1957 the bypass around Markyate was being built. A night watchman was sitting by his brazier one night when he looked up and saw someone warming their hands by the fire. The figure was that of a young man who promptly vanished as the night watchman was looking at him. Was this an appearance of Markyate's legendary Phantom who may also haunt Hicks Road and the High Street? Luton Paranormal Society
There has always been a mysterious young farmer associated with the legend, although I can find no trace of him in historical records. His name, according to local lore, was Ralph Chaplin. I have re-imagined him as a fiery young man who wants to change the old order by joining the radical Diggers Community. The legend of his relationship with Katherine led to the story-line for 'Spirit of the Highway'. I thought the history would appeal to young adults, with its touch of the paranormal, and be a good introduction for newcomers to the period of the English Civil War.

Like to know more about the legend? check out this article in the Daily Mail for a summary of the life and legend of Lady Katherine Ferrers (Fanshawe).
Deborah’s website 
Twitter @swiftstory

also worth looking up is Katherine Clement's excellent adult novel about the same legend, The Silver'd Heart.
Image sources: wikicommons unless cited

Aliens Invade! - by Lesley Downer

$
0
0
Black Ship - a Japanese artist imagines
On July 14th 1853, 166 years ago today, an event occurred that completely changed Japan and the world. I’ll start by winding the clock back a few days.

First Contact
On July 8th 1853, fishermen casting their nets at the mouth of Edo Bay saw an unimaginable sight. It was a windless day and their boats were becalmed, yet surging towards them were four monster ships, bigger than any they’d ever seen. ‘As large as mountains’, said a fisherman later, moving ‘as swiftly as birds,’ and two ‘afire’ with smoke pouring out of them like a dragon’s breath. Worst of all, they were heading for the capital, Edo. They dropped anchor at the mouth of the bay and turned their cannons on the little town of Uraga there.

Panicking, the fishermen hauled their nets in and rowed for shore to send a warning to Edo.

Not Martians - Americans! 
The government officials knew exactly what this was - an alien invasion, not Martians but Americans. It was Commodore Matthew Perry and his Black Ships.
Perry stayed hidden but that didn't prevent
artists from imagining what he looked like.
Honolulu Museum of Art

For more than 200 years, since 1639, Japan had been closed to the western world, except for twenty Dutch merchants who lived on Dejima island off Nagasaki. Every year a Dutch ship came with goods to trade, enabling the Japanese to keep abreast of developments outside and to buy western technology and books. By remaining closed they’d managed to stave off colonisation. But they were well aware of the Opium War of 1839 to 1842 and of British incursions into China. They knew the wolf was at the door. In fact the King of Holland, their ally, had written to the shogun warning that an American fleet was on its way.

On the other side of the world, the Crimean War was brewing. It broke out that same month, tying up the three great colonising powers - Britain, France and Russia - and leaving the way open for the fledgling United States of America.

Whaling
Whaling was the spark that ignited the flame. In 1851 Hermann Melville wrote in Moby Dick, ‘If that double-bolted land, Japan, is ever to become hospitable, it is the whale ship alone to whom the credit will be due, for already she is on the threshold.’

In America people lit their homes with whale oil lamps. Baleen whale bones were to stiffen crinolines and industrial machinery was lubricated with whale oil. For decades whaling ships from New England had plied the rich waters around Hokkaido but could not put in even for supplies; and shipwrecked sailors who fell into Japanese hands were treated harshly and usually ended up in prison.

In November 1851 President Millard Fillmore instructed Commodore Matthew Perry to deliver a letter to the Japanese Emperor demanding that American whalers and other vessels be allowed access to one or two ports of call to take on coal and water and that castaways be treated humanely. Initially at least the Americans did not insist on a trade treaty, just these two small specific demands.

Confrontation 
The American squadron, two steamships and two sloops with 61 guns and 967 men, entered Edo Bay at nearly 9 knots, leaving the shogunal navy scrambling in their wake and fishermen, as the journalist Bayard Taylor, looking down from his perch on the upper deck, wrote, fleeing for shore ‘like wild birds at a sudden intruder’.

Guard boats swarmed out to intercept the ships, rowed by ‘tall athletic men naked save for a cloth around the loins.’ Officials on board held up a huge sign reading, ‘Depart immediately and dare not anchor’ in French.

There were also artists on board, busily sketching. They knew there was going to be a huge demand for pictures of the Black Ships.

The intruders drove the guard boats away with pikes.

Commodore Matthew Perry (1794-1858) 
Met Museum

Perry kept out of sight in his cabin. He was determined only to speak to a man of the highest rank, equal to his own. ‘I was well aware that the more exclusive I should make myself and the more exacting I might be, the more respect these people of forms and ceremonies would be disposed to award me,’ he later wrote.

Nevertheless the Americans were never fully aware of exactly what was going on.

Eventually Nakajima Saburonosuke was allowed on board. Somehow the Americans had the impression that he was the vice governor of Uraga. In fact he was a mere police magistrate.

Bayard Taylor described his black cloak and shorter undergarment, the two swords in his waistband, his sandals and white toed tabi socks, and his red lacquered helmet shaped like an inverted basin.

With the translation going from English into Dutch, then into Japanese, and back again, using two not particularly skilful interpreters, Lieutenant Franklin Buchanan told Nakajima that the Americans had a letter they had to deliver to the Emperor. This made the Japanese chortle to themselves. The Emperor was an impoverished Pope-like figure who played no part in government affairs. The Americans added that if they were refused they would go ashore ‘with sufficient troops’ and deliver it themselves - a chilling threat indeed.

Meanwhile the second police magistrate, Kayama Eizaemon, had counted seventy cannons on the ships. The shogunate had 100 cannons dotted around Edo Bay but only 11 of comparable calibre. The Japanese were completely outgunned.

Panic
By evening panic was growing. The government declared a state of emergency. The daimyo warlords in charge of the defence of Edo Bay rushed off to rally their troops. People living near the coast fled inland, carrying all the possessions they could on their backs or in carts.

Kayama Eizaemon
Thereafter Kayama Eizaemon, the second police magistrate, took over as chief go between. His elaborate silk garments embroidered with gold and silver peacock feathers presented a colourful spectacle and the Americans were impressed with his gentlemanly deportment. Kayama tried using delaying tactics but the Americans issued an ultimatum, giving him three days to come up with an answer before they went ashore themselves.

The problem was that Perry insisted that only men of the highest rank should receive the letter, but no high ranking man wanted to touch it.

Finally the government found a way round it. The small town of Uraga had two governors - Toda Izu and Ido Iwami. In short order they were declared princes of Izu and daimyo of Sagami, making them of high enough rank to deal with Perry and receive the letter. Toda, now ‘prince of Izu’, was most amused at his sudden promotion, like being promoted overnight from Mayor of Margate to Earl of Essex.
Delivery of the President's letter.
Lithograph, J Sinclair, Philadelphia,
Courtesy of the Library of Congress


The Americans were satisfied and they set the date and the place for the delivery of the letter.

Kayama explores the ship

To celebrate, the Americans took Kayama and the interpreters on a tour of the ship. The Japanese marvelled at the size and complexity of ship’s engines and its fearsome Paixhans gun, saw their first photographs and tasted whisky and brandy. The Americans assumed the Japanese didn’t know the world was round and showed them a globe, expecting them to be bemused. Kayama coolly pointed out New York and Washington and asked about railroad tunnels, the Panama railway which was under construction at the time and if ship’s engines were akin to those used in railroad engines. The Americans were, they wrote, surprised by the Japanese officials’ grasp of the ‘general principles of science and of the facts of the geography of the world.’

July 14th - delivering the letter
Perry, afraid of treachery, insisted on meeting at Kurihama where they could bring the American ships close enough to shore to bring the beach within range of their guns.

The Americans were kept awake by the banging as carpenters worked through the night to build the reception halls.

The next morning they saw the results of their labours. There were two pavilions decorated with flags and banners and fifty Japanese guard boats, each decorated with a red flag. More than 5000 samurai gathered and there were women peeking from behind screens, and local villagers too had gathered around. The Japanese officials wore brocaded silk overgarments trimmed with yellow velvet and embroidered with gold thread. It was all so splendid that ‘it made me think that had come to be a spectator at some joust or tourney,’ wrote a young American clerk called J W Spalding.

Pomp and circumstance
At 10 o’clock 250 Americans left the ships to a thunderous gun roll of 13 guns. And finally Perry appeared. He stepped into a white barge and went ashore to a roll of drums, flanked by two huge black stewards, ‘two of the best looking fellows of their colour that the squadron could furnish’. Behind hum came two cabin boys carrying rosewood boxes wrapped in scarlet cloth holding the letters. While the band played ‘Hail Columbia’ the procession followed Kayama and the interpreters up the hill to the reception hall.

The Japanese had even managed to procure an armchair for Perry.
Perry and his armchair
Library of Congress, public domain

Toda was there to receive the letters - one from President Fillmore pledging friendship and requesting the opening of relations, the other Perry’s instructions to open negotiations on a treaty of amity between the two nations. Perry said he would return next April or May with more ships, ‘as these are only a portion of the squadron.’ It was a straightforward threat.

The Americans collected shells and stones from the beach as souvenirs and compared swords with the Japanese soldiers. And finally they marched back to their ships to the strains of ‘Hail Columbia’ and ‘Yankee Doodle’.

Opening the door
Perry had opened the door. He returned the following year with not four but nine ships and forced the Japanese to sign a treaty opening the ports. But that was just the beginning. Other nations rapidly arrived demanding similar concessions - and more and more concessions followed.

What the newcomers didn’t realise was that their arrival had cast Japan into upheaval. The result was a breakdown of order in Japan and the overthrow of the shogunate. In 1868, a mere fifteen years after Perry arrived, the teenage Emperor Meiji became the figurehead of a new government and modern Japan was born. Perry’s initial incursion had entirely changed the course of history.


Lesley Downer’s latest novel, The Shogun’s Queen, an epic tale of love and death in nineteenth century Japan, begins at the moment when Black Ships are sighted off the coast and is out now in paperback. For more see www.lesleydowner.com.

All pictures courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Don't be out of Pocket by Susan Vincent

$
0
0


I love pockets. This doesn’t mean that I must have them, but just that the whole notion is so brilliant. The idea of having a built-in receptacle – a handy ambulatory container for the things that you need throughout the day – is pure genius. A bag, you can always leave somewhere by mistake and it clutters your hands or drags at your shoulders. But pockets are different – pockets, no matter where you go, they effortlessly come along with you.

Useful as they are, pockets often look good too. Virtue out of necessity, their functional features – the openings, the flaps, the outlines – are made decorative with embroidery, extra stitching, or contrasting colours. This is a ‘pimp my pocket’ restyle of the basic receptacle concept. 

But I even love the weirdness of the way that such essentially practical devices are often entirely useless. Think of those pockets on the front of a blouse, and the absurdity of actually carrying anything in them. Or what about those titchy change pockets in jeans that are too small to ram your fingers in, let alone remove again clutching a coin. And then there are faux pockets. These promise entry to a roomy interior but on closer inspection turn out to be just flaps – these are pocket teases, of ornament but no use.

But where did pockets come from? Were they always around?


The not-so-humble pocket as a built-in garment feature appeared from around the end of the fifteenth century, inserted into breeches. 

As the sixteenth century progressed it began to migrate to garments on the upper body. But it was the eighteenth century that might truly be called the era of the pocket, when they became such striking – and capacious – design elements on outerwear, as on the coat and the waistcoat here. 


Even if not apparent, as in this quite severely cutaway garment from 1780–90, the back and side views reveal that this coat is flamboyantly rocking those pockets. 

  


From this point on, pockets were standard issue in male garments, with an increasing range of sizes, types and locations. But womenswear tells a somewhat different story. While they started to be sewn into skirts in the sixteenth century, pockets for women did another amazingly brilliant thing as well. They became separate garments consisting of the pocket itself attached to a tape either singly or in pairs, which were worn tied around the waist. Sometimes plain, they were also often prettily embroidered.



These are the sorts of pockets that are immortalized in the rhyme that has puzzled generations of children and their parents, for whom its mundane description has now been lost in the mists of dress history:
Lucy Locket lost her pocket,
Kitty Fisher found it;
Not a penny was there in it,
Only ribbon round it. 

To add to the all-over niftiness of these standalone pockets, they could either be worn on top, or hidden away over a shift and corset but underneath the skirts. You can see this in the tight-lacing caricature below, in which the subject is getting dressed. Such a wearer would reach her pockets through an opening in the side seams of her gown. This made them full-proof against theft, but also explains the aspersions cast on a woman’s virtue if her pocket was successfully picked.


When the nineteenth century dawned, bringing with it high waists and light, narrow-fitting dresses, neither separate pockets nor the sewn-in sort were feasible. Enter the reticule, a small bag – very often fancifully decorative – that eventually ushered in the whole vast world of handbags.



But pockets didn’t die away. Around the middle of the century they returned to womenswear as the built-in variety, though they have never been the necessary features that they are in male garments. As we all know, in modern womenswear function is subordinate to looks, and pockets are only included if they do not spoil a garment’s drape or cling. Instead, women have been both hampered and helped in equal measure by handbags and purses.

Once created, these pockets of ours allowed for the invention – or adaptation – of other items of material culture (as historians rather pompously like to put it), and thus new habits and practices. Pocket money, pocket knives, and pocket handkerchiefs are still part of our lives. The pocket watch has gone, but we know what it is: a timepiece carried in a fob (a small purpose-made pocket). Less familiar are pocketbooks, sometimes meaning a folding case used for carrying papers and banknotes, and at others referring to a notebook for memoranda. Or what about this rather lovely pocket pistol from around 1815: deadly, elegant and infinitely portable.



And of course, carrying things on the person in this way in turn facilitated a new branch of criminal industry: the pickpocket. But probably what fascinates me most about pockets are the performances that they allow to their wearers. I was reminded of this the other day when I walked past two men in suits, both of them with their hands plunged in their trouser pockets, busy jingling change. Pockets give us something to do with our hands when we are nervous or bored. In the cold we ball them into fists and huddle them into, yes, our pockets. Pockets help us express slouching defiance of authority. And with pockets you can be nonchalant. 


In fact, it strikes me that traditional womenswear, in denying them (pocketed) coats and trousers, made it much harder to perform devil-may-care ease. Along with all the social mores and the normative gender behaviours that prohibited this kind of emotional register, women’s clothing also worked against the performance of such expansive and easy nonchalance.

Having worked this out, I love pockets even more than before. Sure, they trap the tissues which then disintegrate in the wash. But with pockets, we can be insouciant and cool. This is a very big thing – this is gender equality. And it comes courtesy of a very small feature indeed.


 



If you want to take pockets further – and let’s face it, who wouldn’t – then here are some excellent places to start:

  • Barbara Burman and Ariane Fennetaux, The Pocket: A Hidden History of Women’s Lives, 1660–1900 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2019)

Images
1. Photo by Lisa Fotios from Pexels

2. Jan Georg van Vliet (print maker), Figure with hands in pockets, 1635, Leiden. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, no. RP-P-OB-61.808

3. Coat, 1750–9, British, fustian. V&A Museum, London, Given by James Potter, Esq., Master-Tailor of Derby, no. T.962-1919

4. Waistcoat, 1775–85. V&A Museum, London, no. CIRC.216-1920

5. Cutaway coat, 1780–90, French, silk. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Brooklyn Museum Costume Collection, Gift of the Brooklyn Museum, 2009 (Gift of Mrs. Gilberte Andree, 1960), no. 2009.300.840


6. Pair of Pockets, 1700–25, English, linen, silk embroidery. V&A Museum, London, no. T.281&A-1910


7. John Collett, Tight lacing, or, Fashion before ease, print, London, c. 1777. Lewis Walpole Library, Farmington, Local record no. lwlpr04124


8. Le Mois, Journal historique, littéraire et critique, avec figures, Vol. 4, No. 10 (Paris, 1800). Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, no. BI-1926-0324D-1


9. Joseph Egg (gunsmith), Over-and-Under Flintlock Pocket Pistol, c. 1815–20, English. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Charles M. Schott Jr, 1917, no. 19.53.111a–d

10. Portrait of a man standing by a fence, photograph, c.1900–10, France. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, no. RP-F-F01164-5-1

11. Pearl, Kit & me, Landgirls, World War II, no date.

Lascaux IV - by Sue Purkiss

$
0
0
So my post last month - here - got us as far as the entrance to Lascaux. It's a surprisingly modern building, considering it's the gateway to a cave whose glorious paintings were created 20 000 years ago - but still, never mind. Let's go in, and find out more.

When the artists were decorating the pale limestone walls of the cave with their images of horses, bulls, aurochs, bison, and stags, this countryside would have looked very different. The planet was still in the grip of an ice age. Down here, in the balmy south, the summers would have been quite pleasant - but the winters were bitterly cold. It was too cold for forests. Great herds of animals roamed the land, providing food for the hunters. The sewing needle had been invented, and the people made well-fitting clothes out of skins to keep themselves warm. There were fish in the rivers and berries growing on the low-lying scrub. The people made instruments - flutes and pipes, drums perhaps, which they played at their gatherings and festivals. Some of these, almost certainly, celebrated the creation of new art works deep in the caves. Why did they do something so hard as to paint in places where it must have been very difficult to create enough light to see by? What drove them? Something of the same impulse, I imagine, that made mediaeval masons build soaring cathedrals - but I don't know. Nobody does: we can only guess.



Anyway, the decorating of caves went on for hundreds, possibly thousands of years. And then it stopped. Maybe people's lives changed: maybe it was the land itself that changed. Certainly at some stage, the entrance to the cave was blocked. The artists and their work, the very caves themselves, disappeared into the shadowy spaces of the past: no-one remembered them any more. In our arrogance, we modern humans patronisingly thought of the those early people as primitives, whose only purpose was to survive. You only have to look at their paintings to see how wrong that was.

`A beautifully smooth lamp found in the caves. It would probably have been filled with animal fat, with a wick made of juniper ( which doesn't smoke).
Then, in the early twentieth century, there was a storm on a hillside above the small town of Montignac in the Dordogne region of France. A tree was uprooted and a small hole appeared. Farmers frowned when they noticed this; it was a danger to their animals. A goat even disappeared down it. So they blocked it up with branches to make it safe, and forgot about it.

Then, in 1940, when war was raging across the planet, four teenage boys, out with their dog, Robot, heard him barking. When they went to investigate, they saw that he was furiously digging away at the hole, making it bigger. They looked at each other. Curious. They dropped a stone down through the hole.

It was a long time before they heard it hit the bottom.

Over the next few days, they brought makeshift lamps and ropes and let themselves down through the hole into what turned out to be a great cave. Imagine their excitement when they played the light from the lamps over the walls, and caught glimpses of the paintings, still vivid and life-like after so many millenia! This is an area of painted caves - they knew what they had found.



Well, after that, the experts came, and eventually the cave, which became known as Lascaux,  was opened up to the public. Of course it was immensely popular - but its success came at a price. The equilibrium of the cave, which hadn't been disturbed for so many thousands of years, was now destroyed: the paintings began to deteriorate. In 1963 the decision was taken that, to save it, the cave must be closed to everyone except a very few researchers and scientists. In 1983 a replica was opened - Lascaux 11. Marcel Ravidat, one of the four boys who had discovered the cave and had been involved with it ever since, came to see it. After examining it minutely, he declared that he was satisfied - the replica was worthy of its great original!

Then, in December 2016, Lascaux IV was opened. This was the exhibit we were going to see.

We were only there for a few hours, and the story of the creation of this place is incredibly complex. I don't pretend to understand it all. As far as I can gather, although the paintings themselves are produced with absolute accuracy, the layout of the cave is not. You might think that a replica can never be authentic, can only be a pale facsimile of the original. Well - I've never seen the original, so I can't judge. But - before we entered the 'cave', our guide gazed at us all solemnly, and said: "I can promise you - what you are about to see is going to absolutely BLOW YOUR SOCKS OFF!"

And he was absolutely right. What you see is stunning. The paintings are beautiful, created with an economy and perfection of line and colour that would be impressive in any age. And the artists used the contours of the rock to create a 3D effect in some places; a sense of power and movement. New discoveries are being made all the time - for instance, I had read that charcoal fragments had been found in the cave, which were probably used by the artists - a detail I had used in my story. Not true: carbon dating has shown that this charcoal was thousands of years more recent than the era of the paintings, which were done using only natural mineral pigments, which cannot - so far - be dated.



But there is still much more that isn't known. Exactly why the paintings were done is the obvious unknown. Another is the meaning of the ubiquitous patterns of dots and small rectangles.

Yet this museum answers an enormous number of questions. And above all, it sets before us this beautiful art. I've only touched on what there is to know about Lascaux: I'd love to tell you the stories of the four discoverers of the cave. And you might be interested to knw how my own story, my current work-in-progress, ties in with that of the cave. But I won't try your patience any longer. I'll just put in some pictures, which will speak more than adequately for themselves: and I'll strongly recommend that you visit the museum if you get the chance. And see if, like me, you then become fascinated to know more about the artists and their people: these early - but not inferior - versions of ourselves.


"WITH A CANDLE, A CHAMBER POT AND A BEDROLL . . ." Visiting the Dennis Severs House by Penny Dolan

$
0
0
By chance I was to be in London with an empty Monday morning to fill, and the Dennis Severs House (built in 1724) crossed my mind.  I had heard about the place over the years and had long wanted to see inside but the odd opening times had always been difficult when living in Yorkshire. Almost nostalgically, I glanced at the website, expecting  only to see only the famous Christmas Openings or similar celebrations.

To my delight, both the day and date were in my favour. On Mondays, during the early summer months, the  Dennis Severs House at 18 Folgate Street, Spitalfields, does open for visitors between 12 and 2pm.  I got there about 11.30 and waited with a handful people. By the time, the door opened at 12, the queue was along the street.

File:Dennis Severs House (15290690150).jpg - Wikimedia Commons

Even more surprising when, as I noted, that the visitor information did not not encourage much popular attendance: no pre-booking , not expensive, pay on arrival, no phones or photography, no refreshments or facilities, neither shop nor postcards, and no electricity, with the whole place lit only by candles. Furthermore, visitors could only enter in groups of eight or ten and to keep silent at all times to preserve the atmosphere.

The rationale of this tall house, purposefully "dressed" by Dennis Severs, is very much one of intense atmosphere. Severs was an eccentric Anglophile who was born in Escondo, California. Entranced by London and Dickens and the history of this area, he moved to London in the late 1960's.

Severs studied law at Lincoln's Inn, but droope dout when his income failed. Then he started running horse-drawn carriage trips round Hyde Park and the West End for city visitors and tourists. When Gloucester Road mews were bought by a developer, Severs appealed for lodgings for his horses and the Queen Mother let him stable them in the Royal Mews.

By 1979, Severs had bought the decrepit Georgian house on Folgate Street. He moved in with only "a candle, a chamber pot and a bedroll", sleeping, turn by turn, in each of the ten rooms, "in a quest for its soul." 

Long a collector of antiques, Severs gradually re-created the possible home life of an imaginary eighteenth century silk-weaver named Jervis, turning Number 18 into a historical art work.  The silent visitor is asked to imagine that Jervis and his family and servants have just left the room to attend to some small matter and will, in a moment and when we have left, return. 

Consequently, every room and every surface is covered with items that reinforce that idea. All the  tables and desks are covered in artfully arranged selections of whatever might be about to be used: there are still-life platters of fruit and dishes in preparation, dainty cups and tea-pots and sugar tongs; small scissors and embroidery threads, hands of playing cards and decanters, correspondence and invoices and sealing wax, bowls for shaving and trays full of combs and pins and clothes brushes. Be-ribboned wigs and discarded waistcoats hang from screens or high backed chairs. Heavy boots and embroidered slippers hide in the corners of rooms, while a sprigged silk dress awaits the maids attention. The rooms are a re-created fantasy: bed-clothes are hastily pulled back as if the sheets might still be warm, nightclothes and small linens are cast aside, and a bunch of lavender rests across a cloth covered chamber pot.

One thinks about comfort too. Though there are fires in several rooms, the size of the hearth suggests that only those close to the hearth will be warmed while the constantly burning kitchen oven keeps that room constantly warm, even in midsummer, and who would open windows at the level of street dirt?


Moreover, one was immediately conscious of how very little light entered those small-paned windows, even on a summer's day. Almost every room holds two or more burning candles and small piles of discarded candle stubs lie in dishes everywhere. Even the uncurtained kitchen, below the level of the pavement and passing feet, seemed  a very dimly lit place for cooking or for cleaning work.

Candlestick - Wikipedia

The reason for the eight-viewers-only rule became clear as one went round the house, with silent young men waited on landings to direct visitors into the next room,. Meanwhile, those same "bodies" also demonstrated how crowded such rooms might feel when filled with a large family and servants, and how a businessman might have need of a club for meeting his business acquantainces too.

Besides, where exactly did one rest? The lower floors contain plenty of chairs. There were tall, brocade-covered, cushioned wing-backed chairs to keep a valued sitter comfortably protected from draughts. There was also a quantity of uncomfortable upright wood-and-wicker chairs standing by or even hanging on the walls in the "Hogarth" card room.  I imagined myself longing for the luxury of a sofa but there was no spare space at all in this house, despite the painted walls and the blue and white Chinese pottery. and all the small decorative items everywhere.  A strong back and posture was needed.

No decorative luxury graced the sad upper floor, "dressed" as the wretched rooms that Jervis might be forced to rent out to poor weavers and their families when the silk trade at home declined. Up there, on the top floor, one "hears" cannons firing from the Tower to welcome the accession of the new Queen. The Georgian era is over so there may be hope for the reign to come. Down on the ground floor, one room echoes this, filled as it is with Victoria & Albert memorabilia to delight the tourists.

When Severs died in 1999, a critic wrote that one has to bring to the visit  
"an empathetic historical imagination and suspend disbelief (never mind mundane considerations of historical fact, conventional museum practice or conservation policy.)"  

For myself, I could recognise those rooms as imaginative set dressing , maybe a little tawdry and suspect and even grubby in corners. At first I was half determined to ignore the atmosphere but it was impossible. Something powerful lwas living there within the Dennis Severs house.  

Furthermore, when Severs died, the house was placed in a Trust and there was a suggestion that, without Severs, Number 18 Folgate Street would soon be forced to close. Now in 2119, the House seems to be doing well : certainly well enough for one of our founding History Girls, Catherine Johnston, to have celebrated her book launch there a while ago.

The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo by Catherine Johnson ...


Folgate Street is a ten minute walk from Liverpool Street Station and is close to Hawksmoor's Christchurch and the old Spitalfields market site.  It is also, according to the Spitalfield Life blog writer, an area of prime re-development where the historic nature of the remaining area is under attack. Many old buildings are in danger of demolition or have gone, and there is much use of "architectural facading", ie where the front of the old building is retained but a new and different structure built behind, as a way of passing planning regulations.

Number 18, Folgate - the Dennis Severs house - stands for more than just one building, or so it seems to me. It may be a kind of fiction, but  fiction can still speak truth.


Penny Dolan
@pennydolan1

Sacrifice and Memory in a Small Town in Tuscany by Celia Rees

$
0
0

Monterchi
Every year, I come to Monterchi, a small town in Tuscany, most famously the home of Piero della Francesca’s Madonna del Parto (which I have blogged about before).

Madonna del Parto - Piero della Francesca
Up in the small central square, next to the little cafe and in the shade of the lime trees, there is a  plaque on the wall commemorating the deaths of three soldiers during the Second World War, all members of The Central India Horse. 


Their regiment acted as reconnaissance unit to the 4th Indian Division. In July, 1944, Lieutenant St. John Graham Young was leading his men on a night patrol when they found themselves in the middle of a German minefield. Despite being severely injured himself, he went to help one of his men and managed to apply a field dressing, he then rallied his men and guided them to safety. In another part of the minefield, Sowar Ditto Ram had stepped on a mine and had his leg blown off below the knee. He retained consciousness long enough to crawl to a wounded comrade and apply a field dressing before he succumbed to his wounds. Both men were awarded the George Cross and their heroic action is recognised here, along with their comrade, Sowar Nero Chand. 

  
The plaque is a reminder that this quiet little town in Central Italy was right in the path of the hard fought Allied advance up through Italy during the latter stages of the Second World War. It is very probably a pure coincidence, but I’m always reminded of Kip, the Indian Sikh sapper,  in Michael Ondaatje’s The English Patient.  The basilica  of  St Francesco in nearby Arezzo houses the fresco cycle that Kip shows to Hanna in the film version and sometimes I wonder if, perhaps, the author might have been sitting in this very square when he saw the plaque and it gave him an idea for a character in his novel. 
 

The Wrong Caesar by L.J. Trafford

$
0
0


It's a grandiose painting, isn't it? A representation of the glory of Ancient Rome with a crowd of thousands. It was painted by Frenchman, Jean Leon Gerome and there is an intriguing mystery at the centre of it. One I felt compelled to dig into.

Painted in 1859 it depicts a gladiatorial contest. You can see the gladiators standing in front of the emperor’s box declaring:“Hail Caesar! We Who Are About to Die Salute You!”
The setting is the Colosseum, and the emperor we know, is Vitellius. If you enlarge the picture you will see his name inscribed on the emperor’s box. 

Now I wrote a book about Vitellius (entitled Vitellius’ Feast and available at all good bookshops *end plug*) and so I know rather a lot about him. Most of this is filed away in a part of my brain entitled: things I know but sort of wish I didn’t. Vitellius is somewhat extreme.
But the Vitellius fact that popped up instantly when I saw this painting is that he died in December 69 AD. Which is odd, since they didn’t finish building the Colosseum until 80 AD.
This is the mystery at the heart of Gerome's painting: what is Vitellius doing there?

Instinctively you want to blame the painter. J.L. Gerome. He does not know his Roman history, does not know Rome. It's a sloppy work.
But is it? Let us take a closer look.


First up, there is no record of any gladiator saying the line, “Hail Caesar! We who are about to Die Salute you!” Possibly because they weren’t necessarily about to die. Though Ridley Scott and every other treatment of the topic would have you believe that the way to win a gladiatorial bout was to kill your opponent, this was not the case. The poet Martial writes about one of the very first gladiatorial contents in the Colosseum, between Priscus and Verus and it’s a draw – nobody dies:

"But an end to the even strife was found: equal they fought, equal they yielded. To both Titus sent wooden swords and to both palms. Thus valour and skill had their reward. This has happened under no prince but you, Titus: two fought and both won.” 

Inscriptions to gladiators sometimes give the number of fights they took part in before being killed.
For example one to a gladiator named Glauco notes that he died during his 8th bout. But there are commemorations to those who had over 50 bouts to their name. Looking at inscriptions from Pompeii we can put together the results on 23 bouts: There were 21 winners, 17 who did not win but still survived and 8 who were killed during their bout. 
So not nearly as bloody and final as the movies would have us believe.

It makes sense when you think about it. How are the crowd to have favourites if one gladiator had to die each bout? How would the gladiator trainers make any money if they were continually replacing their stock? How would gladiators themselves build up the skills and moves to be entertaining, if their lives were abominably short? 

However, Gerome gets quite a lot right in this painting. Look at the scale of the Colosseum, the vastness. It was the first stone permanent amphitheatre in Rome. Before then the Games had been held in temporary wooden structures. It sat 50,000 spectators it was believed, far more than any amphitheatre anywhere else in the empire.
Also look at the awning over the top, we know from our sources that this was done to keep the hot sun off spectators.Famously in another amphitheatre the sadistically cruel emperor Caligula removed the awning on a particularly hot day and blocked the entrances so he could enjoy the spectators getting sun stroke and burning themselves red as a lobster (whatever gets you off....). 
It’s a nice detail that awning, it proves that Gerome has read a bit of Suetonius most likely and other sources. 

Let us look at the gladiators now, look at what they are wearing. The loin cloth/gladiator pant look with the heavy belt. 



Now look at this mosaic of gladiators, from the Borghese gallery in Rome. The outfits are very similar; loin cloth/gladiator pants with a thick belt. I would bet that Gerome has seen this mosaic, or others very like it.


Have a look at the crowd and more particularly the figures in white to the left of Vitellius. These are the Vestal Virgins, priestess who tendered the sacred hearth of the goddess Vesta. Vesta was the goddess of the home and the family. Seating at the Games was heavily controlled along class lines. The emperor and the senatorial class sat at the front and thus got the best view. Behind them were the Equestrian class, followed by plebeian males. And then right at the back; women and slaves. Aside from the Imperial family, Vestals are the only women allowed to sit at the front.

That Gerome gets this right, I would argue shows he does know a fair amount about ancient Rome. He has clearly done in-depth research in order to tackle this painting, he knows about seating orders and the awning and the gladiator outfits. He surely must know, therefore, that Vitellius never saw the Colosseum.
So let us ask that question again, why Vitellius?

Vitellius is a rather obscure emperor. He ruled for only 8 months during the tumultuous year of the four emperors. He did nothing, he achieved nothing of any note during that time. He is utterly superfluous to history, yet here he is depicted by Gerome watching over the gladiators.
Why?


Let us take a look at another of Gerome’s Roman painting, it is of a slave market.



And here’s another one.

It is rather interesting that these Roman slave markets seem only to sell very beautiful, healthy, nubile young lady slaves.
My suspicion is that there’s a bit of Victorian morality seeping here, with gawking at naked lady slaves and watching men fighting to the death representing the very worst of Rome. A Rome of decadence and depravity and immorality. Which is where, I believe, Vitellius fits in.

When I wrote Vitellius' Feast I struggled to find any redeemable qualities in him. He is a truly horrible man and an awful emperor.
I'll let Suetonius fill you in:

"He delighted in inflicting death and torture on anyone whatsoever and for any cause whatever."

And:

"He regulated the greater part of his rule wholly according to the advice and whims of the commonest of actors and chariot-drivers, and in particular of his freedman Asiaticus. This fellow had immoral relations with Vitellius in his youth, but later grew weary of him and ran away. When Vitellius came upon him at Puteoli, he put him in irons, but at once freed him again and made him his favourite. "

And:

"He divided his feasts into three, sometimes into four a day, breakfast, luncheon, dinner, and a drinking bout; and he was readily able to do justice to all of them through his habit of taking emetics"


So in short: he's cruel, depraved and gluttonous. All the very worst of Rome to be represented alongside that very worst of Roman pursuits; watching men fight each other to the death.
That is why Gerome places Vitellius in the Colosseum when historically he could never have been there, is my theory.



Paintings
Hail Caesar! We who are about to die salute you is part of Yale University's Art Gallery.
A Roman Slave Market is housed at The Walters Art Museum in Baltimore.
Slave Market in Ancient Rome is part of the Hermitage museum, Russia.


Recommended Reading:
The Colosseum by Mary Beard and Keith Hopkins is a wonderful study of the Games and the Colosseum. They write about J.L. Gerome's other, very famous, gladiator study'Thumbs Down'.
And also enjoyably crunch those gladiator deaths, bouts and how they could possibly have supplied quite so many exotic beasts for the arena.

L.J. Trafford is a writer of Roman things, including a short story in this new anthology of Roman fiction. Available here


The nature of growing things... by Carolyn Hughes

$
0
0
Last month, my History Girls post looked at various aspects of food and eating in the 14th century, the period of my current fiction series, using a few descriptions from my novels as a shortcut to the evidence I have gleaned over my relatively brief time as an historical novelist. Food and meal-taking are good vehicles for showing the lives of historical characters, helping to put them in context, to differentiate the life styles of people of diverse stations, and to bring a sense of authenticity to the historical world one is creating.

Gardens too are an interesting differentiator of class and circumstance, and both real-life gardening and reading about medieval gardens are favourite pastimes of mine. In a novel I have written but not yet published, the “garden” runs through the book in different guises, as a central motif, and helps to draw the book’s various threads and storylines together. But gardens feature in all my novels – almost inevitably, as they are all set largely in rural medieval England. In today’s post, I am going to review some of what I have learned so far about medieval gardens and again use a few examples from my work as the “evidence”.

In my unpublished novel (The Nature of Things), the garden is used both as a vital element in the lives of my principal characters and also as an affirmative metaphor for the hope that can come out of even desperate struggle and tragedy – a symbol of the continuity of life.

The novel spans the entire 14th century, with its calamitous periods of the Great Famine of 1315-17, the plague (“Black Death”) of 1348-50, the Hundred Years War of 1337 onwards, and the so-called Peasants’ Rebellion of 1381, not to mention everyday poverty, illness and untimely death. Between them, the voices of the seven principal (fictional) characters tell the story of the century through the narratives of their own lives. But the voices also bring a sense of continuity, as each character is linked with the one before and/or after. And the metaphor of the garden, with its (typical, if not infallible in the direst of circumstances) unceasing cycle of life, reinforces the concept of continuity.

The garden metaphor is introduced at the very beginning of the novel by an omniscient narrator. The garden is both the Garden of Eden, Paradise, God’s glorious bounty, and also man-made gardens, sources of both physical and spiritual nourishment. The point is also that, in the context of the “calamitous” 14th century, in a garden can be found life, death and renewal. Every year, no matter what happens in terms of weather, or God-inspired or man-made disaster, life will begin again. In principle at any rate, there is always continuity, always renewal...

The metaphor is given a physical presence in the novel by a fictional 13th century book of plants, The Nature of Growing Things: Plants, Herbs and Trees, passed down from character to character from the first to the last. (A gardening book at that time, and its title, would most likely have been in Latin, but for reasons of narrative simplicity I chose to have it “written” in English.)

The Nature of Growing Things is fictional, but three of the novel’s parts include “extracts” from it, which are in fact my re-workings of various real mediaeval texts about gardening and garden design, taken from a 13th century book on plants by Albertus Magnus, a French 14th century guide for housewives, and others [see Note]. I include a few of these extracts in what follows.

In the novel, each of the seven characters has some sort of association with a garden. For the first three characters, the garden is essentially the basic provider of food. For the next two characters, the garden is more decorative than functional. For the final two characters, the idea of the simple domestic garden expands to become “nature’s garden”, to orchards and forests – trees as vehicles of continuity.
  
So, to consider the different types of garden in a little more detail…

For William, a priest, his garden is a source of food and medicine, but also one of spiritual joy. For Agnes, his niece and the daughter of a peasant farmer, it is a vital source of subsistence that she sees severely threatened during the famine of 1315-17. Her husband, Richard, is also from farming stock but becomes an archer and joins the king’s war in France. There, despite his own rejection of the farming life, and his commitment to the king’s cause, he recognises only too clearly what it will mean to the French peasantry when their gardens – the lifeblood of their existence – are devastated by the English army in its brutal chevauchées.

All these gardens are essentially peasant plots: they are a vital source of food, the sort of food that goes into making pottage: onions, cabbages, turnips. Beans and peas, also pottage ingredients, eaten fresh or dried for use throughout the year, might be grown in the garden but often more likely as a field crop. If there was space, fruit might be grown – apples and pears, medlars and cherries, perhaps.

Herbs were also grown in a peasant garden, as William says,
to add savour to my food and make remedies for injuries and ailments
Tacuinum Sanitatis, Sage
Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
I think that a peasant housewife might well understand both the value of herbs as taste-bringers and their properties as simple everyday remedies, as described in the gardening book…
“A syrup of violets is a good remedy against the pleurisy and cough, and also fevers or agues, especially in young children. Apply the petals of Saint Mary’s Gold (marigold) to painful stings to soothe them… Wormwood is a bitter herb…that cures the stomach ache and a constipation of the bowel… It also repels fleas…”
I wonder if any of those remedies worked! Sadly, when William and his adopted daughter seek a cure for his ailing wife, they are unsuccessful…
Emma has sought advice from other women in the village and has come home with recipes for cures. We pick mint and balm and camomile from the garden, and make them into medicaments and potions for Alys. But nothing worked.
Our present-day understanding of what constitutes a “cottage garden” assumes many flowers as well as vegetables, fruit and herbs. William says,
I also cultivate a few flowers – columbines, periwinkles and lilies – for their beauty and my education.
But he is a priest – and in truth rather an educated, intellectual one at that, probably having more in common with the 18th century “parson-naturalist” Gilbert White, of Selborne, Hampshire, than the typical 14th century parson! – and he allows himself a few aesthetic and intellectual elements in his garden. Whether the average 14th century peasant went in much for flowers, I am not entirely sure. But I suspect that, like William, at least some would have grown a few flowers, for much the same reason as William, if not expressed as such. On most peasant patches, the flowers would have been grown among or around the vegetables and herbs, whereas in the larger plots of wealthier gardeners, there might well have been a “vegetable garden”, a “herb garden” and a “flower garden”, all neatly divided up (into “rooms” as we would now say…). Ideally, keeping flowers and vegetables separate was the aim, according to the gardening book:
“Have two gardens, one for flowers and one for porray… Not that the flower garden can have no herbs and the potager no flowers, but keep them separate for the most part, else your flowers may be affronted if you intermingle them with onions and leeks…”
“Porray” was essentially the ingredients for pottage.

However, at the time of William’s story, the first decade of the 14th century, much of England was suffering from severe overpopulation, with a resulting dearth of land. So, he says,
…in the village, they have no time for beauty or education: every last square foot of soil must be planted with something that can be eaten. Yet, these days, the village gardens are no longer large enough to provide all the onions and cabbages and turnips that are needed, for there are so many mouths to feed.
Tacuinum Sanitatis, Cabbage harvest
Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Agnes’s story takes place partly during the Great Famine, 1315-17, which occurred during a period of appalling weather and dreadful harvests, and the luxury of growing flowers no longer seems appropriate. Her mother, Marjory, a peasant of the wealthier sort, feels obliged to help her neighbours in their time of suffering. She has a large plot and grows lots of onions and leeks, cabbages, “worts” or “porray” of many kinds, turnips, beans and peas, all essential ingredients for the daily pottage. She has also grown flowers amongst her vegetables, using her brother William’s book The Nature of Growing Things as her guide on what to plant. But, when the famine severely threatens some of her poorer neighbours, she determines to sacrifice the frippery of flowers to help prevent them starving.
Ma nods. ‘Flowers are a folly. Folk need beans and onions. I don’t want to dig them up, but it’s our Christian duty to help our neighbours.
‘It’s a shame,’ I say. Though in truth the garden brings little joy these days, for the plants are struggling to grow in the cold and claggy earth. 
We sit in silence, gazing at the beds where yellow primroses and creamy honeysuckle, blue periwinkle and purple iris should all be in flower. 
Bless those lovely blooms that have defied the rain,’ says Ma, pointing to a few brave flowers open in search of sun and honeybees.
They dig up most of the flowers apart from a couple of rose bushes.
When the ground’s been cleared, we dig it once again, turning it over in the hope that, with even a feeble sun, the soil might dry out a little and warm up enough to receive the seed Ma’s carefully saved. We leave it for a day or two – days mercifully dry and almost warm – and then we sow: onions and leeks, turnips and cabbages, peas and beans. Ma’s face is downcast as she carefully places each seed in straight and well-spaced drills. 
‘The ground’s still cold,’ she says, shaking her head. 
‘But warmer than it was,’ I say, trying to be cheerful. ‘Surely God’ll bless your garden, Ma, and won’t deny the seeds their chance to grow?’ 
She smiles. ‘You’re right, Agnes. We must place our faith in His Divine Providence.’ 
Two weeks later, little shoots are poking up above the soggy earth. Now all we have to do is guard them from torrential rain and biting winds, and Sir Giles’s doves, and pray the sun shines often – and warmly – enough for them to thrive.
Marjory puts her faith in God, the vegetables do continue to grow and she distributes what she can to her starving neighbours. Though, in the end, there simply isn’t enough to spare...

Tacuinum Sanitatis, Leek harvest
Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
In the fourth story, Peter, son of Agnes and Richard, who remakes himself as a merchant, re-experiences, if unconsciously, his great-uncle William’s pleasure in a garden’s beauty when he visits Genoa, in Italy. He brings home his discoveries to his new wife, Joanna, a merchant’s daughter, and she becomes a passionate creator of Italian-style “paradise” gardens in Southampton.
The grandest of the villas are outside the city, up on those glorious hillsides, though Giovanni has a smaller house, quite close to the sea. But, though it’s small, it’s surrounded by the loveliest of gardens, bounded on all sides by a high wall. Walkways criss-cross from side to side, enclosed by arbours heavy with jasmine and roses, whose heady fragrance fills the air on summer evenings. And in the very centre is a white marble statue spouting water into a delightful pool. 
 
[Peter] sketched an outline of Signor Alberti’s garden on a small fragment of parchment, and I was thrilled by the wondrous depiction he conjured up.‘Could we have a garden like that here?’ I said, full of excitement already for turning our bare little plot into such a lovely paradise. 
He laughed. ‘I’m not sure we could have marble fountains, my love. But rose-covered pergolas and a flowery mead, yes, perhaps we could.’
In this type of “paradise garden”, I am alluding to the idea of the hortus conclusus, meaning “enclosed garden”. The idea of the enclosed garden is related to the worship of the Virgin Mary, with references in medieval poetry and art, depicted in painting and manuscript illuminations from about the middle of the 14th century. It became popular as theme in garden design. In my novel I am not ascribing any religious feeling to this design of garden but rather using it to illustrate that wealthier people can afford to make gardens that are essentially for pleasure.
“Pleasure gardens are devised for the satisfaction of both sight and smell…so, around the lawn should be planted every sweet-smelling herb, such as rue and sage and basil, and all sorts of flowers, such as violet and columbine, lily, rose and iris.”
“In the middle of the garden there should be a meadow, the grass deep green, spangled with a thousand different flowers, violets and periwinkles, primroses and daisies… And also, perhaps, a clear fountain in a stone basin in the centre of the lawn, for the pureness of the water gives great refreshment...”
Some such gardens might become quite elaborate and Joanna, with time on her hands as the wife of a wealthy merchant, lets her imagination take flight in her creation of the sort of structures that might enhance her garden’s sense of mystery and privacy:
But I have had a notion for some time to create within the garden a covered walkway: a tunnel made from willow or hazel and planted with vines and white roses. At its centre, there would be a secret shady arbour with a soft turf seat, and more roses of yellow, white and deepest red and sweet-smelling honeysuckle to clamber over. 
I smile to myself as I wonder if such a shady structure is quite needed for our English summers, but I like to imagine my garden is in Genoa, with the sun and the warmth and Peter’s arms enfolding me.
Tacuinum Sanitatis, Roses
Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Joanna encourages her servant Tom, who to her delight expresses his love of trees even as a child, by first employing him as a gardener on her estate and, later, helping him to become a carpenter. Later still, Tom’s passion for all things arboreal inspires even Susanna, a child of the city and a former prostitute whom Tom takes as his wife. She initially has little interest in trees or gardens but at length understands their place in the world. Tom first shares his knowledge and love of gardening with her (and her sister Ali), but Susanna is delighted when his enthusiasm expands to the establishment of orchards and – when he has the time and money to do so – woodland.
Whilst Ali and me work in the garden, Tom’s making a start on an orchard. 
‘Seems to me you’re trying to create your own little manor out here in Saint Mary’s,’ Ali says one day, as we help him plant his first few apple and pear trees. Her eyes are smiling as much as her mouth. 
He grins again. ‘You know I’ve always loved trees.’ He turns the soil back into the hole he’s dug for the last of the apples and treads it down. He stands up and gazes along the row we’ve planted. 
‘Looks good, doesn’t it?’ he says, and Ali and me agree. Then he points to the far edge of the field, to a small patch of woodland that came with the land he bought. ‘I’m going to plant a lot more trees down there too. More oak and ash and walnut, good for making furniture.’ 
‘Your own little forest,’ I say. 
He nods happily. ‘Of course, I’ll not see the trees I plant full grown, especially the oaks.’ He turns the corners of his mouth down a little.
But the important thing about the trees is what they mean for their descendants, in their case an adopted son. Susanna says,
‘It seems so sad you’ll never see these trees full grown.’
But Tom shakes his head. ‘They’re for the future,’ he says, putting his arm around me. ‘For Peter. He was brought to us for a reason, and he’s our future.’
‘It’s time I taught him all about the trees. The ones we’re growing here for timber, and those in the orchard.’
And Susanna then brings the story around full circle when she urges Tom also to hand on to their son The Nature of Growing Things, confirming both the continuity of nature and the connection provided by the gardening book from the start of the story.

In my novel series, the Meonbridge Chronicles, I have used similar ideas of both peasant gardens and the type of hortus conclusus imitated in the gardens of the wealthy. My purpose is the same as in The Nature of Things, both to illustrate everyday life and to point up the differences between people’s lives. Other types of gardens have yet to find a place in my writing, among them perhaps the truly devotional gardens of a monastery or priory. Maybe in a future book…

Note:
For my gardening book “extracts”, I reinterpreted Albertus Magnus’ words from a passage I found in John Harvey’s Mediaeval Gardens, and rewrote passages from several pages of both Frank Crisp’s Mediaeval Gardens and Eileen Power’s edition of The Goodman of Paris (Le Ménagier de Paris), A Treatise on Moral and Domestic Economy by a citizen of Paris c.1393.

I have found Medieval English Gardens by Teresa McLean most interesting and enlightening, though of course there are many others.

The illustrations for this piece come from the Tacuinum Sanitatis,a medieval handbook mainly on health which was based on an 11th century Arab medical treatise. It describes in detail the beneficial and harmful properties of foods and plants, and is wonderfully illustrated.

The Quandary of What to Wear by Elisabeth Storrs

$
0
0
Empress Livia Drusilla
Creating a character in an historical novel can lead to unexpected quandaries. Dressing them in appropriate clothes would seem a simple matter. However, introducing a Roman tomb whore into the Tales of Rome Saga opened an unexpected can of worms when determining what she would wear. 

Pinna is the daughter of a Roman soldier who was reduced to bondage resulting in her being forced into prostitution. Lack of funds means she starts her life as an unregistered whore (worse still as a tomb whore - the lowest in the pecking order). As a result, she permanently surrenders her rights to citizenship. By the time of the events in the third book, Call to Juno, she has clawed her way through coercion to become the concubine of a general but harbours dreams of gaining citizenship again as a Roman matron and wife.

As the saga is set in the very early days of the Republic it was difficult to find reliable primary sources to provide a definitive view of this period. I was forced to depend on non-contemporaneous sources. Much of what is understood about Roman women in early classical times is often deduced from legislation that was enacted centuries later in the Augustan period. Rome valued monogamy, and the concepts of culpability for adultery and “stuprum” (extramarital sex) were applied when classifying a woman’s status. The propriety expected of a Roman matron was the standard by which women were judged. The two ends of the spectrum were the respectable wife versus the dissolute whore. One was lauded as a virtuous citizen who must be faithful to her husband; the other was so corrupted that she lost all claim to moral or legal rights. The greater the degree of promiscuity, reward for sex and lack of emotional attachment, the more tainted the woman became. However, given a prostitute was irrevocably stained, she could not be punished for committing adultery. That crime was reserved for a wife alone.

Prostitution was heavily regulated in Rome in the late Republic and imperial times. There is considerable commentary about this period but, alas, no certainty as to the rules relating to the “oldest profession” at the time I set my books. Nevertheless, I based Pinna’s circumstances on the assumption that imperial laws enshrined what had been customary practice throughout Republican times. 

Young prostitute from Roman colony C2nd CE
There were many different categories of prostitutes, all of whom were known by colorful names. The “lupae” (she wolves), who serviced clients in “lupanariae”, were reputedly called this because they were as rapacious as wolves. The inspiration for Pinna came from reading about the unregistered “noctiluae” (night walkers), who were colloquially known as “night moths”, including the “busturiae” who doubled as hired mourners and plied their trade amid the tombs.

A concubine was seen as a mixture between a matron and a harlot. Her status was ambiguous and has been described as “safe and schizophrenic”. These de facto wives were denied the status of a matron because they had committed stuprum (and, it appears, were not subject to the laws of adultery either), yet they were considered respectable enough to be accepted by society. They were usually slaves or freedwomen, although there is evidence that lower class freeborn citizens also chose to enter into such relationships. Often widowers chose de facto wives to avoid complications with the inheritances of their legitimate children when remarrying. Concubines were also commonly taken by young noblemen before the men reached an age to enter political life and were expected to officially wed.

Status was signified through a dress code. Matrons were entitled to wear a stola overdress, palla shawl, and fillets in their hair as a symbol of both their married standing and their citizenship. In comparison, a prostitute was marked out by wearing a toga and was denied the privilege of covering her head in modesty and wearing outdoor shoes. So then, what was I to do about Pinna when she became a concubine who hides her secret life as a whore and is believed by those around her to retain her freeborn status?  Alas, I was unable to ascertain whether a freeborn or freedwoman concubine could wear a stola. I assumed the taint of stuprum precluded such a right. Accordingly I also deprived Pinna of the opportunity – a decision that provides an example of the challenge of writing historical fiction. The smallest of details can lead to the deepest research!

Elisabeth Storrs is the author of the Tales of Ancient Rome saga, and the co-founder of the Historical Novel Society Australasia. Learn more at www.elisabethstorrs.com
Images courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
This post was originally published in 2016 on Helen Hollick’s ‘Of History and Kings’  https://ofhistoryandkings.blogspot.com/
 

An Appearance of Serenity: Christian Dior & Fashion in WW2 by Catherine Hokin

$
0
0
 V&A Museum: Wikimedia Comons
London’s V&A is currently hosting one of its most sumptuous exhibitions, Christian Dior: Designer of Dreams. It features clothes from the design house’s founding to the present day and, for anyone with even the slightest interest in fashion who can bag one of the gold dust tickets, it is a visual feast.

Christian Dior is synonymous with the full skirted, nipped-in-waist fashion revolution launched in 1947 and christened the New Look by American journalist Carmel Snow. At a time when fabric was severely rationed and clothes were plain to the point of austere, his billowing skirts took up to 17 yards of material, required taffeta linings to create their shape and made (in Dior’s words) “flower women” out of the “square-shouldered boxers” uniforms and wartime restrictions had created. Nancy Mitford described the “magic potion” effect of these dresses which were constructed with padding and false hips to give women made thin by rationing the required hourglass shape. Vivien Leigh, Olivia de Havilland and Rita Hayworth were devotees and Dior hosted a private showing of the seminal 1947 collection for the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret. The iconic dress he designed for the Princess’s 21st birthday is part of the current exhibition.

 Carmel evening gown, Andrew Stawarz, Flikr
Dior saw himself as a magician, one of the guardians who would return “French couture … to its traditions of great luxury.” His ethereal creations, in the words of his biographer Marie France Pochna, “brought dreams, drapes and romance back…onto the streets.” The New Look, however, was not universally applauded. One of the criticisms of the current exhibition is that, to quote Rachel Cooke’s Guardian review, “it exists in a bubble”, without context. There were protests in America against styles which were seen as a reversal of the freedoms women had won during the war, under the slogan (coined by the Little-Below-The-Knee Group) “We abhor dresses to the floor!” Closer to home, a 1948 photo shoot in Montmartre’s Rue Lepic led to a model’s dress being torn off by a shortage-hampered public furious at the excess. In Britain, Alison Settle, the editor of British Vogue, was forbidden to even mention Dior by a Board of Trade fearing a run on the country’s restricted fabric supplies. None of this features in the exhibition. Neither does the wider context from which Dior emerged: the fashion industry of occupied Paris.

 Hitler in Paris
An appearance of serenity is a quote from Lucien Lelong, one of pre-war Paris’s leading couturiers, Dior’s mentor (he worked for Lelong from 1941-46) and the man credited for saving the French fashion industry during the German occupation. As with all aspects of the occupation, the story of the fashion industry’s survival is a complex one. The history of WW2 is littered with ruined cities: in May 1940 with the Wehrmacht closing in, Paris could have expected to become the next Warsaw or Rotterdam. Hitler, however, viewed Paris as the model for the Berlin he planned to build. Protecting its culture heritage, albeit stamped with a German ideology, would show the world the National Socialists’ civilised face, and a key part of this culture was the fashion industry.

Germany’s desire to supplant France as the world’s fashion leaders pre-dated WWI. The fall of France in 1940 was seen as the perfect opportunity for this ambition to be finally made good: the first edition of Die Mode, published in January 1941, stated that “the German victory over France has an incisive meaning for fashion.” Other articles continued this theme: the trade publication Manufaktur was quite clear that “the fashion of the past was Paris – the fashion of the future lies with Greater Germany.” The Nazis’ plan, to be put into immediate operation in 1940, was to merge the French couture industry into the German one by physically relocating its ateliers and workers to Berlin and Vienna. Lucien Lelong, in his role as head of the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture (the industry’s official body) was informed of both this and its alternative: the total suppression of the industry. Lelong, argued, and kept arguing, that the industry’s 20,000 workers and fragmented supply chain could not be uprooted and transported and survive. For whatever reason – whether (as he claimed) it was Lelong’s persuasive skills or the pressures of the Battle of Britain and the opening Russian Front – the Nazis dropped their demands and the French fashion industry was left to be just that.

 Dior's New Look Paris 1947
Haute Couture survived in Paris, albeit with mixed fortunes. Lelong continued to show collections as did Jacques Fath, Marcel Rochas and Nina Ricci. Coco Chanel became a supporter of the Vichy. Other designers, including Mainbocher, left. By 1944, 12,000 people still worked in the industry and over 60 salons remained open. The question of collaboration remains a thorny and nuanced one. Lelong remained vocal in his view of fashion’s importance in giving “France an appearance of serenity…the more elegant French women are…the more our country will show…it does not fear the future.” Schiaperelli likened fashion to resistance: every hat that used up material was “a slap in the face of the Nazis.” Berlin appeared to view occupied Paris as a fashion bread-basket: over 200 Nazi wives acquired special permission cards to buy fashion from its salons. Lelong was tried for collaboration at the end of the war but acquitted, ruled to have only co-operated minimally to save jobs and France’s cultural heritage. He stayed in Paris long enough to celebrate his protégé Dior’s 1947 collection but then retired due to ill health.

It is not surprising that Dior, the dreamer and magician, would launch a collection with such a romantic view of the world; it is not surprising a glamour-deprived world, largely, fell in love with it. It is the V&A’s choice to stage an exhibition where context is outside the remit. But it’s a shame. Fashion doesn’t exist in a bubble: from dandies to punks it reflects the world it comes out of and its story runs deeper than simply paying homage, no matter how beautiful the dresses might be. For anyone wanting to read wider than the skirts, can I recommend Nazi Chic by Irene Guenther which tells the story of both Germany and Paris and makes fascinating reading.

The Enigma of the Lady and the Unicorn

$
0
0
Recently I had the opportunity to visit the National Museum of the Middle Ages in Paris, which houses the famous series of Flemish tapestries known as The Lady and the Unicorn. My immediate impression on entering was of size, gorgeous colour and dizzying detail. The tapestries were much larger than I'd imagined - clearly meant for a room of very grand proportions, yet a closer look reveals the minute detail in the work with its 'mille-fleurs' background of differentiated plants and flowers.

Image by Joe de Sousa


I've long been interested in these tapestries, partly because of the strangeness of the mythical beast and the stories that have grown up around it: the belief that only a virgin can tame a unicorn, with its reference to sexual innocence and experience, the speculation that the idea of a unicorn originated in a very inaccurate description of a rhinoceros as being 'like a horse with a horn'. I had also read that the tapestries depicted six senses and was keen to find out what sense existed beyond sight, hearing, touch, taste and smell. Through reading various guides and talking to the room attendant I soon learnt that there is more than one interpretation of not only the sixth tapestry but the meaning of the whole series. Is it an allegory of Love or Renunciation?





The tapestries are thought to have been woven at the end of the fifteenth century and the coat of arms on the standard show a blue band with three crescent moons, which belonged to the Le Liste family from Lyons. This identification is further supported by the choice of a lion as standard bearer. One might be forgiven for jumping to the conclusion that the tapestries celebrate a wedding in the family, as the last tapestry makes reference to 'A MON SEUL DESIR' - 'My One Desire'. One guide rebuts this, saying that all the women pictured have different faces. On the other hand, they are all blonde and perhaps it would not have been easy  for different workers to replicate a face? The truth is that as a novelist I would rather like it to be linked to an actual event, with the promise of a story behind it . . .

The representation of the five senses is very clear.  The first tapestry in the cycle shows the lady holding up a mirror to the unicorn and thus depicts Sight. Hearing is shown through the lady playing a 'positif' (portable organ) and smell by the lady plucking a carnation from her maidservant's basket, humorously echoed in the mimicry of a tiny monkey.



Taste is shown by the lady taking a sweet  from a dish offered by her maidservant and Touch in a tableau where the lady holds the standard with one hand while touching the unicorn's horn with the other.

 http://www.tchevalier.com/unicorn/tapestries


The sixth and final tapestry is where a conundrum arises. Is the lady taking a jewelled necklace or returning it to the casket? As she is no longer wearing the necklace that she wore in the other tapestries, several scholars seem to agree that she is returning it, thus suggesting not a preparation for love but a renunciation and a rejection of the world of pleasure represented by the senses. In support of this they draw attention to the motif of tears on the pavilion and interpret  'A MON SEUL DESIR' to mean 'according to my will only'. In this case, the last tapestry relates more to the intellect than the heart. To say it represents an act of Christian charity is perhaps to take the analogy too far  as she appears not to be giving the necklace  away but storing it. Nonetheless this interpretation is quite convincing.


Additional evidence for this view may be that the other senses are presented in order of the importance given to them in Medieval belief, with Sight and Hearing first as the higher senses - those senses through which we can most easily learn and become enlightened. Smell, taste and touch come later.

On the other hand, further motifs within the tapestry series, such as the recurring rabbit or hare, the profusion of flowers and plants and a tree laden with pineapples suggest references to fertility and thus are concerned with love rather than the intellect. The pavilion may represent a private place into which lovers could withdraw.

The writings of the Chancellor of the University of Paris, Jean Gerson  (1363 -1429) mention 'six senses - five external and one internal - namely the heart - which we must master as six schoolchildren.' He sees the heart as the controller of the physical senses and needing to be schooled to avoid sins such as lust. As the tapestries are thought to have been created some time in the last two decades of the fifteenth century, this strand of thought that sees the heart as a sixth sense, controlling both desire and the soul, would have been familiar and is thought to have been widespread in 15th century France.

Is it not possible that there are elements of both Love and Morality present? We must avoid falling into the trap of thinking that people of an earlier time were any less subtle or complex in their thinking than we are, just because their beliefs were different. My own impression was that the tapestries have a rich duality with elements of both renunciation and eroticism.





The British Museum Citole by Elizabeth Chadwick

$
0
0
Whenever I have a spare moment in London,  I will invariably head for a museum. A couple of weeks ago I was there on business and happened to have an afternoon free which was spent very profitably in the British Museum. 
I enjoy photography, but I am in the realms of keen amateur and happy snapper.  It's something that gives me pleasure and it's a hobby outside of my day job, but purely for off the cuff fun.  For some time I have been trying to get a good shot of the citole in the medieval exhibit at the British museum, but lighting and reflection makes it extremely difficult and I have yet to succeed in obtaining a great image.  This is a photo from the British Museum's own website and used as per the permission on the site.



This beautiful object is a Citole formerly known as a gittern.  A citole, pronounced 'sit-oll' was originally a plucked instrument but it was later converted into violin form to be played with a bow.   Its life as a complete instrument began in the late 13th to early 14th century and the original parts are the back, the sides and neck.  The new parts consist of the sound board, finger board, tail piece and bridge. Above the peg box there is a silver-gilt plate engraved with the garter arms of Elizabeth I and Robert Dudley.  The carved, decorated panels depict hunting scenes, and the end terminates in a fabulous dragon with a jewelled green eye. The hunting scenes are typical of 14th century manuscript illustration, but such details are much rarer to find in wood.  The best comparison are the early 14th century choirstalls in Winchester Cathedral.
You can hear an example of a replica citole being played here by its owner Ian Pittaway here on Youtube. Ian Pittaway Citole

As to my photos.  Although as usual I didn't have much luck with the citole in its entirety, I did take a rather good one of the ends, and especially the green-eyed dragon.  What marvelous, skilled wood carving!




Elizabeth Chadwick is a multi award winning bestselling historical novelist. Her latest novel The Irish Princess will be published on September 12th under LittleBrown's Sphere imprint.




 



Cornwall by Miranda Miller

$
0
0

    Holidaying in Cornwall last month, I was struck by the two very different faces of the county: the beautiful, cheerful, prosperous coast and the strange ruined melancholy industrial buildings that lie abandoned on many cliffs and moorlands. It still feels quite remote and in fact many Cornish people don’t consider that Cornwall is an English county at all but a British country, Kernow. The Cornish nationalist movement demands a devolved legislative Cornish Assembly with powers similar to those in Wales and Scotland.

   Before the railways arrived, the journey from London to Penzance took at least two days by road. By the 1860s the rail journey had reduced this to twelve hours. A traditional Cornish tale claims that the devil would never dare to cross the River Tamar into Cornwall for fear of ending up as a pasty filling. Tourists didn’t come either until the nineteenth century.

   Virginia Woolf’s father, the literary critic and historian Sir Leslie Stephen, rented Talland House overlooking St Ives Bay in Cornwall, which he described in an 1884 letter as “a pocket-paradise with a sheltered cove of sand in easy reach (for ‘Ginia even) just below”. For her first twelve years she spent a few months each year at Talland House. The Godrevy Lighthouse could be seen in the distance and although Woolf set To the Lighthouse on the Scottish Isle of Skye, much of its imagery comes from her time in Cornwall.

    For nearly four thousand years before the first tourists arrived Cornwall was an important producer of tin, which when mixed with copper forms the alloy bronze. Although there are few Roman sites in Cornwall it is thought that they mined here. After the Romans left Cornwall remained under the rule of local Romano-British and Celtic elites and there were strong links with Brittany.

   Miners had the right to look for tin in any open land, as laid out in the Charter of Liberties to the Tinners of Devon and Cornwall in 1201. The same Charter also allowed miners to be exempt from military service and to pay lower taxes.

   In the eighteenth century deep mining of copper was made possible by the invention of pumping equipment to remove some of the water from underground and Cornwall became the greatest producer of copper in the world.  A Cornishman, Richard Trevithick, developed high pressure steam engines which, mounted on wheels, became the world’s first locomotives.

   A miner's life was always hard and brutal. Arsenic, which was used in insecticide and in paint, is a by-product of the processing of copper and tin. Because it is so poisonous workers needed to keep their mouth, nose and skin covered at all times, using clay to protect their skin at work. Women and girls didn’t go underground but were an essential part of the mining industry. Known as ‘Bal Maidens’, these women helped to separate tin from other mined substances.“Bal” is a Cornish word for mine.

    By 1839 about seven thousand children were working in the Cornish mines. Sons often followed their fathers down into the mines from the age of twelve. One particularly dangerous job they had to do was sweeping arsenic out of the flues.

   Temperatures underground sometimes reached 60 c. The miners worked stripped to the waist and after their shifts their bodies were covered in red dust from the lodes of tin, copper and zinc they exploded out of the bare rock. Death and injury from rockfalls and explosions were quite common and many miners developed bronchitis, TB and rheumatism. Few miners were fit to work beyond the age of forty.

   Then tin lodes were discovered in Australia, the Far East and South America, creating huge competition for the Cornish mines. Many mines closed in the 1890s and there was a “Cornish diaspora”, as miners left Cornwall to seek their fortunes in other mining areas across the world.
  
    This is the South Wheal mine, used in filming the TV series Poldark.

     The remaining mines still employed a lot of men and despite the dangers of the job it was lucrative. “Some weeks I would bring home £180 thanks to the bonuses,” said one ex-miner.“The average wage in Cornwall at that time (in the 1960s) was £12 a week.”

   Then, in October 1985, the price of tin crashed from over ten thousand pounds a ton ton to about three and a half thousand pounds a ton. This was because new alluvial tin was discovered in Malaysia and Brazil and also because the United States released their tin stockpile reserve onto the open market at the London Metal Exchange. Overnight, the remaining Cornish mines became unviable.

   In 1998, after more than three hundred years, one of the biggest mines, South Crofty, was forced to close with losses of thirty-three million pounds. Thousands of people were thrown out of work and towns such as Camborne, that once had thriving mines, now feel sad and impoverished.

   In 2016 a Canadian company, Strongbow Exploration, acquired a one hundred per cent stake in South Crofty, along with mineral rights over a further seven thousand hectares of land across Cornwall. A spokesman said: “We wouldn’t be doing this if we didn’t think South Crofty could open again. It was the jewel in the crown of an area with a rich mining history, and we believe that there’s a really good chance we can get it open again. We are extremely optimistic and feel that if everything goes well the mine could be open by 2021, and by open we mean with tin coming out of the ground.”











Viewing all 2764 articles
Browse latest View live




Latest Images