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Cabinet of Curiosities - the Blue and White Jar - Woman's Work? by Leslie Wilson

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I found it in an antique shop; the wonderful Aladdin's cave of Stuart House which I always go to when I visit Chipping Campden in the Cotswolds. My birthday was coming up and I knew immediately what I wanted as a present. When I saw it across a room crowded with porcelain and pottery, I thought it was Chinese, but when I got closer to it, I recognised that it was European. The mark suggests that it is, in fact, Delft, made by Pieter Adriaensz Kocks (it was sold me as a Pieter Kocks jar), which would date it between 1701, when Pieter took over the workshop from his father Adriaen Kocks, who became a director of the De Grieksche A factory in 1687. The factory produced tinware inspired by Kangxi blue and white porcelain.


I love blue and white pottery and porcelain, and also am very fond of the European ceramics that drew on the Chinese styles, like the Onion Design I mentioned in my blog about Germany: Memories of a Nation. I find the fusion between Eastern motifs and Western interpretation particularly pleasing, and so I was thrilled to be able to buy this piece - it wasn't as expensive as you'd suppose, perhaps because it is not perfect; there are little chips out of it here and there and the dog, or tailless cat - I'm not sure which, but a charming animal - who sits on the top of it is damaged. I don't care.


Being Delft, though it looks like porcelain, it is not - the secret of porcelain was still closed to the West when it was made. It is tinware, which means it is made out of pottery, whitened with a glaze based on lead oxide and tin, and that is what gives the porcelain-like milkiness.
At a speculative guess, I would say that it probably was produced towards the beginning of the Pieter Adriaensz period; this is based on the information I have gleaned (and I haven't been able to find out that much, alas) which suggests that later on the factory concentrated on Imari-style ware. My jar looks more like Adriaen's productions - it could, of course, be a fake, but I do hope not. It is certainly very beautiful and skilfully made. However, I do find the de Grieksche factory interesting, because after Pieter's death, only two years after he had taken over the business, 'he' continued to produce Delft ware, because his widow, Johanna van der Heul, kept the workshops going. I tried as hard as I could to find out more about that, but without success so far, so if any reader of this blog can point me in the right direction? I would be very pleased.

However, I turned to Alice Clark's invaluable The Working Life of Seventeenth Century Women, and found that in England at least, shortly before my jar was made, it was quite usual for widows, and sometimes sisters, to take over businesses after their husbands' or brothers' death. Whether they actually did the work is another matter and harder to discover; however, I do seem to remember that intricate decorative work on chinaware has historically been done by women. It does make me feel quite strange to see that a piece of Delftware was 'produced by Pieter Adriaensz' at a period when he was already dead, and demonstrates all too clearly how women's work has become invisible in history. Indeed, it was from only one Internet site that I discovered about Johanna. I salute her, though, across the centuries. I hope my jar was produced under her direction.
Now, when I look at it, I don't see 'Chinese' but eighteenth-century interiors, where it sits on a high mantelpiece in some home probably much better-off than mine, originally. De Grieksche made items for King William and Queen Mary at Hampton Court, and I have read in one source that the more European designs, which the flower-panels on mine seem to be, were produced for the British market. The grooves were made by drawing fingers down a pot made on the wheel; sometimes I put my own fingers in them and imagine I am touching the fingers of that long-ago workman (or woman even?).

I do wonder who owned it before me - it is a constant fascination to me, since I shall almost certainly never find out - and I love to imagine. It may have been made and brought to England in William of Orange's last year of life, or else in the reign of Queen Anne. It connects me to those times, across three hundred years, and is very beautiful. It sits now opposite my Meissen vase, behind a  studio glass scent bottle my husband bought me in Paris - on receipt of which I stood, as I did when I was given the Delft jar, speechless and breathless with excitement - and beside the blanc-de chine Kuan Yin, dating from the mid-20th century, that I found in an antique shop in Hollywood Road in Hong Kong. They all get on very well together.
PS: the colour on the last photograph is truer than the other ones, which come out just a little too blue. In fact, the colour exactly matches the blue of an antique Chinese snuff-bottle (Qing Dynasty) that I also possess.

January competition

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Our competition are open to UK readers only - sorry!

Please remember to email your responses to maryhoffman@maryhoffman.co.uk as well so that I can contact you easily if you win.

To win one of five copies of The Anchoress by Robyn Cadwallader, our January guest, please leave an answer to the following in the Comment section below:

"Tell us what aspects of the enclosed religious life, whether as an anchoress or as a nun in an enclosed order, either appeal to or appall you." (You don't have to be female to enter!)


Closing date is 7th February. Good luck!

Lost In The Dune: the Lewis Chessmen - by Susan Price

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Knight: Lewis Chess Set
          Look at this little fella. Isn't he great?
          I imagine most, if not all, of my readers will immediately recognise him  - even without the caption - as a knight from the Lewis chessmen. The photograph above, though, was taken by me of one that sits on my shelf. It's a replica, quite a good one, I think, and it allows you to hold the little character in your hand and get a good close look at him.
          He's very like a Norman (norse-man) knight, with his kite-shaped shield and his conical helmet with a nose-piece. His horse is a sturdy little beast - I think its size, proportionate to its rider, was probably accurately observed.  The rider has stirrups, and the horse has a caparison.
          I only own two pieces. Here's the other: a Bishop.


Lewis chess men: the bishop

          He may look as if he's making a rude gesture, but I think it's a blessing.  Here's the back of him, showing the beautiful carving of his elaborate chair, and mitre ribbons.


Lewis Chess men: the bishop's back side.
          I wish I owned more of them. I'd really like to have one of the berserkers who's biting his shield. And a Queen. And a King. Well, the whole set, really.
          The chessmen were found on the west coast of the Outer Hebridean island of Lewis, in 1831, one of history's great accidental finds.
          There are several differing stories about how they were found. One says they were unearthed by a cow. The first I came across said that they were found in a sand-dune, in a little 'cave', and that the superstitious Highlander who found them, Malcolm Mcleod, was frightened and ran away, thinking he'd stumbled on a gathering of 'the little people' or fairies.
 
Lewis is to the left of Scotland, marked with a red dot
         I was always suspicious about this story: it assumed that a Highland crofter was a fool, and I'm pretty sure that if you want to find a fool among the Highland crofters, then or now, you'll have to take one with you.

          If there was any truth in the tale at all, it sounded to me like a story Mcleod might have told to amuse his friends - and which was taken at face value by the antiquarian gentleman who later took an interest in the chessmen.
          It seems I was right to doubt it. Far from being afraid of the chessmen, Mcleod exhibited them for a while in his byre, before selling them to a Captain Roderick Ryrie. (Mcleod's family were later evicted from their land during the Clearances, so I hope he drove a hard bargain.)
          So, what is known about the pieces? Well, most of them are carved from walrus ivory, though a few are made from whales' teeth. Their manufacture has been dated pretty firmly to the 12th Century, in Norway, probably in Trondheim, where there was a market for such expensive, high-status articles, and where similar figures have been found. Dr. Alex Woolf, director of the Institute for Medieval Studies of the University of St. Andrews, argues that the armour worn by some of the figures is a perfect replica of that worn in Norway at the time.
          There is some disagreement, however. Gudmundur G. Thórarinsson has published a paper which makes a case for the chessmen being Icelandic. He points out that the chessmen are the oldest known to make a connection between the Church and chess, and that only two countries in the world call the piece above 'bishop', and those countries are Iceland and Britain.
          Some have also argued that the small horses ridden by the knights look like Icelandic horses.
 
Several of the chessmen - Wikimedia Commons

           They're called 'the chessmen' rather than 'the chess set' because there are figures from more than one set. There are, altogether, 19 pawns (which look rather like standing stones), 8 Kings, 8 Queens, 16 bishops, 15 knights and 12 rooks. Some of them seem to have been stained red, suggesting that Viking chess pieces were red and white, rather than black and white. As you can see in the photo above, the pieces differ quite a lot in size and style.
           Probably the biggest mystery about them is why on earth so many pieces from several different, high quality, expensive chess sets were buried in a sand dune, in a little stone 'kist', beside a bay on a remote Outer Hebridean island.
          Well, of course, in the 12th Century - and for most of the Viking Age preceding it - these islands weren't 'remote', as we think
of them. Take another look at that map. The Hebrides were ruled by Norway at the time - as were the Orkneys and Shetlands, and large parts of Scotland and Ireland. The Hebrides were in the middle of thriving maritime trade-routes, with ships coming and going from Scandinavia to Scotland, the Islands, Ireland, the Faroes, Iceland - and even Greenland and America. They traded in soapstone, timber, amber, walrus ivory and walrus hide - oh, and slaves. The Vikings were big in the slave-trade.
          One theory - which seems pretty convincing - was that the chessmen were part of the stock-in-trade of some merchant travelling these whale-roads. He'd bought from craftsmen in Trondheim, and hoped to sell to wealthy jarls in Shetland, Orkney or the Isles. But that still leaves us wondering why he buried them in the sand dune on Uig Bay. What happened? Was he attacked by pirates? Did he hope to return and recover them? - they must have been worth quite a bit.
          A friend suggests that perhaps the merchant was in debt, and hid these valuable items rather than see them taken in payment. And was then done in by the loan-shark before he could recover them. You have to admit, a Viking loan-shark is a pretty formidable notion.
          For whatever reason they were hidden, they then stayed in the dark, in their little cave, for nearly 600 years.
          They carry a lot of information, these little figures. Look at the Kings and Queens here. The Kings have different faces and different beards, though similar crowns and draperies. Both hold their swords across their knees. My friend suggested they were whetstones, ancient symbols of royalty - but I think, looking closely, they are swords. The kings seem to be holding a hilt at one end, and the carving suggests a scabbard. Sitting with a sword across their knees is how Viking kings and lords received vows of fealty.

Two each of the eight Kings and Queens - Wikimedia Commons

          The Queens are dressed almost identically, and sit in a similar pose. Each has one hand pressed to her face - though one supports this hand by placing the other under her elbow, and one is holding a drinking horn. They teach us a lesson in being wary of thinking we understand the past, because these little figures seem comic to us. Do their woeful, pained expressions convey toothache or indigestion? Is the one with the drinking horn drunk? Are they thinking about household chores, or just fed up with being surrounded by drunken Vikings? (Spam, spam, spam, spam - spam, spam, spam, spam...)
Compassion and wisdom - not toothache. Wiki Commons
          In fact, they were surely never intended to be comic. Vikings took their chess seriously - and the wealthy aristocrats who were the intended market belonged to a society with strict class divisions. A comic chess-set which guyed their pretensions was unlikely to appeal to them.
           The Queens' pose is part of a complex visual code that would have been understood at the time (just as we understand many of the poses and 'uniforms' used in that modern propaganda we call advertising.) The Queen's glum face, and hand to her cheek, convey compassion and mercy - with perhaps just a dash of wisdom. That was understood to be a Queen's job - to leaven her husband's demands for loyalty and fighting men, with a little gentleness and understanding.
          You can see the strips of 'tablet-weave' decorating the edges of the queen's sleeves and cape. These strips were woven in bright colours and patterns on small 'tablets' or miniature looms. And is that a striped under-sleeve, or a pile of many bracelets?
          It's worth mentioning that the King, Queen and Bishop are seated in chairs to convey their high social status. They could just as easily have been carved standing. But no, the High-Ups didn't stand. They sat, in grand chairs with arms and high backs, while the hoi-polloi stood or knelt.
          Here's possibly my favourite - one of the two 'warders' or, in
A Lewis berserker
modern terms, 'rooks', shown biting his shield in berserker rage. There's an argument about whether berserkers, or belief in them, ever existed in the Viking Age (6th-8th centuries AD), or whether it was a later fantasy. It's pointed out that there are no depictions of berserkers from the Viking Age itself - and the Lewis berserker, sadly, dates to the medieval period.

          Not all the warders are about to run mad. The one below is stalwart and on guard with sword and shield at the ready, but not even tempted to give his shield a nibble. These figures aren't meant to be comic either, however funny and cute they seem to us. They're meant to convey ferocity in battle, a readiness to fight for their lord - the one they swore fealty to while he held his sword across his knees - and die in his service, if necessary.
          Perhaps one
Lewis Warder
of the selling points of these chess men was that you could choose the figures you liked best - berserkers if your taste ran that way, or sober guards, if not. I imagine many figures spread out on the table of a jarl's hall - perhaps the jarl allowed his children to choose which warders, kings, queens and bishops he bought. Or, maybe you could buy replacements for pieces lost or broken?

          Maybe they were carved to order? If so, several people were left wondering what had happened to their ordered chess set. Runic letters were dispatched by ship to Trondheim: 'I ordered a chess set last Egg-Month, and now it's Blood Month and they still haven't come.'
          My friend suggests that perhaps they were one massive chess-set, where players chose pieces according to their character or mood. "Tonight, Thorstein, I shall have the berserkers, the Queen with the drinking horn, the Bishop who's clutching his crosier as if he's going to bash somebody with it, and the King with the leer." It's an attractive idea, but I think the sizes of the pieces are too varied for them to be part of a single set.

          Why were they buried in that stone kist, in a sand dune? Why were they left there and never collected? - I so much want to know, and I never shall. There's a story there, somewhere. I wish somebody would write it.

For more information, go to http://en.wikipedia.org
/wiki/Lewis_chessmen

Or here - http://www.bbc.co.uk/ahistoryoftheworld/objects/LcdERPxmQ_a2npYstOwVkA

Mary Hoffman is away

Crumbs in the wilderness – Gillian Polack

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I’ve come later than usual this month to writing my History Girls post because I’ve been immersed in the copy-editing stage of a project. This is the moment where, as a historian, I doubt everything I’ve ever known.
The trouble is that as a historian, I never actually know much. I have an infinite number of links to information that informs my understanding, but they have to be checked and rechecked and reinforced every single time I want to make an interpretation. I say this quite comfortably most of the time, as if it’s not quite real, but the truth hits me during copy-editing. My historian-mind is a perpetual clock where the mechanism is questions and the dial is my toolset of techniques for demonstrating possible answers using various sources and methods.
How I explain this when I’m asked in public places (which I will be, in March, at the Historical Novel Society’s first Australasian conference) is that the interface between the historian and the past is ever-changing and that history is the narrative we use to explain things to everyone (including to ourselves). I also say that it’s comfortable and just happens to be the way I think. At moments like this, though, there’s no comfort in it whatsoever. I’m lost in a very particular wilderness.
When I’m researching, I’m entirely safe. Everything is recorded on bits of paper and on computer files and there are notes that link one to the other and if there’s a point that lacks a link, I hunt until I can establish one or I lose the point or rethink the argument. I feel safe when I’m at the research stage, because of all those fluttering bits of paper.
Just now, though, I realised that my documentation contains an element of Hansel and Gretel. Those bits of paper are my guide through the woods. They shift unaccountably as the wind blows throw them and animals wander over them, but they’re always there, leading me to where I need to go. They take me from my hypothesis, safely to sources, and then safely back again to the point where I can write and eventually produce a printed paper where I say wise and wonderful things. On that printed paper there is a plethora of critical apparatus (mainly footnotes and bibliography) to lead me back to my paper trail whenever I need. This is fine when I write a purely academic paper, like the one I did for the journal Rethinking History last year. 

It’s not so fine when I write something for the general public, because the trail is breadcrumbs and it gets gobbled up and doesn’t appear in the final. That’s what I’m doing right now. A copy-edit of something that doesn’t have a full critical apparatus. I’m working with breadcrumbs rather than paper and those breadcrumbs keep getting eaten.
I'm not lost in the forest, but it feels as if I am. I look at my own words and ask myself "Was I right? Surely not" and I can only check up on what I remember and what I remember isn't even close to being the whole trail I've walked so many times.
My copy-edit, the one I make before I send anything to a publisher, is the moment when I realise those breadcrumbs have been eaten. I can’t trace every single little thing back to its source. I can only trace those things my fallible memory wants to recall and, even then, I can’t be certain that I’m remembering correctly. I get a terrible, terrible sense of being lost.
Novels are easier. Novels always use breadcrumb trails. I expect the trail to disappear and to find myself somewhere new and unexpected. Now that Langue[dot]doc 1305 has been out for months, I can look  at my research photos and given them a whole new story. Once the story is told, it gently disassociates itself from its development and it stands alone.
Sometimes novels use breadcrumb trails and nice signposts at appropriate points (those discussions at the end of a book concerning sources are wonderful signposts), but they don’t and can’t and never should be able to point out every single bit of the research. Even when they test a thesis, that thesis is secondary to the story. They’re all about strolling through the woods, or finding the gingerbread house. They’re never about telling other people every footstep of the way. 
If they were about the same type of journey as the historian makes, they’d be dull. Imagine tweeting “I am Gretel. I’m putting my right foot forward and now my left and oh, look, my right again.” Imagine this for a two mile walk. 
It makes sense to chronicle the moment when a branch whips across Gretel’s face and stings so hard she draws a breath. She refuses to cry, and she steps on bravely. Moments that add to the story need chronicling, not every step.
To be honest, I don’t note every step as a historian, either, I just write down a lot more of them in a lot more detail so that I can retrace the path and my mood and what I ate and when I argued with my travel companion and when my shoes hurt and how many steps this way and what direction the wind came from: there's a lot more detail and it's not always dramatic or useful for emotional development. This is because emotional development and drama are not high priorities in a history. It’s not so much that there are a lot more moments to footnote in a history than there are in a novel. The reason for chronicling is different.

This is because novels (even mine, which are research-based novels and full of prickly theories) must tell a story. Or many stories. They exist on this earth for a very different reason to scholarly work, even when there are chunks of overlap between one and the other.
A little while ago I did my copy-edit for the cursed novel (which will be out about the time I post next, so watch this space) and I didn’t tear my hair out and mourn my loss of compass the way I’m doing tonight. 
What my personal copy-edit did for that novel was bring the story in together more tightly and make it easier for the reader to follow by making the style and my personal writing mannerisms just that much more consistent. (My editor’s take on it will reach my desk this week, and I’m looking forward to it.) There’s no Hansel and Gretel lost in the forest with fiction, because the whole story is almost always on that page. What I took notes about ten years ago is irrelevant. The narrative doesn’t need an apparatus to prove it’s accurate or a good story: it does that all by itself. Verisimilitude is more important than precision.
Two big copy-edits in the one week, and one I’ll be glad to be past and the other I really want to reach: the different emotions come from the type of narrative. One takes me further and further from the work that sparked it and the other takes me closer and closer to the story I want to tell. History and fiction are quite different types of writing, even when the fiction contains much history.

Setting Europe Ablaze, by Y S Lee

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In December, I introduced you to my historical boyfriend, Freddy Spencer Chapman. Since then, my research has led me to the more general history of SOE, the Special Operations Executive that operated parallel to – and sometimes in conflict with – established military intelligence during the Second World War.

Chances are, you’ve heard bits and pieces about SOE’s exploits in both fact and fiction. Historian M R D Foot says it was “formed in a tearing hurry during the summer crisis of 1940, at Churchill’s direct prompting” and dismantled in 1946. Churchill’s actual directive was for SOE to “set Europe ablaze”. Now, looking back, what reader or writer could resist such an invitation? Even better, because the organization no longer exists, its six years of secrets can be fully explored without endangering lives. Finally, there’s the romance of it all: clandestine recruitment of a diverse and international group of volunteers who didn’t know what they’d be doing, but were willing to perform “duties of a hazardous nature”.

SOE’s work is at the centre of recent novels like Elizabeth Wein’s Code Name: Verity, William Boyd’s Restless, and many others. I’ve recently been reading some non-fiction sources in an absolute fever of excitement. Currently, I have SOE and the Resistance: As told in the Times Obituaries (ed. Michael Tillotson, 2011) and Forgotten Voices of the Secret War: An Inside History of Special Operations in the Second World War (ed. Roderick Bailey, 2008). Today, I want to share a few highlights in hopes of enticing you to join me.

Einar Skinnarland (Norwegian, 1918-2002)
image via snipview
Skinnarland was an engineer at a hydroelectric plant in German-occupied Norway that was scheduled to produce heavy water for the Nazi plutonium project. In May 1940, Skinnarland took a one-month leave from his job at the plant, joined a group of young Norwegians who hijacked a coastal steamer, and sailed it to Aberdeen to offer their services to the Allies. He brought with him detailed information about the plant’s security systems and volunteered to return for a sabotage operation. After “very basic” parachute training, the RAF dropped Skinnarland back into the Norwegian mountains, in good time for his return to work after a “holiday”! Skinnarland and his associate, Knut Haukelid, spent several months training resisters in the mountains and their group succeeded in sinking Germany’s stocks of heavy water in Lake Tinnsjo in February 1944 – a major contribution to the end of Hitler’s hopes for an atomic bomb.

image via wikipedia
Jos Gemmeke (Dutch, 1922-2010)
As a teenaged girl in the occupied Netherlands, Gemmeke volunteered to distribute copies of a resistance newspaper. The penalty for being caught with even a single copy on one’s person was death, and Gemmeke ran this risk daily for more than four years. She also couriered messages for the Dutch resistance, on bicycle, hiding the microfilms in her shoulder pads. On one journey, while attempting to cross the River Waal, a German soldier informed her that the bridge was closed. As she tried to persuade him to let her cross, Allied aircraft strafed the bridge. The German soldiers dived for cover and Gemmeke was free to cycle across, working her way through the front lines, and delivering the microfilms to newly liberated Brussels.

Pearl Witherington (English, 1914-2008)
image via wikipedia
When Paris fell to the Nazis in 1940, Witherington, who was born to English parents and raised in France, was forced to make her own way to England, from Spain to Portugal and then through Gibraltar. Once she found SOE, her instructors were impressed, if patronizing: “This student, although a woman, has got leader’s qualities. Cool, resourceful, and extremely determined. Very capable, completely brave.” Witherington parachuted back into occupied France to work a courier between different SOE “circuits”. When the Gestapo arrested the head of her circuit, Witherington was given control of the northern half of the circuit. She armed French Resisters, gave them weapons training, and ambushed German convoys of military vehicles. After the war, she settled in the area where she’d led her circuit.


Ibrahim bin Ismail (Malayan, 1922-2010)
image via wikipedia
After the debacle that was the British “defense” of the Malayan peninsula in 1941-42, SOE turned its attention to recruiting local resistance to the occupying Japanese army. The Malayan Communist Party was staunchly anti-Japanese, but their politics made the British nervous. In Ibrahim, SOE found a perfect recruit: an existing officer in the Indian Army willing to infiltrate his homeland. After two failed attempts at a coastal landing, Ibrahim’s party successfully reached the shore in kayaks, only to be welcomed by Japanese soldiers. Under interrogation, Ibrahim persuaded the Japanese that he would prefer to work with them. As evidence, he offered to radio a message to SOE headquarters. In the message, Ibrahim gave the wrong answer to his safety check question, thus alerting headquarters that he was in Japanese hands. For the remaining ten months of the war, SOE used Ibrahim to feed the Japanese false information.

Noor Inayat Khan (Indian/American, 1914-1944)
The daughter of an Indian father and an American mother, Khan declared to SOE that while she loathed the Nazis and wanted to defeat them, her first loyalty was to India. Her recruiting officer noted that hers was the sole case in which “a loyalty was not directly British”. As Khan was fluent in French and already working as a WAAF wireless operator, SOE trained her only briefly. Six weeks after Khan’s arrival in France, hundreds of other resistance workers in her circuit were arrested. As the only radio operator still free in Paris, Khan continued to work, limiting message transmission to 20 minutes per location, and moving constantly in order to evade detection. She was betrayed to the Germans by a double agent within SOE. During her month-long interrogation, she lied consistently, gave up no secrets, and twice attempted escape. After her third effort to escape, Khan was transferred to Germany as a Nacht und Nebel (Night and Fog) prisoner – that is, to disappear without a trace. There, although kept shackled and in solitary confinement for ten months, she was able to communicate her name and London address to another inmate. She was executed and her body burned in 1944, and was still officially classed as “missing” in 1946.

These are just five of the astounding volunteers of the Special Operations Executive. I've deliberately chosen individuals from diverse places, to show the breadth of SOE's remit: Churchill may have thought primarily of Europe, but SOE operated the world over (with the exceptions of Russia and Japan). Three of the five here are women because women were particularly active in SOE, especially in its French Section. But there are hundreds of others whose stories keep me up late at night and change the way I think of the Second World War. I hope the same is true for you, too.

Sailing on the Argo - Katherine Langrish

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Argo's sail against the light

It doesn't affect the magic of legends to suppose that there may be a core of truth in some of them.  In fact, it'd be odd if there wasn't, and reams of paper and pints of ink have been expended in attempts to trace the actual course of Ulysses or the Argo from port to port across the ancient Mediterranean world.  And why not?  Not only are Ithaka and Sandy Pylos and Troy, Cape Malea and Colchis real places: but there are intriguingly detailed descriptions which sound like sailing instructions: like this:

There is a rocky island there in the middle channel
halfway between Ithaka and towering Samos
called Asteris, not large, but it has a double anchorage... 


White-capped waves mean dangerous sailing


Sometimes, though, better than paper and ink is to get out there and do it yourself.  So thought the explorer Tim Severin when, in May 1976, he set out from the west coast of Ireland in a boat named Brendan, stitched together from forty-nine ox hides, heading for the Faroes.  Rowing and sailing, he and his crew got there in June and carried on, arriving in Iceland in July.  The following summer, Severin and his crew set out again, sailing from Iceland to Newfoundland, which they reached less than two months later, thus proving - not the unprovable, that Saint Brendan had really sailed to the coast of North America - but that an early medieval Irish coracle was at least capable of making the voyage.

Perhaps when you've done one voyage like this, you ache to do it again: at any rate, like Thor Heyerdahl before him, Tim Severin famously continued to recreate archaic voyages.  His second expedition, in 1984, was in  'Argo', a reconstruction of a Mycenean galley, following as nearly as possible the course of Jason and the Argonauts across the Mediterranean and up the Bosphorus and on to Georgia, land of the Golden Fleece.

Argo's beaked prow

And here it gets personal, because in summer 1984 as the expedition was returning from Georgia via Istanbul, a sunburnt young man called David, who happened to be my boyfriend and who had decided that the way to relax after three years of studying physics at London's Imperial College would be to back-pack solo around Turkey, had a certain encounter in an Istanbul post-office.   I'll let him take up the tale:


DAVID'S STORY

David doing the dishes, Argo fashion



Three men with arms like legs approached me.  "Are you English?" They'd observed me apparently cracking the code of the Turkish phone system - 5 minutes puzzling over a huge, flabby directory in a dingy Istanbul post office, 1984 - and getting as far as making a call (to the British Embassy, unsuccessful).  I clued them in on how the phones worked. "But what's that?" said I, peering intently at their T-shirts, from which protruded their Olympic scale arms:


ΑΡΓΟΝΑΥΤΙΚΑ

At anchor


Now any self respecting physicist, but more especially a graduate of Patrick Moore's 'Observer's Book of Astronomy', c.1969 (alpha-this, gamma-that is conspicuous in the winter sky, etc), should be able to read alphabetical greek... "Argonautica... is that the Tim Severin expedition?" - the one I'd read about in my father's Telegraph supplement? I'd just sailed back from Trebizond on the regular ferry after back-packing around Turkey. They'd just rowed a thousand miles in the opposite direction from Volos (Iolcos) to Georgia; their tremendous callouses bore witness to that fact, and to pretty useless winds. But they'd reached Jason's destination and found that people still "pan for gold" using sheep fleeces there, in the mountain streams.

Rowing hard...


I enthused, madly, and was told Tim was planning to sail Αργο next year, this time following the homeward trek of Ulysses from Troy. Versus the geographically exact Apollonius who wrote down 'Jason', Homer gives few recognisable locations for the Odyssey (and so providing Tim with the rationale for another clue searching expedition) but all the book-men agreed that the land of the Lotus Eaters simply must have been Libya. That sounded exciting! so I managed to persuade Tim to take me on for that (middle) leg of the voyage.  Unfortunately, Colonel Gaddafi wasn't in the mood even for a bunch of adventurers in a Mycenaean galley and Tim spent days away on a fruitless trip to various Libyan consulates in search of promised visas (and that was before the Reagan / Thatcher raid on Tripoli).

Old and new


But we did find plenty of traces of the legend around and along the Cretan coast, from the island whose earlier name was "Leather Bag", situated at the crossroads of the Aegean, to a very good candidate (with local backing) for the Cyclops cave, complete with British wartime ration tins in the back, dropped for the Resistance. One could imagine Patrick Leigh Fermor having been another visitor, once.


Viewed from the cliffs




And we did find out what a very difficult job it is sailing a square rigger with no keel and simple rig in a season with way too much wind: and it's pointless rowing with 30 degree roll - so our callouses were nothing much to show. No wonder it took him 9 years to get back. Our particular Argo is no more (a sad story) but I did hold one of her great, heavy oars again in a ship museum in Eyemouth of all places. And identifed the black ring where the lead counterweight was jammed on, perfectly positioned to thwack into the spine of the rower in front if you got your stroke wrong. A thousand miles of that? They must have been heroes.

Argo under full sail

Stuck at home like Penelope, I was extremely envious, of course.  But there were no women on the voyage and in any case I obviously didn't have the Olympic-style muscles required for the job.  So I whiled away some of the time by thinking up adventurous things I could do on my own, such as going up in a glider - I know - feeble by comparison - and some of the time composing and illustrating my own spoof , 'Jason and the AgonyAunts: a silly tale in eight fits', which I gave David when he got back. (For the benefit of American readers, an 'Agony Aunt' is the cheery British term for an advice columnist in a magazine or newspaper.)  It was just a bit of fun, but I enjoyed making it.  And I finally got the envy out of my system a few years ago learning to sail a reconstructed Viking age ship on a Danish fjord.

And David?  Well, what do you think?  Reader, I married him.




Picture credits:  All photos by David Gahan, except for 'Argo under Full Sail' by Rick Williams: all photos copyright Tim Severin and used by kind permission of Tim Severin


Further reading: The Jason Voyage and The Ulysses Voyage by Tim Severin

My Foundling Girl by Joan Lennon

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I can't remember when I first learned about Thomas Coram and the Foundling Hospital, about Handel's charity performances of The Messiah, or about how artists would donate work to what was in effect the first public art gallery in the UK.  But I do know that I was very drawn to the posts I read here by other History Girls* over the years which referred to that hugely evocative place.  Heart-breaking.  Inspiring.  Up-lifting.  Rending.

And now I have a link of my own.  She has no name, and a few days ago I didn't even know she existed.  She's called "The Foundling Girl" and now she's my foundling girl. Because on Monday 2 February, slips of paper were drawn out of a tricorn hat and I was randomly paired with her.

This was the beginning of a collaboration between the writers' collective 26 and the curators of the Foundling Museum, called "26 Pairs of Eyes: Looking at the Overlooked" which will be launched this summer. The object I've been asked to respond to was a marble bust made by David Watson Stevenson in 1871.  I found her tucked behind a door in a corridor between two rooms. 



She was cream marble against a cream wall.


I most likely would have overlooked her. But now, I was transfixed.






Projects like this are a challenge, of course they are, but also what a gift!  Do you have a statue or a painting or an artefact in the Foundling Museum or any other museum/gallery that's somehow yours?  It's great, isn't it? 

And if you get the chance, be sure to visit my girl. 


* Such as Lucy Inglis' post on the 10th anniversary of the Foundling Museum and the 275th anniversary of the Foundling Hospital: "Be Not Ashamed You were Bred in This Hospital. Own it."

or Penny Dolan's experience: My Coram Cup

or Eleanor Updale's story of her father:  Another Side of Christmas 1918

So worth re-reading!


Joan Lennon's website.
Joan Lennon's blog.

IT'S YOU AGAIN by Lydia Syson

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Coming to the end of every book I’ve written, I always find myself regretting that I’ve not had more time to get to know some of the people I’ve encountered on the way.  It’s a bit like all those unfinished or unhad or too-fleeting conversations you’re left with at the end of a good party – there are always other guests you wish you’d spent more time with, or who vanished just as someone promised to introduce you.  And you hope to run into them again.


The funny thing is how often you do.  So it has been with the Vizetelly family, who popped up last month in Michael Rosen’s Radio 3 beguiling Sunday Feature, ‘Zola in Norwood’.



This programme told the story of the French novelist’s period of exile in England in 1898-9 when he fled in cognito to escape persecution during the Dreyfus affair, and Ernest Vizetelly looked after him.  As well as a familiar South London landscape – one painted by Pisarro when he fled France to avoid fighting in the Franco-Prussian war nearly twenty years earlier - I enjoyed the voices of two actors I’ve loved since my teens – Anton Lesser (I first saw him in an unforgettable Hamlet in 1982 at the Donmar Warehouse and fifteen year olds never forget) and Harriet Walter (who stood out the same year in All’s Well That Ends Well) – not to mention the radio drama debut of the brilliant translator Sarah Ardizzone, who was also responsible for a shocking, never-before translated passage you can hear from the novel Zola wrote in London, Fecundity.  But I’m digressing already.


Reproduced from BBC website


Ernest Vizetelly was the slightly less brilliant translator and editor who took the photograph above - Zola is hard at work on the manuscript of Fecondité - and who told this story himself in a book speedily published in 1899: With Zola in England: a story of exile. (He assures readers he only undertook the task just in case circumstances prevented Zola from getting round to telling the story himself.)  His father Henry, the first publisher of Zola’s novels in English, suffered three months in prison and bankruptcy following an obscenity trial in 1889 which centred on his publication of The Soil (La Terre), branded by the solicitor-general as a work of ‘bestial obscenity’, after which Ernest took over the reins.  He brought out Zola’s later works in translation as fast as Zola could write them, editing them heavily for his own safety as he did so.  That landmark moment in the history of literary censorship is another story – summarised extremely well here and well worth exploring, not least for the light it casts on what I'm about to tell you about Ernest.


I first came across the Vizetelly family from two directions at once, and I still can’t quite work out quite what to make of the ever enterprising Ernest.  Unsurprisingly, the novels of Zola were an incredibly rich source for me while writing Liberty’s Fire, which isset during the Paris Commune of 1871. I shamelessly pillaged the extraordinarily detailed descriptions of Les Halles in The Belly of Paris, backstage life in Nana and the laundries and pawn tickets of The Assommoir, never mind the final scenes of The Debacle.  (I thoroughly recommend Colette Wilson's gripping analysis of how Zola’s novels relate to his experience of the Commune Paris and the Commune, 1871-78: the Politics of Forgetting.  As this review rightly observes, one of her book’s strengths lies in the decision to look at the clear presence of the Commune even in works that did not directly address l’année terrible.) But though these are the out-of-copyright freebies that pop up on Kindle, I quickly realised that I was best off avoiding all Vizetelly translations, senior and junior.  This is partly because of the expurgations (despite Henry’s resistance to ‘bowdlerising . . .the greatest works in English Literature' I believe he was cautious even before the disastrous trial, although I may be wrong) but mainly because they’re really not very well written.  They seem to me dashed off, dated, and fairly clunky in style.  I became slightly obsessed with tracking down the very best alternatives, which was how I discovered Mark ‘Cod’ Kurlansky’s brilliant version of The Belly of Paris and also Lydia Davis’ Madame Bovary. (And discovered this useful resource.)

But back to those Vizetellys, of whom there were many – grandfathers, uncles, brothers and cousins, newspapermen and wine connoisseurs, printers and war correspondents and even a well-known lexicographer.  This is what old Ernest looked like in 1914, when he finally published his own accounts of first the Franco-Prussian war and the Siege of Paris, and then of the Commune itself. 


Frontispiece to My Days of Adventure


How I wish I knew what he looked like in 1871.  At this point he was a seventeen-year-old junior reporter, rushing around revolutionary Paris with his father and brother, gathering material for the Illustrated London News.  He reminds me of a character from a G.A.Henty novel, politics included, and I can imagine his exploits inspiring awe in boys like Oswald Bastable - though I'm sure Noel would have had reservations.  Residents of the French capital since 1865, Ernest and his father were as talented at drawing and engraving as they were at journalism.  They were besieged during the Franco-Prussian war and dispatched their reports back to England by balloon-post, making the most of the quickly developing art of photography to send the pictures of their pictures and copy in duplicate by successive posts to be certain of delivery.  A decade later, in the book Paris in Peril (1882), father and son collaborated in a vivid portrayal of life in beleaguered France during the war, but dealt with the Commune and its terrible demise in just a few condemnatory paragraphs: ‘The reprisals were certainly terrible; but the provocation had been very great. The Commune was crushed.’

Ernest returned to the themes in 1914, publishing in separate volumes My Days ofAdventure: The Fall of France, 1870-71 and then, just after the outbreak of World War I, My Adventures in the Commune The title is misleading.  Consummate journalist as he is by then, elderly Ernest rarely clear makes the difference between his own adventures and those of others.  Although he criticises other reporters who cheerfully sent alarmist dispatches about certain events (like the destruction of the Vendôme column) before they even happened, he is pretty cagy about what he actually witnessed himself and what material he draws from other sources, let alone what those sources might be.

Engraving by Arthur Boyd Houghton
This is a boy who learned his journalistic skills and nous at the knee of a father who in his own autobiography cheerfully confessed authorship of one of the great travel hoaxes of the nineteenth century: Four months among the gold-finders in Alta California, being the Diary of an Expedition from San Francisco to the Gold Districts supposedly by J. Tyrwitt Brooks, (M.D.).  Henry Vizetelly concocted the fantastic adventures of a mythical gold-hunter in the hitherto unknown foothills of the Sierra Nevada so convincingly that he was hailed by The Times in 1849 as ‘a gentleman who knows all about it!’  After all, how many people could actually contradict him? 

Ernest’s family nickname was ‘The Eel’.  When writing about Louise Michel, probably the best known of the Communardes then and now, and famed in the political clubs held in so many churches in Paris, he is certainly slippery:


Louise Michel in the uniform of the
National Guard, Paris' citizen militia,
guardians of the Commune
‘If I remember rightly, I once heard Louise Michel speak at the club held in the church of Saint-Jacques.  I have referred previously to this so-called Red Virgin of the Commune. . .Towards the end of the Empire she began to pay attention to public questions, and expressed the most advanced political and social views. [NB ‘advanced’ is not exactly a compliment here, as you’ll see in a moment.]  At the advent of the Commune she was almost swept away by enthusiastic fervour.  I can picture her as a woman of eight-and-thirty, with an angular figure, a pale face with prominent cheekbones, a large mouth, and dark glowing eyes.  She assumed the uniform of the National Guards, participated in more than one of the sorties, and was wounded whilst assisting in the defence of the much-bombarded Fort of Issy. . .’


There’s nothing to suggest that young Ernest ever actually set eyes on either Louise Michel or three other Communardes he says frequented this particular political club.  But he’s happy to paint them in the grotesquely stereotyped terms which characterise so many such accounts by writers hostile to the Commune, borrowing the scandalous reputations of these women to colour ‘his’ adventures.  Ernest describes one woman, just as if he’d seen her,


Engraving by Arthur Boyd Houghton
‘who. . . during the Bloody Week [the week in which the Commune was brutally crushed by Government army, leaving as many as 20,000 dead on the streets of Paris]. . .went about, sword in hand, in a state of hysterical fury, which she strove to assuage by decapitating any corpses that she saw lying in the streets, and this although they were for the most part those of National Guards. At the club this creature raved frantically, her face wearing the while much the same expression as that which may be observed on the countenances of militant suffragettes when they are hurling choice imprecations at police-magistrates and others.  She was doubtless of much the same breed – the breed of the possédées de Loudun [possessed nuns made famous in a 17th century witchcraft trial] and the convulsionnaires de Saint-Médard.  Among her club-companions was a former fortune-teller who was almost as violent, and an ex-ragpicker who, perhaps, even surpassed her as a virago. This woman, called, I believe Marie Gougeard, attended the assassination of several of the hostages . . . and as the vicims fell to the ground lifeless, waved a red flag and shrieked, “Vive la Commune!”’


From The Communists of Paris, 1871: Types,
Physiognomies, Characters
 by Bertall
The working women of the Commune get a pretty bad press from Ernest throughout his narrative, though he does attempt an odd version of gallantry, insisting that the fires which raged through Paris were, contrary to rumour, mostly the work of men rather than women. The pétroleuses -  ‘hundreds of women wandering about with their little supplies of mineral oil, and setting fire to one and another place in a haphazard way, are gross exaggerations’ - he dismisses as a legend nurtured by imaginative journalists. Yet discussing a vast explosion at a cartridge factory, whose cause has never determined, he says it can’t possibly have been caused by a Government shell:  ‘It was due, probably to the carelessness of one or another of the scores of women who were employed in the works.’  Of course Ernest was hardly alone in his attitudes to women: such views were obviously widespread at the time.  But it’s a pity that a hundred years and more later, historians of the period such as Alastair Horne and Rupert Christiansen continue to trot out the most misogynistic and formulaic portraits of the Communardes without qualm or query. 


In the preface to My Adventures, Ernest assures usthat he has drawn on his diaries of 1871.  There are certainly moments when the narrative comes alive and you sense he really was there.  It’s easy, for example, to picture this nimble teenager sliding through the crowds to get to the front as the Emperor-topped column in the Place Vendôme came crashing to the ground:


‘I do not remember whether my father and my brother followed me, but, eel-like, and in spite of the fact that some of the Commune’s “cavalry” rode up to hold the crowd in check, I wriggled through the throng, and at last, on a great bed of dung, I perceived the French Caesar lying prone – decapitated by his fall, and with one arm broken.’



From My Adventures in the Commune

Other stories, particularly about the final days of the Commune, also ring true.  He records meeting a plumber at the Gare Saint Lazare who is trying to get home to a wife about to give birth.  Just at that moment, they are caught in crossfire, and the shot proves fatal for this man.  He and his brother and father were on the Place de la Concorde at the moment when the arcaded façade of the Ministry of Finance collapsed in flames and they had to run for their lives, stopping only to pick up a few of the hundreds of charred and burning documents that began to rain down on the area.  I certainly drew on Ernest’s description of watching Government forces as they attacked on the Elysée Palace (used by Napoleon III to meet his mistresses) during the last ‘Bloody’ week of the Commune’s existence.  Many of the most enduring images of the Commune are photographs – barricades before the final week, ruins afterwards, but when it came to the fighting and action shots, camera technology still lagged behind the speed of the pencil.  Ernest knew how to get the images the Illustrated London News was after:


‘From the 6th floor balcony of the house in the Rue de Miromesnil where I was living with my father and my brother Arthur, one could see a part of the palace, notably the guard-house at the corner of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré and the Avenue de Marigny.  Awakened at a very early hour by the sounds of firing, we repaired to the balcony in question.  We were the only tenants in the house, the Chateaubriand family, which had left Paris before the German siege, not having returned since thern.  The sixth-floor rooms were chiefly occupied by their servants, but the concierge of the house had a key which procured us admission to some soubrette’s little chamber, whence we speedily reached the balcony.  From that point of vantage, as from the gallery of a theatre, we looked down upon an episode in the great tragedy of war.  I had brough a sketch-block with me, and resting it on the balcony railing, after taking a chair, I was able to make in all comfort a sketch of the defence of the Elysée guard house, which the soldiers were attacking.”








(You’ll notice Ernest dismissively sexualises even the absent maid whose room he invades.  Perhaps he would have done the same at the age of seventeen.  But something makes me hope not.)  On this occasion, he had plenty of time to observe the military operations, for it took quite some time.  First “the soldiers had to carry a mansion belonging to one of the Rothschilds where a considerable party of insurgents had, so to say, entrenched themselves.  Moreover, all the movements of the military were very cautious.  They glided along the house-fronts, took refuge in every recess, stole into houses and fired from garret-windows and roofs, seldome, during the whole of the street-fighting, carrying a barricade by direct assault. . . . The end of the affair came, I remember, very suddenly.  The attention of the insurgents was still directed towards the lower part of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, whence they were being attacked, when all at once a body of troops came stealthily but rapidly along the Avenue de Marigny.  By this means the Communalists were taken in the rear and all chance of escape was cut off.  A few men who tried to resist were at once shot down.  The rest dropped their weapons and surrendered.  The same kind of thing occurred repeatedly during the street-fighting.  The insurgents were outmanoeuvred, outflanked; and even their biggest barricades, bristling with ordnance, were of no avail to them. 


‘Paris had changed since 1848.  Here and there, of course, as is the case even today, some narrow and more or less winding streets still remained, but the greater part of the city offered nothing like the same facilities for defence as had been the case in pre-Haussmanite days.’ 







In 1967, a Chichester wine merchant called Russell Purchase was interested enough in Henry Vizetelly to track down Ernest’s son Victor, who gathered together the family letters, photographs, drawings and other memorabilia so that Purchase could write a biography.  Purchase died before he could finish it, and all this material is now fills 17 boxes in the University of Sussex Library.  One day, when I have time, I may not be able to resist going to look at it so that I can meet Ernest again.  Of course what I'm really hoping for is a photograph or sketch of his adventurous seventeen-year-old self.

(You can find more background on the Paris Commune in this post I wrote last November, and you probably haven't heard the last of it yet. . .)

MY LIFE IN HOUSES by Margaret Forster. Reviewed by Adèle Geras

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The first thing that occurred to me when I was thinking about this post was: I'll write a review of My Life in Houses by Margaret Forster, because even though it's not a historical novel, it is about a person's  history.  One of the reasons  I liked this book so much was because the idea of looking at a life through the houses that a person has lived in was so wonderful and so apt that I marvelled it hadn't been done before. There's a piece from Leonard Woolf's Downhill all theway which credits him with the idea, but I don't know of any other. I stand ready to be corrected, but as far as I know, Forster is the first person to do  exactly this. Penelope Lively, in books like Ammonites and Leaping Fish, A Life in Time and Making It Up  has explored her own life in several unusual  ways, but not quite like this.  As soon as I heard about Forster's book, I thought: of course. This is such a logical journey to take  through a life: following the subject from house to house through the years.  Part of me was very envious. I wished it had been my idea. 


And so we follow Margaret Forster from Carlisle to Oxford to Portugal to London again and to the house in NW5 where she still lives. Along the way we meet not only several different Margarets (the young child, the student, the writer, the wife and mother and the elderly woman) who share throughout a clear-eyed intelligence and a delight in the vagaries of life in all its strangeness. We meet many other people. We get to see houses she has visited or stayed in for a short while. She looks. She describes. Above all, she speaks to the reader as though she's across the table, say, with a cup of coffee or a glass of wine in her hand. She's open without being too intimate or embarrassing. She's gossipy without being nasty. She's constantly entertaining and fascinating about the  physical  properties of the houses themselves. I can't recommend this book highly enough. The fact that there is an ending which isn't entirely 'happy ever after' is down to Forster's honesty. She has suffered from cancer in the past and that cancer has now returned. Has that stopped her from writing this intelligent, humane and fascinating book? Of course it hasn't. The Margaret we've been following from her first house in Orton Road in Carlisle would see to it that the book got written.  

It's also worth saying a word about how beautifully this volume has been produced. Chatto &Windus have done a grand job. The font, the cover, the paper: they are all quite beautiful and the production adds a great deal to the pleasure of reading it. Do not get it on Kindle because you will be missing a real treat.









Something else occurred to me while I was reading this book.  I am often surprised that writers known to me since I was very young seem not to be as talked about and lauded as the latest whizzy young thing. Forster is a writer who has never quite got the public acclaim she deserves. Her readers love her. They've loved her for years and she is a National Treasure of sorts, though I fear mostly for the middle-aged reader. She's never won the kind of prize that gets you noticed and written about. She's not flashy. She does not appear on talk shows. She's popular but would not immediately leap up the best seller lists. And this is a huge shame. I think it's time that her books were better known and more widely read. And as this is the History Girls, it should be said that several novels from her enormous backlist are very accomplished bona fide historical novels.  She has written biographies, such as this life, (below) of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



And she returned to to the subject of Browning in possibly her best-known novel: Lady's Maid.  This tells the story of the Browning ménage through the eyes of Elizabeth's maid. If you haven't read it, then do so at once. It's brilliant.




She has written social history, as in Hidden Lives


and in a ground-breaking novel about dealing with Alzheimer's within a family she opened the way to many novels by other people which came after it, in which 'problems' in society were dealt with in a fictional way.



She's returned to biographies again and again. She's written about Daphne du Maurier and below, she tackles the lives of eight early feminists. 


 "Is there anything you want?"is a novel about women who come together because they all have suffered or are suffering or have recovered from cancer. It is typical of Forster that she took what must have been a terrible personal experience and made fictional gold from it.



She's written a Gothic novel. She wrote the book on  which the movie Georgy Girl was based.  She's written funny books, and very sad ones, especially Over about a family dealing with the early death of a child. She's tackled adoption, and in Mother's Boys she writes about young criminals. She's interested in everything and everything she writes is worth reading. Do try her books if you haven't already. You will thank me for this suggestion, I promise you. 

'WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN' by Karen Maitland

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When shall we three meet again?
In thunder, lightning, or in rain? (Shakespeare's Macbeth)
Often when you visit a place for one reason, you stumble on something far more interesting. Recently I decided to visit Widecombe-in-the-Moor, in Devon, because like most people I’d grown up with the famous ghost song about Widecombe fair. You know the one -
Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me your grey mare.
All along, down along, out along lea.
For I want for to go to Widecombe Fair,
With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,
Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
Widecombe Church being hit by a lightning ball
But on entering the beautiful St Pancras Church in the village, I became intrigued by the old wooden boards on
the wall telling of freak accident which happened there in the 17th century. The church is a large one for such a small and remote village and this is because the parish covered a huge area, with people having to travel many miles across the moors from isolated farms to attend services. So, services were often held in the afternoon and one afternoon in 1638, without warning, lightning struck the church, damaging the tower and a lightning ball sped through the congregation killing four people and injuring around 52 others.

The boards in the church tell a terrifying story. One man was hurled against a pillar so violently, his head was smashed and his whole brain fell out into the pew behind him. Coins were welded together in one person’s pocket from the heat, but their owner was left unharmed, while other people received horrific burns. It must have seemed like the Day of Judgement or, as many claimed, the work of the devil. The villagers were left in a panic – should they stay in the church or flee outside into the storm where worse might be waiting? Little wonder that those who wrote the account took the opportunity to remind parishioners that you never knew when death might strike.

According to legend, supernatural thunderbolts were not unknown in those parts. Villagers from outlying homes had to carry the dead many miles over the coffin-roads for burial at Widecombe. On the way they were in the habit of resting the coffins on broad flat rocks known as coffin stones. On one occasion a funeral party, on its way to Widecombe, rested the coffin on one such stone on Dartmeet Hill, but the deceased had apparently been so wicked in life a thunderbolt struck the coffin splitting the stone beneath in two and the broken stone can still be seen today.

An early account of the disaster at
 Bongay showing black dog or shuck
Probably because they were the tallest structures, churches seemed to particularly prone to these lightning balls. At Bongay, Suffolk parishioners were in church one morning in 1577, when a lightning ball ran the length of the church passing between people and killing some instantly. One man who survived was hit in the neck and was described afterwards as being ‘all drawn up together and shrunk up like a piece of old leather scorched in a fire.’ Some in Bongay said the fireball took the form of a demonic black dog or black shuck, an occurrence which was ascribed to the devil.

St John the Baptist Church at Danbury Hill, Essex, was badly damaged by lightening in 1402, when the devil entered in the church in the form a grey friar who apparently terrified the parishioners by lewdly exposing himself to them. While in 1613, the lightning ball which tore through the church in Great Chart, Kent was said to be like great fiery bull. It killed a miller and burst out through a wall. Again this was said to be the devil’s work.

Although in many religions and cultures, storms and lightening were seen as the retribution of the gods, strangely the British more frequently ascribed them to the Devil or his servants – the witches. Perhaps this is because either the horned image of the devil was a demonised form of the pre-Christian gods or because churches were so frequently the target of the strikes.

1555 a church being struck by lightning
In 1489, Molitor wrote – ‘tempests, hails and poisoned air are not the work of some malicious women, but purely the movements of nature or the toleration of divine will that allows the Devil to afflict us.’ But by the sixteenth and seventh centuries, when the witch hunts were in full spate, any destructive storm was blamed on Satan or more frequently on witches.

These unfortunate women, and occasional man such as the 70 year old Reverend John Lowes tortured by the witchfinder,Matthew Hopkins, were frequently charged with raising storms in order to destroy ships at sea by shaking out their hair or loosening knots they had tied in string. The witches of North Berwick were accused of christening a cat with devilish rites and flinging it into the sea bound to parts of a dead man, with the intention of raising a storm in order to sink the ship on which James VI was returning from Denmark. The small fact that there was no storm, only an annoying ‘contrary wind’ did not stop them being charged.

1555 A witch raising a storm to sink a boat
But kings themselves were not above making use of these powers. In 1563, Eric XIV, King of Sweden is said to have employed four witches in the army he raised against the Danes. He recruited them because they claimed to be able to raise a storm by beating water in a pond with an iron rod until it rose into a rain cloud, which could then be controlled to produce lightning, rain, or hail as desired.

But there is also an ancient belief in the ‘royal storm’, a sudden and violent storm that occurs at the death of a great king or leader, when the heavens themselves grieve his passing. Ironically there was such a ‘royal storm’ when Oliver Cromwell died, but royalists claimed that was caused by the devil triumphantly claiming his own.

Painted 1470. House protected by
an oversized houseleek
Incidentally, should you wish to protect your house from a lightning strike, you might want to follow medieval advice and grow a houseleek on the roof.

Roman Egypt at the Petrie Museum

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by Caroline Lawrence


I was nosing about the treasure box that is the Petrie Museum last year when I overheard a father telling his little girl, 'You know, the Romans were in Egypt after the pharaohs.' He was showing her one of the beautiful encaustic portraits done during the Roman period. I longed to give her my historical novel for kids set Roman Egypt, The Scribes from Alexandria.

I have filled it with fascinating facts about the Romans in Egypt, and wrapped up in a treasure quest full of danger, intrigue and romance. But I didn't have a copy of my book on me.

Instead, I convinced the education department of the Petrie to let me do a fun session on Roman Egypt one half term holiday. They kindly agreed and the day is almost upon us: I will be giving two sessions, one at 2pm and one at 3pm on Wednesday 18 February 2015.


When I was researching The Scribes from Alexandria, I read tons of books on Roman Egypt, searched the internet and visited museums like the British Museum and the Petrie. Best of all, my husband and I made two research trips to that wonderful country: one around Aswan and one around Cairo and Alexandria.

One of the most amazing facts I learned was that the Romans thought of Egypt as upside down. The north-south oriented map is one we have so engrained in our minds that we can often assume it the way the ancients thought of the world, too.

A river flows from its source to the sea or nearest body of water. If you travel with the direction of the current, you are travelling downriver. If you start where it empties into the sea and sail towards the source then you are necessarily travelling upriver. So why not have the source at the top and the egress at the bottom? 
Also, if you think about a sailor or merchant travelling from Rome or Greece to Egypt, the first place they would reach is the Nile Delta, the fertile triangular area where the Nile branched out to flow into the sea. Why not put the delta at the bottom of the map and work up? 


This way it looks like a capital Delta
That's exactly what the Greeks and Romans did. When you look at a flipped map of Egypt, like the one my husband and I designed together, you can clearly see the delta looks like the capital Greek letter 'delta', hence the name. (In Roman Egypt most people spoke Greek, the lingua franca of the early Roman Empire.) When you look at the map of Egypt this way then the delta area becomes Lower Egypt and the Nile Valley is Upper Egypt. This is how the ancients thought of it. If you went 'upriver' you were travelling south and 'downriver' was north.

That means that to an ancient traveller everything on the right bank was 'Libya' and everything on the left (or eastern) bank was 'Arabia'.
The current always flowed downriver, from Aswan to Alexandria, but the wind conveniently blew upriver or south. Wherever a ship is shown in Egyptian wall paintings, carvings or votive models, you can easily tell which direction it's travelling. If its sail is up, it's probably travelling upriver. If there is no sail, it's probably going with the current, downriver towards Alexandria. See the ship models on the left, from the British Museum. 

Traveling upriver from Alexandria, you could sail for over 700 miles before coming to the first cataract or change in water level. This was found at Syene, (modern Aswan), and marked the border of Egypt and Nubia, the Land of Gold.

This was just one of the amazing facts I discovered about the way the ancients viewed Egypt in Roman times. I also learned about an unlucky hieroglyphic, the colour Egyptians hate, a jewel encrusted crocodile and lots of other wonderful aspects of Egypt in Roman times.

For a chance to see this small Egyptian Museum in the heart of Bloomsbury, to handle ancient objects, colour, enter a quiz and hear me give a reading, come along with your children aged 8+ on Wednesday 18 February 2015. It costs £3, but EVERYONE who comes will receive a free Roman Mystery. Book HERE

If you can't make it to the Petrie you will learn lots about Roman Egypt by reading The Scribes from Alexandria, now out in paperback, Kindle format and as an abridged audiobook, brilliantly read by Nigel Anthony. 

Thorny sea-steeds - Michelle Lovric

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This post was to be called ‘A Pillar of the Community’. It was designed as a campaigning piece about a fascinating but little-known Victorian horse hospital at Blows Yard by Borough Market in London.

 But I’m still lacking one crucial piece of information about the Blows Yard horses and their hospice, so that story will have to wait till next month. As I usually write about Venice, and I’m here (amid mist and acqua alta) now, my thoughts have turned instead to the only kind of horse one finds these days* in la Serenissima– seahorses.

Who isn’t intrigued by sea horses? They are unique in their tail twirling locomotion, the primitive inscrutability of their faces, and also in their breeding habits, which I regard as pioneering: the female deposits eggs in the male’s ‘brood pouch’ where he fertilizes and incubates his young until he goes into labour and gives birth to them.(‘Push, Papa! Push!’).

Here are some seahorses, twirled and untwirled, from the Wellcome Trust's collection.



And they have such wonderful names! Among the 54 known species of this animal, we find Hippocampus abdominalis (pot-bellied seahorse)

Hippocampus biocellatus (false-eyed seahorse)

Hippocampus comes (tiger-tail seahorse)

Hippocampus paradoxus (paradoxical seahorse)

In my last children’s novel, The Fate in the Box, I used blue glass sea horses as the talisman of trust passed between members of I Piccoli Pochi, secret freedom fighters trying to find a way to bring down the corrupt regime of a tyrant known as Fogfinger.

I wrote about the seahorses on this site two years ago.

But to recap briefly, seahorses really were used as good luck talismans in Venice where nursing fishwives sometimes kept a dried example tucked into their bodices to facility the flow of their milk. In 1902, the English folklore specialist Edward Lovett went to Venice where he commissioned some examples of Venetian seahorses in pink and blue glass, which can today be seen at London’s Wellcome Collection. Lovett, the author of Magic in Modern London (1925) believed that the distinctive shape of the gondola’s metal ferro was based on the form of a seahorse.



Venice’s own Natural History Museum keeps a miniature section of the Northern Adriatic Sea’s living natural history in an aquarium. Several graceful seahorses constantly make their way across the tank. John Ruskin, as I noted in another blog, recommended catching a few Venetian seahorses for observation of their movements, but was disappointed when they failed to grasp his pencil with their tails.

I commissioned some copies of Lovett’s sea horses from a proper Murano glass works - see the picture above. As I’m not a nursing mother, and a glass seahorse is a chilly object to stow in in a History Girl’s bodice, I had different plans for my commission. Instead I put a few glass seahorses in the window displays I was making for bookshops for The Fate in the Box. I blogged about that at The Other Place, in a post called Buying Crocodiles on Ebay.

In Italian, a seahorse is called ‘un cavallucio marino’, which has a courtly ring to it. On Wikimedia Commons I found this beautiful seahorse coat of arms designed by Sabine Cretella.


The seahorse is totemic to several towns and even a football club.

Given its otherworldly mystery, the seahorse would have featured in the cabinet of curiosities of any sixteenth century gentleman worth his salt. See the one middle right here in Frans Francken the Younger’s painting, now in Vienna’s Kunsthistorisches Museum (courtesy of Wikimedia Commons).

 
The man depicted is Abraham Ortelius (1527 –1598), the Flemish cartographer who invented the idea of the atlas. He is also thought to be the first scientist to pose the theory that the continents of the world were once joined together and eventually drifted apart. Who knows if the gentle drift of his pet seahorse influenced him in this radical idea?

Most of my children’s novels feature mermaids in Venice, and the current WIP also contains a few hippocamps, the great grand-daddies of seahorses, at least in size. Hippocamps differ from seahorses physiologically in that their heads are more equine in the Mammalian sense. The Venetian ones, such as this one on the tomb of Andrea Vendramin, at SS Giovanni e Paolo, often have forelegs streamlined into furry flippers.

 
One can imagine human-sized mermaids riding such a big beast. And indeed Frederick Church Stuart did, in Plate 6 in the book "Choice Etchings" (London: Alexander Strahan, 1887 – thanks to Wikimedia Commons again).

Hippocamps are all very grand, but there is something about the miniature nature of the real seahorse that fascinates me more.

I became interested in the seahorse population not just of of the Grand Canal but of the Thames, which flows beneath my home in London. In that great grey-green, greasy river, all set about with skyscrapers, we too have seahorses nosing through the churn of mud: hippocampus hippocampus, or ‘short snouted seahorse’, a protected species that dines on shrimp and baby eel. The London Zoological Society reported finding this rare seahorse in the Thames in 2008. The creatures are now part of a breeding programme at London Zoo. You can see some of 918 baby seahorses being born in one day in this video. (Push, Papa!)

At the time of my seahorse researches, I was part of a Poetry School masterclass taught by the wonderful Robert Vas Dias. I produced this poem as one of my weekly homeworks, bringing the Thames seahorse into a love triangle. In this poem about good faith and fidelity, notions betrayed by everyone except, perhaps, that thorny sea-steed, hippocampus hippocampus.


                                                 Crusaders


Professor Mann’s at war with faithfulness.

He’s paddling heart-deep in the midnight Thames

with Dr Jane Kettle, who deployed a thesis

on doomed whales in the estuary to lure him

from his Californian wife. At first

Kettle seemed cold, would not permit a kiss

in the laboratory but now she lets Mann handle

her hotly and in scientific detail by the river

where mist steams from the roiling water.

When they crawl back from Eternity to here,

bashful on the brick-flecked, pungent shore,

it’s to see a rare short-snouted sea-horse,

gallant in ancestral armour, has threesomed their tryst.

While they ploughed the river-bank with warlike cries,

hippocampus hippocampus also pitched his spiny woo.

Blood enemy to the tribes of eel and Mysis shrimp,

the horse has lanced his fretted hook to the hairs on the

professor’s sweet, salty, faithless wrist.



Michelle Lovric’s website



*Noblemen used to keep up to seventy horses at the Cavallizeria near SS Giovanni e Paolo.

January Competition winners

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January competition

The winners of  Robyn Cadwallader's The Anchoress are:
Andrea Peace
KM Lockwood
Karen Owen
Spade and Dagger
AS Olivier

You can get your prizes by sending your land address to Kate McQuaid: kate.mcquaid@faber.co.uk

Congratulations!

Dinner with Veronese, by Laurie Graham

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Paolo Veronese, avtoportret.jpgVenice and all things Venetian are the province of History Girl Michelle Lovric but today I’m venturing onto her territory. The topic came to me by a rather strange route involving my sluggish brain and the jungle of Russian grammar rules relating to dates. My tutor set me some homework: choose an artist and write an essay on him incorporating all the significant dates in his life. Not as self-evidently useful as learning, say, how to order vodka and blini, but nevertheless a good exercise and, Russian grammar aside, it gave me a delightful insight into the personality of Paolo Veronese. 



In the 1570s Veronese was commissioned to paint The Last Supper. It was to hang in the refectory of the Dominican basilica of San Giovanni e Paolo in Venice. Veronese, being the kind of man he was, populated the painting with many enchanting oddities: a jester, a parrot, two dogs, a cat, a man with a bleeding nose. Instead of the simple upper room of the Bible story he chose a magnificent colonnaded interior as his setting.


What his Dominican patrons thought of it isn’t explicitly recorded, but this was the 16th century and the Counter-Reformation was a factor in the life of any artist. Veronese was summoned by the Office of the Inquisition to answer for his painting’s irreverence and lack of decorum. The word ‘heresy’ was whispered. 
Veronese’s responses to the Inquisition’s questions provide us with one of those moments when a figure steps out of the frame of history and celebrity and becomes a real person. I offer you a few examples.








Q. Do you know why you have been called here?

A. No.

Q. Can you imagine what those reasons may be?

A. I can well imagine.

Q. Say what you imagine.

A. I fancy that it concerns what was said to me by the reverend fathers, or rather by the prior of the monastery of San Giovanni e Paolo, whose name I did not know, but who informed me that he had been here, and that your Most Illustrious Lordships had ordered him to cause to be placed in the picture a Magdalen instead of the dog; and I answered him that very readily I would do all that was needful for my reputation and for the honor of the picture; but that I did not understand what this figure of the Magdalen could be doing here.

We live in times when freedom of creative expression is at great risk, as did Veronese, but he comes across as laconically stubborn. Perhaps, as a recognised maestro he felt he was safe from any harsh treatment. As the Inquisition gets down to particular objections one can sense his impatience.

Q. What signify those armed men dressed in the fashion of Germany, with halberds in their hands?

 A. It is necessary here that I should say a score of words.

 Q. Say them.

A. We painters use the same license as poets and madmen, and I represented those halberdiers, the one drinking, the other eating at the foot of the stairs, but both ready to do their duty, because it seemed to me suitable and possible that the master of the house, who as I have been told was rich and magnificent, would have such servants.

 Q. And the one who is dressed as a jester with a parrot on his wrist, why did you put him into the picture?

 A. He is there as an ornament, as it is usual to insert such figures.

Q. Did some person order you to paint Germans, buffoons, and other similar figures in this picture?

 A. No, but I was commissioned to adorn it as I thought proper; it is very large and can contain many figures.

There’s much more and it makes very entertaining reading. You can find the translated transcript here. I commend it to you.

We know how it ended. Veronese received a reprimand and was ordered to ‘correct’ the painting within three months, and at his own expense. He went home, mulled it over and thought, ‘Damn this for a game of soldiers. I’ll just change the name of the painting.’ And so survived The Feast in the House of Levi, with all its charming detail.

It’s the kind of painting that makes you wish you could have met the artist. Dinner with Veronese? Yes please.

 

YA - A Double Edged Sword? by Tanya Landman

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Long ago, way back in the golden olden days when the world was full of lovely independent bookshops and I worked in one of them there was no Young Adult section.  So how did people manage? 


Well, they browsed.  And if a customer was buying a book for someone else and they weren’t certain if the content was suitable they could ask the bookseller for advice because in those days knowing the stock was considered to be part of the job.


There are still excellent independents out there but as we all know the numbers are dwindling and times are tough.  Bit by bit all that in-depth knowledge and expertise is being replaced by computers, labels and branding.


When I started writing it was for KS 1 and 2 and  I was put in the children’s section.  So far, so straightforward.  But then Apache came out: my ‘breakthrough’ novel.  It was a big moment.


I was delighted to be part of the YA brand:  it comprised the most brilliant, creative,  exciting writing that was being produced.  I was rubbing shoulders with my literary heroes – what was not to love?


On my first visit to a secondary school I was asked why I’d called the book Apache.  The student pronounced it “Apaitch.”   I was a little perplexed.  When I asked the audience if anyone knew what an Apache was hands went up all around the room.  I breathed a sigh of relief.  Then they all said an Apache was a  “helicopter”.


It came as a shock to realise that teens hadn’t been raised on the relentless diet of wall-to-wall westerns that I had.  No problem – it didn’t affect their enjoyment or enthusiasm for the book – but I realised that Apache had an extra resonance for adults.  The teachers and librarians who read the book really ‘got’ it.  But they were adults who were ‘in the know’.  How could I get it into the hands of general readers? 


With Buffalo Soldier I’ve got the same problem.  It’s accessible to teens, but I’d love adults to read it too.   And why wouldn’t they?  Well, because it’s a YA book.

 

Over the years I’ve given various books  (by various writers) to friends who have looked both puzzled and offended when they realised I was handing them a “kids’ book”. They considered reading YA would be dumbing down; an insult to their intelligence.   There are thousands of potential readers who are missing out because they have a mental block about the YA label.


A couple of months ago I had one of those in-between times, when I was waiting for a manuscript to come back from the editor. Instead of writing the synopsis I was supposed to be working on I went on Facebook (as you do) and asked a few questions.  And the warm, witty writing community came back with some wonderful answers. My apologies for reducing what were interesting and sometimes hilarious exchanges into this rather more banal summary:


1) When is a YA novel not a YA novel? There are the very obvious 'teen reads', but what about books marketed to teens that deserve a wider adult readership too? I'm thinking Mal Peet in the first instance. More examples, anyone?

Lots of names were put forward including Aidan Chambers, Celia Rees, Patrick Ness, Meg Rosoff. What was interesting was the amount of comments that came in alongside the suggestions: someone reported an adult who was embarrassed to be ‘caught’ reading The Book Thief because it was marketed for teens, for example.

We all agreed the YA brand is simply a marketing device and something that makes life easier for bookshops, but inventing a label to attract certain readers will inevitably put others off.


2) Which of the classics would get classified as a YA read if they were published today?


Sometimes books get labeled YA simply because they have a teen or child protagonist.  Again, lotsof titles suggested – Great Expectations, Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, To Kill a Mockingbird, Bonjour Tristesse, The Dud Avocado and all of Walter Scott’s 27 novels.


3) Are there any books out there that ONLY teens will enjoy?


Plenty of suggestions here too including Catcher in the Rye (“insufferably irritating”), Wuthering Heights (“barking mad”) and Twilight(“I died a little at each page I read”).  However, many of us know (and some of us weep over the fact) that there are grown, sensible adults out there who love the Twilight saga, so it seems the answer to my question is no.


What conclusions can be drawn from all this?   That a book is a book is a book.  Writing something that’s accessible to teens shouldn’t exclude an adult readership.  Yet “most adults won’t touch teen no matter how good it is” as one contributor to the discussion remarked. 


Love it or loathe it the YA brand is here to stay, so how do we get past the prejudice some adult readers have?  No idea, sorry.  I don’t have answers to this – just plenty of questions.






CAN WE TALK ABOUT WOLF HALL, AUTHENTICITY AND KNICKERS? – Elizabeth Fremantle

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The airing of Wolf Hall’s small screen cousin has provoked a good deal of discussion: is it too slow; is it too confusing; is it too dark; wasn’t Henry fatter; wasn’t Cromwell more of a monster; is it accurate?

Mark Rylance with director, Peter Kosminsky (Radio Times)

The question of historical truth comes around again and again. The Imitation Game ruffled feathers for, amongst other things depicting Turing as possibly involved in (or knew about and turned a blind eye to) treachery when there is not a shred of evidence to suggest that this might have been the case. People have complained that there wasn’t enough science in The Theory of Everything, without stopping to think that the film is an adaptation of Jane Hawking’s book – it is her version of events not his. Mike Leigh’s Mr Turner provoked tumultuous critical delight over Timothy Spall’s snorting, grunting performance, which I personally found grotesquely over-played. ‘But he was supposed to be just like that,’ people cried in response to my criticism. ‘Based on what exactly?’ I asked. 

Anne Boleyn plus PA (Daily Mail)
We can get so wrapped up in the idea of accuracy that it is easy to forget such a thing is impossible. With Wolf Hall it’s all been about the authenticity, with costume designers talking about how they only used fabrics of the period and correct fastenings – mostly pins, in case you were wondering and not zips, which was the accusation levelled (hotly denied, I might add) at the recent White Queen adaptation. But, I ask myself are they all going commando because as all self-respecting Tudorphiles will know, knickers hadn’t been invented in the sixteenth century.

The ‘authentic’ lighting (mainly candlelight for interiors and nothing outside) has meant a good deal of viewers grumbling about not being able to see anything. ‘Ah but that is how it would have been,’ come the replies. That may be so but to our twenty-first century eyes, used to the brightness of the present, our response to it is jarring and confusing. A Tudor would not have responded in such a way; it would have been the norm, their eyes would have been accustomed to a dimmer world, more in tune with the seasons and fluctuating hours of daylight. What I’m trying to get at is that absolute authenticity remains out of reach, like Plato’s perfect forms, and to try so hard at it can be a futile project.

Rylance as Cromwell
Holbein's Cromwell
I like the gloom of Wolf Hall, not because of its historical veracity, but mainly because it works with the shadiness of its protagonist. Though unfortunately in some of the exterior scenes, shot in the gloaming it looks, on my brand new super-duper-HD TV, rather than atmospherically shadowy, depressingly redolent of low-tech BBC costume drama from the 1970s. But I sympathise with the intention even if the outcome is not necessarily wholly successful because I find myself noticing other things, like the puzzling absence of mud in the exterior scenes and the manicured gravel driveways and the dog that looked suspiciously like a cockapoo and Anne pronouncing his name (Purcoy) phonetically rather than the French way (Pur-cwa) as she would have. Now I'm just being a pedant and the point I'm trying to make is that none of it really matters; what matters is the effect it has.

Lewis's Henry VIII
Then of course there’s the question of Cromwell and his character. Views on this are polarised. A historian friend of mine believes Mantel’s Cromwell is too modern in sensibility. It seems to be Mantel’s project to explore the possibility that Cromwell was a remarkable self-made man, and yes, darkly complex and Machiavellian but not just, to borrow Dairmud MacCulloch’s term, ‘a thug in a doublet’; whereas revisionist historians seek to expose the Reformation, the promotion of which was Cromwell’s life’s work, as an act of monstrous destruction akin to the acts of fundamentalists in North Africa today. We will never find a definitive truth but what is good is that texts such as this open up discussion.
Rhys Meyer's Henry VIII

What a TV show like Wolf Hall is attempting to do is to set itself above the usual costume drama. It’s narrative is convoluted, it refuses to spoon feed us, makes us work hard, makes us think. It says ‘I am authentic,’ suggesting that Jonathan Ryhs Meyers in his hopelessly anachronistic, yet very fetching, faux-Tudor gear, is not – I couldn’t possibly comment. But when we watch TV we know that only a few feet away is a fellow with a big camera and that we’ve seen these actors in other roles, that they’re all pretending. We want to suspend our disbelief, we’re in on the sleight of hand, and do we care if they are wearing knickers? I suspect not.

Elizabeth Fremantle's Tudor novels Queen's Gambit about Katherine Parr and Sisters of Treasonabout the sisters of Lady Jane Grey are published by Penguin.

Find out more about Elizabeth and her books on elizabethfremantle.com

Love, naturally. Catherine Johnson

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Did you get a card? Is there a true love waiting to whisk you off for some romantic outing?  What the hell,  surely it's always better - if in those heady love drunk early days - simply to stay indoors?

If you're not actually in love is there anything worse than Valentine's day? I know all through my teens it was a kind of torture, the lack of cards, the complete lack of interest in me by, it seemed, the entire world.

I'm in an anthology out for today and edited by Malorie Blackman, Love Hurts.

There aren't many historical stories or extracts in it. There's a very sweet 1960s set love story by James Dawson;The Unicorn which cleverly and engagingly looks at pre Sexual Offences Act gay relationships.

And there's mine, The Liar's Girl, set in 1829 and knitted (see, you know I love knitting) together from ballads, reading Great Expectations and thinking about prison hulks, and a short snippet (whose source eludes me now) about a West Indian transported to London to be put on trial for Obeah (black magic).

I am so sorry. I began this post fully intending to share my research. It is a good thing I simply write fiction as I never even sat a history GCSE (They were O levels when I was the relevant age) because I was so rubbish at school.

And luckily, as I have never been to the past I will continue making things up, finding the cracks between things I have actually read and making something vaguely believable out of them.

Happy Valentines Day,

Catherine x


Romantic Heroes (and how we perceive them)

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by Marie-Louise Jensen

I'm writing this post on St Valentine's Day having just run the gauntlet of the pink-and-heart-strewn aisle of my local supermarket. And as Catherine Johnson so rightly says, on the blog today what single person wants to be reminded of Valentine's Day?

But what with the day of romance and all that plus a great conversation I had on twitter yesterday, the thought of romantic heroes and how they've changed has been going over in my mind.

I'm a Georgette Heyer addict. I admit that without shame or excuses. Whenever the going gets tough, the tough hide under the bedclothes and read Georgette Heyer. I discovered her historical fiction novels (almost exclusively Georgian or Regency) at 14 and have returned to them in times of illness and trouble ever since. They've also influenced my own writing.

But rereading a few of them more recently with a more heightened awareness of gender and power balances within relationships, a few of the male protagonists, the way they are portrayed and the female responses to them, make me uncomfortable.

Heyer's female characters are, like most women of their time in fiction, entirely concerned with finding a husband; a genuine constraint in a society that doesn't allow women autonomy. The desirable husbands were a range of dashing blades, dissolute bucks, witty dandies, brave soldiers and the like. Quite a swoony collection of men, in fact.

The ones that make me uncomfortable are the 'masterful' men - and the women who like to submit to this mastery, because it's what they've secretly been desiring all along. What makes me so uneasy is just how close 'masterful' is to 'controlling and abusive' and how close this submissiveness is to 'she likes it really'.

There's a difference, I feel, between a strong male character and one who is imperious and dominating. It's a fine line, and just which side of it we tread and find acceptable has changed enough in the last few decades to make a few of these older books (Heyer was writing mainly from the 1930s to the 1960s) jar with the modern reader. Strangely there is more that jars with me in Heyer's historical fiction than there is in Austen, the Brontes, Gaskell, Burney or even Radcliffe - many of whose heroes are positive paragons of virtue.

I've become gradually more aware, over the years I've been writing, of the need to portray mutual respect between the genders and around issues of consent. This is especially the case writing for a young adult readership. Romance writing is a responsible business. The romances you read as a young person are likely to shape your attitudes to and understanding of romantic relationships.

The rise of teen 'dark romance' with its borderline-abusive relationships, including stalking, voyeurism, danger of imminent death and other unsavoury ingredients, portrayed as romantic, trouble me very deeply. I know I'm not alone in this.

I've reacted by making my own male protagonist in my most recent historical novel, Runaway, more respectful. I probably need to go much further down this path, in fact and make my girls more assertive, although this is harder to achieve convincingly in historical fiction, where social norms were different. But consent and mutual respect are vital to portray. In fact, I think I'll end this with the wonderful words of one of the university guides my eldest son came across a year or so ago: "Consent is setting the bar too low, guys. Hold out for enthusiasm."

The Alfred Jewel comes home: Sue Purkiss

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The Alfred Jewel
There is great excitement in Somerset at the moment (no, it's true; in the hills and on the levels, they speak of little else!) because for just one month, a great treasure has come home. It's the Alfred Jewel, and it must be one of the most exquisite works of art ever to have been found in a field after having been lost for centuries.

It's surprisingly small - a mere 6.4 cm long. It consists of an enamelled picture of a man who holds a flowering plant in each hand. This image is set under a piece of rock crystal, which is encased in the most exquisitely chased gold setting. It's shaped like a tear drop, and the apex of this is 'carved' into an animal's head - maybe a boar or a dragon? - in whose jaws is an empty socket. The gold back plate is engraved  with a stylised plant design, while the reverse of the animal head is patterned with overlapping scales.

And very significantly, there is an inscription, worked into the framework in open letterwork. It says: AELFRED MEC HEHT GEWYRCAN - 'Alfred ordered me to be made.'

The Alfred in question was almost certainly Alfred the Great - so this jewel is a direct link with him. We know this because it was found on the Somerset Levels in 1693, in a field near North Petherton, only a few miles from Athelney, where Alfred fled in 878 from the Viking leader Guthrum - and from which he emerged to fight a decisive battle at Edington. After this, for the rest of his reign Alfred had the upper hand, and so was able to get on with rebuilding Wessex and making life better for his people. He later founded a monastery at Athelney.

No-one knows for certain what the purpose of the jewel was. But that socket looks as if it was made as an attachment to something. Perhaps it was fixed onto a crown - but the smart money is on the theory that this was an aestel - a pointer: used to follow the writing in a book. It is known that Alfred gave copies of Pope Gregory's 9th century best-seller Pastoral Care to bishoprics throughout his kingdom, and that with each book he sent a precious aestel. Perhaps this was the one he gave to Athelney.

Who was the man in the picture? It has been suggested it's Alfred himself. This doesn't seem likely to me. So far as I know, there wasn't a tradition of portraiture at the time - and if you were going to make a portrait, there would be easier media to use than enamel. Perhaps it's a saint - we don't know. More questions: how and when was it lost? How did it survive, under the surface of a field, without harm, for hundreds of years? If it had been found today, the site would have been minutely investigated for clues - but of course none of that happened in the 17th century.

What did happen was that the jewel was given to the University of Oxford in 1718 by the antiquarian Thomas Palmer, the son of Nathaniel, who had been the owner of the land where the jewel was found. Not long after that, it was given to the Ashmolean Museum, and there it's been ever since.

The Ashmolean, which opened in 1683, was the first university museum in the world, and it was built to house the 'Cabinet of Curiosities' of Elias Ashmole. Philippa Gregory has a very interesting account of its founding in her novel Virgin Earth (which, by the way, along with its predecessor, Earthly Joys, is a really excellent read), which concerns the fortunes pf plant collectors and explorers John Tradescant and his son. She suggests that the core of the collection was that of the Tradescants, which had been tricked out of them by Ashmole. Whatever the truth of that - and the Tradescants' collection was certainly the foundation of Ashmole's - the Ashmolean was and is a treasure trove. I went there to see the Alfred Jewel some years ago, when I was researching my novel about Alfred, Warrior King. It took me ages to find it, and eventually I spotted it tucked a way in a dim corner of a crowded display case.

But since then the Ashmolean has been re-fashioned into a glorious space, and the Alfred Jewel, far from being hidden away, is a striking focal point with a display case that sets it off beautifully.

Only not this month, because we've got it - it's only on loan, but for these few weeks, it's home.

I went to see it the other day, and I marvelled over how tiny it is. How on earth could the maker even see to create such exquisite detail? And just to think, that Alfred (I have to admit, I think of him as 'my Alfred') actually held this in his hand! (Because I'm sure he did. He ordered it to be made, so he would certainly have inspected it when it was done.)

Seeing the Jewel was the purpose of my visit, but I can't finish without a word about the Museum of Somerset in Taunton. Like the Ashmolean, it has been recently remodelled, and it's gorgeous. In fact, it's so gorgeous that it deserves more than a skimpy paragraph. So on second thoughts, I'll give it a post of its own next month. When the Alfred Jewel will have left us again, and we will be bereft...


“Sophia,: Princess, Suffragette, Revolutionary” by Anita Anand.

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Anita Anand’s “Sophia” tells the story of the youngest Princess of the royal ruling family of the Punjab. Yet this biography opens, not in India, but at a suffragette meeting in Caxton Hall, Westminster, on Friday 18th November 1910. 

On the platform in the crowded hall sit the leading suffragettes: Emmeline Pankhurst, Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, Christabel Pankhurst and more. At the back of the stage was a small, dark-skinned figure dressed in Parisian couture. That small, fierce face belonged to Princess Sophia Duleep Singh, activist and suffragette.

Who was Sophia, and what was a young Indian woman doing there anyway? 

The meeting ended with a march to the gates of Westminster, the mother of Parliaments. All that the women wanted was the right to vote but many thought that an irrational demand. The marchers – Sophia among them - were brutally attacked, groped and beaten by uniformed and undercover police as well as crowds of jeering onlookers. Sophia, witnessing a vicious beating, took down the constable’s number and wrote so many letters of complaint that Winston Churchill refused to reply any more. That was his only way of stopping the Princess. Sophia, the admirable subject of this book, was never one to step back when someone needed her help.

“Sophia” is a book that covers a span of history as much as it covers a single life. Born in 1876, Sophia had Queen Victoria as a godparent. By the time of Sophia's death, in 1948, King George was on the throne, and the Empire was ending. The subject - no, the heroine of this book lived through so many events that I appreciated the way Anand gave the full story, whether it was what happened to the Koh-I-Noor diamond, or the cold-hearted massacre at Amritsar, or Asquith’s derailment of the women’s suffrage bills, or the story behind Gandhi’s hunger strikes and more. Many of the stories I half-remembered, but the emotional impact was greater for having them fully retold.

Although Sophia lived in the heart of British society, she was in many ways an outsider. Sophia and her siblings were proudly aware of their royal lineage. Their grandfather, Maharajah Ranjit Singh, had been known as “The Lion of the Punjab”. After his death, the British forced his eleven-year old son, Duleep to give his kingdom to the Crown. The young Sikh was re-educated as Christian gentleman and, being a favourite of Queen Victoria, brought to live in London. All too soon the  handsome Indian prince became a society playboy, shooting, hunting and gambling in the company of the Prince of Wales, and decorating his Suffolk home, Elvedon Hall, in extravagant Moghul style. Meanwhile Duleep's neglected Maharani struggled with a succession of squabbling children. All had strong personalities: Victor, imperious; Frederick, obstinate; bad-tempered Bamba and secretive Catherine. Sophia was born after a five year gap, and was such an easy baby that she drew the siblings together, already the family mediator.

Trouble lay ahead. Their father Duleep had ignored warnings about his extravagant spending, even from the Queen herself. His attitude was understandable: had he not handed Britain his valuable kingdom? How could they not give him what he needed? At last, offended by the Government’s refusal to pay his debts, Duleep stripped Elevedon Hall, selling everything. To Queen Victoria’s distress, he renounced Christianity and set off for the Punjab. British officials halted the family when they reached Egypt. Furious at the endless delay, Duleep abandoned his wife and young family, and set off for Paris and his new mistress.

The picture that Anita Anand gives of Sophia’s early life and family background is fascinating, but it is clear that the constant tension must have felt intolerable. She shows the siblings lives were full of contradictions: they had servants to order about but were themselves regularly spied upon and reported to the Government; they could indulge in extravagant fashions but their money was granted by the India Office; their presence in Britain was dependent on the Queen’s goodwill, as well as on matters of national security, and although as rich aristocrats they were welcomed at society occasions, their Indian heritage made them outsiders.

Growing up, Victor embraced his father’s dissolute lifestyle and was eventually sent to America, while Frederick turned into an extremely conservative Anglophile. For a period, the society whirl claimed Duleep’s daughters. They had been offered a grace-and-favour residence at Hampton Court, and “came out” into society. Sophia embraced her new life: she was keen on horse-riding, bicycling, dog-breeding, photography and  Turkish cigarettes, as well as indulging in extravagant fashions and in seasonal European travel. Yet they were still not permitted to travel to India.

The rush of aristocratic guests for the Delhi Durbar gave the sisters their opportunity to travel quietly. (Anand gives a wonderful description of the magnificence of this event – and the fact that much of India was starving at the same time.) The sisters arrived, but were disappointed. The expected “introductions” did not come, nor any offers of seats or tents or views for the princesses. The British in Delhi did not “recognise” the trio of Indian sisters. Only when they travel towards the Punjab did they receive a proper welcome. Afterwards, Bamba stayed on in Lahore, Catherine returned to Germany and her beloved governess, and Sophia returned alone to Hampton Court. There, apart from her dogs, there seemed to be nobody who needed her. Sophia, as she often did at such times, fell into a profound depression.

Anand’s biography shows Sophia constantly searching out new causes. Witnessing the plight of Lascars - the lowliest ship-hands – on a voyage, Sophia arranged better shelter and financial aid. As a Red Cross nurse, Sophia looked after wounded Indian troops in France. On a second visit to India, she attended revolutionary meetings with Bamba.

Then there is the cause that opens the book: Sophia's involvement with women’s suffrage has, until this biography, largely been hidden. Sophia was from aristocratic circles so she was never imprisoned, even when she flung herself across the Prime Minister’s car, waving “Votes For Women” banners. Her name is rarely recorded. Anand shows that even though Sophia may have been shy, she was determined: Sophia even stood outside her grace-and-favour residence, dressed in her best furs, loudly proclaiming the cause and offering the Suffragette paper to passers-by. She so annoyed the neighbours that they sent messages to the palace officials asking for the troublesome Princess to be removed from her home.

Anand depicts Sophia as an intriguing woman, kind and fiercely loyal to her family, proud of her position and heritage yet uncertain of her place in society. Sophia is a determined letter-writer and petitioner; often awkward with strangers yet devoted to her dogs and anyone who needs help.

I found the last part of Sophia’s life sad. As she grew older, and further away from the interest of the “new” royals, she retired to Coldhatch House in Penn, Buckinghamshire where her imperious attitude made her new servants dislike her. On the other hand, there are glimpses of happiness. Anita Anand describes Sophia’s relationship with young evacuees and her affection for her housekeeper’s daughter Drovna. These offer some clue to the life Sophia might have led if it had been possible for her to marry and have children of her own.

My hope is that this review should not make “Sophia” sound daunting. I found this biography as readable as novel and full of many wonderfully described incidents and events. In fact, I often paused, picturing one or another of the scenes again in my own imagination. The book told a very rich story indeed! “Sophia: Princess, Suffragette, Revolutionary” by Anita Anand is a most remarkable biography.

Review by


Penny Dolan
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