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

Before and After the Armada - by Ann Swinfen

$
0
0

Battle of the Armada
The defeat of the enormous and well-trained Spanish Armada fleet by the smaller English fleet in the English Channel during the summer of 1588 is probably one of the most famous naval battles in history, along with Salamis, Lepanto and Trafalgar, not least because the outcome hung in the balance until a strong southwest wind drove the Spanish ships into the North Sea.

As the English said afterwards, in thankfulness mixed with perhaps a touch of complacency, ‘God blew his winds and they were scattered’.

However, events before and after the great battle, which culminated off Gravelines, are rather less well known. Elsewhere in this blog I have written about the retaliatory expedition by England against Spain in 1589, known as the Counter Armada (http://bit.ly/1DNSaAB) but other events surrounding this iconic date are interesting.
 
Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester
Elizabeth’s beloved Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, had strong connections with the Dutch House of Orange and with the Low Countries. He was active in persuading the English government to support the United Provinces in their struggle against their Spanish overlords in the Low Countries, who persecuted the Dutch Protestants, and he served for some years as governor-general there. Leicester’s intentions were excellent, but his dealings with the Dutch were not always tactful, although the two nations were united in their Protestant faith and their hatred of Spain.

Leading the Spanish army in their north European territories was the Duke of Parma, a skilled and experienced commander, the greatest general of his day, who totally outclassed Leicester. In battle after battle, the combined English and Dutch forces were defeated or just managed to hold back the Spanish. In one, the battle of Zutphen in 1586, Leicester’s nephew, the gifted and much-loved Sir Philip Sidney, was fatally wounded, dying on 17 October, not quite 32 years old.
 
Sir Philip Sidney
Leicester remained in the Low Countries, although relations with the Dutch leaders were becoming strained. His original principal ally, William of Orange, charismatic leader of the United Dutch, had been assassinated by a Spaniard in 1584, and Leicester himself may have begun to suffer from ill health. (He was to die in 1588, shortly after the defeat of the Armada.) His position was further undermined in late 1586 by Elizabeth’s antagonism to his planned extension of the military campaigns, and her refusal to provide adequate finance for his dwindling army, which was short of rations, materiel, and pay.

Matters came to a head at the siege of Sluys. This vital deep-water port on the Channel was in the hands of the United Provinces, but was eyed greedily by the Duke of Parma, who laid siege to it on 12 June, 1587. King Philip of Spainhad long been planning a combined naval and land-force invasion of England. The port of Sluys would provide an essential piece in the invasion plan.
 
Siege of Sluys 1587
The garrison at Sluys was provided by an English regiment, commanded by Sir Roger Williams, together with Dutch allies. Williams was a Welshman, an experienced soldier (later to write a book on military theory) and a determined Protestant. Leicester himself valued him highly. Williams and his soldiers made a courageous stand against Parma, but the odds were against them. Having cut off Sluys from all supply routes by land or sea, the Spanish began their bombardment on 24 June. The garrison was short of food, but, even more dangerously, short of gunpowder and shot. They fought valiantly until all their supplies were exhausted, leaving them helpless. On 4 August, they were forced to surrender.
 
Alessandro Farnese, Duke of Parma
Parma permitted the defenders an honourable withdrawal, but the soldiers had suffered terribly. Of the survivors, it is estimated that some seven hundred were seriously wounded. Conveyed back to England, the injured soldiers packed out London’s hospitals (an episode included in my novel The Enterprise of England.) The defeat at Sluys, the number of wounded, and the loss of this crucial port to the Spanish was the cause of serious demoralisation in England.
 
Armada signal station in Devon
Thanks partly to poor communications between the Spanish invading navy and the Spanish army stationed in the Low Countries, Philip of Spain’s intended two-pronged attack on England failed, and Sluys did not, after all, play a major part in the conflict the following year. His intention, planned on paper in faraway Spain, was for his navy to cripple the English fleet, then convey his army across the Channel in barges to carry out a land invasion, marching north from the south coast to seize London. (A remarkably similar operation, in the opposite direction, to the D-Day landings nearly four hundred years later.)
 
Seventh day of the Armada battle
The Spanish Armada was defeated, its ships scattered, the Spanish army still confined to the Low Countries. Englandcould celebrate. And did. Church bells were rung. Services of thanksgiving were held. Bonfires were lit on street corners throughout London and other towns. And no doubt a good many citizens passed the night away at drunken parties.

But that was not quite the end of the story.

The English fleet returned, bearing the heroes, the soldiers and sailors, who had saved England from invasion. But while the civilians celebrated, the men on the ships waited. And waited. Where was the pay they had been promised? Where, indeed, was the food to feed them? Supplies ran out. No one seemed to have planned for this. No one was prepared to take responsibility for them. It was not the first time, nor would it be the last, when a returning victorious army was to prove a neglected embarrassment.

The men remained on the ships, many of them tied up at Deptford, and they began to fall ill. And then to die. Men who seemed healthy enough one day would not rise the following morning, having died inexplicably in the night. Others would collapse suddenly and without warning. Some terrible disease was rife amongst the men, and in panic the authorities refused to allow them to land. It is now believed to have been both typhus and ‘the bloody flux’ (dysentery). This may have saved civilian lives, but it meant that the very men who had fought and saved the country were left to starve and die of disease. In their droves. This was the discreditable end to the Armada story.


Sadly, it was not unique.

Ann Swinfen
http://www.annswinfen.com

Paris by Imogen Robertson

$
0
0

It’s a week since we woke to the news of the attacks in Paris, and the search for the ringleaders continues as I write this. In January after attacks on Charlie Hebdo I went and joined the crowd at Trafalgar Square, this time I didn’t know what to do. My reactions are best summed up by this First Dog cartoon in the Guardian. Do go have a look if you haven’t seen it already.

I love Paris. I spent a weekend there behaving badly as a teenager, ended my Interrail trip before university by meeting friends outside Notre Dame, climbed up to Sacre Coeur with various pivotal boyfriends and once ended up going on a luxury romantic break there on my own. The man who was supposed to go with me dumped me just after I’d bought the tickets. That last one sounds rather tragic, but actually I ended up having a rather important weekend proof-reading my first novel in cafés, considering my future and hanging out with poet friends. I ended up marrying the man who was supposed to go with me and we had our own Paris adventure while I was researching The Paris Winter.

There’s a danger then that my view of the city might be idealised and overly romantic, a little saccharine like the slightly over painted views of the Eiffel Tower for sale in Montmartre, but researching has made Paris richer and stranger to me, and the more I delved into the city’s bloody and complex history the more I grew fascinated with it. London is my home, Porto is where I go to be happy, Paris is the place I go to think.

Like many cities it is a place of great cultural adventure, luxury and opportunity, but also a place of sharp divides and contrasts, competing cultures and values.  A place of clashes and revolutions, of change. These are some of the books I read to discover and revel in that. If you haven’t read them, I do reccomend them and please let me know any favourites I’ve missed.

Witty, questioning and irreverent essays from an American in Paris. The book is illustrated by photographer Allison Harris
A meticulous and dense history of the city, but utterly absorbing.
A brilliant history of this pivotal moment in the city’s history.
A fascinating slice of snobbery and misogyny dressed up as a celebration of the feminine, but fascinating for those who want to know something about the social and economic world of women during the Belle Époque and some of the conservative attitudes that run through the city still.
A collection of colourful histories which explores the darkness and strangeness of the city as it celebrates it. 

The Lore of Lapidary by Kate Lord Brown

$
0
0

Researching the history of jewellery making for 'The Christmas We Met' gave me a wonderful excuse to explore the world of gems. One of my favourite discoveries was lyngurium (pictured above), which is referred to by Theophrastus in his 'Medieval and Early Modern Lore from the Classical Lapidary Tradition'. A fabled stone created from solidified lynx urine, it was, apparently, prized by alchemists. I rather love the idea mooted by Theophrastus and Pliny that the lynxes hid the mythical stones because they had a grudge against mankind. Although detailed descriptions of lyngurium appear in all early lapidaries, by the seventeenth century it disappeared from view. It seems it never existed.


Other stones more familiar with us today have had magical powers attributed to them down the ages. I wrote about Sir Richard Burton's legendary asteria sapphire, which was apparently so potent it brought good luck to anyone who even so much as looked at it. 


We still attribute qualities to the gemstones associated with natal months - January is garnet, signifying constancy, fidelity, patience, for example. The wearing of birthstones first became fashionable in eighteenth century Poland. The idea of twelve gems exerting a collective power is not unique to birthstones, but can be traced back to the breastplate of the High Priest.


In many texts about gemstones such as Kunz's 'Curious Lore of Stones', reference is made to their powers. He recalls the tale that Satan saw Eve was captivated by the bright flowers of Eden, and he imitated them with precious stones - which is why they are so often the source of crime and greed. There are some wonderful, mythical jewels like the Stones of Memory and Forgetfulness in the 'Gesta Romanorum' which allow the reader to forget a painful episode.

Chaumet

The novel was inspired by a convertible tiara I saw on the Antiques Roadshow - it was one of those lightbulb moments, wondering what might happen if the two brooches which formed the tiara became separated during World War 1, shortly after the tiara was made. Often not only did the stones encode a hidden message - Amethyst for Devotion, Diamond for Forever, but the jewellery expressed emotion through the Language of Flowers - Laurel for the Triumph of Love, or Ivy for Marriage. The tiara I wore for my marriage was rather more modest, (courtesy of Angels and Bermans on Shaftesbury Avenue), but there is something magical about these pieces of jewellery. It was extraordinary to read that Monsieur Boucheron, who created some of the most inventive, dazzling tiaras (one a recreation of Hokusai's wave), destroyed any tiaras which did not sell after a period of time. I was lucky enough to talk to Geoffrey Munn during my research, and as he said the most poignant thing of all is that while the women who these pieces were commissioned for are long dead, the jewels live on, still carrying their coded messages of enduring love.

The Christmas We Met has just been published.


Sex and morality in the novels of Georgette Heyer, by Leslie Wilson

$
0
0



Two strings to her bow, by John Pettie

To those who dread spoilers: there are some in here, because one can hardly discuss books without giving away some of the plot. However, with Georgette Heyer it's clear that the heroine will get her man at the end of each and every one. The fascination is in how this is achieved. So I'm not apologising!

To start with: I love Georgette Heyer's work. She's given me hours of pleasure, and I return to her over and over again. I love her wit, her elegant style, and respect the depth of her research.

On the other hand, I'm interested in history and the ways in which history is represented, and also interested in the Georgian era, and this makes me, in my leisure hours, inclined to cast an analytical eye on the way in which she has processed the knowledge she has; and today I want to talk about the sexual world of her novels.

Much though I like and admire Heyer's work, I would never class her with Jane Austen; she could never lay claim to having made significant breakthroughs in narrative technique, as Austen did. On the other hand, she does seem to inhabit the same moral world as Austen does; the end of her novels is a happy marriage, and her heroines are always virtuous.

Vittorio Reggiani: The Unconditional Lover
Indeed, they're almost all virgins, the only exceptions being the few whose marital trials are the subject of the novel, the heroines of 'April Lady', 'The Convenient Marriage', and 'A Civil Contract'. You could say of Horry ('The Convenient Marriage) and Nell (April Lady) that they are characterised by a kind of emotional virginity; but this is not the case with Jenny in 'A Civil Contract', and it's significant that only in this novel does Heyer, just briefly, speak of what goes on in the bedroom. 'Jenny was sometimes shy, but never shrinking.' Jenny is rather different, and far less of a commedia-del-arte character, than most of Heyer's heroines. She is down to earth and determined, and I've always felt that, if her husband is more experienced in bed, she is the one who makes the whole thing possible.

Oh - I've forgotten Juana in 'The Spanish Bride', probably because though I have read the book I didn't like it much. Heyer thought her novels were best when she gave way to her passion for military history. I don't. Here Heyer does say: 'She never denied him the comfort of her body.' Poor Juana, being woken up from deep sleep after the end of an exhausting day, and having to make love whether she felt like it or not!  If I've forgotten anyone else, do tell me.

Then there's Hero in 'Friday's Child.' I think she is definitely a virgin all the way through, and then there's Elinor in 'The Reluctant Widow', a novel I adore because of the humour. Her marriage is unconsummated, and just as well for her.
Regency Proposal; eighteenth-century woodcut

Leonie, who is brought up dressed as a boy (presumably to avoid rape) in 'These Old Shades', says 'Me, I am not very innocent,' but of course this refers to the things she has seen, not what she has experienced. Likewise, Prudence in 'The Masqueraders' has often dressed as a boy but has also retained her virtue - somewhat nauseatingly, (to me, at least) this is equated with never having been kissed. These heroines know, of course, about 'the muslin company,' meaning everything from prostitutes to courtesans, and they're almost all relaxed about these ladies' existence (Hero, of course, earns herself a box on the ear by referring to Opera dancers in public) - but they inhabit a different world.

But the men, on the other hand - and this is a major difference between Heyer and Austen. Of course we don't know if Austen's heroes are virgins when they take her heroines to bed. I can't believe it of Colonel Brandon, because of his advanced years, and I do wonder particularly about Frederick Wentworth, but this may be unfair, since it's only because he's a sailor. Austen was fairly relaxed about the existence of courtesans and adulterers in private life, though they and their male partners get slammed in her books. Frank Churchill probably has had mistresses in keeping. I'm sure Austen thought so. But she generally indicates that her heroes are men of good reputation. I do sometimes wonder though, what exactly that signifies. At least they don't have expensive mistresses and flaunt them.

Heyer's men frequently have mistresses in keeping at the start of the novel, and they're often flaunted big-time; sometimes they have just dismissed them, like Beaumaris in 'Arabella.' Or they have pasts, in which tarts with a heart of gold sometimes figure, faded 'cosy armfuls' who do them a favour and acknowledge that they've now turned virtuous. Then there's the Duke of Avon in 'These Old Shades. 'Behind me lies scandal upon sordid scandal,' he says, and in the early pages of the novel, he takes Leonie (who he knows is a girl) to a brothel, though he does suddenly realise what he's doing and sends her to wait for him downstairs. The seeds of redemption are already germinating in his heart.

Whereas Austen is cynical (I feel justifiably so) about the chance of a rake's redemption through the love of a good woman, and her heroines escape the likes of William Elliot or Henry Crawford, Heyer's novels abound in rakes just waiting to be reformed by her heroines. At least, they're reformed characters at the time the inevitable bear-hug takes place (I always find these 'crushing embraces' rather anaphrodisiac myself. Give me Peter Wimsey's 'Tu m'enivres!' any day.) I do wonder whether Avon, Alverstoke, et al do really remain faithful to their wives. Of course Venetia, in the eponymous novel, is quite calm about that possibility: 'It would be quite unreasonable to wish you to change all your habits,' she says to Lord Damerel.

Maybe Heyer was herself quite relaxed about husbands pursuing 'adventures? To her, the most important ingredient in romance was friendship, and this comes out, again and again in the novels. To share jokes, to be co-conspirators (sometimes against the world), to be comfortable with each other  is the crucial thing - far more important than the heroes' heroic physique and handsome face (anyway, they're not all Apollos).
Marcus Stone: The End of the Story

What are beyond the pale, though, are any 'natural' children. 'Children of your own?' the country doctor asks Alverstoke. 'Not to my knowledge,' his Lordship replies. And this at an era when courtesans often took their curren protectors' surnames and bore them children. Harriette Wilson was infertile, but her sister and rival Amy had children. This was also a time when noble lords often knew that only their eldest son was their own. This policy had its shortcomings, as the heir sometimes died, like Lady Melbourne's eldest son. So the next Lord Melbourne was William Lamb, later Victoria's Prime Minister, who was generally supposed to be Lord Egremont's son. Lord Alverstoke has had 'liaisons' with society women (though Heyer fuzzes this, leaving it hanging in the air whether these were only flirtations). In reality, of course, he would have bedded Cyprians and noble ladies alike, and  might well have planted his seed in some well-born household, not to mention giving his courtesans children as well as diamond necklaces.

'Natural children' indeed, are the sticking-point in the courtship of Sir Waldo Hawkridge and Miss Ancilla Trent ('The Nonesuch'). She believes him to be taking care of a squad of them and thus would as readily think of becoming his mistress as his wife. There's an oddness about this: one could almost infer that men who did the decent thing by their natural children (as did Harriet Smith's father in 'Emma') were deemed to be more immoral than those who abandoned them.


Actually, it was quite common for men to support their out-of-wedlock children in the Georgian era. Charles James Fox did. I think I'm right that the Duke of Devonshire introduced at least one into his household, and the Duchess's daughter by Mr Grey was looked after in his family. Dido Belle, the illegitimate niece of Lord Mansfield, was brought up almost as a daughter, and she was mixed-race, too.

So why are illegitimate children so offensive in Georgette Heyer that they need to be suppressed altogether? A modern writer might bring them in, and the heroine might love them as much as Alverstoke loves Frederica's younger brothers.

If this was an essay, I'd have to answer that question myself, but this is a blog, so I lay the matter before you, dear readers. What do YOU think?

All pictures are from Wikimedia Commons and are in the public domain, including in the US. They were also all created post-Regency, which seemed appropriate.




THE 'ELEANOR VASE' by Elizabeth Chadwick

$
0
0

For October's Cabinet of Curiosities, I would like to contribute an interesting item that once belonged to Eleanor of Aquitaine.  Rather like Eleanor herself, it has been embellished by others, changing the original item into something interesting but different.
The item in question is known as the 'Eleanor Vase' - although it's probably not  a vase at all, and once more contributes to the fact that with Eleanor of Aquitaine, nothing is as it seems on first glance.



It is thought that the container began its life some time between the 6th and 10th century as a piece of carved rock crystal, very possibly a drinking cup of Muslim origin.  There are references to rock crystal drinking cups from Moorish love poetry and  perhaps it was one of these. Certainly by the early 12th century it was in the possession of the Emir Imad-al-dawla of Sarragossa. 

The original object was a pear-shaped vessel with a neck two centimetres long.  The rock crystal was carved in a 'honeycomb' pattern of about 22 rows of small, hollowed-out hexagons.  These sort of containers have existed from Antiquity and were known throughout the Middle East and the Roman Empire.  What is interesting about the 'Eleanor vase' is that examples of honeycomb carving are all rendered in glass. Currently the 'Eleanor vase' is the only specimen in existence of this technique in rock crystal.
According to the medieval writer and crafstman Theophilus who wrote an instruction manual in the twelfth century on various artistic techniques including how to polish gemstones,  rock crystal, to the medieval man was fossilised ice, just as amber was fossilised tree resin, and was a highly valued commodity.
How did this little drinking cup/vessel come into the hands of Eleanor of Aquitaine?   It was given as a gift by the above mentioned Amir of Saragossa to Eleanor's grandfather William IX Duke of Aquitaine during a battle campaign.  Duke William brought it back to his household and in due course it became part of Eleanor's inheritance.  Eleanor herself gave it to her husband the soon to be Louis VII of France on the occasion of her wedding when she was 13 years old and he was 17.  
The rock crystal 'vase' with the embellishments cropped off
Louis, in his turn, presented it to Abbot Suger one of his close confidantes and his spiritual advisers as a gift at the time of the consecration of the new church of St Denis, which was to be a mausoleum for the French royal house.  At the time Eleanor and Louis were childless and it is thought that they gave the vase both as a gift to commemorate the dedication of St Denis and also as a sweetener to an intercession plea that God grant them an heir.  If so, it appears to have been successful for 9 months later Eleanor bore a daughter, Marie.  If not the son that Louis desired, it was a start.  Some historians and novelists have seen Louis' donation of the vase as a sign that all was not well in the royal marriage - that he would give away his wedding present - but that is to misunderstand the medieval viewpoint on patronage and gift giving. To present a rare and fabulous object to the Church was to elevate one's status and store up kudos in Heaven.  Eleanor was more likely to have approved of the gift donation of the vase than to  have felt slighted. 

The ornate jewel-encrusted mountings that we see now on the vast were a later addition made by Suger to glorify his new possession which he used as a communion vessel.  The abbot was very keen on adorning material objects in order to serve God with their beauty and had a fine collection of containers, vases and ewers already.  To make this small, engraved cup worthy of joining his other pieces he had a base and neck fashioned for it from gilded silver.  On the base he had an inscription written in niello, then a layer of filigree set with gemstones and decorated with more filigree work and fleurons.  The same on the neck.  Around the base he had an inscription written - which is how we know its provenance. It reads in translation. "As a bride, Eleanor gave this vase to King Louis, Mitadolus to her grandfather, the King to me, and Suger to the saints.'

He had a base and a neck fashioned for the vase from gilded silver. On the base he put an inscription in niello, then a layer of filigree set with gemstones and decorated with more filigree work and fleurons. He had the neck of the vase similarly adorned. The inscription around the base reads: As a bride, Eleanor gave this vase to King Louis, Mitadolus to her grandfather, the King to me, and Suger to the saints.'

Having survived the centuries, the vase now resides in the Louvre, one of the precious few objects personal to Eleanor of Aquitaine even if she did not originally own it in the form we see today. And what a fabulous object it is, created initially a thousand five hundred years ago in the hands of a skilled craftsman and valued and embellished since then.



You can read an excellent article about the vase in the book Eleanor of Aquitaine Lord and Lady edited by Bonnie Wheeler and John C. Parsons.  The article is titled The Eleanor of Aquitaine Vase and it's by George T. Beech.


Photo courtesy of John Phillips. 

Elizabeth Chadwick is the author of 22 historical novels.  She is working on a trilogy about Eleanor of Aquitaine. The first novel THE SUMMER QUEEN involves the Eleanor Vase now in the Cabinet of Curiosities. The second novel in the trilogy, THE WINTER CROWN is published in paperback in the UK on November 17th.





Finding George Haydon by Miranda Miller

$
0
0


This is my first blog for the History Girls and I'm thrilled that Mary has invited me to join you.


I've been thinking about the difference between writing about imaginary people and real ones. Are the people we invent less - or more - vivid than the historical characters we carefully research? I've just finished writing a novel called King of the Vast, which is the third volume of my Bedlam Trilogy. In the first, Nina in Utopia, a young Victorian woman finds herself in 21st century London.



When Nina returns to her own time, and talks about the wonderful future she believes she has seen, her husband, Charles, understandably thinks she is mad and has her confined to the Royal Bethlem Hospital, or Bedlam (where the Imperial War Museum is now). At this point my invented characters began to meet real people: Dr (later Sir)William Charles Hood, the humane reformer who was resident physician in the hospital in the 1850s and his friend, the Steward, George Henry Haydon. I then discovered that Richard Dadd, an artist I've always admired, would have been in the hospital at the same time as my imaginary heroine, Nina. Dadd became a minor character in the first novel and the main character in the second volume of the trilogy, The Fairy Visions of Richard Dadd.




I spent many enthralling hours doing my initial research in the archives of the Bethlem Hospital in Beckenham, in Kent, where there was also a small museum displaying the paintings and drawings of former inmates. This year it was reinvented from a prefab building to the beautiful Museum of the Mind, which is well worth visiting.


In 2011 at Tate Britain I saw a fascinating exhibition called John Martin:Apocalypse which made me decide to write a third volume about the successful Regency and early Victorian painter John Martin. This is a doppelgänger novel about his complex relationship with his brother Jonathan, who set fire to York minster because God told him to.




All three novels are set in nineteenth century London and are an attempt to explore art and madness. Each of the three is self contained, but linked by various common themes, including the hospital itself, art and time travel. I really struggled to finish King of the Vast, the final volume. I always find endings very difficult to write and the end of a trilogy poses huge problems because you have to give your readers some sense of closure, to tie the three together without being too slick about it. Jonathan Martin was an inmate in the Royal Bethlem Hospital in the 1830s and his niece Izzie visits the hospital, in my last chapter, in 1878.


The only character who spanned most of this period was the Steward, George Haydon. He had remained a shadowy character until I discovered on the internet a PhD about him by his descendant, Katherine Haydon. From this I learned that he had been to Australia, that he was married with children and lived with his family in the hospital, was interested in art and did some cartoons for Punch. In my first two novels he is an important and sympathetic character. Richard Dadd gave him his masterpiece, The Fairy Feller's Masterstroke, and in my novel Dadd, who is gay, has an unrequited crush on the Steward, who remained in the hospital from 1853-89. I wondered why such a charming and gifted man would have remained so long in the same rather dead end job.

Then, on the Bethlem Hospital website, I discovered that Haydon had a sister, Anna Maria, who was an inmate in the hospital for many years. This fact energised my fiction and also prompted a meditation on the very mysterious connections between real and imagined characters. In my head, I find, they occupy the same compartment. I'd love to know what the rest of you think about this.

Wings of Hope - Paris, November 2015, by Carol Drinkwater

$
0
0
                                                                         PEACE FOR PARIS. 
                                                                  I believe the artist is Jean Julien. @jean_julien



I have written and thrown out several posts for today, turning over in my mind what more could be said on the subject of the recent abominations that took place on Friday 13th in the City of Lights. An evening of darkness that has touched the world, preceded and followed by murderous atrocities in Beirut, Kenya and Mali, not to mention the lockdown of Brussels.

France Magazine is a monthly journal I have been writing a column for for close to six years. It is the bestselling and probably most comprehensive, English-language guide to all things French. It also offers excellent and well-researched articles on almost every rocky outcrop or blade of grass growing in this diverse country. As a tribute, Carolyn Boyd, the editor, has decided to dedicate the upcoming January issue to all who lost their lives or were injured in Paris during and after the atrocities of that evening of 13 November.

From a rich pool of writers and illustrators, Carolyn invited brief contributions on the subject of To Paris With Love. I was keen to be included and began to think about Paris and how it has penetrated and coloured my work. I have lived here in France, sharing my time between the capital and the south, for thirty years, a greater span of life than I spent in either of my mother countries, Ireland and England. One of the hardest calls for me is when France and Ireland play one another at football or rugby – not that these are sports I follow ardently – but who do I shout for on such occasions?

Most inhabitants of a metropolis have special corners and hangouts within their cities: the street where they live, where they work, local cinemas or meet up with friends. The murders and bombings were carried out in the 10th and 11th arrondissements, which is to say the upper east side; north of the Seine, on the eastern flanks of the city. 


                                                   Siege of La Bastille, by Claude Cholat

La Bastille sits at the heart of 11th arrondissement. Although I have never lived in the quartier, my husband, Michel, has had editing suites and offices there on and off for almost the entire time I have known him. When I first began to discover the streets and many tucked-away alleys that fan out like a star from La Place de la Bastille it was still rather scruffy, the real estate was cheap and the magnificent Bastille Opera House had not yet been built to commemorate the bicentenary of the French Revolution. I knew the little cafés where the artists hung out, where some of the Charlie Hebdo journalists and illustrators would decamp for coffee, long discussions, and many Gauloises smoked. A few filmmakers haunted this area – such as Michel – because the rent was affordable. The neighbourhood of La Bastille was cutting edge. Before my time, during the 60s and 70s, it might have been described as the Soho of Paris. I caught its flavour, I picked up on its vibrant vibe, its populaire and revolutionary spirit.


                                                                East view of La Bastille

La Place de la Bastille takes its name from the fortress that stood upon the site of this capacious square. The fortress, later a state prison, was built to protect this eastern side of the capital against the invading British during the Hundred Years War.

14 July 1789, the date that marks the beginning of the French Revolution, was when the Bastille prison was stormed by revolutionaries. By November of that same year, the mighty fortress was more or less demolished. The work of dismantling a structure that all had believed impenetrable was headed up by Pierre-Francois Palloy. The vast empty square that remained was cluttered with displays of bits and pieces of ironwork, excavated bones and stone remnants hauled from the interior of the prison. Palloy began a thriving business in Bastille memorabilia. Items were shipped all over France. 

                                             One stone carved as a model of the Bastille prison.

Models of the Bastille carved from its stones were sent by Palloy to many départements as a means of spreading the revolutionary message. In 1790, a grand ball was held in the square to celebrate the first anniversary of 14 July. 
A foundation stone was laid on 14 July 1792. It was to have been the first phase of the erection of a column to commemorate the Fall of the Bastille, but the project never advanced. In 1804, in rode Napoleon and established France’s First Empire. Emperor Napoléon Bonaparte envisaged a fountain in the Bastille square with a bronze elephant at its centre.
     The Arc de Triomphe, built during the First Empire commissioned by Napoléon Bonaparte
                                  This he did manage to realise, but not his Bastille Fountain

The First Empire Bastille Fountain only reached preliminary stage; a stucco elephant was planted there but the bronze was never commissioned due to lack of funds. However, its plinth proved useful for what was yet to come: the July Column. La Colonne de Juillet is the structure that towers over the entire Bastille neighbourhood today. 


                                                     La Colonne de Juillet - July Column

47 metres high, the monumental column, built between 1835 and 1840, is both elegant and impressive. I walk past it almost on a daily basis when I am in Paris and never fail to pause and admire it, most especially the gold-leafed bronze statue that stands atop the capitol, perched on a golden globe balanced on one leg as though about to take flight. It is a winged figure with outstretched arms. He holds in one hand a flaming torch and in the other a broken length of chain. Auguste Dumont’s iconic figure was christened Génie de la Liberté or Spirit of Freedom.


                                                              The Spirit of Freedom

Ironically, he was commissioned as a monument to another, later revolution that took place over three days at the end of July 1830. Even so, the winged angel flying high over all eastern Paris is indubitably the spirit of every step of the French Revolution, of shackles broken, every stage that led to the French Republic. He represents empowerment, a visual reminder of what France’s citizens hold dearer than anything else: the freedom of the individual.

I have been asking myself on a daily basis whether the attacks were deliberately situated around this quartier of the city, or whether the target choices were random. The neighbouring Stade de France, of course, if the suicide bombers had succeeded in penetrating the stadium, would have been a target of unthinkable proportions and would have included our President. Were the nearby bars and restaurants chosen for no reason in particular or were these murderous assassins actually making a statement against the philosophy that runs deep within the soul of every French citizen? The Bible by which we live: Liberté, egalité and fraternité. The motto that first appeared during the early days of the French Revolution. 


DAESH - I refuse to dignify that fundamentalist mob with the nomenclature, ISIS. Here is an excellent link to the understanding of the name: https://www.freewordcentre.com/blog/2015/02/daesh-isis-media-alice-guthrie/ - DAESH despises music, dancing, laughter, alcohol, women’s suffrage and liberty, sexual liberty, artistic freedom, culture; everything our modern lives celebrate. Still, any and all of these could have been punished by hitting any and every bar or restaurant around the city.

So why this neighbourhood? I don’t know, but I do know that in these days that have succeeded the horrors, there has been a veritable upsurge in the vision that is French, in what the French citizens and their notion of society represents. The winged angel, the Spirit of Freedom, still perches on his golden globe, ready to take flight. He is at the heart of this eastern quarter, at the heart of what will survive and flourish here in France. Freedom of spirit, freedom of the being. Our right to live and believe according to our own mores, while respecting our differences and our multiculturalism.

My new novel, The Forgotten Summer, to be published on 25 February 2016 by Penguin has been partially inspired by Paris.





Je Suis Charlie. Je Suis Paris  Paris, Je T'aime

www.caroldrinkwater.com
























Christmas cards by Janie Hampton

$
0
0

Over the years I have collected interesting cards from old scrapbooks and jumble sales.
As now is the time for sending out Christmas cards, I shall share some with The History Girls. 



Christmas card sent as World War One began, in 1914. 






 A pretty girl in the 1920s. 






Approaching Christmas 1938, a British man called W.J. Bassett-Lowke sent out a card with a political, rather than religious, message which seems especially relevant now. Only weeks after British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain returned from Munich in a British Airways aeroplane, his announcement of ‘Peace for our time’ was already being misquoted as ‘Peace in Our Time’ from the Anglican Book of Common Prayer. ‘The desire of our two peoples never to go to war with one another again,’ said the Anglo-German Declaration signed on 30 September 1938 by Chamberlain and Adolf Hitler.


While most of Britain was celebrating this victory of peace over war, Mr Bassett-Lowke was less convinced. His cartoon Christmas card makes the point that Britain was already involved in fighting, in both Palestine and India. Below Chamberlain is a scowling portrait of Hitler, about to invade Czechoslovakia, saying ‘I am always prepared for peace.’ Then beside an air raid over Spain and an Italian soldier attacking an Abyssinian, Mussolini says ‘Fascism marks the beginning of real peace for everyone.’ Next in line is the grimacing French Prime Minister Édouard Daladier saying, ‘ France will respond to a man to defend the peace’. Having failed to ratify the 1936 Franco-Syrian Treaty of Independence, a French soldier is depicted firing a machine gun at a Syrian, while another French soldier marches with a flag announcing ‘Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.’ And finally a jolly US President Franklin D. Roosevelt exporting munitions ‘To the Far East’ saying, ‘We must do our part to make the world safe for peace and democracy.’    Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose…
“ ‘May they practice [sic] what they preach in the New Year’ is the earnest Christmas wish from W.J. Basett-Lowke Northampton”. So who was he?
 Wenman Joseph is the small chap in a frock, Northampton 1880s.
Wenman Joseph Basett-Lowke (1877-1953) may have misspelt ‘Practice’ but then he did leave school at 13. Bassett-Lowke’s grandfather and father were engineers and boiler-makers and he used their skills and equipment to produce high-quality model trains.

With advertisements in The Model Engineer and mail-order catalogues, the company expanded, with strong links to Germany. His ‘Gauge 0’ train sets, models of ships and engineering equipment were perfect replicas. Among the model figures of passengers waiting for trains were Charlie Chaplin and Bassett-Lowke’s friend George Bernard Shaw. He depicted himself as ‘A Model Manufacturer’, with briefcase in hand, striding purposefully down the platform. The company also made ride-on garden railways and even a solid silver dining-table train set for an Indian Maharajah.
Bassett-Lowke was an ardent supporter of Modern Design and in 1916 he commissioned Charles Rennie Mackintosh to redesign the interior of his terrace house in Northampton, using the latest plastics to decorate the furniture. Ten years later, he commissioned the German architect Peter Behrens to build a house in Northampton. ‘New Ways’ was possibly the first modernist home, in white concrete with a flat roof, reminiscent of an industrial factory. Basett-Lowke was a Fabian socialist and supported the German-Jewish Bing family, also model train makers, when they fled to Britain in 1933. He was proud of Northampton and founded the Northampton Repertory Theatre, was a Town Councillor and an alderman. His Mackintosh home, 78 Derngate, Northampton, is open to the public as a gallery. In 2013 a steel sculpture to commemorate Bassett-Lowke, Charles Rennie Mackintosh and the poet John Clare were placed by the River Nene in Northampton.
I don’t know who drew his Christmas card but Bassett-Lowke employed the best draftsmen for his mail-order catalogues and in the 1940s wrote illustrated Puffin books on Locomotives and Marvellous Models.

 Back to Christmas cards.

Here is a more traditional three-dimensional Nativity scene from the late 1940s. 









Happy Christmas to all The History Girls and our readers. May 2016 bring us all world peace…


Hitler and Marigolds by Julie Summers

$
0
0
Edith Jones' diary
May 1945
There is nothing more delicious than discovering a private diary, written moons ago, that was never intended for publication. It has been my great good fortune to find several in the course of my work on the Second World War but the jewel in the crown for me were the diaries of Edith Jones, which form the golden thread through my book about the Women's Institute, Jambusters. When I tell people I have worked on the WI for over six years I get mixed reactions. Some pity, some incredulity that a women's organisation with a reputation for jam and Jerusalem would be of any interest to an author and sometimes, just sometimes, a nod of acknowledgement that this is a great topic. Well, let me reassure you that those in the third category are right.

As this is my first blog for the History Girls I thought I would kick off with the WI. This year is the 100th anniversary of the Women's Institute of England and Wales. Scotland has its own Scottish Rural WI. Born in Llanfairpwll on Anglesey in 1915, it was founded in part to help with food production during the First World War. However, its main aim was, and remains, to educate its membership. The full story of the WI is told in a new book Women's Century: an illustrated history of the Women's Institute by Val Horsler and Ian Denning.


It is a handsome publication that fulfills its promise by charting the 100 years in a gallery of mainly black and white images. Some are hilarious but the majority tell a tale of versatility, determination and good humour. The authors thread the story neatly through the book, focusing on the WI's key activities: education, campaigning and public affairs.
Wartime WI meeting
We all know about the Calendar Girls, and yes, they are there. As is the Queen, a member since 1943. But the more unexpected aspects of the WI's work is also celebrated. When do you imagine the WI resolved to get a ban on smoking in public places? 1964. They were 15 years ahead of the UK Green Party in lobbying the government to do more about recycling and researching renewable energy. And the Terrence Higgins Trust paid them a great compliment in 1987 when they campaigned for the use of condoms for safe sex: 'The WI does not flinch from the more difficult issues.' Indeed it does not. And it certainly did not flinch during the Second World War.


My brother, Tim, is responsible for the title Jambusters but he could have no idea how accurate a title it is for the WI's wartime activities. At a fundamental level the WI bust bureaucratic logjams and kept the countryside ticking. Their general secretary, Frances Farrer, had a reputation for phoning government ministers before breakfast so she could be sure to get their attention. She ordered 430 tons of sugar on 6 September 1939 in response to calls from members all over the country worrying about the bumper harvest going to waste in gardens and orchards that had been evacuated. Result: 1740 tons of jam by October. Over the course of the war the WI made jam for the Ministry of Food, it collected herbs for the pharmaceutical industry, it advised the government on housing, sanitation and education and much more besides. But it also kept its membership entertained, informed and in touch.

Dame Frances Farrer
Gen. Sec of WI 1929-59

When I was writing Jambusters my biggest problem was too much information. The WI archives at national, county and village level offer minute and fascinating detail about anything and everything they have ever been involved in. But it is all impersonal, in the form of minutes, records and letters. Occasionally there is a hint of fury in Miss Farrer's letters to the Ministry of Mines about petrol rationing but by and large it is factual detail. Yet the WI is an organisation full of personalities and I needed to get into someone's head. This is where Edith Jones' diaries came in. She was WI to the core and embraced the organisation from the moment it started in her remote village on the English/Welsh border in 1931.

Christine Downes with her
great-aunt Edith's diaries

She was a tenant farmer's wife and had little opportunity to broaden her horizons or go beyond the market town of Shrewsbury until the WI arrived. This gave her the chance to travel - she went to London in 1938 to attend the National Federation's AGM - and to meet women from other WIs in Shropshire. She recorded her everyday life in brief but delicious detail in diaries given to her by the Electricity Supply Company. That was an irony: Red House Farm, where she lived, did not get electricity until 12 years after Edith retired and moved away. Some of the juxtapositions are delightful. In September 1943 she wrote: 'Italy surrenders. I put new flower in hat.' On another occasion her puppy had fleas. On that day, 20 July 1944, she recorded the following: 'Hitler's life threatened by bomb. Puppy is very lousy, so Margaret is sorry for him & gives him a sound bathing and dressing.' How extraordinary that she heard about the failed Stauffenberg plot on the day it happened.


Edith Jones with Leonard 1937
All during the war there was a running thread of anxiety in the diaries for the safety of her nephew, Leonard, who had lived with her since he was a boy of six. He survived the war, returning from Africa in 1945. So although Edith saw no action she was aware of the constant threat to her family life. Five days before the war ended she read about Hitler's suicide. That day she recorded simply: 'Hitler confirmed dead. Jack sows marigolds.' I found that extraordinarily poignant when I first read it. The madness of the war was over and her husband, Jack, planted marigolds to keep flies off her flowers and vegetables. And what did Edith Jones do the day after the war ended? She went to her WI meeting where they discussed bringing electricity to the village: 'no agreement' she wrote. She carried on going to WI meetings until shortly before her death. For her the WI was a way of life and the war represented merely an episode in that long life.




Filling the cracks with gold

$
0
0
Our November guest is Anne Rooney, appropriately enough since this has been Non-fiction month - did you know? - and Anne has written around 200 books, many of them non-fiction for both adults and younger readers. 

In fact "guest" is a bit misleading, since Anne is here all the time. She is "tech support" for The History Girls and if you have ever seen a post that looked a bit peculiar and checked back later to find it perfect, it's because Anne has been working behind the scenes. We are very glad to have her as a "back room History Girl" and so we welcome her as perhaps a house guest for November.

Photo credit: Luki Sumner-Rooney
Anne began her working life as a medievalist but turned to writing after deciding the academic life was not really for her. She has been writing children’s books for about 15 years, though still makes occasional forays into adult writing, mostly in the area of the history and philosophy of science.  Much of her non-fiction has historical content. She has written fiction with a contemporary setting but featuring historical figures who have endured beyond their sell-by date (did you know that Louis Pasteur, Joseph Guillotin and Elvis Presley were all vampires?) and has specifically historical fiction in the pipeline (Forever, forthcoming 2016).

Anne is a contributor to the History Girls' anthology Daughters of Time. She is Royal Literary Fund Fellow at Newnham College, Cambridge

Welcome to Anne, polymath and workaholic.

The cracks are fertile!
Like spies, terrorists and moss, writers of historical fiction occupy the cracks.

It's easy to assume that as we make things up fiction-writers do less rigorous research than writers of historical fact. Why would we spend as much effort as a historian finding out what actually happened and what life was really like, if we're going to write about what didn't happen and what we imagine life was like?

The best historical fiction wears its learning lightly, so it's not surprising readers imagine there's little research. The historian will say, 'look, this is what a Victorian baby-bottle looked like, this is how it was used, this is what the mother put into the bottle to make the baby sleep.' The research is all there, in the foreground. The historical novelist will mention the baby-farmer removing the twist of rag from the neck of the bottle and pouring in a glug of the evil Godfrey's cordial (opium and treacle), but as a reader you won't be thinking, 'ah, that's how a baby was fed when there was no lactating mother.' You'll be waiting to see what happens next. You don't notice the research - it slips down as easily as Godfrey's cordial.

Indeed, much of the research that goes into historical fiction never reaches the page. It informs the writing, but a lot of it is preventing mistakes rather than making a positive appearance. The reader's willing suspension of disbelief will be curtailed pretty quickly if a 13th-century feast includes potatoes, or a lady from the 1700s wears a mauve dress. Research keeps potatoes out of novels set in the Middle Ages. Or sometimes half a day's research will contribute a single word to the book - perhaps one dish in a meal, the colour of a flag or the price paid for a suitable drink.

I write some historical fiction and a lot of historical fact. The research for both starts in the same way, with a broad sweep, picking up all the main events, trends, issues and characters. Then it homes in on the most important areas. Many of the sources are the same: academic and popular history books and articles; museums; archives; talking to experts.

Booth's map, colour coded to show levels of
prosperity and poverty in Victorian London
I’ve been working (slowly) on a story set in Victorian London. My research has been about everyday life, particularly the living conditions of the London poor. The most important primary sources have been Charles Booth’s poor map and Henry Mayhew’s London Labour and the London Poor (1851). Beyond the textual sources, I've been to the Museum of Childhood to look at baby-bottles, the Museum of London to see contemporary photographs of street life, and the London Aquarium to look at objects found in the mud of the Thames.

Some sources I probably wouldn't have used for historical fact: the novels of Dickens; paintings, newspaper sketches and cartoons; the dolls' houses in the Museum of London which are exact replicas of real homes; films (for atmosphere); and I’ve visited the places, though they are much changed, and walked the routes my characters walk, felt the mud, and watched the tides of the Thames (thanks to History Girl Michelle Lovric for letting me stand on her balcony above the Thames for that!)

It's not just a matter of using additional sources, though. The historian and the fiction-writer look for different things. The historian looks for a coherent narrative in the chaotic remnants of the past -  threads that link events and people, one thing leading to another, explaining another, preventing another. The writer of fiction, as often as not, is looking for the gaps. The historian wants to answer questions; the novelist wants to ask questions. The historian uses the minutiae of lives lived to illuminate the bigger picture, while the writer of fiction explores what it was like living those lives against the background of the bigger picture.

Good historians know that history only comes to life when we see how it was lived. The details of lives and personalities offer the best way into imagining and engaging with the past. Social histories such as Sarah Wise's The Blackest Streets (2009) about the Old Nichol (a desperately squalid slum in Victorian London) are distilled from reports and personal narratives. They are ripe for plundering. As fiction writers, we can take a nugget of true narrative and spin a whole life-story from it. It’s like taking a spoonful of sugar and spinning it into candyfloss. The sugar tastes different when mixed with the air and the truth tastes different when expanded with imagination – the story adds texture and volume and specialness to the spoonful of truth.

Tycho Brahe (1546-1601), before
the nose incident
Take Tycho Brahe's moose. Tycho Brahe was the last great naked-eye astronomer and the first to contradict Aristotle's (and the Bible's) notion that the heavens are fixed and there can be no new starts. So he has his place in the history of astronomy. But he is far more interesting than that. He ruled autocratically over the island of Hven off the coast of Sweden where he had his observatory. The more famous astronomer Kepler worked as his assistant for many years. Brahe wore a prosthetic metal nose, having lost part of his real nose in a duel over a mathematical formula. He died of politeness - refusing to leave a feast to urinate, he suffered a burst bladder. And he had a pet moose, which died after drinking too much beer at a feast and falling down the stairs. None of Brahe's eccentricity has much bearing on the history of astronomy, but it is exactly the kind of gift a fiction-writer is delighted to find in the historical record.

If you were to set out to write a history of Brahe and his moose, you'd find scant material. Its existence and death are recorded in Brahe's correspondence, but only briefly. For the historian, that's frustrating; gaps in the historical record make the job harder. Historians are not allowed just to make up something to fill the gap. They must work from the evidence around the gap and try to fill it, seamlessly, by extending from the edges. If the task goes well, the evidence criss-crosses the space representing our ignorance and supports a plausible structure of conjecture. It’s like detective work. It’s challenging, inspiring and sometimes frustrating.

Fictional historical writing, on the other hand, flourishes in the gaps in history. The fiction-writer can weigh up the evidence, choose a plausible narrative and treat is as though it were the truth without excuse, apology or accommodation. It's where we don't know what happened that we can let 'what if' run free. Like parenting, fictional history has to be good enough rather than perfect. It must be consistent with the facts – or honest about where it is not consistent – but can go beyond them without having to defend its choices. In parenting, if everyone is alive and intact at bedtime, it’s a good day. In historical fiction, if the dead are still dead and no worlds were destroyed – well, it’s a pretty good start.

Writing historical fiction, we focus on creating the world as experienced by the people we are writing about. What did they eat for breakfast? What’s it like to walk through streets full of horse manure and dog poo? How do you occupy yourself when it gets dark at 4 pm but you can’t afford lights? What is your attitude towards food if you eat tasteless gruel every day? How far will you go trying to keep warm in the winter? Do you believe in ghosts? Are dogs frightening? Is a baby more a burden than a treasure? These are rarely the questions asked by factual histories. The answers come from the exercise of empathy on the stuff of research. We share the same minds and bodies as people of the past, so we can put ourselves into their shoes – or bare feet – and imagine how they experienced life. The historian benefits from empathy, but must leave the larger part of imagination at the study door.

More has been lost from the historical record than has been preserved, and the further back you go, or the deeper into any particular area, the less there is. It’s often a frustration for the historian, but a gift for the fiction-writer. The unknown is where imagination has always played - 'here be monsters'.

Perhaps one of the differences between what a historian does and what a writer of fiction does with the slabs of research and the gaps between them is best illustrated by two approaches to mending broken things. If we think of the historical record as the broken fragments of the past, the historian is aiming for this:



This is one of three Qing dynasty vases accidentally broken by a visitor falling down the stairs of the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge in 2006. After weeks of careful conservation work, the joins are invisible to the naked eye. You can see the process of reconstruction here.

The writer of historical fiction is aiming for this:

Hey Rosetta! album cover for Second Sight,
using Japanese Kintsugi bowl


The ancient Japanese art of Kintsugi aims to make something beautiful from broken objects by highlighting the breaks. The admirer is not asked to ignore the fractures but celebrate them. The cracks are often filled with resin enriched with gold. I think that’s what we are doing as we write historical fiction – filling the cracks in reality with gold.


Anne Rooney's latest non-fiction book is The Story of Maps:


Look out for the competition tomorrow to win a copy.

And thanks for visiting, Anne, and sharing your immense experience of the different uses of research.

November Competition

$
0
0
If you read Anne Rooney's fascinating post yesterday about researching for historical non-fiction and fiction, you'll want to enter our competition with a chance to win one of five copies of The Story of Maps. Just answer the following question:

"Is there a map or atlas that has meant a lot to you, led you astray, or inspired you? Describe it and its impact in the comments below."

Then copy your answer to readers@maryhoffman.co.uk so you can be contacted if you win.

Closing date 7th December

Our competitions are open to UK Followers only.

The first Mary Tudor by Mary Hoffman

$
0
0
Mary Tudor by an unknown French artist
There are many obscure figures in British history, often women, who have been treated only by novelists (see Anne Rooney's post on Filling the Cracks with Gold a couple of days ago).

In recent years historians, mainly women historians like Helen Castor, Sarah Gristwood and Leanda de Lisle, have done a splendid job of bringing into the foreground subjects from Matilda to the Grey sisters, Jane, Katherine and Mary.

But there is one person whose life story still deserves more attention - Henry the Eighth's younger sister Mary Rose.

Henry was very fond of her and named his first daughter after her, who went on to become the much more famous Mary Tudor, the first Queen Regnant of England. Indeed an Internet search for Mary Tudor will take a long time before it reaches the woman above, reputed by contemporaries to be the most beautiful woman in the land. The unknown artist of the portrait above has captured something of this with the red gold hair that was characteristic of her brother too.

We know far more about Henry's other sister Margaret Tudor, who married James lV of Scotland and became grandmother (twice over!) to the most famous Mary of all, the Queen of Scots.

But this Mary was, like her older sister, a useful piece in the game of royal marriages, a dynastic pawn that could be made a queen. And she was, at the age of eighteen.

A sketch of Mary during the brief period when she was Queen of France (now in the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford

Her husband was Louis the Twelfth of France, a man more than thirty years older than Mary and one desperate to sire an heir (yes, that motif again.) Legend has it that he tried so hard in their bedchamber that it caused his death three months later, but to no avail.

We don't know anything about their relationship, except what can be inferred from what happened next, but it does seem likely that it was a relief to Mary to be widowed so swiftly.

However, Louis had not been Henry's first choice for an advantageous marriage for his nubile sister. She had been betrothed at the age of about thirteen to Charles of Castille, who was Katherine of Aragon's nephew and later became the Holy Roman Emperor, which certainly trumps a French king. But Henry tired of delays in the negotiations and called it off in 1513. We don't know how Mary felt about that either but Charles was four years younger than her and, from his portraits as an adult, had inherited the undershot Habsburg jaw. (His personal disadvantages didn't stop him having six children by his eventual wife and at least four illegitimate ones, but that's another story.)

The newly free Mary soon turned her mind to her next husband. Even during the marriage negotiations with Louis, she had written to her brother, saying that "if she survived him, she should marry whom she liked." And "whom she liked" was Charles Brandon, the first Duke of Suffolk. In fact Heny was quite aware of the couple's mutual attraction and had discussed a possible marriage with Brandon, who was a very close friend, only stipulating that they should wait to return from France before Brandon proposed to Mary.

Brandon was dispatched to bring Mary home - somewhat unwisely considering Henry's reservation - but the young woman who was strong-minded enough to tell the king her brother that she would marry an old man to please him only if she could choose her next husband soon swept aside the restriction and married Charles Brandon in secret some time in February 1515, a matter of weeks after King Louis' death.

Mary Tudor and her second husband Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, by Jan Mabuse
Henry was furious and imposed an enormous fine on the couple, which in terms of today's values ran to millions of pounds. In even entertaining a possibility of their union, he probably thought he had already extended favour beyond the bounds due to Suffolk. There is no doubt that Suffolk was one of Henry's nearest intimates, as described in a new biography (the first) by Steven Gunn, Charles Brandon: Henry Vlll's Closest Friend (Amberley.)

But allowing him to marry his sister would put her outside the useful dynastic marriage market and Henry was perhaps not ready to let such prospects go for a royal princess and former queen of not yet twenty.

However, his affection for both of them and the intervention of Cardinal Wolsey caused Henry soon to calm down and he was present at their official marriage in May; he even reduced the fine, though he didn't remove it altogether. Brandon had technically committed High Treason by marrying a royal princess without the monarch's consent and Henry needed to let him know who was boss.

Mary's story is full of "what if?"s - the cracks that a historical novelist longs to fill with gold. What if she had married Charles Castille and become his Empress? What if Louis hadn't so conveniently died and she had borne him an heir? Would Brandon have waited for her?

His own matrimonial history was quite chequered, as Gunn's book shows. He was first contracted to marry Anne Browne, a waiting woman of Queen Katherine, and got her pregnant. But then he broke off the contract to marry Anne's aunt! Dame Margaret Mortimer was twenty years older than Brandon and very wealthy.

Soon after their marriage Brandon had it annulled on grounds on consanguinity but not before he had claimed some of Dame Margaret's dowry. He then married Anne, first secretly and then publicly after pressure from her family, and she bore him a second, legitimate daughter but died soon afterwards in 1510. Nor is that the end of his marital shenanigans as he then became contracted to Lady Elizabeth Lisle, who was his eight year old ward.

But there were rumours that he would marry Margaret of Austria, who certainly liked him. These rumours seem to have been started by Henry himself and soon a book was opened in London betting on their marriage. This was an emabarrassment both to Margaret and Henry, who realised he had gone too far, and Brandon wouldn't scotch the gossip by carrying out the marriage with his ward (which would have been legal.)

What made this man such an irresistible marriage prospect that at least three women were prepared  to marry him, some of them under pressure not to? (He later had three illegitimate children too, by mother or mothers unknown). Charles Brandon is supposed to have been very handsome though there is no portrait evidence of that, very athletic and vigorous, a champion in the lists.

But he was always short of money, not always successful in the many military engagements Henry sent him on and clearly not a faithful lover.

The biggest "what if?" of all in Mary Tudor's history is what would have happened if she had not died in 1533. She bore Charles Brandon four children, two sons and two daughters. The first, Henry, died at eleven.

The second son, born after his brother's death, was also called Henry in an apparently relentless quest to flatter and appease the king, but he too died before he reached manhood. But either of these Henrys would have been strong candidates for the succession after the death of Edward the Sixth, as legitimate nephews of Henry.

Henry Brandon Earl of Lincoln, Mary's second son
The first daughter of Mary and Charles Brandon, Frances, married the Earl of Dorset and became the mother of Lady Jane Grey and her two younger sisters, leading to the tragic short reign and execution of Jane, who was nominated as Edward's heir.

But Mary did die in 1533 and Charles, being Charles, within three months married his fourteen-year-old ward Catherine Willoughby. She was betrothed to young Henry, Charles's son but he was considered too young to marry and Charles didn't want to lose her lands.

Their two sons (another Henry and a Charles) died within hours of each other in 1551, of the sweating sickness. Since Charles had died in 1545, both boys became Dukes of Suffolk, though the younger enjoyed the title for only an hour or so.

So the Duchy of Suffolk, having no legitimate male heirs to the title, went to the husband of Frances, Mary and Charles's older daughter.

Mary Tudor, Duchess of Suffolk, in the National Portrait Gallery

It was not uncommon for women in the first half of the sixteenth century to die before they were forty and being royal was no protection. The second Mary Tudor was forty-two and she had not had any actual pregnancies to weaken her.

The first Mary Tudor had a close relationship with Katherine of Aragon and fell out with Henry over his divorce. And she took against Anne Boleyn, who had been a waiting woman in her retinue when she went to France to marry Louis.

What little we know of her shows the first Mary Tudor to be strong-minded and independent and deserving of more of our attention than she has had to date.


(All images are in the public domain)





Of Lions and Literature - by Gillian Polack

$
0
0


I was going to write about Black Friday this month, but it’s too depressing. Black Friday in Australia has nothing to do with sales (except in the minds of a few retailers who don’t know nearly enough about history) but is the name of one of the worst sets of bushfires of all time. Since we’re heading into bushfire season, there will be time for fires. Too much time for fires. Instead, I’m going to make time for a little Medievalism.

‘Medievalism’ in this case means when someone modern (or modernish) writes about the Middle Ages. This means that today’s post is a Medievalist committing Medievalism about Medievalism, which makes me strangely happy.



 Last night, I was teaching a group of students about bestiaries. It was a class about medieval heroes and monsters and magic and miracles. I needed a book to illustrate and I grabbed a perennial favourite off my shelf and…  the class not only learned about medieval bestiaries, they learned about how two modern fiction writers committed Medievalism.



The two modern writers are CS Lewis and TH White. Both had intimate knowledge of the Middle Ages. CS Lewis was an expert (in a scholarly way) in medieval literature and TH White translated a bestiary. I peppered my class with examples from their fiction, because it was much more fun to explain religious allegory using Aslan and Narnia than to use traditional methods.

This was all begun by White’s The Book of Beasts (the bestiary in question) which opens its narrative with the lion. Lions were handy, teaching-wise. They helped me explain how the structure of the bestiary worked and also to make the allegory and metaphorical nature clear, and they always have really excellent entries (and fun pictures!) in medieval bestiaries. We read TH White’s entry on the lion aloud in class and discussed. In fact, it was the building block for the whole class. It linked back to work on world view and cosmos that we’d done earlier this term, and White is (as ever, for this is the same TH White who wrote the story that became Camelot) a wonderful stylist. Every now and again I would interject a thought I’d just had on Narnia. And Lewis. And the nature of allegory. This is because the description of the lion in that particular bestiary could have been the blueprint for so much of Aslan.



My students were happy with this approach. In fact, they very carefully forgot to remind me about tea break, because they wanted to explore as much of the book as possible.

All day (even while teaching another class on an entirely different subject) I’ve been thinking about bestiaries. They’re not just handbooks of the natural world. They’re guides to how the animal kingdom works as part of the medieval universe. It’s not just that the lion is a noble beast and not tame, it’s what the lion says about the nature of medieval religion and about human morality. 

CS Lewis has summed up the symbolism and explanations for the lion in his Aslan. A lot of the Christian elements in Narnia are drawn from books like this. I have to admit, it doesn’t mean I enjoy the religious elements any more, but it means I understand where they come from and what Lewis is trying to do with them. The bestiary explains why it’s so important that Aslan is not a tame lion and why the lion is so very much more important than other animals.

I wasn’t expecting to get such a strong insight into favourite books of my childhood when I taught last night’s class, however.

You can find information about White’s work here: https://uwdc.library.wisc.edu/collections/histscitech/bestiary/It’s still in print. I suggest it’s one of those books worth owning, for his writing is – as always – wonderful, and it’s very good to sit in an armchair and read a bit and stop and think and read a bit and stop and think. There are other and better books about bestiaries, but there isn’t another that gives such an insight into the work of two very important British fiction writers and how they see history.


Slaves, Fish, Crochet, by Vanora Bennett

$
0
0
I didn’t intend to go to the art exhibition now on at London’s centre for Russia-lovers, Pushkin House. I was there for a talk on something else Russian and cultural in the same room, to do with the novel I’m researching, and very interesting it was too. Yet, as I listened to the talk, I couldn’t help but be struck by the textiles hung on the walls. They weren’t particularly astonishing when you first came in. Their (brilliantly) bizarre wrongness took a while to sink in, and make you stare.

The artworks were big blanket-like knits in dingy colours, with dividing lines that made them look like brick walls (think Pink Floyd album covers), and with graffiti-like Russian words in bright wools sewn on. Slogan type words, only backwards, or upside down, or altered; or swearword type words.

On another wall there were some neatly crocheted multi-coloured shapes – the kind of sweet table-mat thing you can imagine a granny with a slightly wonky sense of colour working, over a nice cup of tea. But these shapes were Russian letters, and the letters were strung together in more words, and, again, they were quite subversive, altered, wrong versions of Soviet slogans.

It was definitely confusing to see all those very butch power words – the shorthand script of the Soviet elite who, in their 70 years in power, gave us Stalin and the Gulag and millions of deaths, and the brutal vocabulary of choice of the violent Russian underworld that flourished under them – re-rendered here in neat, fluffy, well finished plain-and-purl-and-a-bit-of-embroidery. If you ever wanted an illustration of the feminisation of history, this was it.

It was only after the talk was over, and I turned round and noticed the quietest exhibit of all, at the back of the hall, that I actually burst out laughing.

This one was a large white lacy oblong, with frilly edges – the kind of cosy, conservative decorative item one might expect to find on a wire, not quite covering a cobwebby dacha window somewhere, with snow outside and whichever kindly auntie had done the crocheting glancing proudly round at it as she passed more tea (possibly from a samovar). It looked the concentrated essence of a particular kind of Russian innocence – the get-away-from-politics-to-the-simple-life mood that makes country weekends in those little wooden houses so enchanting. At least, it looked that way until you looked more closely and saw, all mixed up with the intricate patterns, that its main decorative feature was the – wildly inappropriate - great shouty Soviet propaganda word, PRAVDA (TRUTH), also the name of the main Soviet-era newspaper, followed by a disconcerting question mark.

The pieces, it turns out, are the work of a young Moscow artist called Olga Bozhko.

The exhibition blurb says Bozhko “plays with ideas of memory and history as they are reflected both in the language of the streets and in the language of government propaganda. She is fascinated by the way everyday Russian language mutates alongside ever-changing Russian perceptions of history. Living and working in Moscow, Bozhko pays attention to the graffiti, advertising and government slogans which comment, often unconsciously, on Russian society today.”

“The works for installation were knitted by hand - a symbolically soft and feminine medium. The large size of the works imply a considerable investment of labour and time: we usually associate this type of labour with domestic craft, which sets out to ‘wrap’ home life in comforting, soft hand-made material. But the images and particularly the inscriptions on the works are unsettling. Some of them imitate brick walls covered with angry graffiti, others - net curtains - but with slogans woven in to them. In the context of the elegant early Georgian architecture of Pushkin House, they turn into politically-charged comments on the past and present of Russia.”

The one that struck me most wasn’t in the room at all. It was at the bottom of the stairwell.

It’s a large hand-knitted fishing net, in the red, white and blue colours of the Russian flag.

The inscription Bozhko has snuck into the middle of the net looks and sounds like the heroic early Soviet propaganda slogan, “Raby Ne My” – “We Are No Slaves”. Between 1917 and the onset of perestroika in the mid-1980s, this phrase always featured in the Soviet primary school literacy programme and as a result resonates today with generations of Russian-speakers.

By now, though, I knew better than to take Bozhko’s slogans at face value. So I looked again. Sure enough, she’d changed a few letters to give a very different message, “Ryby Nemy”, or “Fish Are Dumb” – the title of her exhibition.

“This play on words,” Pushkin House’s gloss on the show says, “shows how very subtle changes can disarm (and in fact then re-arm) a powerful propagandistic message. To Russian ears, the phrase ‘We are no slaves’ is associated with one of the grand ideological narratives of the last century; ‘fishes are dumb’ may be read factually or of course as a metaphor for silent shoals of people caught in nets of government propaganda.”

“I like these,” I said, with growing fellow-feeling. Bozhko seemed so clearly the visual equivalent of so many female historical novelists today – cleverly re-examining the past, using new methods and materials and values, emphasising some things more and de-emphasising others, poking a bit of quiet fun at some of the sacred cows of tradition, and generally filling in the gaps left by the male academicians who did the writing first time round.

“I don’t,” the man sitting next to me replied, in cross David Starkey style. “I decided that before you got here.”

But you might enjoy Bozhko's mocking girl challenge to the orthodoxies of modern Russian history if you are open-minded. Even if you're male.

See Vanora Bennett’s website


Fearsome Persephone - by Katherine Langrish

$
0
0

The Greek myth of Persephone has often been retold as a sweet and charming little story, a just-so fable about the cycle of winter and spring. Here’s an extract from 'The Pomegranate Seeds,' a 19th century version for children by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Persephone - under her Roman name, Proserpina - has begged Mother Ceres for permission to pick flowers. Attracted by an unusually beautiful blossoming bush, she pulls it up by the roots. The hole she has created immediately spreads, growing deeper and wider, till out comes a golden chariot drawn by splendid horses.




In the chariot sat the figure of a man, richly dressed, with a crown on his head, all flaming with diamonds.  He was of a noble aspect, but looked sullen and discontented; and he kept rubbing his eyes and shading them with his hand, as if he did not live enough in the sunshine to be very fond of its light.
“Do not be afraid,” said he, with as cheerful a smile as he knew how to put on. “Come!  Will you not like to ride a little way with me in my beautiful chariot?”

Reducing the myth to a 19th century version of ‘don’t get into cars with strange men’, Hawthorne tells how King Pluto (a spoiled Byronic rich boy) makes off with the ‘child’ Proserpina and takes her into his underground kingdom, where she refuses to eat. Hawthorne archly explains that if only King Pluto’s cook had provided her with ‘the simple fare to which the child had been accustomed’, she would probably have eaten it, but because ‘like all other cooks, he considered nothing fit to eat unless it were rich pastry, or highly-seasoned meat’ – she is not tempted. In the end, of course, Mother Ceres finds her daughter, and Jove sends ‘Quicksilver’ to rescue her but not before (‘Dear me!  What an everlasting pity!’) Proserpina has bitten into the fateful pomegranate – and her natural sympathy for the gloomy King Pluto leads her to declare to her mother, ‘He has some very good qualities, and I really think I can bear to spend six months in his palace, if he will only let me spend the other six with you.’



And lo, the happy ending. Prettified as this is, no one would guess that Persephone – whose name means 'she who brings doom’ – was one of the most significant of Greek goddesses. In Homer, it is to her kingdom which Odysseus sails:  

Sit still and let the blast of the North Wind carry you.
But when you have crossed with your ship the stream of the Ocean
you will find there a thickly wooded shore, and the groves of Persephone,
and tall black poplars growing, and fruit-perishing willows;
then beach your ship on the shore of the deep-eddying Ocean
and yourself go forward into the mouldering home of Hades.

The Odyssey of Homer, Book X, tr. Richmond Lattimore, Harper & Row, 1965

 
As Demeter’s daughter, she is originally named simply ‘Kore’ or ‘maiden’. When Kore is stolen away, Demeter searches for her throughout the earth, finally stopping to rest at Eleusis, outside Athens. There, disguised as an old woman, she cares for the queen's son, bathing him each night in fire so that he will become immortal. When the queen finds out, she interrupts the procedure and the child dies. The angered goddess throws off her disguise, but in recompense teaches the queen's other son, Triptolemos, the art of agriculture. Meanwhile, since the crops are dying and the earth will remain barren until Demeter's daughter is restored, Zeus persuades Hades to return Kore to her mother - so long as no food has passed her lips. But Hades has tricked Kore into eating some pomegranate seeds, and she must therefore spend part of every year in Hades. Kore emerges from the underworld as Persephone, Queen of the dead. And a temple is built to Demeter and Persephone at Eleusis, which every year will host the Great and the Lesser Mysteries.  The participants would:

[walk] the Sacred Way from Athens to Eleusis calling for the Kore and re-enacting Demeter's search for her lost daughter. At Eleusis they would rest by the well Demeter had rested by, would fast, and would then drink a barley and mint beverage called Kykeon. It has been suggested that this drink was infused by the psychotropic fungus ergot and this, then, heightened the experience and helped transform the initiate. After drinking the Kykeon the participants entered the Telesterion, an underground `theatre', where the secret ritual took place. Most likely it was a symbolic re-enactment of the `death' and rebirth of Persephone which the initates watched and, perhaps, took some part in. Whatever happened in the Telesterion, those who entered in would come out the next morning radically changed. Virtually every important writer in antiquity, anyone who was `anyone', was an initiate of the Mysteries.

 (Professor Joshua J. Mark on the Eleusinian Mysteries, at this link: http://www.ancient.eu.com/article/32/)

The story really does contain all those mythic, seasonal references. While Persephone is in the underworld, the plants wither and die; there are the scattered flowers dropped by the stolen girl, there are the significant pomegranate seeds: but this is much more than a pretty fable.  It’s a sacred story, which conveyed to the initiate the promise and comfort of life after death.



A couple of years ago, I went to see an exhibition of treasures from the royal capital of Macedon, Pella, at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford. The treasures were dazzling, and the exhibition also included photographs of the lavish interiors and furnishings of the royal tombs of Philip II (father of Alexander the Great) and his family, at Aegae. In the tomb of Philip’s mother, Euridike, was a fabulous chair or throne.  On its seat had rested the chest containing the Queen’s burned bones, wrapped in purple...



...while on the back of the throne is a painting depicting Hades and Persephone riding together in triumph on their four-horse chariot. In another tomb at Aegae, Demeter is shown lamenting the loss of Persephone, while on another wall, Hades carries her off.  For me, it seems these images are being used in much the same way that we would place a cross on a Christian tomb. They are not merely referencing, but calling upon a significant myth, a myth with immediate, emotional potential, a myth that speaks of life beyond the doorway of death.

Although these tombs belong to the Classical era, in many ways the Macedonian royals had more in common with the heroic Mycenean age of a thousand years earlier.  Many Macedonian consorts acted as priestesses as well as queens. At the funeral pyre of Philip II, in 336 BC, it’s startling to learn that his youngest wife, Queen Meda, went to the flames with him, along with the dogs and horses which were also sacrificed.  But she was possibly a willing victim.  Dr Angeliki Kottaridi explains; ‘According to tradition in her country, [this] Thracian princess followed her master, bed-fellow and companion forever to Hades. To the eyes of the Greeks, her act made her the new Alcestes [in Greek mythology, a wife who died in her husband’s place] and this is why Alexander honoured her so much, by giving her, in this journey of no return, invaluable gifts’ – for example, a wreath of gold myrtle leaves and flowers:



Dr Angeliki Kottaridi again:

In the Great Eleusinian Mysteries, Demeter gave to mankind her cherished gift, the wisdom which beats death. With the burnt offering of the breathless body, the deceased, like sacrificial victims, is offered to the deity. Through their golden bands [pictured below] the initiated ones greet by name the Lady of Hades, the ‘fearsome Persephone’.  …Purified by the sacred fire, the heroes – the deceased – can now start a ‘new life’ in the land of the Blessed; in the asphodel mead of the Elysian Fields.

Dr Angeliki Kottaridi: “Burial customs and beliefs in the royal necropolis of Aegae”, from ‘Heracles to Alexander the Great, Treasures from the Royal Capital of Macedon’, Ashmolean Museum, 2011

For me, one of the most moving items in the exhibition was this small leaf-shaped band of gold foil, 3.6 cm by 1 cm.  Upon it is impressed the simple message:

ΦΙΛΙΣΤΗ ΦΕΡΣΕΦΟΝΗΙ ΧΑΙΡΕΙΝ
Philiste to Persephone, Rejoice!

And I wonder, I wonder about that leaf-shape. The goldsmiths of Macedon were unrivalled at creating wreaths – of oak leaves and acorns, or of flowering myrtle that look as though Midas has touched the living plant and turned it to gold. Would such artists really have used any old ‘leaf shape’ – or is this slim slip a gold imitation of the narrow leaf of the willow – the black, ‘fruit-perishing willows’ which Homer tells us fringe the shores of Persephone’s kingdom?


Picture credits: 
Photos of Macedonian tomb and goods from Heracles to Alexander the Great, Treasures from the Royal Capital of Macedon’, Ashmolean Museum, 2011

Black willow leaves: https://sites.google.com/site/madietreesofwestvirginia/black-willow-trees

19th Century Snow by Joan Lennon

$
0
0
By the time you read/look at this, the weather will be different - that's a thing you can count on, pretty much.  But on the day I set myself to write my post, it snowed.  Now, because I live near the coast, snow rarely lies long, so I quickly took some pictures, partly to give the impermanent a sort of permanence, and partly to send to my son in Indonesia who was asking for photos of home.  Which made me think about the snow that home has carried on its roof from time to time over the years, and because it is a 19th century house I thought about 19th century paintings of snow and then because I was feeling a bit lonely, I thought of Emily Dickinson.  And that is why my post today is the way it is.


Claude Monet Train in the Snow 1875


J.M.W. Turner Snow Storm: Steamboat off a Harbour's Mouth 1842


Paul Gaugin Winter Landscape 1879


Vincent Van Gogh Two Peasant Women Digging in a Snow-covered Field 1890


Utagagawa Kunisada Snow Scene 19th century


It sifts from Leaden Sieves —
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road —

It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain —
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again —

It reaches to the Fence —
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces —
It deals Celestial Vail

To Stump, and Stack — and Stem —
A Summer's empty Room —
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them—

It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen —
Then stills its Artisans — like Ghosts —
Denying they have been —

Emily Dickinson The Snow 1891



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




Intimate Friends by Lydia Syson

$
0
0
Today I want to celebrate the birthday of Frédéric Bazille, who was born on December 6th in Montpellier in 1841.  A medical student turned painter, who wore wonderful checked trousers, he was at the heart of the circle of artists who became the Impressionists. He volunteered to fight in the Franco-Prussian war and was killed by a sniper's bullet on 28th November 1870 in the Battle of Beaune-la-Rolande during a disastrous attempt to relieve the Siege of Paris.  If you've never heard of him, that's why.

Portrait of Fréderic Bazille by Etienne Carat, 1865

Here he is in 1867, full of concentration at his easel, one red-ribboned, espadrille'd foot curling gently over the other.  He was a tall young man, as you'll see. This painting is by Renoir.

Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919)
Frédéric Bazille
1867
Oil on canvas
H. 105; W. 73.5 cm
© RMN-Grand Palais (Musée d'Orsay) / Hervé Lewandowski

On the wall behind Bazille's head hangs a snow scene by Monet. (See yesterday's post by Joan Lennon for more on snowy landscapes.) A fourth friend who shared the studio, out of sight in the image above, was tackling the same still life at the same time. Here's what Alfred Sisley painted.

Alfred Sisley, Heron with Outstretched Wings, 1867
Musée Fabre, Montpellier

Here's Bazille's version.  Presumably Sisley decided to leave out the fourth avian corpse.


Bazille, The Heron, 1867, Private Collection

And at some point the same year, Bazille produced this portrait of Renoir:
   

Bazille, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, 1867, Musée d'Orsay, Paris

Unstudied and informal, Renoir's rakish pose reveals not just his elastic-sided boots (something I learned from the sumptuous exhibition catalogue in which I first came across the picture: Impressionism, Fashion & Modernity, The Art Insitute of Chicago, 2012) but also, perhaps, something about the friendship that existed between the two artists.  I've looked at this painting a lot, though only in reproduction.  It lives in the Musée Fabre in Montpellier, where an exhibition devoted to Bazille and his place in Impressionism will open next summer. It made me very curious about the relationship between Renoir and Bazille.  


Bazille, Scène d'été, 1869, Fogg Art Museum, Cambridge, Mass.


Like his distinctly homo-erotic Summer Scene (above), which Bazille painted two years later, and his Fisherman with a Net (below), Bazille's painting of his friend fed into my thinking while I was writing Liberty's Fire and trying to clarify the relationship between two young men, one rich, one poor - just like Bazille and Renoir, as I now discover - sharing an apartment in Paris in 1871. In The History of Sexuality, Foucault identified 1870 as the year in which the concept of homosexuality was 'invented' - although obviously I'm giving you a drastic oversimplification of a much-debated and often-quoted argument - and I found myself wondering about the relationship between this and the emerging figure of the 'flâneur'.  What might it have been like to have been gay at a period when this was just beginning to be conceptualised as an identity, I wondered, in a country which where it wasn't a crime?  I didn't know then that 2015 would turn out to be the year of LGBT novels for Young Adults, but I had been concerned that this was an aspect of diversity that certainly doesn't often feature in YA historical fiction.   


Bazille, The Fisherman with a Net, 1868,
Foundation Rau pour le Tiers-Monde, Zurich, Switzerland

When I realised that my last History Girls posting date of 2016 fell on Bazille's birthday, I was full of good intentions.  I'd investigate further, I decided, and find out (if I possibly could) whether Bazille really did have unreciprocated feelings for Renoir as his paintings had led me to suspect.  I'd find out more about his political views, and also about the incident during the Paris Commune when Renoir, out painting en plein air, was nearly executed as a spy, but his life was saved by Raoul Rigault.  But time has run away with me. Writing deadlines. Teaching. Christmas coming. I've left it too late.  I'm very sorry. I've made very little progress with this and all I can do today is leave you with these thoughts and one more enticing image.  


Frédéric Bazille (1841-1870), Edouard Manet (1832-1883)
Bazille's Studio
1870
Oil on Canvas
H. 98; W. 128.5 cm
© RMN-Grand Palais-Grand Palais-Grand Palais (Musée d'Orsay) / Hervé Lewandowski
Bazille - the tall, gangly figure standing by the painting on the easel near the centre - was actually painted in by Manet.  Bazille has painted Manet wearing a hat and standing in front of the canvas. Monet is thought to be standing behind him, if he isn't the young man looking down from the stairs, who might be Zola.  On the far left, the artist sitting on the table with one foot swinging could be Sisley or Renoir. At the piano is their friend, patron and companion at the Café Guerbois, Edmond Maître, who was devastated by Bazille's death later that year, and wrote: 'Of all the young people I've known, Bazille was the most gifted and likeable.' 








 

The Festival of Lights......and Latkes by Adèle Geras

$
0
0

Many religions, most religions, celebrate a Winter Festival. Christmas is the main one in the United Kingdom, but there are others, like Hanukkah, which is the subject of this post.  One advantage of not being religious is the fun of being able to celebrate other people's festivals and all through my life, in spite of my Jewish background, I've been a keen celebrator of Christmas. There are good secular reasons for this, mainly to do with food, presents,  and general fun and games, but also, eight years in the choir of  my school has made me a natural lover of, for example,  carols and carol  services. My best memory of carol singing was going round a village in Israel on Christmas Eve of 1966, singing carols to the mainly South African or American immigrants who lived there. Every household without exception was delighted to be reminded of "home" and invited us in to drink something or eat something....we returned to the house we were staying in through orange groves heavy with fruit. I've never forgotten that night.

 Two years ago, I went to a Carol Service at Ely Cathedral and it was a wonderful experience. I'm going again this year. I like the candles. I like the story. I like the whole thing. 

The Winter Festival for Jews is called Hanukkah. It celebrates a miracle.  Antiochus, the Syrian king, had desecrated the Temple in Jerusalem and forbidden the Jews to worship there.  Judah Maccabee and his brothers rose up against Antiochus.   They were   surrounded and besieged and had only oil  enough to light the Temple lamps for one more day. But every day, God made the oil last a little bit longer....it lasted eight days by which time, the Jews had time to make more oil. (No, I don't know how either!) In the end, Antiochus was defeated, the Temple reconsecrated and to this day, Jews light candles on the Menorah, the eight-branched candelabra to celebrate the miracle. 

But not only to celebrate the miracle. In the winter, everyone likes to gather round a fire. The days are short and cold, (and yes, I have memories of snow in Jerusalem during my childhood) and we have to console ourselves and keep warm and light candles against the encroaching darkness. Eating lovely food is one way humanity has found for doing this and for Hanukkah, Jews have concentrated on two delicious things: doughnuts and latkes. Everyone knows what a doughnut is,  and the picture below shows a rather fancy selection on sale in Mahane Yehuda Market in Jerusalem, a few hundred yards from where I lived when I was very young.



Latkes (potato pancakes)  may need  a bit of an introduction.  I wrote a book in 1990  called THE TASTE OF WINTER, in which a girl learns about Hanukkah and takes some latkes  in to an assembly at her school, to foster understanding between different religions. I provided a recipe  at the end of this book which I'm reproducing here. They are very labour-intensive but worth it, once a year.




LATKES: 

Grate 2Kgm potatoes.  Wrap the grated potatoes in a clean tea towel and squeeze as dry as possible. Then mix potatoes and two finely-chopped onions with three eggs and enough flour or matzo meal (or a combination of both) to make a paste that looks like a thick pancake batter.  Heat oil (sunflower or olive, like Judah Maccabee) and drop spoonfuls of batter into the oil. When one side is golden, turn over the latke and cook the other side. Serve hot. 








(this picture shows an ancient  Menorah found near Jerusalem in 1900)

There are other delightful things about Hanukkah.  Children like the Dreidels, little spinning tops which work amazingly well. They have Hebrew letters on each face: Nun, Gimmel, Hay, Shin. This stands for the sentence: Ness Gadol Haya Sham,  which means: There was a great miracle there.  The picture below shows dreidels from that same market, Mahane Yehuda. Traditionally, Jewish children get gifts at Hanukkah, and chocolate coins are often given. And many secular Jewish children also get Christmas presents.  I always did.  I always had Christmas dinner and still do. I don't seen anything wrong with that. The world is dark and anything anyone can do to light candles and spread the joy  and share the tasty food should be done, regardless of which God you believe in, or even if you believe in none. 

 



'I gave birth to a rabbit' - by Karen Maitland

$
0
0
I was giving a book talk recently when I made an off-the-cuff joke about have read a ‘true life’ magazine containing an article titled – 'My daughter gave birth to a hamster.’ Inevitably someone asked me if there really had been such an article and I had to confess I’d just invented that title to illustrate a point, but I should have known that whatever a fiction writer dreams up, they discover that at some time in history it has actually happened. And just a few days after that talk, I came across a wonderful account from 1726, in which a woman claimed to have given birth, not to a hamster, but to 15 furry rabbits. You won’t be surprised to learn it was an audacious money-making scam, and one that intrigued me, since many characters in my medieval novels are scam artists of one kind of another.

In 1726, a local male midwife, John Howard, reported that Mary Toft, wife of a journeyman clothmaker in Godalming, Surrey, had given birth to several animal parts including three legs of a tabby cat, and over several days between 1st November and 6th had given birth to four rabbits, born dead, but which had been seen leaping vigorously in her belly prior to birth. This account so fascinated King George I that he sent the court anatomist, Nathaniel St André to investigate.
Mary Toft


Mary had continued to produce rabbits since the report, and St André had arrived in time to watch her give birth to her 15th bunny or bunny-part (depending on which account you read), which the anatomist claimed to be full-formed and about the age of a normal four month old rabbit. Over the course of the next few days, St Andre ‘heard’ the rabbits leaping in Mary’s abdomen and witnessed the birth of several dismembered pieces of rabbit. Having succeeded in persuading St Andre, the midwife, John Howard, and Mary Toft then asked for life-time pensions from the King for their successful, if unorthodox method of rabbit production.

The king, a trifle sceptical, dispatched the royal gynaecologist Sir Richard Manningham, who, after the application of a hot towel, witnessed the violent jerking in Mary’s stomach, but this time Mary gave birth to part of a pig’s belly which was a birth too far for Manningham. He had the wisdom to move Mary to Mrs Lacy’s bagnio in London, where he could keep a close eye on her. A bagnio was a bath-house and women often there went to give birth because of the soothing effects of the hot water.

Unfortunately for Mary, the whole scam unravelled on 4th December when Mrs Lacy’s porter reported that she had asked him to buy a rabbit for her. Several villagers back in Godalming then admitted that they had supplied rabbits to her around the time she was giving birth, and she finally admitted she’d set up the whole thing to obtain money from visitors, as well as the hoped-for pension, though she blamed everyone one she could think of, including a gypsy and the midwife, for putting her up to it.
A contemporary cartoon of Mary Toft giving birth to rabbits


But the time the hoax was revealed, so many eminent physicians had become involved that as the reports of what this woman had seeming given birth to became wilder, the whole affair brought great ridicule to the medical profession, with sceptics like William Hogarth openly mocking their gullibility. Many professional reputations were ruined as a consequence.

It is interesting that Mary Toft chose rabbits which, in paintings, were sometimes depicted in the birth scenes of both Jesus and the birth of his mother. As well as being regarded as a symbol of fertility and the rabbit is also curiously a symbol of virginity and the mystery of the Incarnation, because rabbits can conceive a second litter while still pregnant with the first, so it was believed they could give birth without sex.
Vittore Capaccio - 'Birth of the Virgin Mary' 


Mary Toft might also have been inspired in her scam by the persistent rumours that had circulated for a few decades concerning the son of King James II who was born to his wife Mary of Modena in 1688. When she suddenly fell pregnant after years of childlessness, even the testimony of the 42 witnesses called in to verify the birth of the James Francis Edward in 1688 at St James's Palace, could not counter the rumours that the baby had been smuggled into the bedchamber in a warming pan or through a secret door in the bedhead. King James and his wife claimed they had conceived thanks to the ‘magic waters’ at Holywell, but the boy never became king and William of Orange seized the throne shortly after.

It was certainly not the first time that such rumours circulated about noble or royal heirs, so perhaps we can’t entirely blame commoners for getting inspired to do a little birth-room smuggling of their own. Besides, you’ve only got to read Greek mythology and even English folktales to realise that legend claims women have given birth to some pretty strange creatures. Just imagine being Pasiphae and giving birth to the Minotaur. If Mary Toft had managed to fake that birth she might even have got her pension.
Pasiphae nursing the infant Minotaur

Interview with Bronwen Riley

$
0
0
by Caroline Lawrence

I have just discovered a marvellous book about Roman Britain by an author I had not come across before. Bronwen Riley works for English Heritage and has already written several books including one about Transylvania. I found her latest book, Journey to Britannia*, while researching my fictional series set in Britain.

The hypothetical account of a Roman official's journey from Italy to Hadrian's Wall does what all my favourite books do: transports you to another place. She describes modes of travel, landscapes, monuments, works of art, customs and food. As a Classicist, I applaud her accuracy and as a writer I admire her prose. 
It's like a travel guide to Roman Britain!

When I discovered that Bronwen grew up in a beach hut, read Classics at Oxford, lived among woodcutters in the mountains of Transylvania and then took an MA in Byzantine art at the Courtauld, I had to know more! She kindly agreed to an interview by email.

Caroline: The bio on your agent’s site says you were born in Lancashire and that a beach hut on Morecambe Bay had a big impact on your life. Tell me more about this hut!


Photo courtesy of Bronwyn Riley
Bronwen: My mother's beach hut is the best place in the world to write (except in the summer holidays when the beach is too busy). It has electricity and water and I can spend the entire day there, from before breakfast until sunset. I can look out from the windows across the bay north to the Lakeland fells ('Lancashire over the Sands' before the county boundaries changed and it all became Cumbria); to the east on a clear day to Ingleborough in Yorkshire and to the west on an exceptionally clear day, the Isle of Man…

It was great when I was writing Journey to Britannia to think about all the Roman routes through the north west. There is so much written about Roman roads but it really struck me when researching this book how important transport by sea was and how much cheaper and potentially quicker it was than travel overland. Yet the coastline has changed so much that evidence for many ports has vanished.


Caroline: You read Classics at Oxford. Do you remember what first sparked your interest in Classics? Which bits of the subject did you most enjoy? 


model of Fishbrook Roman Palace
Bronwen: I loved history from my earliest childhood but I was interested in other periods too, not just Greeks and Romans. My childhood summers were spent in Sussex and I remember wonderful visits to Bignor and Fishbourne. I spent hours making the paper model of Fishbourne palace but I also adored the Weald and Downland Museum, and making the model of the medieval farmhouse too! I always enjoyed Latin but when I first started learning it I dreamed of using it to read medieval manuscripts because I was crazy about medieval history at the time.

It was only when we started to read Latin texts that I became really enthralled. I remember sitting in the classroom reading Aeneid II and it suddenly hit me that I was reading an actual piece of text written by a Roman poet and it gave me an absolute thrill which has never gone away. For A-Level we read Pliny's Letters and Tacitus Annals I. I enjoyed Pliny because he provided such vivid social history and Tacitus for both the history and also the way he uses language. One of the pleasures of writing this book was to revisit both Pliny and Tacitus.


But then at Oxford I became completely absorbed by Greek which I had done very little of beforehand. Although it was a very traditional course at the time, it still offered a wonderful variety of subjects over four years - language, literature, philosophy, history and art history. I loved the history and literature. 


Caroline: In your book Transylvania you write that when you were young you always dreamed of stepping back in time.  When – as an adult – you boarded a night train in Budapest and woke up in Transylvania, you did just that. What took you to Transylvania? 

Transylvania via Wikipedia
Bronwen: When I was at school, I remember reading somewhere that Romanian was a Romance language. I had never heard of Romania at the time and as it was impossible to find books about it (long before Internet!) in our library, I had only my imagination to call on and I imagined it was called Romania because that was where the last of the Romans had sought refuge there after the fall of Rome! Although I  learned this was not the case, I was still intrigued by the mystery of how this country, surrounded by Slavic and Magyar speakers, remained an island of Latin even though it had been occupied by the Romans for a far shorter period than had Britain, for example.

Caroline: What inspired you to write Journey to Britannia, your book about travel and life in Hadrianic Britain? 


photo of Bron, courtesy Bronwyn Riley
Bronwen: I work for English Heritage and have spent a lot of time thinking about how in a guidebook we might convey the history of a site and describe how it might have looked at various stages of its history. This isn't always easy when, for example you are standing at a Roman site which has been only partially excavated... Buildings change over time, as do people, in their manners, dress, language, relationships, art, literature, religion and so on. Yet more often than not we find books on 'Roman Britain' a period of a few hundred years referred to and considered as though it were one static period. I wanted to discover if it were possible to choose one particular period of 'Roman Britain' to evoke certain key places at one particular time. 

I also felt it important to put Britain in the context of empire and of the lives and literature and tastes of those who ruled her. By thinking about the time and distance it would take to travel to the north of Britain from Rome, I hoped to gain some insight into how the province might have been perceived. I chose AD 130 for several reasons – because we happened to know the names of some key personnel who served there at about that time and who were all connected with each other; because Hadrian's Wall had been completed and was undergoing modifications; because Hadrian is a fascinating character who was himself a restless traveller; because there were some key literary sources for round about that period.

Caroline: How did your time in Transylvania illuminate your understanding of Roman Britain?  


Transylvanian woman by Dan Dinescu
Bronwen: That's a fascinating question which I've never thought about before beyond the fact that I'm naturally interested in the Dacians who served here in Britain and the Britons who served in Dacia. In general terms the time I spent in a remote village in the mountains of Transylvania illuminated my understanding of the pre-industrialised past and of peasant culture and in magic belief and the way in which that sits side by side with Christianity. 

Caroline: Imagine you could really step back in time and see life way it was and glimpse some historical characters. Where and when would you go?

Bronwen: That is terrifically hard! When I read that question for some reason, I got a mental picture of Delphi and archaic Greece and Pindar and chariot races. I would also like to see lots of classical Greek art in situ in great temple complexes with their magnificent paintings, statuary and all the sumptuous textiles we have lost. In fact, if you allow me to whizz through time, I would like to see and touch lots of textiles – stops in 18th century London and Paris would be good in that respect with a coffee house break thrown in! I'd like to see Boudicca and Cartimandua and know what they looked like and what clothes they wore and how they behaved to others and how others behaved towards them and to know what languages they spoke. 

I'd like to hear Latin spoken in Britain by all sorts of people and to visit Carlisle at the time of St Cuthbert and to see how much was left of the Roman remains at that time along the whole of the wall. But I'd also like to travel back much closer in time. I'd like to see the changing configuration and interior of my house in Cumbria and to observe how the inhabitants occupied the spaces and how they decorated them over time. It's easy to forget how tastes, behaviour and language change in relatively short periods of time.

Caroline: Thank you so much for taking the time to answer my questions, Bronwen. I love Journey to Britannia, and I hope that other History Girls (and Boys) will soon discover its delights. 

*full title: Journey to Britannia: From the Heart of Rome to Hadrian's Wall, AD 130 It is available in hardback or Kindle format. 
Viewing all 2764 articles
Browse latest View live




Latest Images