Victorian Mourning

Like most people, I knew that after the death of her husband in 1861 Queen Victoria shut herself away and took little interest in government and public affairs until her own death 40 years later. What I didn’t realise was the extent to which she turned Albert into a kind of icon, or that long before he died she was already obsessed with death, dying, and the ritual of mourning.  So I found Helen Rappaport’s The Magnificent Obsession absolutely fascinating – though by the end I did feel that neither Victoria nor Albert were particularly likeable people.

Rappaport is very scholarly in her approach, and this book is obviously meticulously researched, but she has the gift of making facts interesting, so it is never dull, or dry, and it kept me turning the pages until late into the night (well, to be strictly accurate I should say the early hours of the morning, and I was very tired and grumpy when I got up, which I find that’s always the penalty of reading in bed, but I still do it).

This book only takes us up to 1878, and as well as looking at Victoria’s response to Albert’s death, Rappaport explores the way the monarchy changed during those years and how, despite the Queen’s seclusion and the problems faced by the country, the nation took her to their hearts and a new role as established for her as the Mother of the Nation, who was a figurehead for her people. Rappaport sees Albert’s death as one of the pivotal moments in the development of the modern monarchy: she believes that had Albert lived his role in government and decision making would have become far greater, and led to a clash between Parliamentarians and Royalists. But in the end his death, and Victoria’s response to it, served to consolidate the position of the monarch as head of state, with no political power.

And although there are constitutional crises and battles for power, it’s the human story in the Magnificent Obsession that is so gripping. Towering over everything and everyone is the figure of Albert, a perfectionist, driven, controlling and as obsessive about the monarchy, its duties and role as Victoria was with him – the title could as easily apply to him. He comes across as being rather humourless and dour, very serious, self-righteous, a little pompous, but very hard-working and conscientious, determined to do the best he could for the Royal family and his adopted country.

In February 1872 Queen Victoria made a rare
departure from full mourning by adding ermine
trimming to her black gown for Bertie's
Thanksgiving Service at St Paul's Cathedral.

But it’s hard to know what his motives were. Rappaport sees him as the real power behind the throne, and is convinced that had he lived Victoria would have been happy to hand her authority to him and take a back seat, leading to conflict between the crown and the government, and the crown and the people. I  can’t decide whether he was completely selfless, a man who loved his wife and family and worked tirelessly for her good, wanting nothing for himself, or whether he was very manipulative and was quick to seize an opportunity which would give him unlimited power.

Victoria is equally hard to read. She appears to have been besotted by Albert and it’s easy to say she was willing take direction from him and was easily swayed, but there were times when she was quite capable of standing her ground, even if she did behave like a spoilt teenager hell-bent on getting her own way. And I really do wonder about that love she had for him, because it seems so stifling and obsessive. Did she really feel like that? Did she seize on him and make him the object of her affections and desires because she’d had a lonely, unhappy childhood and was desperate for attention? Was he someone she thought would belong to her, and be there for her, in a way no-one else had ever done? Or was she a young, inexperienced girl, in love with the idea of being in love? The picture Rappaport paints is of a woman who protests her love so loudly and frequently that I began to wonder whether Victoria was simply trying to fool herself, or to create the persona she thought people wanted and expected.

In the hours and days immediately after Albert’s death she is calm, numb almost – everyone who knew her well commented on her behaviour, for they expected a hysterical outpouring of grief. No-one, however, could have anticipated just how extreme her reaction would become, and it seems as if during the initial period she was gearing herself up for a prolonged period of over-the-top mourning. And then it’s almost as if her grief can only be experienced through all those outer appearances of mourning: that’s what makes it real for her.

It’s impossible to even begin to describe what was involved, and Rappaport writes about it so well that my efforts would pale into significance, but I must say that the fashion and jewellery industries did exceedingly well out of Victoria’s mourning!

One of the last official photographs
taken of Prince Albert.

There are unexpected glimpses of the rich and famous of the day, alongside tales of the less of the less well known, like the reporter who broke the news of Albert’s death, which must have been the scoop not just of  his career, but of the entire century. And the details about political situations are sometimes quite extraordinary.  I was unaware that immediately before Albert’s death Britain came perilously close to being dragged into the American Civil War – to defend the cotton producing South, which kept British cotton mills in business!

The book ends with a discussion on the possible reasons for Albert’s death. As a rule typhoid is blamed, but Rappaport is not convinced, and amasses evidence which leads her to a different conclusion. There is so much information in the book that it’s very difficult to convey it’s flavour, or to give a précis which really does it justice. All I can say is go and read it for yourself, because it is a jolly good read!

Let's Drink Lavender Water Tinged With Pink!

Somewhat belatedly, today, I think, I’ll take a drink, of lavender water, tinged with pink... accompanied, of course, by a tasty dish, of eggs and buttercups fried with fish - and if that doesn’t give you a clue about the topic under discussion, then you don’t deserve to join the party! For today I’m celebrating Edward Lear’s 200th birthday. And yes, I do know he was born on May 12, 1812, but I failed to finish writing this before setting off on a four-day holiday in Paris (although I did manage to schedule some Saturday Snapshots, and they appeared right on time, which I thought was very clever, as I had never done a ‘timed’ post before).

Anyway, I am sure you are all aware of Lear’s limericks (he wrote more than 200 of them) and his nonsense verse, including The Owl and the Pussy-cat, which most people seem to think is a nursery rhyme, which is a shame, because he deserves some recognition for what must be one of the most joyful - and silliest – poems in the English language. The whole idea is just so delightful: an owl and a cat sailing away to get married – but I’d love to know why they took honey with them, and why was the money wrapped up in a £5 note.  Does the £5 note not count as money?

And who could fail to love the Jumblies, whose lands are ‘far and few’ and who went to sea in a sieve:

They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,
To a land all covered with trees,
And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,
And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,
And a hive of silvery Bees.

Best of all in my view is The Pobble, whose story romps along from beginning to end in a truly magical fashion:

The Pobble who has no toes
Had once as many as we;
When they said "Some day you may lose them all;"
He replied "Fish, fiddle-de-dee!"
And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink
Lavender water tinged with pink,
For she said "The World in general knows
There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!”

The Pobble who has no toes
Swam across the Bristol Channel;
But before he set out he wrapped his nose
In a piece of scarlet flannel.
For his Aunt Jobiska said "No harm
Can come to his toes if his nose is warm;
And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes
Are safe, -- provided he minds his nose!"

The Pobble swam fast and well,
And when boats or ships came near him,
He tinkledy-blinkledy-winkled a bell,
So that all the world could hear him.
And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,
When they saw him nearing the further side -
"He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's
Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!"

But before he touched the shore,
The shore of the Bristol Channel,
A sea-green porpoise carried away
His wrapper of scarlet flannel.
And when he came to observe his feet,
Formerly garnished with toes so neat,
His face at once became forlorn,
On perceiving that all his toes were gone!

And nobody ever knew,
From that dark day to the present,
Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,
In a manner so far from pleasant.
Whether the shrimps, or crawfish grey,
Or crafty Mermaids stole them away -
Nobody knew: and nobody knows
How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!

The Pobble who has no toes
Was placed in a friendly Bark,
And they rowed him back, and carried him up
To his Aunt Jobiska's Park.
And she made him a feast at his earnest wish
Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish, -
And she said "It's a fact the whole world knows,
That Pobbles are happier without their toes!"

I love the rhyming of ‘forlorn’ and ‘were gone’ – it has to be one the greatest rhymes ever, right up there with Byron’s incredible two lines from Don Juan:

But — Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual,
Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all.

Lear illustrated his rhymes, and also produced nonsense alphabets and nonsense botany, featuring strange plants like Stunnia Dinnerbellia, where the flower is a washtub), or Manypeeplia Upsidownia, which is self-explanatory. But he started his career as a serious artist, painting and drawing birds, animals and landscapes. He was nominated as an Associate of the Linnean Society, and in 1846 he gave drawing lessons to Queen Victoria, so he must have been well thought of. I’d love to know how and why he turned his talents to ‘nonsense’, but he once described nonsense as ‘the breath of my nostrils’ and wrote about ‘this ludicrously whirligig life which one suffers first and laughs at afterwards’. Perhaps nonsense simply made him happy – whatever the reason, his work has made a lot of people smile over the years.

He was born in Highgate and was the 20th child of Jeremiah Lear, a stockbroker who lost his money when Lear was four, at which point it seems his mother Ann handed him over to his sister (also an Ann) who was 21 years older than him. I don’t know if all the children survived, but I must say that after so many births his poor mother must have been quite worn out and the prospect of raising another offspring in reduced circumstances must have been less than enticing. 

A painting of Venice by Lear

Anyway, he was educated by his sister Ann and another sister, and started work as an artist when he was about 14 or 15.  His first book of limericks was published in 1846, but it didn’t become really popular until the third edition was printed in 1861. His health was never good. Even as a young child he suffered from epilepsy and depression (which he referred to as ‘the demon’ and ‘the morbids’) and was very short-sighted, as well as suffering from bronchitis and asthma. However didn’t stop him travelling widely, not just in Europe but in Jerusalem, Lebanon, Constantinople, Petra, Bethlehem, Egypt, India and Ceylon, and he painted the scenes he saw while abroad. He died in San Remo on January. 29, 1888.

Edward Lear photographed in 1887

 *If you want to know more, there is an Edward Lear page at http://nonsenselit.wordpress.com/  which includes details about his work, his limericks and rhymes.