Robert Harris reviews

Robert Harris CBE (born 1957) has had a spectacularly successful career. He went from a humble background in Nottingham, to Cambridge University, and then to the BBC where he worked on flagship news programmes Panorama and Newsnight before becoming political editor of The Observer at the age of just 30.

In the later 1980s he wrote half a dozen factual journalistic books, and then in 1992 published the first of his fiction books, ‘Fatherland’, which became a popular bestseller. Since then he has kept up an impressive workrate, producing a new novel in the popular thriller genre, every three or so years.

The first few were set against the Second World War which has been a recurring setting (‘Fatherland’, ‘Enigma’, ‘Munich’, ‘V2’) but he soon branched out, writing page-turners set in the contemporary world, (‘The Ghost’, ‘The Fear Index’), late nineteenth century France (‘An Officer and a Spy’), the ancient world (‘Pompeii’), the future (‘The Second Sleep’). In 2006 he embarked upon a brilliant trilogy based on the life of Cicero, the leading writer and political player at the time of Caesar, Mark Anthony and Octavian.

Several of Harris’s novels have been adapted into films – for example, The Ghost Writer (2010), An Officer and a Spy (2019) – but he recently hit gold when ‘Conclave’ was made into a movie directed by Edward Berger with award-nominated performances by Ralph Fiennes and Stanley Tucci.

Harris’s novels

1992 Fatherland A brilliantly gripping alternative history in which the Nazis won the Second World War. The story’s protagonist, Xavier March, is an officer of the Kripo, the criminal police, who is investigating the murder of a Nazi government official who participated at the Wannsee Conference. Slowly he realises he has stumbled on a vast conspiracy at the heart of Nazi rule, the Holocaust which, in this world, has been hushed up. The documents March eventually uncovers contain some of the most searing descriptions of going into the gas chambers of a concentration camp I’ve read in any genre.

1995 Enigma Enigma as in the famous code-cracking operation at Bletchley Park. The story focuses on gifted cryptanalyst Tom Jericho, recuperating in Cambridge from a nervous breakdown brought on by the pressures of work and the breakup of his relationship with Claire Romilly, a cipher clerk, but when he gets back to Cambridge, Claire has gone missing. Who? Why? Where? Another gripping mystery.

1998 Archangel Set in the present: Christopher ‘Fluke’ Kelso is a historian attending a conference in Moscow. He meets an old communist who tells him about a secret notebook which contains a secret concerning Stalin which threatens to turn history upside down.

2007 The Ghost The unnamed ghost writer who narrates the story, has been hired and flown to Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts, to help write the memoirs of former British Prime Minister Adam Lang, transparently based in Tony Blair, who Harris was close to. The unexplained disappearance of the writer whose place he’s taken prompts the narrator to undertake investigations which (like the previous two thrillers) lead to a momentous revelation.

2011 The Fear Index Also set in the modern world, this concerns the way an artificial intelligence created to dabble in the stock market, runs out of control.

2013 An Officer and a Spy Leaping back a century, this one follows French military intelligence officer Georges Picquart who begins to discover that the evidence used to convict Alfred Dreyfus of espionage was likely invented, in which case a German agent is still at large in the French military.

2016 Conclave Set in the present, this bestseller describes in typically thorough fashion what happens when Pope dies and a conclave is called to elect a new one: taking us into the heart of the process during which various leading contenders turn out to be ineligible for all manner of Machiavellian reasons. Clever, gripping.

2017 Munich Set over four days in September 1938 during the Munich Agreement, the novel describes the activities of two characters, aides to the British and Nazi delegations. This has the structure and mannerisms of the previous thrillers but, for the first time, didn’t have the same ‘grip’. All the historical detail is there, and the panic-stricken meetings and the twists and turns. Except we know this changed nothing. The Second World War still came. So who cares?

2019 Second Sleep Set in the future after some disaster has set England back to medieval technology and culture. In this world a young priest, Christopher Fairfax, arrives at a remote village in the wilds of Exmoor to bury a priest who has died ‘in mysterious circumstances’. Slowly he realises the locals are concealing a secret i.e. the book builds to the same kind of Revelation that characterised Harris’s first half dozen novels. Except the final revelation is deeply underwhelming: we find out that the Old World (i.e. our world) experienced some catastrophic breakdown of its digital infrastructure. This is deeply disappointing because a) we knew right from the start that this was a future after some catastrophe; b) so it is just like many, many other science fiction novels set in the future after some catastrophe wiped out ‘our’ culture, all the ones I’m familiar with (The Chrysalids, A Canticle for Leibowitz) being much, much better; and c) the final revelation, that the satellites which keep global digital tech working all crashed, is not really a believable cause for a worldwide apocalypse. OK there’d be disasters but surely we’d just revert to life in the 1970s before digital tech: cars would still drive, food would still grow, not as much but still quite a lot; livestock would be farmed etc etc. The idea that the end of digital tech would devastate the world beyond recognition is not plausible or thrilling. This is the first Harris novel I read but couldn’t be bothered to review because it’s the first one that’s actively bad.

The Cicero trilogy

A brilliant trilogy of novels describing the fraught political career of ancient Roman statesman, lawyer, scholar, philosopher, orator and writer, Marcus Tullius Cicero (106 to 43 BC). They manage to stick very closely to the historical record while at the same time conveying the genuine excitement and danger of 1st century BC Rome.

2006 Imperium All three are narrated by Cicero’s secretary, Tiro. This first volume covers 15 years and is divided into two parts: Part one, ‘Senator’ (79 to 70 BC) leading up to Cicero’s career-making prosecution of a corrupt Roman governor, Gaius Verres; Part two, ‘Praetorian (68 to 64 BC)’ covers his campaign to be elected consul, which becomes entangled with a major plot by Julius Caesar and Marcus Licinius Crassus to stitch up control of the Roman state.

2009 Lustrum Continues Cicero’s career in fraught first century BC Rome, as related by his secretary Tiro. It covers the next five years in Cicero’s life and career (the Latin word lustrum referring to the religious sacrifice offered every five years by state officials)and is again divided into two parts: Part one ‘Consul’, covers the dramatic year of 63 BC giving a thrilling description of the slow escalation of the crisis which developed into Lucius Sergius Catalina’s conspiracy to overthrow the Roman state. Part two, ‘Pater Patriae’, covers the next four years, 62 to 58 BC: beneath a blizzard of more overt incidents and challenges, the two underlying themes are the unstoppable rise of Caesar and his creation of the First Triumvirate (in 60 BC).

2015 Dictator The final book in the trilogy covers the last 15 years of Cicero’s life, from 58 BC to his murder at the hands of agents of Mark Antony in 44 BC. It’s divided into Part one, ‘Exile’ (58 to 47 BC), and Part two ‘Redux (47 to 43 BC), leading up to Cicero’s flight form Rome and eventual murder by agents of Mark Anthony’s. Outstanding.

Selected Stories by Katherine Mansfield – 1

Ping went the door.
(Mansfield’s interest in sounds)

‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘I am so miserable–so frightfully miserable. I know that I’m silly and spiteful and vain; I’m always acting a part. I’m never my real self for a moment.’
(So many of her characters feel like they’re acting a part)

‘Nobody understands me. I feel as though I were living in a world of strange beings—do you?’
(Edna speaking for all of us, in ‘Something Childish but Very Natural’)

Open this book anywhere, start reading any one of these wonderful short stories, and you know at once that you are in the presence of something very special. Something edgy, lyrical, disconcerting, always moving beyond what you expected, opening doors where you didn’t even know there were walls. Katherine Mansfield is a magical writer whose stories overflow with subtle but overwhelming power.

She wrote about 100 short stories in her short life. This Oxford University Press paperback brings together 33 of them. This post contains a short biography then my summaries of the first 15 stories. In a subsequent blog post I summarise the remaining 18 stories, then in a third blog post I look at some of the themes and images which recur in them.

Biography

Katherine Mansfield was born in Wellington, the capital of New Zealand, in 1888. Her parents were affluent and she was sent to a good private school. In 1903 she was sent to London to be educated at a private school. From 1903 to 1906 she travelled in Europe and then returned to New Zealand for a year. Unsurprisingly, on her return she found New Zealand life provincial and her family stifling, and so in 1908 she returned to London, aged 19. Her father gave her an annual allowance of £100 for the rest of her life, but she often lived in some poverty.

In England Mansfield was introduced to the society hostess Lady Ottoline Morrell and the Bloomsbury Circle, the Woolfs, the Stracheys and all the rest of them. She complained that, with their characteristic snobbery, they treated her as an outsider. She had a closer if challenging relationship with that other outsider, D.H. Lawrence. They eventually fell out, as everyone did with Lawrence.

She began a relationship with the literary editor John Middleton Murry, with her leaving him 1911 and again in 1913, although they ended up getting married in 1918. It is widely agreed that the characters Gudrun and Gerald in D. H. Lawrence’s Women in Love are based on Mansfield and Murry, although I’ve read Murry’s quote that if Lawrence thought Gudrun was a portrait of Katherine, it just went to prove that he didn’t know or understand her at all.

Mansfield’s first collection, ‘In A German Pension’, was published in 1911 directly resulting from her stay in Germany. During the Great War, in 1915, her brother Leslie was killed, triggering thoughts, poems and stories nostalgic for her girlhood and family. In 1917, she was diagnosed with pulmonary tuberculosis and she had her first lung haemorrhage in March 1918. She went to stay with friends at Looe in Cornwall in the hope of improving her health. It was here that the American painter Anne Estelle Rice painted a brilliant portrait of her:

Portrait Of Katherine Mansfield by Anne Estelle Rice (1918)

As soon as the war was over she was advised to go to a warmer climate and from 1919 onwards she spent every winter abroad. She travelled round France seeking a cure. ‘Bliss and Other Stories’ was published in 1920. In October 1922 she abandoned traditional medicine and moved to Fontainebleau to stay at G.I. Gurdjieff’s Institute for the Harmonious Development of Man. On 9 January 1923, she suffered a pulmonary haemorrhage after running up a flight of stairs and died within the hour. She was just 34.

In the last few years of her life, Mansfield was a prolific writer and much of her work remained unpublished at her death. Her widower, Murry, took on the task of editing and publishing it in two further volumes of short stories, ‘The Doves’ Nest’ in 1923, and ‘Something Childish’ in 1924.

The OUP edition

This Oxford University Press edition is edited with introduction and notes by Angela Smith and was published in 2002. Of Mansfield’s 100 or so stories, it selects 33.

1. Frau Brechenmacher Attends a Wedding (1910)

Frau Brechenmacher is the wife of the village postman, Herr Brechenmacher, and mother of his five children. It is winter and snow lies thick on the ground. It’s the end of the working day and the pair are late to a wedding taking place in the Gasthaus. Having helped him into his best suit and boots, the pair hasten to the festivities. Inside is warm and packed and noisy and smelling of beer. Frau Brechenmacher plumps into a chair beside friends Frau Rupp and Frau Ledermann. It is like Breughel, a vigorous celebration of north European peasant life and manners. The bride, Theresa, has brought her baby, born out of wedlock, to the wedding.

Frau Brechenmacher turned round and looked towards the bride’s mother. She never took her eyes off her daughter, but wrinkled her brown forehead like an old monkey, and nodded now and again very solemnly. Her hands shook as she raised her beer mug, and when she had drunk she spat on the floor and savagely wiped her mouth with her sleeve.

The village gossips tell our Frau that the man the frail young bride got pregnant by only stopped a couple of nights in the village. He was a travelling button salesman. The dance music makes Frau Brechenmacher feel young again and she wishes she could dance, too. Then things quieten down for her husband to make a speech and present the happy couple with a present but as the crowd roar and laugh she has an oppressive feeling that everyone is laughing at her.

They make it back to their house alright and Frau Brechenmacher feeds her man then checks on the children and then, in the last brutal lines, undresses and gets into bed ready for the onslaught of his big drunk drooling husband.

Then even the memory of the wedding faded quite. She lay down on the bed and put her arm across her face like a child who expected to be hurt as Herr Brechenmacher lurched in.

2. The Woman at the Store (1912)

In the New Zealand outback (apparently referred to in New Zealand as the ‘backblocks’) three travellers on horseback, Hin and Jo and the unnamed woman narrator, after a long hot ride arrive at a remote farmstead. They’re greeted by a half-mad wizened lady holding a gun and tending a 6-year-old girl. She says her husband is off sheep-shearing and asks them to ride on but they stop, hitch a tent and bathe in the creek.

Jo talks the woman round to inviting them up to the house for drinks, they all get slowly drunk while the woman moans and feels sorry for herself, taking her frustration out on beating the child almost whenever she speaks. The woman has been seduced by Jo and they’ve reached an arrangement to sleep together. Slowly a storm comes up and breaks overhead with lightning and rain. The woman invites them to get their stuff from the tent and bunk down in the store, alongside the girl, while she and Jo share the bed.

All through the afternoon and evening drinking the girl (clearly a bit mad herself) has been sketching and drawing. Now, angry at her ma, she draws the drawing her ma threatens to shoot her for. She shows it to Hin and Jo who see it’s a drawing of a woman shooting a man then digging a grave: the husband she was moaning about and complaining had gone off shearing, she must have shot him!

Hin and the narrator stay up all night terrified and as soon as dawn comes, strike camp and pack their horses. Jo announces he’s going to stay on with her but the other two can’t wait to put distance between them and the murder store. A story packed with utterly believable detail and then with a mule kick in the tail.

Commentary

It is fascinating to learn from Angela Smith’s introduction that Mansfield refused to allow this story to be reproduced during her lifetime. This is because that ‘mule kick in the tail’, that last-minute punchline, is precisely the standard short story format which she was hoping to escape or move beyond, towards stories with less predictable structures, which make their impact through vivid details and puzzling, fugitive moments.

3. How Pearl Button was Kidnapped (1912)

Little Pearl is stolen from outside her house by two plump Indigenous women and walks miles to their camp where everyone is delighted with her and pets her, then they load her up into a cart, one among many horsedrawn wagons (‘a green cart with a red pony and a green pony’) and they trek for miles through the bush till they reach a bluff overlooking the sea and the women take Pearl down to the beach and she digs holes and frolics in the warm little surf until she hears whistles and men in blue coming running towards them. It is the police come to ‘rescue’ her.

4. Millie (1913)

New Zealand: Millie is the working class wife of Sid, a labourer in a rural farming community, waiting for him and some other men who have gone in search of Harrison, an Englishman who has supposedly shot and killed a neighbour, Mr Williamson. Millie hears a noise and finds a wounded man lying in the garden. When she sees he is little more than a boy she stops being scared and, despite realising that this is probably Harrison the alleged murderer, she becomes sympathetic and helps him, and then hides him, promising that he will go free. The men return home, eat, and settle down to sleep, with Millie on tenterhooks about Harrison in his hiding place – until a neighbour’s dog starts barking, the men rouse and go outside, only to see Harrison saddled up and go galloping through the compound and off. The men set off in pursuit and Millie, who had been so sympathetic and nursing, is swept up in the thrill of the chase, runs into the street in her nightdress and yells after the men to catch him and shoot him:

‘A—ah! Arter ‘im, Sid! A—a—a—h! Ketch him, Willie. Go it! Go it! A—ah, Sid! Shoot ‘im down. Shoot ‘im!’

A brilliant evocation of the susceptibility, the deep irrationality, of human nature.

5. Something Childish but Very Natural (1914)

Henry is not yet 18 and likes books. Browsing in a bookshop at the railway station he is so enchanted with a poem titled ‘Something Childish but very Natural’ that he nearly misses his train, jumping into the nearest carriage as it pulls away, where he gets talking to a girl, really a girl, 16-year-old Edna, and feels an overwhelming attraction to her. The next Saturday he seeks her out at the station and they get on the train and talk again.

Somehow they have both been seized by a tremendous but somehow naive friendship, attachment, understanding. They both feel it and are shy and laugh.

Their eyes were not frightened—they looked at each other page with a sort of desperate calmness. If only their bodies would not tremble so stupidly!…
‘I feel as if I’d known you for years.’

She tells him her mother is Hungarian and wild and rebellious and she shares her character, completely unlike her small quiet father. He asks her to take off her hat and let down her hair and they both marvel at how natural their intimate friendship seems:

‘My God!’ he cried, ‘what fools people are! All the little pollies that you know and that I know. Just look at you and me. Here we are—that’s all there is to be said. I know about you and you know about me—we’ve just found each other—quite simply—just by being natural. That’s all life is—something childish and very natural. Isn’t it?’

They exchange love letters. One Saturday he buys tickets and takes her to a concert. Here he becomes really vexed because she won’t ever let him touch her, won’t let him touch her hair or take her hand, won’t let him help her off with her coat, won’t let them jointly hold the concert program. He is desperate to touch her, feel that she is real, and she is just as anxious, almost panic-stricken, at the thought of being touched, and after the concert, in the square, she bursts into tears and says it tortures her that he is upset at her refusal to let him touch her, let alone kiss her, but she just can’t: she feels that if they did that they would cross a line, it would no longer be childish and innocent, they would be hiding something from their parents, they would no longer, somehow, be free.

They wander London until they come to a suburb down by the river (Brentford? Kew?) and fantasise about living in one of the riverside cottages. Henry naively says they can live without money, they just need each other and faith.

Cut to a new scene of them in a wood, Henry lying on a bed of leaves ‘faint with longing’ – it seems like he is sexually aroused and primed but, when he goes to find Edna he discovers her in a dell picking flowers, so he has to suppress himself in order not to spoil her sexless happiness.

As if in a dream, in a hallucination, they get up and walk for miles until they come to a village tea rooms whose owner asks if they know anyone who is interested in renting her sister’s cottage, so they go and inspect the cottage, in their dreamy idyll mode. Here she suddenly impulsively embraces him and tells him she’s been wanting him to kiss her all day. Well, there is the language of speech; she could say: ‘Kiss me’, but they are young and think everything happens by unspoken agreement.

In the last scene Henry is in the cottage impatiently waiting for Edna’s train to arrive so he can collect her and walk her back through the country lanes and their ideal life can continue. Only now does the text make it explicit that this is all a dream.

Henry thought he saw a big white moth flying down the road. It perched on the gate. No, it wasn’t a moth. It was a little girl in a pinafore. What a nice little girl, and he smiled in his sleep

A young girl in a white pinafore comes down the road and hands him a telegram.

He laughed gently in the dream and opened it very carefully.

And we aren’t told what the telegram says but suddenly a web of darkness is thrown over the woods, the cottage and Henry – and that is the end of the story. How wonderful, lyrical, transporting and strange.

Colours

[Spring] had put a spangle in every colour… the black portfolio… her cheek and shoulder half hidden by a long wave of marigold-coloured hair… one little hand in a grey cotton glove… Henry noticed a silver bangle on the wrist… She wore a green coat… She bent her head to hide the red colour that flew in her cheeks… her grey eyes under the shadow of her hat and her eyebrows like two gold feathers… her throat was whiteWhite smoke floated against the roof of the station—dissolved and came again in swaying wreaths… She pulled it round her shoulders like a cape of gold… A blue net of light hung over the streets and houses, and pink clouds floated in a pale sky… above his head the new leaves quivered like fountains of green water steeped in sunlight… Two little spots of colour like strawberries glowed on her cheeks… It was evening—the pale green sky was sprinkled with stars…

6. The Little Governess (1915)

This text vividly conveys the terror of travelling abroad as a small, vulnerable woman in a man’s world, presumably based on the lonely journey Mansfield took to Germany to have an abortion in 1911.

A small, shy young woman gets a job via an agency for governesses. It’s in Germany and the text describes her solo journey there from England. Basically she is terrified of everything. The Governess Bureau set the tone by telling her to lock all doors and not to speak to strangers. When her ship docks a big rough man asks where she’s headed then seizes her baggage and strides off before she can stop him. She struggles to keep up and when he finally delivers her to the right train platform, he is cross that she doesn’t tip him adequately. Then a group of rowdy men come shouting down the corridor and go into the next-door compartment, re-emerging to knock on her door and invite her to join them, with mock courtesy. ‘I wish it wasn’t night-time. I wish there was another woman in the carriage. I’m frightened of the men next door.’

The train bounds forward through the night and at the next station an old man is shown into her carriage. He is to be her downfall. He appears to be a courteous old man who tuts and frets about the rowdy blokes next door. Most of the text is devoted to the way he very slowly butters her up. When he discovers she’s going to Munich he offers to show her to her hotel and around the sights of Munich which he proceeds to do. The woman who is employing her as a governess isn’t due to meet her at her hotel till 6pm, so they have all day to get her settled in, then for the old man to reappear and take her round the sights.

With each new sight and lunch and treats, ice cream at a cafe and so on, she feels more relaxed in his company until, at the end of the afternoon, he makes his move and invites her back to his humble abode. This turns out to be down a dark alley and in a grubby house and a dingy apartment where he invites her to sit next to her on the sofa and next thing she knows has leaned over and kissed her on the lips!

Leaping up, she runs out the room and takes a cab back to the hotel but disaster has struck. It’s well past 6pm and, according to a porter, the woman offering her the job turned up at 6pm only to be told that she had gone swanning off with an older gentleman and hadn’t been seen since. The implication is that by being taken in by the old man, she has lost the position she came all this way to take up.

It sounds simple but as with all Mansfield, the story is riven by complicated dynamics and psychology which I haven’t had space to summarise. It is another small masterpiece.

7. An Indiscreet Journey (1915)

Like ‘Something Childish but Very Natural’ only more so, this is a fantasia, a fever dream, a wild, exaggerated, fanciful narrative which follows the first-person narrator as she dashes out of her Paris apartment, runs down into the Metro and catches a train to the main railway station, hurtles onto a train to X (it is never explained where this is). The narrative is full of fancy and whimsy.

I conjured up my sweetest early-morning smile and handed it with the papers. But the delicate thing fluttered against page the horn spectacles and fell.

But it is wartime and so the train and every station are packed with soldiers and Red Cross nurses and the train flies past fields full of flowers except they are graves with bunches of coloured ribbon attached. She arrives at the unnamed town and rushes into a buffet which is all hustle and bustle and colours and sounds.

A little boy, very pale, swung from table to table, taking the orders, and poured me out a glass of purple coffee. Ssssb, came from the eggs. They were in a pan. The woman rushed from behind the counter and began to help the boy. Toute de suite, tout’ suite! she chirruped to the loud impatient voices. There came a clatter of plates and the poppop of corks being drawn.

From where she ran to another platform and jumped onto a smaller train. She has been invited to stay by her uncle and aunt. M. and Mme. Boiffard. Whimsy. Fantasia.

I smiled faintly, and tried to keep my eyes off her hat. She was quite an ordinary little woman, but she wore a black velvet toque, with an incredibly surprised looking sea-gull camped on the very top of it. Its round eyes, fixed on me so inquiringly, were almost too much to bear. I had a dreadful impulse to shoo it away, or to lean forward and inform her of its presence… Could the bird be there on purpose? I must not laugh… I must not laugh.

And indeed, the seagull starts interrogating the narrator, asking why she’s going to X at this perilous time (in the middle of a war)? The narrator passes a cursory passport control with two bumptious colonels and is taken by a corporal to a hotel with a cab which she takes with him, and they set off round the town, dropping off stuff, a parcel at the barracks, then onto a house which the corporal urges her to jump into and there are two figures who, she assumes, are her uncle and aunt.

In the next section she has been out walking and gotten lost. The fragility of her location, her bearings, of the aunt and uncle she’s never seen before – all feel highly experimental and modernist. And yet veined with wonderfully vivid descriptive phrases.

Already the village houses were sealed for the night behind big wooden shutters. Strange and mysterious they looked in the ragged drifting light and thin rain, like a company of beggars perched on the hill-side, their bosoms full of rich unlawful gold.

She is rescued by the waiter-boy who takes her to her favourite cafe which, as she takes a seat, turns into a big barn with strange wallpaper and the clatter of dishes being washed. For a moment the narrative gives up any pretence of being realistic.

And years passed. Perhaps the war is long since over—there is no village outside at all—the streets are quiet under the grass. I have an idea this is the sort of thing one will do on the very last day of all—sit in an empty café and listen to a clock ticking until—.

‘What one will do on the very last day of all…’ Wow. Suddenly a massive idea. And then back to the cafe-barn where the pretty waiting-boy serves some orange drink but the bottle is knocked over, the liquid drips onto the floor. Then she finds herself in an extended conversation with two soldiers and the corporal, about trivia, about whether the English drink whiskey with their meals, a big drunk one with a black beard, a slighter one with blue eyes. Blue eyes insists on dragging them across the village to a bar, the Café des Amis, to drink what he swears is the finest drink, Mirabelle. The landlady is scandalised because it’s past the 8 o’clock curfew but she serves them anyway.

The patriarchy

So silly – men, the patriarchy, the war.

It was a hot little room completely furnished with two colonels seated at two tables. They were large grey-whiskered men with a touch of burnt red on their cheeks. Sumptuous and omnipotent they looked. One smoked what ladies love to call a heavy Egyptian cigarette, with a long creamy ash, the other toyed with a gilded pen. Their heads rolled on their tight collars, like big over-ripe fruits… ‘What’s this?’ said God I., querulously.

8. The Wind Blows (1915, revised 1920)

A wild wind is blowing, where? Across the island, New Zealand? The wind symbolises and echoes the turbulent heart of Matilda, the teenage girl protagonist who disobeys her mother, running out into the tearing wind in order to get to her music lesson with kind old, tweed-jacketed Mr Bullen. The turmoil is in her heart, too, because she has a crush on Mr Bullen and notices every aspect of his physical presence, the way he reaches across the shoulders of the piano student before her, the way his hands nearly touch hers, the way he sits close to her on the piano bench, and so on. Feverish teenage crush.

Finally the wind accompanies Matilda and her (male) friend, Bogie, when they walk down to the docks and watch a big old steamer pushing through the waves and, in a magical modernist touch, suddenly she and Bogie are adults, on just such a steamer returning to the island after years away.

Breath-taking and singled out for praise by Virginia Woolf, apparently.

9. Prelude

‘Prelude’ is a long piece, based on Mansfield’s memories of her family moving from the centre of Wellington to a country suburb in 1893 when Katherine was 5. It was originally the first chapter of a novel which she worked at off and on between 1915 and 1918, and which her widower, John Middleton Murry, edited and published in 1930 under the title ‘Aloe.’

It’s long and in 12 parts but the basic idea is simple enough: Stanley Burnell, his wife Linda, and their two children – Lottie, Kezia and Isabel – along with her mother, Grandma (Mrs Fairfield) and her sister (Aunt Beryl Fairfield) Fairfield, along with the servants (Pat, the Irish handyman and Alice, the servant girl with adenoids) are moving house in the slow laborious late-Victorian way of piling their belongings on a horse and cart. In the morning the husband goes off to work while the women supervise the loading of the cart, its journey to the new place and unpacking, while the children are left behind in the care of a fat friendly neighbour, Mrs Josephs (who happens to have a comically heavy cold). In the evening Fred the storeman returns with the cart to take the second and final load of belongings and collect the three young children.

The day’s wait, the eerie emptiness of the old home, the cart journey as night falls, the sights and smells of the new house, the arrival of morning and exciting new sights – are all seem through the children’s eyes with a magical freshness and vividness. The text has more than the usual amount of vivid similes and descriptions.

As she stood there, the day flickered out and dark came. With the dark crept the wind snuffling and howling. The windows of the empty house shook, a creaking came from the walls and floors, a piece of loose iron on the roof banged forlornly.

Bright stars speckled the sky and the moon hung over the harbour dabbling the waves with gold… ‘There comes the Picton boat,’ said the storeman, pointing to a little steamer all hung with bright beads.

From all over the house came the sound of steps. The house itself creaked and popped. Loud whispering voices came from downstairs. Once she heard Aunt Beryl’s rush of high laughter, and once she heard a loud trumpeting from Burnell blowing his nose. Outside the window hundreds of black cats with yellow eyes sat in the sky watching her–but she was not frightened.

It wanted a few minutes to sunset. Everything stood motionless bathed in bright, metallic light and from the paddocks on either side there streamed the milky scent of ripe grass.

A strong theme is the adult women’s sense of entrapment. Linda (pregnant) daydreams about getting into a cart and just driving away from her family, leaving them without even a parting wave goodbye. Towards the end she has a passage where she seems to be thinking about them having sex and how she hates and fears those moments (‘When she had not quite screamed at the top of her voice: “You are killing me.”‘) And her sister, Aunt Beryl, wishes she wasn’t utterly dependent on Stanley and dreams of a phantom lover who will take her away from it all, the final section is a letter she writes to her friend, Nan Pym, full of disgruntlement and frustrated longing. Both of them want to be free…

10. Mr Reginald Peacock’s Day (1917)

A satirical portrait of a pompous music teacher, his tremendous self-regard, his flirtations with all his female students, his strained relationships with his son Adrian but especially his wife, who he considers has the inestimable privilege of living with an artistic genius, but doesn’t seem to appreciate it.

11. Feuille d’Album (1917)

A short piece about that stock figure, The Artist, only in this case it’s not a big famous Society artist but the opposite – a young unknown called Ian French. The narrative starts in the voice of a Society lady, established in the very first sentence: ‘He really was an impossible person!’ which continues in this vein for the first half. It describes how a succession of well-meaning women of the Parisian, artist-hunting type set their caps at young Ian and tried to seduce him, or take him out partying and so on, but always he slipped away and when they went knocking at his studio door… silence.

Inside his studio was not the chaotic mess of legend, but spick and span and tidy. He worked all day at his painting and then he sat and read. Until (and this is where part two beings) one day he spies a young woman his own age emerge onto the balcony of the small shabby house across the way, and is entranced and soon sits every evening, waiting for her to appear. She seems to speak sometimes to someone else back inside the apartment but he never sees anyone, although he fantasises about the characters of her mother and father.

In fact he gets quite carried away and imagines their life together, if they were living together, how frugally they would live, how she disliked the drawings he made of her because they made her look so thin, how she had a terrible temper and rarely laughed…

Then he discovers that goes shopping every Thursday evening, and on the third Thursday he runs down the stairs and out into the street to follow her. He watches her at the grocer’s, the butcher’s, the draper’s, and then the fruit shop (where she buys a lemon). Finally she visits the dairy and he watches her buy an egg. When she comes out he pops in and also buys an egg, and follows her home. He slips through the front door of the house and tiptoes up the stairs behind her. And as she’s putting the key in the door of her rooms, he runs up and faces her and:

Blushing more crimson than ever, but looking at her severely he said, almost angrily: ‘Excuse me, Mademoiselle, you dropped this.’ And he handed her an egg.

How extraordinarily strange, beguiling, mysterious, spooky, and moving but with an unknown emotion, or an unknown complex of complicated emotions and responses. You can speculate all you like whether this Ian is a young idealist, or a creepy stalker, or an obsessive or a romantic – the point of this as so many Mansfield stories is that no one label fits because so much is going on. Similarly, as to genre, is it a satire (as it starts out) or a fairy story (as it ends up) or both with a lot of realistic stuff about the market outside his apartment building thrown in? Or is it a kind of love story to Paris, and its strange, eccentric, Bohemian alleyways and people? It’s just two-and-a-half thousand words long but feels like, within its sliver of a story, it somehow contains worlds.

12. A Dill Pickle (1917)

Everything about this story is marvellous. It describes the encounter of a young man and woman (Vera) six years after they had an ill-fated affair which ended abruptly. She bumps into him in a restaurant, after a moment’s blankness (which should be sufficient warning) he remembers her and offers her a chair at his table.

Right from the get-go she recognises all his mannerisms, including his controlling:

She was thinking how well she remembered that trick of his–the trick of interrupting her–and of how it used to exasperate her six years ago. She used to feel then as though he, quite suddenly, in the middle of what she was saying, put his hand over her lips, turned from her, attended to something different, and then took his hand away, and with just the same slightly too broad smile, gave her his attention again.

He was obviously a bit of a fool six years ago. She remembers his farcical behaviour trying to deal with a wasp in the tea rooms at Kew, at his melodramatic declarations that he wanted to die for love of her. Now he is much more sleek and successful, well-dressed and offers her hand-made cigarettes from a Russian cigarette case.

In fact it turns out he has been doing all the travelling they used to fantasises about, to Spain, Corsica, Siberia, Russia, Egypt. In Russia he spent some days on a river boat on the Volga and at length sings the praises of the marvellously warm unaffected river people. And here we get to the title of the story: One evening a party of him and some friends went for a picnic by the Black Sea, taking supper and champagne. And while they were eating the coachman came up and offered them a dill pickle.

For the affected, pretentious young man, this epitomised the wonderful free spirit of the unaffected ordinary Russians. There’s a silence as she vividly imagines the scene. Then he cuts to remembering how candid they used to be, how he told her all kinds of stories of his boyhood. But the gap between them is indicated by the way she remembers the occasions but different details: if he is remembering what he told her about running away from home as a boy, what she remembers is that he made a huge fuss about an expensive jar of caviar he had bought her.

He describes how he recently found and reread the letter in which she dumped him, and loftily says how accurate it was. But around about now, she begins to suspect him and his whole tone; he is mocking his younger self but, as part of that, also mocking her.

She buttons her coat and lets down her veil (she’s wearing a veil? well, it is set during the First World War) preparatory to leaving, but she tells her more and she stays and she feels the strange beast, love, stirring in her bosom again. And as he carries on flattering her, she is stricken with regret: was he the only person who’d ever understood her? Had she thrown away her only chance at happiness?

But then he blows it. He leans back in his chair and his pompous, pretentious, sounding-off side kicks in. He begins to mansplain that while he was in Russia he studied the ‘Mind System’ and when he looks up again… she has gone!

All this has been staggeringly vivid and beautifully described, I felt like both the man and the young woman, I felt like they were my memories. And Mansfield rounds it off perfectly with a beautiful comic touch. The young man calls the waitress over and asks for the bill but, penny-pinching to the last – as we saw in the anecdote about the expensive jar of caviar — he asks her not to include the cream he ordered to accompany Vera’s coffee.

‘But the cream has not been touched,’ he said. ‘Please do not charge me for it.’

In just 5 or 6 pages it feels as if all of human nature has somehow been explained. Marvellous!

13. Je ne parle pas francais (1918)

‘Pray don’t imagine…’

This is one of Mansfield’s longer stories, at ten and a half thousand words. It’s an experiment in tone of voice, a first-person narration by a loftily superior, artistic type, a writer, archly self-aware and toying with phrases, priding himself on little turns of phrase and observations (‘That’s rather nice, don’t you think, that bit’). He addresses the reader as ‘ladies and gentleman’. He says ‘don’t you know’. Posh and performing. He is a dandy, priding himself on his immaculately stylish appearance.

Well into the story, the narrator introduces himself as Raoul Duquette, a 26-year-old Parisian, who wants to be a writer, tackle new subjects, amaze the world etc. He swanks that he is the author of ‘False Coins’, ‘Wrong Doors’, ‘Left Umbrellas’ and, he assures us, two more in preparation. But is he a writer at all, or a man of a different profession lying to his readers?

In the event, very little happens. The narrative is in about 8 stages: 1) the narrator meets an Englishman named Dick at an arty party, and they become friends; 2) Dick goes back to England; 3) Dick mails the narrator to tell him he’s coming to Paris with his true love so can he find them somewhere to stay; 4) Raoul meets the pair off the train and immediately notes the distance and restraint between Dick and the sweet little woman he calls ‘Mouse’; 5) he’s barely taken them in a cab to the hotel rooms he’s fixed up for them before Dick, very flustered, says he just has to pop out to post a letter to his mother; 6) when, after a wait, Mouse goes across the hall to her husband’s room she discovers he’s bolted and left a letter for her; 7) the letter says he’s gone back to England to look after his mother, he should never have left her, he felt bad the moment he got onto the train with Mouse; 8) the narrator offers Mouse his help, says he will look after her etc, then takes his leave. You might expect that they then have an affair, but the whole thing is stranger and more blocked than that because in the event 9) he never sees her again. He thinks about it, he tries, he sets off, but he never follows through.

Instead he prefers, in his dilettantish, aesthetic manner, to harbour the memories of Dick, then of greeting the unhappy couple, and of their unease with each other. These are more thrilling sensations than actually going out with her could ever provide; that would just be banal.

As to the title of the story, ‘Je ne parle pas francais’, it’s a phrase the little woman used half a dozen times after they’d arrived in Paris, apologising for herself. And the entire ‘story’ is really a flashback, triggered some time later when the narrator has dropped into his favourite café and is leafing through his notebook when, among his numerous bad drawings, he comes across the phrase written out and it sparks a wave of intense memory.

It’s a peculiar piece, not so much because of the central narrative, which I’ve summarised, but because of the extremely mannered, pretentious manner of the narrator, both in terms of style, and his constant preening and celebration of himself and his fine sensibility. It would be easy to dismiss it as a satire on a certain type of pretentious author; it might even be a lampoon of a Paris author Mansfield knew or met.

Either way it has a strangeness, a wordy obliqueness, which is often puzzling. And then again, viewed a different way, it may have started out as Mansfield’s own notes and jottings describing sitting in your average Parisian café – perceptions, descriptions and phrases she recorded, ordered, and then cobbled together a plot around. From this perspective is the odd, frustrating ‘plot’ more like a pretext, a scaffold on which to hang fantastical ideas? Such as this description of Dick’s fiancée, the Mouse,

She was exquisite, but so fragile and fine that each time I looked at her it was as if for the first time. She came upon you with the same kind of shock that you feel when you have been drinking tea out of a thin innocent cup and suddenly, at the bottom, you see a tiny creature, half butterfly, half woman, bowing to you with her hands in her sleeves.

That touch of fantasy at the end – not of finding an ant or a woodlouse at the bottom of your cup (as is possible) but a creature ‘half butterfly, half woman’, is typical of the unexpected phrases, ideas and tone which characterise this strange ‘story’.

The influence of cinema

I’ve noted the references to movies in the comic stories of P.G. Wodehouse, including one character in the Blandings series who’s absolutely dominated by film, perceives everything that happens through movie filters, incessantly quotes movie dialogue.

This story, also, contains a few contemporary movie references which reinforce the notion that film colonised the imagination, crystallising a range of character types so that, after a while, writers of novels and stories started to see, not the person in front of them, but see them as a type such as you’d see in a movie.

Query: Why am I so bitter against Life? And why do I see her as a rag-picker on the American cinema, shuffling along wrapped in a filthy shawl with her old claws crooked over a stick?
Answer: The direct result of the American cinema acting upon a weak mind.

And:

If the pale, sweaty garçon had not come in at that moment, carrying the tea-tray high on one hand as if the cups were cannon-balls and he a heavy weight-lifter on the cinema…

Film came to provide an immediate and widely understood language of character types and situations. It’s hard to see this as anything but a reduction in the range and variety of the human imagination.

14. Sun and Moon (1920)

Sun and Moon are the son and daughter of an upper middle class family. the house is in uproar because the parents are hosting a big party. All the preparations – the furniture taken out of the living room to be replaced by hired chairs, the piano pushed to one side – and the marvels being prepared in the kitchen by Minnie the cook, until they are marched off by nurse to wash and get dressed. Full description of two Edwardian children in full fig, and Nurse calls their mother in to admire them.

Finally the bell rings and they are summoned to go downstairs and be on their best behaviour in front of all the adult guests.

The drawing-room was full of sweet smelling, silky, rustling ladies and men in black with funny tails on their coats—like beetles. Father was among them, talking very loud, and rattling something in his pocket.

After being petted and adored, they are taken back to their bedrooms, hustled through their prayers and it’s time for bed. Periodically they wake up at later points in the evening… Bounding up the stairs their father nearly trips over them and, clearly drunk, decides they must come down and share scraps from the meal and so scoops them up under each arm and carries them downstairs despite the joking objections of his wife (Kitty).

Both children are staggered at how wrecked everything is, with food and dirty plates and glasses everywhere, knocked over bottles, all the fine lace bows undone, all the wreckage of a grand dinner. Moon is delighted to be carried to a chair at the table and be fed sweet titbits from the candy toy house by her father.

But the son (Sun) remains by the door and it feels so right, so true, if only because it so completely fits the stereotype, that the sight of so much wreckage appals him and suddenly he starts wailing (although to be honest, it would work as well or better the other way round, with the chunky son heedlessly stuffing his face with sweetmeats and the more sensitive daughter finding the whole thing overwhelming). Either way, it is a brilliantly vivid rendition.

15. Bliss (1918)

What can you do if you are thirty and, turning the corner of your own street, you are overcome, suddenly, by a feeling of bliss—absolute bliss!—as though you’d suddenly swallowed a bright piece of that late afternoon sun and it burned in your bosom, sending out a little shower of sparks into every particle, into every finger and toe? . . .

Although Bertha Young is now 30 she still feels overcome with moments of shout-out-loud blissful happiness! She has a husband Harry, a nice house, a baby, a nurse and maids and all the rest, but is still regularly seized by fires of bliss! She has modern, thrilling friends, writers and painters and poets or people keen on social question. She admires her house, she admires the lovely garden.

‘I’m too happy—too happy!’ she murmured.

She’s hosting a dinner party tonight and this is described in the usual satirical way, with the usual arty friends:

The Norman Knights—a very sound couple—he was about to start a theatre, and she was awfully keen on interior decoration, a young man, Eddie Warren, who had just published a little book of poems and whom everybody was asking to dine, and a “find” of Bertha’s called Pearl Fulton.

The Knights arrive in their preposterous clothes, he with his monocle, and Eddie the poet in his lovely white scarf, complaining about his taxi driver. Moments later, running late as usual, arrives Bertha’s adorable husband Harry, so funny, so rich, so adorable, such a zest for life.

Last to arrive is Miss Fulton, Bertha’s ‘find’, all in silver, with a silver fillet binding her pale blond hair, Bertha feels they have such an understanding. In to dinner they go and have such scintillating conversation, the new play that’s being written, the wonderful soufflée, Bertha is beside herself with happiness, everything is too too perfect. She is so happy she wants to laugh hysterically and only by digging her nails into the palms of her hands can she stop herself.

Bertha feels she is waiting for some kind of ‘sign’ from Miss Fulton to full acknowledge their sympathy and it finally comes when Miss F asks whether they have a garden and Bertha whisks the curtains aside to reveal it and the women stand side by side to admire the pear tree in the silver moonlight. Have any two women ever understood each other more perfectly? When Harry is a trifle curt to Miss F when he offers round a cigarette case, Bertha is wounded and vows to tell him later how much the silver young woman means to her, a talisman of all her happiness.

And yet, somehow, inspired by the happiness of her day and the union of minds with Miss Fulton, for the first time in her life Bertha experiences heterosexual desire. She has always loved her husband, just not in that way. She worries that he initially resented her physical coldness but he assured her it was fine and they have grown to be good friends without any of that other messy business. But tonight, for the first time, she feels she could actually ‘give herself’ to him.

It’s time for the Knights to catch their train back to Hampstead. Bertha and Harry shake hands and wave them goodbye. Eddie goes to get his coat and Miss Fulton makes for the hall, when Harry, almost rudely, pushes past Bertha to get to her. Bertha thinks he just wants to make amends for his earlier rudeness. How sweet of him.

She turns to talk to Eddie who tells her about some recently published poem and they both walk silently to a table to get the book and open it. It is here, from this vantage point, that Bertha sees Harry:

Harry with Miss Fulton’s coat in his arms and Miss Fulton with her back turned to him and her head bent. He tossed the coat away, put his hands on her shoulders and turned her violently to him. His lips said: ‘I adore you’, and Miss Fulton laid her moonbeam fingers on his cheeks and smiled her sleepy smile. Harry’s nostrils quivered; his lips curled back in a hideous grin while he whispered: ‘To-morrow’, and with her eyelids Miss Fulton said: ‘Yes’.

Not suspecting a thing, Miss Fulton comes into the living room to touch hands and thank her for a wonderful evening, and dwells on the pear tree, the pear tree in the moonlight which Bertha thought symbolised their imaginative union.

Harry, boisterous and efficient as always, tells her he’ll lock up. But Bertha runs over to the garden window and stares out at the pear tree in the moonlight and wails:

‘Oh, what is going to happen now?’


Credit

‘Selected Stories’ by Katherine Mansfield was published by Oxford University Press in 2002. I read the 2008 reissued paperback edition.

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Lee Miller @ Tate Britain

This is a quite amazing exhibition, a complete eye-opener not only regarding Lee Miller’s extraordinary range and ability as a photographer and her staggering achievement in so many different fields – but at the same time a portrait of an astonishingly blessed and yet, in parts, harrowing life.

This is the largest retrospective of Miller’s work ever staged and easily fills 11 decent-sized rooms. It features 230 vintage and modern prints, many (especially her wonderful Second World War shots) on show for the first time. You might think that’s a lot of items to take in but if anything it’s not enough. I could easily have lapped up more.

The show also includes a wide range of supporting material, including original copies of the many magazines her work appeared in, numerous copies of Vogue as well as wartime publications.

Quick overview

A quick overview would refer to Miller’s success as:

  • a fashion model
  • a muse and icon for avant-garde photographers
  • an actor in an avant-garde film
  • a core member of French surrealism
  • a collaborator with the great Man Ray
  • a travel photographer in the Middle East
  • a fashion photographer for Vogue in the 1930s and through the first years of the Second World War
  • a war photographer, at first in Britain among air crews and suchlike, before being early on the scene at the D-Day landings and at the liberation of Buchenwald and Dachau concentration camps
  • in post-war life hosting her artist friends at the country house in Sussex she shared with husband Roland Penrose
  • a late-blooming interest in cordon bleu cookery

In room after room, in one area after another, the visitor comes across amazing photos in a wide range of genres. It’s a staggering achievement and this is a thrilling, mind-boggling exhibition.

The exhibition

As I mentioned the exhibition is in 11 rooms. I’ll give a quick summary of each, with an indication of favourite photos.

Room 1. Fashion model

Miller was born in 1907 in Poughkeepsie, New York State. Her father was a keen amateur photographer and she posed frequently for him from early childhood. She began modelling professionally in New York City in 1926 (aged 18) while studying painting at the Art Students League. In March 1927, aged just 19, she appeared on the covers of British and American Vogue, drawn in pearls and furs against a glittering city skyline. She was photographed by celebrated figures like Cecil Beaton and Edward Steichen and room 1 is full of wonderfully atmospheric 1920s photo shoots.

Installation photo of Lee Miller at Tate Britain showing Miller in 1920s cloche hat and furs © Lee Miller Archives, England 2025. All rights reserved. Photo © Tate (Sonal Bakrania)

The photos bring out her height, her strikingly long neck, the rather big nose which gives her a slightly tomboy, androgynous look, which perfectly suited the 1920s era of slender flappers.

The experience of being a model inspired her to become a photographer herself, declaring she would ‘rather take a picture than be one.’ Not only that, but she wanted to be at the cutting edge of photography, which was Europe. So in 1929 she moved to Paris.

Room 2. Association with Man Ray

With extraordinary courage, ambition and chutzpah, Miller tracked down Paris’s leading avant-garde photographer, (the American) Man Ray and announced that she was to be his new student. ‘I told him boldly I was his new student. He said he didn’t take students and anyway he was leaving Paris for his holiday. I said, I know, I’m going with you – and I did.’

Impressed by her looks, confidence and evident ability, Man Ray took her not as a student but as an active collaborator, both a model for many of his most famous photos and a photographer in her own right, and then lover.

The famous photo of a woman’s bottom as she kneels forward, revealing her feet, that’s Miller, along with scores of other striking and iconic images.

This room explains how they jointly stumbled across the process of solarisation, the process where a negative or print is partially re-exposed to light during development, leading to a tone reversal effect where bright areas become dark and vice versa. You can see an example on the left in this photo.

Installation photo of Lee Miller at Tate Britain © Lee Miller Archives, England 2025. All rights reserved. Photo © Tate (Sonal Bakrania)

The Blood of a Poet

Very quickly Miller was established at the centre of Paris’s surrealism circle. In her role as model, she was invited by Jean Cocteau to star in his ground-breaking surrealist film, Le Sang d’un poète, 1930. In it she appears as a classical statue which comes to life. In a darkened room off to one side, you can watch a 3-minute excerpt.

Room 3. The surreal streets of Paris

By the early 1930s, Miller was fully embedded in Paris’s avant-garde circles, in particular befriending artists associated with surrealism, the movement that rebelled against convention and advocated an aesthetic of chance, randomness and the uncanny.

Having established her own studio, Miller took to photographing the City of Light and created a dazzling series of images. Using the avant-garde strategies of photographing everything from above, from an angle, incorporating disorientating reflections – she rendered everyday sights in the city mysterious and surreal.

My favourites were a pair of bird cages set against the ornate metalwork of a shop window. Or the really surreal one of a woman reaching her hand up and behind her to touch her hairdo in a hairdressers’ but which makes the hand look like an alien creature. Tate press give us this one to use, of a sheet of semi-congealed tar oozing across the pavement towards a pair of anonymous feet. All of them weird and wonderful and inspiring.

Untitled, Paris 1930 by Lee Miller. Lee Miller Archives © Lee Miller Archives, England 2025. All rights reserved. leemiller.co.uk

Returning to New York in 1932, she set up Lee Miller Studios Inc. and opened her first solo exhibition. In both the United States and Europe, Miller exhibited regularly alongside fellow pioneers of modern photography and her work was published in numerous artistic journals and magazines.

Room 4. Egypt and other destinations

By 1934 Miller had spent two years running a commercial studio in Depression-era New York and felt burnt out by the repetitive demands of high-profile clients and brands. In that year she met the Egyptian businessman and engineer Aziz Eloui Bey, who had come to New York City to buy equipment for the Egyptian National Railways, and they were married.

At first Miller renounced photography entirely. thanks to her rich husband she no longer needed to earn a living. But a trip to Jerusalem in 1935 reignited her creative spark, and she returned to the camera as a tool of experiment and exploration. Over the next four years, Miller made regular expeditions across remote Egyptian deserts, as well as through Syria, Palestine, Lebanon, Cyprus, Romania and Greece.

This room contains lots of stunning images from these trips, images of the desert, tracks in the sand, decrepit cars, a pile of sandals made from car tyres, the strange and disorientating architecture of the desert world.

Portrait of Space, Al Bulwayeb near Siwa 1937 by Lee Miller. Lee Miller Archives © Lee Miller Archives, England 2025. All rights reserved. leemiller.co.uk.

In Cairo Miller took a photograph of the desert near Siwa that Magritte saw and used as inspiration for his 1938 painting Le Baiser. Miller also contributed an object to the Surrealist Objects and Poems exhibition at the London Gallery in 1934. There’s a great one of bleached snail shells on an old tree.

The room also includes striking black-and-white images of peasants in Greece, Albania and the other ‘exotic’ countries she visited during this period. All of them are good, some are outstanding. I particularly liked the one with the three Albanian peasants and their two bears.

By 1937, Miller had grown bored with her life in Cairo. She returned to Paris and went to a party the day she arrived, where she reconciled with Man Ray, and met the British surrealist painter and curator Roland Penrose who she would marry in May 1947.

Room 5. Arty friends

Charismatic, creative and intelligent, Miller befriended many of the leading artists and intellectuals of her day and throughout her carer created striking, candid, intimate portraits of them.

‘It takes time to do a good portrait … [and] find out what idea of himself or herself he has in mind.’

There’s a set of entertaining ones of Charlie Chaplin, who claimed the shoot was one of the most entertaining days of his life, and best of which appeared in a popular French cinema magazine as well as in modernist photography exhibitions on both sides of the Atlantic.

With Picasso Miller had a long and fruitful relationship, taking over 1,000 photos of him during their lives.

Having returned to Paris in 1937, she took intimate portraits of the surrealists in the troubled period of the late-30s, many of them jolly snaps of larky group holidays. These include Eileen Agar, Max Ernst, Paul Eluard, Leonora Carrington and many more.

Room 6. Vogue and war

Miller moved back from Paris to London to join her lover, Roland Penrose, in September 1939, just as World War Two kicked off.

As a US citizen, Miller was ineligible for war work in the UK and so she offered her services to British Vogue. Before long, with more established figures tied up, she was the magazine’s leading photographer, and this room contains some of her wonderful, inspired photoshoots in wartime London, including shots of the editorial staff busking it after the offices were Blitzed.

Room 7. Photographing the Blitz and women’s war

From 7 September 1940 to 11 May 1941 London was blanket bombed by the Germans. Some 30,000 people were killed during the Blitz but Miller wasn’t the only one to notice the bizarre and surreal imagery produced by intensive bombing of urban landscapes. Placing pristine, beautifully dressed models in tailored outfits against the rubble created jarring but striking images. The Blitz was a whole new look.

Model Elizabeth Cowell wearing Digby Morton suit, London 1941 by Lee Miller. Lee Miller Archives © Lee Miller Archives, England 2025. All rights reserved. leemiller.co.uk

All aspects of wartime life inspired Miller, from a documentary news-style photo like:

To consciously surreal compositions like:

Fire Masks by Lee Miller (1941) Lee Miller Archives © Lee Miller Archives, England 2025. All rights reserved. leemiller.co.uk

And a great one of a melted typewriter, titled Remington Silent to jokily echo the Remington typewriter company’s advertising claim that their typewriters were very quiet. Well, this one’s never going to bother anyone again.

Her sense of humour was never far away.

David E. Scherman dressed for war, London 1942 by Lee Miller. Lee Miller Archives © Lee Miller Archives, England 2025. All rights reserved. leemiller.co.uk

Many of Miller’s Blitz photographs were published as a book, Grim Glory: Pictures of Britain Under Fire (1941). Although intended primarily for a US audience, it proved highly popular on both sides of the Atlantic, and there are several copies open to various pages here in a display case.

At least ten of her photographs were also included in ‘Britain at War’, an influential exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Touring North and South America over the next three years, these works shaped international perceptions of the Blitz.

Women’s war

Several walls here hold photos describing women’s lives in war. British women, conscripted for the first time from 1941, poured into the workplace. Miller took inspiration photos of women working as mechanics, journalists and searchlight operators, a striking photo of a woman fighter pilot in her cockpit, her photos were a vital contributions to the war effort.

Room 8. In warzones

Once the USA had joined the war (Japan. Germany and Italy declared war on the United States on December 11, 1941) Miller was able to apply to become an accredited war correspondent with the US Army. This she did in late 1942. She continued to take photos of war work in Britain. it was only after the Normandy landings of June 1944, that she – like most correspondents – was able to follow the army into combat.

This room contains vivid photos of the Normandy beaches still littered with wreckage, and then a series depicting the claustrophobic lamplit environment of army field hospitals, and then photos of sometimes grossly injured soldiers in their makeshift beds.

Most of these stories were produced for Vogue with whom she’d kept all her contacts. She produced a regular supply of not only photos but reporting to accompany them. Up till now she hadn’t written much but she proved a natural journalist, producing vivid first-hand descriptions of what she saw as she followed the US Army in its fiercely contested progress across Europe.

Installation photo of Lee Miller at Tate Britain showing the case containing Miller’s war correspondent uniform and, at the left hip, her lightweight Rolleiflex camera (photo by the author)

She turned out to have the journalist’s fundamental skill, being in the right place at the right time. In France, Belgium, Luxembourg, Germany, Denmark, Austria, Hungary and Romania she produced a range of images: some, as mentioned, of field hospitals, others artillery exploding on nearby buildings. In many of them she drew on the surrealist aesthetic to bring out the absurdity as well as the stupid cruelty of war.

Room 9. The Holocaust

The war thread reaches a peak of horror in room 9. This displays the photos Miller took after entering Buchenwald concentration CAMP on 16 April 1945, soon after it had been liberated. Two weeks later, on 30 April, she visited Dachau, a concentration camp near Munich. Thirty-five years later I went to Dachau.

Most of these photos have never been seen before. They show piles of bones or prisoners so starved they were little more than skin and bones.

The trains pulling cattle wagons which used to be packed full of victims, now bestilled in the summer heat with just a few corpses lying around on the gravel. There’s a sequence showing Nazi camp guards who have been soundly thrashed. And one which really stuck in my mind, a discomfortingly idyllic one of a dead German camp guard floating in a ditch or canal – a kind of mid-twentieth century version of Millais’s Ophelia, which hangs not far away in Tate Britain.

Miller’s Rolleiflex camera had no zoom lens and so, in order to get the shots, she had to get very close to the subjects, to all those piles of corpses, to the starved inmates dying of disease in the barracks. Up close with the worst evil in history.

This is a devastating subject, Miller captured images with her usual skill and eye for detail, but the experience marked her for life.

Months later, she was among the first to reach Hitler’s weekend retreat at Berchtesgarten just as American GIs began to loot it. In images overflowing with historical irony, she and her war photographer comrade David E. Scherman photographed each other taking baths in Hitler’s own personal bath The sight of the enemy cavorting in the most private inner sanctum of the great Leader rammed home the message of total defeat. It also represented the par washing off the filth and grime of months living through the apocalypse which the deranged leader started. And, for Scherman who was Jewish, a particularly sweet and apposite revenge on the Antisemite-In-Chief.

Unbeknown to Miller and Scherman as they set up these shots, just a few hours later Hitler and Eva Braun would commit suicide in their bunker in Berlin and the war in Europe would soon be over.

Room 10. War’s aftermath

But the suffering wasn’t over, not for tens of millions of people, not by a long chalk. The war left unthinkable devastation all across Europe.

Miller continued photographing and reporting into 1946 and recorded how the euphoria of liberation gave way to disillusionment. Her images and writing show people facing mass displacement, starvation and disease. Much of this is covered in Keith Lowe’s harrowing history of the war’s aftermath:

She travelled in eastern Europe, capturing the poverty of really dirt-poor peasants. There’s an extraordinary photo of the public execution of László Bárdossy, the fascist ex-Prime Minister of Hungary, on 10 January 1946.

Throughout she maintained her eye for the surreal detail, the sur- in the real.

She went out of her way to photograph children, believing they represented the future everyone now had to build towards, but this quote shows her acrid realism:

‘I’m taking a lot of kid pictures, because they are the only ones for whom there is any hope … And also we might as well have a look at who we’re going to fight twenty years from now.’

Room 11. At home in Sussex

Happily married Finally it was over, Miller quit being a correspondent and returned to England. After she discovered she was pregnant by her long-time lover, the artist Roland Penrose, she divorced her Egyptian husband Bey and, on 3 May 1947, married Penrose. Their only son, Antony Penrose, was born on 9 September 1947.

Happy home In 1949 the couple bought Farley Farm House in Chiddingly, East Sussex. During the 1950s and 1960s Farley Farm became a popular resort for visiting artists such as Picasso, Man Ray, Oskar Kokoschka, Henry Moore, Eileen Agar, Jean Dubuffet, Dorothea Tanning, Max Ernst, Yves Tanguy, Humphrey Jennings and many more…

Cookery In the 1950s Miller drifted away from photography and became increasingly interested in cordon bleu cookery, developing her own eccentric and humorous recipes. But her mental health was problematic. What she’d seen so close-up during the war cast a shadow over the rest of her life.

In this final room are many of the photos she took of the artistic giants of the twentieth century who were also her friends, as well as a charming display case showing magazine features about her staid, domestic home life.

Installation photo of Lee Miller at Tate Britain showing a photospread in a 1973 edition of Home and Gardens featuring the interior of her Sussex home complete with some of her cooking (photo by the author)

Sometimes Miller claimed that her photographic archive had been destroyed. The true extent of her work was only discovered after her death in 1977. The roughly 60,000 negatives, prints, journals and ephemera uncovered in the family attic now form the basis of the Lee Miller Archives and this exhibition represents a dazzling opportunity to delve into those archives and savour their countless treasures.

Summary

What an amazing life! What a prodigious, multifaceted talent! And what a brilliant exhibition!

Promo video


Related links

Related reviews

Leonard Woolf: A Life by Victoria Glendinning (2006)

Leonard and Virginia were agreed that his chief fault was cowardice, and hers was snobbery.
(page 151)

‘If it were not for the divine goodness of L. how many times I should be thinking of death.’
(Virginia Woolf diary 28 May 1931, quoted p.291)

Having read most of Virginia Woolf’s adult work, why read a biography of her husband, Leonard, and not her?

1) Because I’d had enough of Virginia: the essays finished me off, my cup overflowed with Woolf style, snobbery and delirium. 2) I’d learned most of the important facts about her life from the short biographies and notes in each of her novels, and the essays. 3) These notes sometimes referred to books by Leonard, notably a book he wrote called Quack! Quack! mocking the 1930s dictators, Mussolini and Hitler, which intrigued me. He wrote two novels, over 15 books of political science, was a committed socialist, literary editor, publisher, and wrote six volumes of autobiography. Does anyone ever read these? No.

So 4) Leonard is the underdog. The critical industry around Woolf is now mountainous – as Glendinning puts it, ‘There is a small mountain of books and articles on the life and work of Virginia Woolf’ (p.502) – and will only increase year by year. She is a patron saint of feminist writing, as iconic as fellow feminist saints Frida Kahlo and Sylvia Plath. There are lots of biographies of her, hundreds of books and tens of thousands of critical essays about her writing. But what about the mystery man who loved and supported her throughout the years of her great achievements, who tried to manage her recurring bouts of mental illness, who co-founded and ran their famous Hogarth Press? Let’s find out.

Jewish

Woolf was Jewish. He came from a large and extensive Jewish family. I enjoyed Glendinning’s handy summary of the history of the Jews in England, their slow liberation from various legal and customary restrictions during the nineteenth century, and then the transformation in the size of the Jewish population and in attitudes towards them triggered by the mass immigration of Jews from Russia in the 1880s and ’90s.

This more than quadrupled the size of the Jewish community in England and, because so many of them were very poor, from peasant communities, and often settled in the slummiest parts of the East End, it was this mass influx which gave rise to the casual antisemitism you find (distressingly) in so many Edwardian and Georgian writers (Saki and D.H. Lawrence spring to mind. The fact that Virginia includes antisemitic comments in some of her novels, and was regularly casually antisemitic in her letters and diaries – ‘I do not like the Jewish voice, I do not like the Jewish laugh,’ (p.189) – requires a separate explanation).

Father

Woolf was born in London in 1880, the third of ten children of Solomon Rees Sidney Woolf (known as Sidney Woolf), a barrister and Queen’s Counsel, and his wife Marie, maiden name de Jongh). Both parents were Jewish, and from extended families. This is why Glendinning needed four pages to depict the full, extended family trees of both parents. At various points, family members are quoted jokingly referring to it as ‘the Woolf pack’. From time to time grown-up Leonard, feeling sorry for himself, referred to himself as ‘a lone Woolf’.

The family lived at 101 Lexham Gardens off the Earl’s Court Road. The household was:

an example of a typical, well-to-do Victorian way of life, underpinned by an unquestioned social hierarchy and set of values. (p.13)

As a young man Leonard was conscious of ‘the snugness and smugness, snobbery, its complacent exploitation of economic, sexual and racial classes’ (quoted p.15).

We are told all kinds of things about Sidney Woolf but the single most important fact is that he died in his prime, in 1892, aged 47 (p.23). He had earned a lot as a lawyer and that income ended overnight. Now relatively impoverished his widow, Marie, was fortunate enough to have a legacy to live off. She hung on at Lexham Gardens for two years then moved the family to a smaller house further out of town – 9 Colinette Road, off the Upper Richmond Road in Putney.

School

After prep school, Leonard was sent to the prestigious St Paul’s School in west London. Lots of anecdotes, prizes and whatnot, but the important thing is that it was as a slight, shy, Jewish teenager that he developed what he called his ‘carapace’, the protective shell he was to deploy for the rest of his life.

Trinity College, Cambridge

In 1899 he won a classical scholarship to Trinity College, Cambridge. Glendinning vividly paints how he encountered a small group of fellow undergraduates who became soul mates, including the flamboyant Lytton Strachey and the hulking great Thoby Stephen, nicknamed The Goth, son of the biographer Sir Lesley Stephen and brother of the sisters, Vanessa and Virginia Stephen, the second of which Leonard was, of course to marry. But Strachey was the man. Before he’d arrived at Cambridge Strachey was a fully-formed individual with outrageous views and a particular way of speaking which influenced all his friends. Leonard became closer to Lytton Strachey than anyone else in the world, calling him ‘the most charming and witty of human beings since Voltaire’ (p.189).

I tend to think of E.M. Forster as being an old man, but he was actually a year younger than Leonard and they got to know each other at Cambridge.

Leonard was elected to the elite discussion society called The Cambridge Apostles and it is fascinating to learn the rules of this elite club and the kind of topics they discussed. When I was a sixth-former I read A.J. Ayer, learned about Logical Positivism, and went on to read Wittgenstein, all of which convinced me that talk of Beauty and Love and Truth and God is enjoyable, entertaining but ultimately meaningless.

More precisely, they may have a psychological importance and impact on the people who discuss, write and read about such topics, but they don’t really relate to anything in the real world. They derive from a misunderstanding of language. Because we talk about a good meal, a good person and a good day, it’s easy to be deluded into thinking there must be something they have in common. Plato started the ball rolling by writing dialogues in which Socrates and his followers endless debate the True Nature of The Good. Two and a half thousand years later, clever undergraduates at Cambridge were doing just the same.

I follow Wittgenstein in believing there can be no answer to these kinds of questions because they are non-questions based on a misapplication of language. Viewed from a correct understanding of language i.e. that language consists of a vast number of language games – then any given use of language may or may not be appropriate to the vast number of language games people continually play, invent and evolve and self-important Oxbridge discussions of these great big concepts simply take their place among myriads of other linguistic interactions.

Anyway, all this was to come. For the time being these clever young men thought Truth and Beauty were excellent subjects to write long papers about and present at gatherings of like-minded chaps who all considered themselves part of a literally self-selecting intellectual elite, the Apostles. Members of the Apostles included Leonard, Strachey, E. M. Forster and a year or so later, John Maynard Keynes. Thoby Stephen (his future wife’s brother) was friendly with the Apostles, though not a member himself. What comes over from Glendinning’s comprehensive accounts of these meetings and discussions is how absolutely irrelevant everything they discussed is to us today. Here are the dates of Leonard and significant contemporaries:

  • E.M. Forster b. 1879
  • Lytton Strachey b.1880
  • Thoby Stephen b.1880
  • Leonard Woolf b. 1880
  • Clive Bell b.1881
  • John Maynard Keynes b.1883

G.E. Moore

All of them were deeply in thrall to the moral philosopher George Edward (G. E.) Moore (1873 to 1958), himself an older member of the Apostles. They were still undergraduates when Moore published his influential book, Principia Ethica, in 1903, which was concerned with that age-old problem, What is the good? Moore decides that ‘the good’ is ultimately unknowable, so that:

By far the most valuable thing, which we can know or can imagine, are certain states of consciousness, which may roughly be described as the pleasures of human intercourse and the enjoyment of beautiful objects.’ (p.63)

1. The pleasures of human intercourse and 2. the enjoyment of beautiful objects. Friends, lovers and art. Or, as Wikipedia summarises it:

that the summum bonum lies in achieving a high quality of humanity, in experiencing delectable states of mind, and in intensifying experience by contemplating great works of art,

Moore’s conclusions led his book to be treated as a kind of Bible by the network of friends which came to be known as the Bloomsbury Group, validating their belief that human relationships are what count most: Love and Beauty. Sounds like Keats, doesn’t it, from almost a century earlier? Glendinning quotes John Maynard Keynes’s extravagant response to Moore’s theory: ‘It seemed the opening of a new heaven on a new earth’ (p.64).

The thing to understand is that the younger generation experienced this as a tremendous liberation from the oppressive burden of Victorian beliefs in duty and honour and nation and empire and queen and country and all the rest of it. For believers like Leonard the book stripped away centuries of oppressive religious beliefs, shedding the calm light of common sense on the agonising questions of how to live and what to believe.

‘Isn’t that the supreme, the only thing – to be loved.’ (Strachey, quote p.98)

But there were plenty of critics who mocked these earnest young believers. Glendinning quotes Beatrice Webb’s shrewish view that the book had little or no value and simply gave the young generation who worshipped it ‘a metaphysical justification for doing what you like’ (p.65).

Glendinning herself criticises the Principia because:

  1. Its unquestioning definition of The Beautiful was heavily Victorian and becoming out of date as the new aesthetics of the 20th century kicked in
  2. Moore’s idea of the good life was very passive and quiescent i.e. simply ignored the active life of politicians, engineers, administrators, people who did things. It was a privileged academic’s conclusion that the best possible way of life was… to be a privileged academic.
  3. No sex please, we’re British: Moore’s ‘asexual mind-set seemed to preclude the “intrinsic value” of any “state of consciousness” elicited by anything more urgent than affection’ (p.63). In other words, Moore’s was a very pallid, underpowered, sexless view of human emotions.

Choice of career and the Civil Service exam

Woolf was awarded his BA in 1902 but stayed on at Cambridge for another year to study for the Civil Service examinations which he took in the summer of 1904. He got a low pass, 69th in the list, and was offered a job as an imperial administrator in Ceylon. First he went the round saying goodbye to his uni friends and this included dinner at the Stephens new house. Sir Leslie Stephen had recently died (February 1904) and his children had moved out of the gloomy family house in Hyde Park Gate to a roomier lighter one in Bloomsbury. Visiting his friend Thoby (the Goth), meant meeting the two beautiful sisters, Vanessa and Virginia. Glendinning points out that the latter was still recovering from the nervous breakdown triggered by her father’s death, one of what was to become a string of breakdowns and mental health problems. During this breakdown she had made the first of several suicide attempts (p.129).

Ceylon

Woolf was in Ceylon for 7 long years, 1904 to 1911. Glendinning makes the point that he met hundreds of native Sinhalese and Tamils but never became friendly with one of them. He liked Ceylon, some of the scenery was breath-taking. He wrote that the jungle:

‘is a cruel and dangerous place, and, being a cowardly person, I was always afraid of it. Yet I could not keep away from it.’ (quoted p.109)

, but he became an increasingly conflicted imperialist. As he was slowly, systematically promoted, he found himself adjudicating law cases and arguments and realised the only thing to do was be as strict and impartial as possible. At the same time he came to hate the impact many imperial laws and restrictions had on the natives.

Glendinning gives a vivid and fascinating account of all this, based on the twin sources of the official diary he kept of his duties, along with the many letters he exchanged with his friends back in England, Thoby, a friend called Saxon but above all Lytton Strachey.

He lost his virginity to a Singhalese woman and seems to have had occasional sexual encounters, but didn’t keep a native mistress as many other young male imperial administrators did.

The conversation of whores is more amusing than the conversation of bores.

The correspondence with Lytton back in England, in Cambridge, is extraordinarily candid about sex. Lytton deploys what he himself calls ‘the dialect of their intimacy’ (p.146). Lytton was a promiscuous homosexual who needed to be falling in love with new young men all the time. Glendinning quotes liberally from his letters which depict not just his sex life, but the sex lives of those in their set or circle, including Duncan Grant, Clive Bell and Keynes. For example, where he explains that he is having an affair with Duncan Grant, who is also sleeping with Keynes. Lytton and the others delighted in using the word ‘copulate’, in a self-mocking tone.

‘I copulated with him [Duncan] again this afternoon, and at the present moment he is in Cambridge copulating with Keynes.’ (p.115)

As always, it’s the promiscuity of gay men which staggers me, compared with the, as far as I can tell, complete chastity of their female contemporaries, specifically Virginia and Vanessa.

A note that Leonard’s sister, Bella, came out to Ceylon in 1907. She married a colonial administrator, Robert Heath Lock, Assistant Director of the Peradeniya Botanical Gardens, near Kandy in 1910. She wrote children’s books and the first tourist guide to Ceylon. She was one of many voices advising Leonard to get married. She merits a Wikipedia page of her own.

The Longest Journey

While Leonard was in Ceylon, his friend E.M. Forster published an autobiographical novel, The Longest Journey which describes the coming-to-maturity of young Frederick ‘Rickie’ Elliott, including lengthy descriptions of his time as an undergraduate at Cambridge. Critics think the character of Stewart Ansell, the clever student which Rickie’s and their circle look up to, is at least partly based on Woolf. Certainly the flashy pseudo-philosophical conversations at Cambridge which the novel opens with, are based on The Apostles. Woolf and Strachey both hated it.

Back from Ceylon

After seven years service Leonard was given an extended leave to return to England. Glendinning quotes many of the colleagues and managers in the Colonial Service who advised him to get married. it’s interesting to read the opinions of quite a few contemporaries all advising that marriage is the best thing or only thing which a young man can do to acquire focus and purpose in his life. ‘Marriage was the only way forward’ (p.120).

We know from their letters and diaries that it was Lytton who first proposed to Virginia, in a panic that she might accept (p.114). You have to have followed the text quite closely to understand why this flamboyant queer would even consider such a mad move in the first place. She sensibly turned him down.

Virginia’s character As the focus of the story turns towards Virginia Stephen, Glendinning gives a useful profile and description of her (pages 128 to 130). The bit that stood out for me was the notion that her mother was aloof and distant, so that the girl Virginia hardly ever had time with her alone.

In adolescence and beyond, she became emotionally attached to older women. (p.128)

Aha, I thought – this sheds light on the warmth and fondness for mother figures and older women which you find in her fiction – Betty Flanders, Clarissa Dalloway, Mrs Ramsay, Lucy Swithin.

Virginia’s physicians We learn about the wonderfully named Dr Savage, the physician treating her mental illness, and that he had treated her father for depression, and one of her cousins, who ended up committing suicide. Also, we learn that her sister, Vanessa, was also prey to anxiety and depression. She had her own ‘nerve doctor’, Dr Maurice Craig of 87 Harley Street. So was it genetic?

Brunswick Square The Stephens children moved again, to 38 Brunswick Square, and invited several friends to move in and take rooms. Among these was Leonard who moved in on 20 November 1911. Their wooing was slow and painful.

The Aspasia Papers Constant company led Leonard to fell deeper and deeper in love with the beautiful, mercurial, charismatic Virginia, who he came to nickname Aspasia. This was the name of the wife of Pericles (495 to 429 BC), leader of Athens during its so-called Golden Age. He wrote descriptions of her and these expanded to become sketches of the entire social circle or set, all under pen-names, eventually called the Aspasia Papers. The whole gang he joking referred to as The Olympians.

Leonard proposes to Virginia On 10 January 1912 he proposed to her. This upset her so much she took to her bed. But over the following weeks he maintained his suit and the great day came on Wednesday 29 May when she acknowledged the loved him. They told the gang who reacted in different ways. Rupert Brooke claimed it was Leonard’s sexual know-how that got her. He described her eyes lighting up when Leonard described having sex with prostitutes in Ceylon. Put simply, he was the only man she knew who wasn’t gay and had had sex. With a woman!

He was 31, she was 30, both getting on a bit.

Quits the Colonial Service The Colonial Office required him to end his leave and return to Ceylon by May at the latest but Leonard realised he couldn’t go back, and after some surprising shows of flexibility by Whitehall, he eventually resigned his position. Now what was he going to do? He was writing a novel and had written some short stories, but hadn’t made any money from them.

Wedding They were married on Saturday 10 August 1912 at St Pancras Registry Office, a very small low-key affair. As Glendinning puts it:

Leonard and Virginia were agreed that his chief fault was cowardice, and hers was snobbery.
(p.151)

And both faults lay behind his failure to invite his mother to the wedding. Not being invited to the most important day of a son for whom she had made such sacrifices as a single mother deeply hurt her.

Sex

Glendinning (like all their friends) moves onto the subject of sex. Virginia seems to have got to the ripe old age of 30 without every experiencing sexual feelings. This is what you’d deduce from her novels and essays which have a kind of hallucinatory sexlessness. So she didn’t have a clue and he wasn’t savvy enough to be a teacher. He’d only slept with a few Singhalese prostitutes and prostitutes are 1) experienced and 2) compliant. Apparently when Leonard went to make his move, Virginia became increasingly anxious and over-excited in the way which preceded her breakdowns so he had to desist. Permanently.

Glendinning cites a letter exchange of 1933 with Ethel Smyth the feminist composer, where they talk about a news story that young women are having operations to break their hymens ahead of getting married, and joke about going to have the operation themselves. Woolf was 51 and apparently serious. Glendinning concludes from this and plenty of other evidence that Leonard and Virginia never had penetrative sex, so the marriage was never consummated in the normal way. Within a year they took to sleeping in separate rooms and never again slept together.

Events

Breakdown and suicide attempt After the marriage Virginia’s anxiety, nerves and depression grew worse. She became extremely anxious about the likely reception of her first novel, ‘The Voyage Out’. They went to the country hotel to celebrate the first anniversary of their honeymoon but it was a disaster. Virginia had high anxieties about food and refused to eat. Back in Brunswick Square, unattended for a few hours, she took an overdose of veronal (100 grains of veronal) sleeping pills. Prompt action by Keynes’s brother, Geoffrey who was staying in the house, and a stomach pump, saved her life but this necessitated a round of carers, nurses, consultations with the three physicians now treating her.

The Village in the Jungle In the middle of all this Leonard’s first novel, The Village in the Jungle, was published to good reviews. It’s set in Ceylon but not among the white ex-pat and colonial community, instead it entirely habits the minds of poor Singhalese villagers. And it’s written in what, for the times, was very plain factual English, what Glendinning calls ‘spare and unmannered’. Woolf’s old boss, Sir Hugh Clifford, wrote that:

‘Your book is the best study of Oriental peasant life that has ever been written, or that I have ever read.’ (p.168)

It’s available online and I’ve read and reviewed it for this blog.

Virginia Woolf was five feet ten inches tall. She had a ‘cut glass accent’ (p.299).

The Women’s Co-operative Guild The misery with Virginia lasted for months. Throughout this period Leonard became involved with the Women’s Co-Operative Guild, led by its young and energetic president, Margaret Llewelyn Davies. He went to meetings and the annual conference and write articles to promote their work.

He was by this stage writing lots of articles and reviews for a variety of journals, including the New Statesman.

Exempted from war service When the war came the army was at first fuelled with volunteers. The Military Service Act of 1916 widened the age of conscription to all men aged between 16 and 41. Leonard was 35 but underweight and anxious, with a permanent tremor in his hands. In the next three years he underwent three medical examinations but each time presented a letter from his doctor exempting him, predicting that if he were conscripted he would have a physical and mental breakdown within months.

The Fabian Society As well as the Women’s Co-Operative, Leonard had been collared by Sidney and Beatrice Webb, leading lights of the Fabian Society, who were always recruiting likely young chaps for their cause. Sympathetic to gradualist socialism based on facts and figures, Leonard was commissioned to research and write various reports. Thus in 1916 was published the result of extensive researches, his International Government. The book’s central proposal was for an international agency to enforce world peace, and he went on to join a number of the organisations lobbying for a League of Nations to be set up, becoming friendly with the genial H.G. Wells in the process.

Labour Party Leonard joined the Labour Party and helped research and write policy papers. Women’s Co-Operative, League of Nations charities, Fabians and Labour, he wrote research papers, pamphlets and books for all of them. His next book was the thoroughly researched Empire and Commerce in Africa.

1917 Club As a left-winger Leonard welcomed the Russian Revolution. As promptly as December 1917 he helped set up the 1917 Club in Soho as a discussion forum.

The Hogarth Press In 1917 the couple bought an old printing press for £19 and set it up on the dining room table of Hogarth House in Richmond and taught themselves how to use it, to print pages and stitch them together into books. Their first publication was Two Stories, one by Leonard, one by Virginia. Hers was The Mark On The Wall, a free-associating flight of fancy. It was her first published story. His old friend Lytton Strachey immediately saw it was a work of genius. But as Virginia’s confidence grew, Leonard’s shrank. He had published two novels but began to lose faith. He was happier writing factual books.

Mark Gertler, Lady Morrell, Katherine Mansfield They make friends with Mark Gertler, self-obsessed Jewish painter and lover of Dora Carrington. At Garsington Manor, home of Lady Ottoline Morell, they meet the New Zealand short story writer Katherine Mansfield and her husband, the editor John Middleton Murray. They agreed to published Mansfield’s 68-page story The Prelude on their press

Leonard produced another book, Co-operation and the Future of Industry and agreed to edit a journal called International Review. The publishing sensation of 1918 was his old friend, Lytton Strachey’s debunking work of biography, Eminent Victorians.

In the war one of Leonard’s brothers, Cecil, was killed and one, Philip, badly wounded.

Recap When the war ended Glendinning summarises that Woolf had established himself as a documentary journalist and political propagandist, an experienced public speaker and author of distinguished books, as well as a seasoned book reviewer, and publisher in his own right. He was a behind-the-scenes figure in the growing Labour Party and was offered a seat to contest as an MP but, after some hesitation, turned it down.

James Joyce In April 1918 Harriet Weaver, patron of The Egoist magazine, approached them with the unfinished manuscript of James Joyce’s Ulysses but they had to turn it down. Far too big for their expertise, it was rejected on the grounds of obscenity by the two commercial printers they approached. Obscenity was Virginia’s central objection to Joyce, see her essay Mr Bennett and Mrs Brown (1923). She couldn’t get past her snobbish aversion to his references to peeing, pooing and the male anatomy. (The book’s central character, Leopold Bloom, has a bath and idly watches his willy floating in the water.) In her own fictions, almost all references to the body, let alone sex (God forbid) are rigorously excluded, which helps to give them their strange, bloodless, ethereal character.

Woolf’s problematic reaction to Joyce (admiration, envy, rivalry, disgust at his physicality) are explored in two excellent essays by James Heffernan:

T.S. Eliot Conversation with Weaver turned to her other protegé, T.S. Eliot, who they invited to tea to discuss whether he had anything to publish. As a result they published seven of his poems in a small edition of 140 in November 1919. Initially stiff and inhibited, Eliot became friends with Virginia who referred to him, unpretentiously, as Tom. He, like Leonard, was to become carer to a mad wife. He was six years younger than Virginia (born 1888 to Virginia’s 1882). (Later Glendinning wryly notes that ‘Eliot continued to consult Leonard as an expert on mad wives,’ p.265. Ten years later they could have both helped Scott Fitzgerald with Zelda.)

Monk House In 1919 they were meant to go down to Cornwall to join the ménage which had been set up by D.H. Lawrence, his wife Frieda, Middleton Murray and Mansfield – but never did. They had been used to a place in the country named Asheham House but it was sold by the owner. They looked around and settled on Monks House in the village of Rodmell in Sussex. They paid £580 plus £120 for the freehold. This is now a National Trust property. When they moved in it had no running water, electricity or toilet facilities. These two highbrows put up with conditions which would nowadays as unfit for human habitation. Leonard became addicted to working in the garden and had to be dragged away to take Virginia for constitutional walks.

Back in London they bought a bigger press and began to consider the Hogarth Press as a commercial venture. They published Virginia’s story, Kew Gardens. It was 1919 the year of the Paris Peace Conference and Leonard nearly went. They printed Leonard’s Three Tales from the East with a cover by Dora Carrington, to very positive reviews.

Friends’ success Lytton had become a famous name with his Eminent Victorians and Keynes became famous for writing a scathing indictment of the peace terms imposed on Germany in The Economic Consequences of the Peace (December 1919). But although much of Leonard’s research for International Government was used by the British government or other organisations at the Conference, he got little recognition.

Empire and Commerce in Africa: A Study in Economic Imperialism (1920) a scathing indictment of British imperial policy in Africa. He was writing for the New Statesman and wrote leading articles on foreign affairs for the Nation. He was secretary to the Labour Party Committee on International and Imperial Questions. He was in the loop.

The Memoir Club Molly McCarthy set up the Memoir Club to bring together old pals from Cambridge to read works in progress. A propos of this you realise that Leonard, the man, was the objective authoritative and grounded one; Virginia, the woman, was flighty, solipsistic, experimental (p.237).

Gorki and the Russians In 1919 Maxim Gorky sent a friend of theirs, Kotelianski, a manuscript of his life of Trotsky, which he brought to the Woolfs. Thus began a series of careful translations of contemporary Russian literature by the Hogarth Press.

Teeth out In June 1921 Virginia had another nervous collapse. It is mind-boggling to read that some experts thought that having your teeth extracted was a cure from mental illness. On this occasion she had three pulled out. By the end of her life she’d had all her teeth pulled out by these experts.

Jacob’s Room In November 1921 she finished writing Jacob’s Room but with the end of any book came a rush of doubt, anxiety and sometimes collapse. She had come to rely on Leonard entirely, and he had evolved to know his place was by her side and supporting. At the time of the peace conference he had been asked to travel abroad, the Webbs asked him to visit Bolshevik Russia and report back, but he turned all offers down in order to remain by Virginia’s side. This makes him a hero, doesn’t it?

Passage To India Leonard played a key role in helping Morgan Foster complete his most important novel, A Passage To India, when Forster had severe doubts and thought of abandoning it (p.242). Passage was published in 1926 and made Forster famous and financially secure. Leonard was the grey eminence behind it.

Stands for Parliament Leonard stood as a Labour candidate for Liverpool in the 1922 General Election but, thanks to his lacklustre speeches about international affairs and against imperialism, came bottom of the poll. It was a relief.

Literary editor

‘I expect you have heard that, having failed as a) a civil servant b) a novelist c) an editor d) a publicist, I have now sunk to the last rung… literary journalism. I am now Literary Editor of The Nation and Athenaeum.’ (letter to Lytton Strachey, 4 May 1923)

The salary, £500 a year, gave the couple some financial stability and coincided with the start of ‘the most prolific and successful period of Virginia’s writing life’ (p.248). She had published Jacob’s Room and started the long process of writing Mrs Dalloway and was, in addition, writing important essays and reviews.

Leonard’s literary positions Wikipedia gives a handy list of Leonard’s editorial positions:

  • 1919 – editor of the International Review
  • 1920 to 1922 edited the international section of the Contemporary Review from 1920 to 1922
  • 1923 to 1930 – literary editor of The Nation and Athenaeum (generally referred to simply as The Nation)
  • 1931 to 1959 – joint founder and editor of The Political Quarterly from 1931 to 1959

The Waste Land It’s a bit mind-boggling to learn that the Hogarth Press published The Waste Land and the type was set in the household larder. ‘Tom’ was pleased with the typescript and layout. In the same year he established a literary magazine of his own, the Criterion and he and Leonard now were friendly and conspiring literary editors, swapping reviewers and ideas. Tom became a regular visitor to their house, mostly alone, in fact maybe a bit too often as his marriage with the mentally unstable Vivian sank into misery.

Glendinning very entertainingly punctuates the key events of Leonard’s life with a roundup of what all the other Bloomsburies were doing, which is mainly having hetero or bisexual affairs with each other. A little grenade was thrown into the mix when Keynes announced he was not only in love with, but going to marry a dancer from the Ballets Russes, Lydia Lopokova (p.249).

52 Tavistock Square Virginia felt out of it in Richmond and wanted to socialise more. So they sold Hogarth House (for £1,350) and rented 52 Tavistock Square for £140 a year.

Vita Sackville-West At this time Virginia met and became friends with socialite and author Vita Sackville-West. She was married to diplomat Harold Nicholson but they led separate lives, he with a string of boyfriends, she having affairs with women and, eventually, with Virginia. They became ‘tentative’ lovers for about three years. But sex was alien to Virginia’s nature and Vita was a passionate collector of conquests.

Labour As well as working full time as literary editor of the Nation, he continued to be secretary to Labour’s Advisory Committee on International and Imperial Questions. He drafted the foreign policy section of Labour’s 1929 manifesto. Throughout the 1920s he campaigned for India and Ceylon to be given independence. If they had, he later wrote, the murder and mayhem of the independence struggle and the catastrophe of partition would never have happened.

Freud The Hogarth Press embarked on publishing the complete works of Freud being translated by James and Alix Strachey. This project carried on into the 1960s, long after Leonard had parted company with Hogarth, and they’re the edition I own, as republished by Penguin. Despite this, Leonard grew more anti-analysis as he grew older. I’ve reviewed quite a few of Freud’s works:

Vita It became a love affair in December 1925. They took trouble to conceal the full depth of it from Leonard.

Car In August 1927 he bought a car. He drove Virginia all round the country. They drove to the south of France. He wrote that nothing changed his life as much as owning a car.

Mrs Dalloway was published by the Hogarth Press on 14 May 1925. The Common Reader, a volume of 21 short literary essays, was published the same year, and the following year was the first one in which Virginia’s income exceeded Leonard’s. In 1927 her masterpiece To The Lighthouse was published. In 1928 she earned £1,540 to his £394.

Nicknames Virginia never called him Len, she called him Leo. From the start of the marriage they had numerous nicknames for each other but the enduring ones were the Mongoose and the Mandrill. Before she married, Virginia’s nickname in the Stephen household was ‘the Goat’.

They went to Berlin to visit Harold Nicholson, it was a long draining visit with many late nights, and on her return she had a relapse and was in bed for three weeks. Glendinning quotes her as saying she really wanted ‘the maternal protection which… is what I have always wished from everyone’. Suddenly, reading that, I saw how Woolf was a child, endlessly seeking reassurance. And it made me see her novels as essentially childlike, a sexless, jobless, workless, child’s-eye view of life.

Orlando: A Biography was published on 11 October 1928 and sold well, securing their finances. A year later, in October 1929, A Room of One’s Own was also successful.

Richard Kennedy, 24, was the latest young graduate taken on to help out at the Hogarth Press. He describes how Leonard was:

the magician who keeps us all going by his strength of will… and Mrs W is a beautiful, magical doll, very precious but sometimes rather uncontrollable.’

He describes how, when she was lifting off into one of her manic spells, Leonard would gently tap her on the shoulder and she would stop talking, and quietly follow him, go to her bedroom where he talked quietly, read to her and calmed her down. Leonard had to warn new people what they could not say to Virginia to avoid a problem/getting her over-excited. I hadn’t realised she was this on the edge, all the time.

Ethel Smyth During 1930 Virginia gets to know the deaf, feminist composer Ethel Smyth and they become regular, and sometimes bawdy, correspondents. Smyth was 72, Virginia 48. Here’s Smyth’s most famous work, The March of The Women. Very worthy, but heavily Victorian and boring.

New Fabian research Bureau Leonard is appointed to its executive committee in 1931.

Kingsley Martin, an earnest young nonconformist, is appointed editor of the New Statesman which he would remain for 30 years. Leonard became joint editor of the Political Quarterly which he remained for the next 27 years.

The Hogarth Press published 31 books or pamphlets in 1930, 34 in 1931.

John Lehmann just down from Trinity Cambridge, was hired to work on the Press. He lasted two years. While here he published New Signatures, the selection which introduced the poets of the Auden generation. He introduced the Woolfs to Christopher Isherwood. They published Laurens van der Post’s first book. The more I read about the Hogarth press, the more impressive it becomes.

Glendinning cites eye witness accounts from Lehmann, Barbara Bagenal and Harold Nicholson of how Virginia needed Leonard to calm her when she got over-excited or had a fugue, a loss of awareness of where she was or what she was doing (p.294).

There are plenty of eye witnesses testifying to how happy Leonard and Virginia were at Monks House, how relaxed with each other and a civilised routine. Visitors heard Virginia endlessly talking to herself, in the bath, as she pottered round the big garden, and along country lanes, so that the locals came to think of her as bonkers. The servant Louie Everest came to recognise when Virginia was having one of her bad headaches because she pottered round the garden, bumping into trees.

1932

21 January: Lytton Strachey died of cancer. Leonard wrote a sensitive obituary. He had been Leonard’s best friend in their youth. His death confirmed Leonard was middle aged.

11 March, Lytton’s partner, the painter Dora Carrington, shot herself.

Mains water is brought to Monks House and they get a telephone, Lewes 832. Virginia buys new beds from Heals.

1 October Oswald Mosley founded the British Union of Fascists. Marches, rallies and violence in the East End. The Woolfs were connected to all this because up till this point Virginia’s lover, Vita Sackville West’s husband, Harold Nicholson, had been secretary to Mosley. Now he quit.

Conversely, T.S. Eliot‘s mentally unstable wife, Vivian, joined the Fascists. Eliot separated from her and never saw her but she stalked him and made public scenes. Virginia sympathised and ‘Tom’ became a good friend and regular visitor to their London or Sussex house.

1933

1933: Victor Gollancz asked Leonard to edit An Intelligent Man’s Way to Prevent War. This is the same subject as prompted Virginia’s great book, Three Guineas. In April Mosley held a rally for 10,000 followers at the Albert Hall. Leonard and the Fabians thought he might be in power in five years’ time.

1934

July: they visited the fabulously wealthy Victor Rothschild and promised to look after his pet marmoset while he went abroad. It was called Mitzy and became so attached to Leonard’s kindness that she never went back. She perched on Leonard’s shoulder or head and the back of his jacked was routinely strewn with her poo.

5 to 10 September: Leonard listens to the Nazi Nurenberg rally, relayed on the radio. He was inspired to write his satire on the totalitarian regimes, Quack Quack!

9 September: art critic and populariser of the French post-impressionist painters, Roger Fry, died. Vanessa had had a fiercely sexual affair with him (13 years older than her) and was inconsolable. Slowly the idea crystallised that Virginia should write his biography. This was to turn into a chore and produce a not very good book.

1935

May: Driving to Italy Leonard decided to take a detour through Nazi Germany. Glendinning points out that in his autobiographies he doesn’t mention the antisemitism of the 1930s, doesn’t mention Mosley or the British Union of fascists. She thinks this is because he didn’t want to put down in black and white even the possibility of his country’s rejection of himself, as a Jew. The British Foreign Office advised Jews not to visit Hitler’s Germany. Brief description of their journey through Nazi Germany, soldiers everywhere, public notices against Jews, mobs of children giving the Nazi salute. They had taken Mitzy the marmoset with them who made people laugh and defused tensions.

June: published his attack on the Fascist governments, Quack Quack!

September: Nazi Nuremberg Race Laws Jews legally different from their non-Jewish neighbours introducing all kinds of legal discrimination.

September: Leonard and Virginia attended the Labour Party Conference where Ernest Bevin argued that Britain had to rearm to face the Fascist powers, annihilating pacifist speaker in the process.

2 October: Mussolini invaded Abyssinia. Sanctions were useless as didn’t include Germany or the USA. Leonard wrote bleakly about the failure of the League of Nations. He had spent 20 years arguing that the only way to keep peace was international co-operation. Now he was forced to abandon that position and agree with Bevin that Britain needed to re-arm and make itself strong.

1 November: UK General Election in which Labour were thrashed and the new coalition government of Conservatives along with small breakaway factions of the Labour and Liberal parties, was headed by Conservative Stanley Baldwin.

Tom Eliot brought Emily Hale, a former love and confidante, to meet Leonard and Virginia, who left a record of their tea, finding Leonard more sympathetic, warm and tired.

1936

20 January: King George V died, succeeded by his son, Edward VIII.

6 March: Hitler’s troops reoccupied the Rhineland in breach of the Versailles Treaty. The atmosphere of growing antisemitism in Britain. British Union of Fascists symbols drawn on the walls.

Trying to finalise The Years and separate out the polemical book which was to become Three Guineas brought Virginia closer to breakdown than she’d been since 1913. She lost half a stone and for over three months was unable to work, an unusual hiatus. Only in the last 3 months of the year could she resume work on what was to be her longest novel.

July: Spanish Civil War broke out with the army’s coup against the republican, anti-clerical socialist government. Leonard concluded the international system had collapsed and a European war was inevitable.

Sunday 4 October: the Battle of Cable Street as anti-fascists attacked a march by the British Union of Fascists through the East End.

5 to 31 October: the Jarrow march.

19 December: after a prolonged constitutional crisis, Edward VIII abdicates because of the Establishment’s refusal to let him marry the American divorcee, Wallis Simpson.

1937

Leonard was ill for an extended period of time. Glendinning thinks it expressed his anguish about the international situation and dread for the plight of the Jews. He tried various consultants who thought it was diabetes or prostate trouble i.e. didn’t have a clue.

April: the bombing of Guernica.

24 June: Leonard and Virginia were among many artists and performers onstage at the Albert Hall for a concert to raise money for Basque orphans.

20 July: the terrible news that Virginia’s nephew (Vanessa’s son) Julian Bell had been killed after volunteering to drive an ambulance in Spain.

Leonard was diagnosed with numerous ailments and prescribed loads of medicines none of which worked. He even went to see the inventor of the Alexander technique, Frederick Alexander, but gave it up as too arduous. His ongoing illness prompted love and support from Virginia. Glendinning quotes Virginia’s diary describing them walking round Tavistock Square like a lovestruck couple:

‘love-making – after 25 years can’t bear to be separate…you see it is enormous pleasure being wanted: a wife. And our marriage so complete.’ (Virginia’s diary 22 October 1937)

21 October: after a long gestation, Virginia’s final and longest novel, The Years was published. It received good reviews and was her most commercially successful novel although Leonard thought it was her worst.

In late 1937 John Lehmann became a partner in the Hogarth press, buying out Virginia’s share for £3,000.

1938

March: Lehmann started full time as co-director of the Hogarth Press. Endless bickering with Leonard. But it was making more money than ever, £6,000 in this tax year.

March: Leonard installs a wireless in 52 Tavistock Square. He himself makes regular radio broadcasts.

12 March: the Anschluss, Nazi Germany marches into Austria and takes it over. At the Labour Party Executive Leonard argues for a coalition with the Conservatives and the introduction of conscription.

April: Lady Ottoline Morrell, hostess of the literary salon at Garsington Manor, died.

June: Three Guineas published. Leonard thought it typified Virginia’s impeccable feminism but their friends didn’t like it. Forster thought it cantankerous, Keynes thought it silly, Vita thought it unpatriotic. I think its structure (like a lot of Woolf’s writing) is eccentrically oblique and sometimes confusing, but the picture she builds up, especially through the extended notes, of the patriarchy which held back British women, is magnificent, radiating scorn and quiet rage.

August: Tom Eliot’s wife Vivian was certified insane and sent to a lunatic asylum where she spent the last 9 years of her life. Eliot never visited her.

September: the Munich Crisis, Neville Chamberlain flies to Munich and along with the French Prime Minister allows Hitler to annex the Sudetenland, part of Czechoslovakia with a large German population. Leonard predicted war. Virginia is still very much in love with him. She bakes a loaf of bread and calls out to the garden, where he’s up a ladder ‘where he looked so beautiful my heart stood still with pride that he had ever married me’ (letter to Vanessa Bell, October 1938).

9 November: Kristallnacht when the Nazis unleashed stormtroopers on Jewish homes, business and synagogues across Germany. Hundreds of synagogues throughout Germany, Austria and the Sudetenland were damaged, over 7,000 Jewish businesses were damaged or destroyed, and 30,000 Jewish men were arrested and incarcerated in concentration camps. Leonard has a recurrence of the painful rash which covers his back and other parts. He sees doctors but Glendinning thinks it was psychosomatic, stress, and to do with the persecution of the Jews.

December: Leonard finished the first volume of After the Deluge, an analysis of Enlightenment thought into the early nineteenth century. His aim was to show the psychological and sociological process which bring about wars, and so avoid them. Fat chance. When it was published in September 1939 it sold pitifully.

1939

January: Leonard and Virginia go to tea with Sigmund Freud, recently escaped from Nazi Vienna. The Hogarth press had been publishing his works for 15 years. Leonard was struck by Freud’s aura of greatness. Freud died a few weeks into the war, on 23 September 1939.

15 March: German army annexes the rest of Czechoslovakia and claims the country has ceased to exist. France and Britain bring forward their rearmament programmes. Leonard’s psychosomatic rash returns with a vengeance.

23 June: their friend the artist Mark Gertler gassed himself. He was suffering from financial difficulties, his wife had recently left him, his most recent exhibition had been slammed, he was still depressed by the death of his mother and the suicide of Dora Carrington with whom he’d been madly in love, and was fearful of the imminent world war.

Victor Gollancz commissioned Leonard to write a book in defence of civilisation and tolerance for the Left Book Club for £500. But the final manuscript of Barbarians at the Gate contained criticisms of the Soviet Union which were unacceptable to the communists at the club, leading to a prolonged exchange of angry letters.

2 July: Leonard’s mother died. He was unsentimental.

The Woolfs moved to 37 Mecklenburg Square, taking their thousands of books and the Hogarth printing press.

23 August: Germany and Russia signed their non-aggression pact. 1 September Germany invaded Poland. 3 September Britain was at war with Germany.

November: The Barbarians at the Gate was published and slated by left-wing fellow travellers.

1940

The War for Peace published in which Leonard defended what critics called his utopianism in international relations.

June: France collapsed. Hitler enters Paris. Dunkirk. Leonard was shaken.

September: the Blitz began and was to last until May 1941. The blackout is enforced in Rodmell (the village where they had their country home). Virginia spoke to the local Women’s Institute then became its secretary. Like many others they equipped themselves with means of committing suicide should the Germans invade (p.353).

Correspondents: Virginia was still writing letters about her everyday life to Ethel Smyth who didn’t die until May 1944. Leonard still wrote letters to Margaret Llewelyn Davies of the Women’s Co-operative Guild.

They drove to London but couldn’t get as far as Mecklenburgh Square because of the bombing. A pill box was built in the field beyond their garden. German planes flew overhead every day. The flat in Mecklenburgh had its windows blown out by bombs, but their old place at 52 Tavistock Square was reduced to rubble. The Hogarth press machinery was evacuated to Letchworth. The books from Mecklenburgh were shipped down to Monks House where they packed the corridors.

23 November: Virginia finishes first draft of Between the Acts. She slowly fell into a depression, Her hand started to shake.

1941

25 January: Virginia turned 59 and Leonard began to be worried about her persistent depression. She was revising Between the Acts, always a dangerous time. They socialise, Virginia telling people her new novel is no good, though Leonard praised it.

March: she went for a walk in the fields and fell into the river whose banks had broken and flooded some of their land. Leonard returned from giving a talk to find her staggering back towards the house, wet and upset. Vanessa visits and tries to cheer her up.

Monday 24 1941: he realised she was becoming suicidal. The situation was as bad as her collapse in 1913. He consults a friend, Octavia Wilberforce, about whether to his nurses and force 24 hour supervision on Virginia against her will. But this is what had triggered furious psychotic breakdowns in the past so they decided to try and gentler approach, of Leonard calmly supporting and encouraging her.

Next day was a series of humdrum chores, recorded by Leonard and the house servant, and Virginia said she was going for a walk before lunch. An hour or so later Leonard went up to his sitting room and found two letters there, one for Vanessa one for himself, suicide notes. The letter to him is so full of love it made me cry. She thanked him and said she had had a wonderful life but she could feel her madness coming on, she was hearing voices, she couldn’t read, he would be better off without her.

Obviously he came running downstairs, hailed all the servants, sent one to get the police and help and spent the day till sunset searching the flooded river Ouse. He found Virginia’s walking stick lying on the bank. In subsequent days the river was dragged for the body. Eventually the authorities gave up the search for her body.

Three weeks later he body was discovered floating in the river by some teenagers having a picnic. They called the police. Leonard had to identify it. Coroner’s report etc. Leonard drove on his own to the cremation.

All his friends tried to console him, saying she was better off dead than really mad, but Leonard swore she would have recovered from this attack as from previous ones. He buried her ashes under two elm trees in the garden at Monks House which they had jocularly named after themselves.

Joyce and death Born February 2, 1882, Joyce was precisely eight days younger than Virginia. Two days after his death on January 13, 1941, she noted in her diary that he was ‘about a fortnight younger’ (D 5: 352-53). She outlived him by just a little over ten weeks.

Virginia asked Leonard to destroy all her papers

He disobeyed and in the years to come Virginia Woolf’s diaries and letters, autobiographical writings and unpublished works, were to be published and pored over in ever greater detail. The shape of her legacy, and the broader picture of the Bloomsbury Group, would have been very different if he’d obeyed her wishes.

Was he right to ignore her explicit, direct request, as Max Brod disobeyed Kafka’s request to burn his papers?

The shocked response of friends and family, other writers, journalists, and the wider world, are described and done with by about page 380 of this 500-page book. Leonard Woolf still had 28 years to live (died 14 August 1969). A man who was born the year Gladstone replaced Disraeli as Prime Minister (1880) lived to see men land on the moon. The twentieth century, century of marvels but also cataclysmic disasters.

After Virginia

What’s interesting is the power of the biography completely evaporates with Virginia’s death. I hadn’t realised how much Leonard’s story had come to be entwined with hers, and his existence justified by his support of her as she wrote her masterpieces. When it’s back to just him it remains sort of interesting in a journalistic gossipy way but the pressure drops right down.

Twenty-eight more years of living, writing, politicking, editing, publishing and loving – one year less than his marriage to Virginia (1912 to 1941). According to Glendinning ‘Few people are so fortunate in their later life as Leonard Woolf’ and he had many happy years. But for this reader, at any rate, all the life went out of the book when Virginia died.

Trekkie

In the next few years he fell in love with a woman called Trekkie (real name Margaret Tulip) Parsons, a keen but nondescript painter, married to Ian Parsons, an editor at Chatto and Windus, a handsome charming man. Ian sort of permitted a menage a trois to develop though it’s doubtful that Leonard and Trekkie ever had sex, and I hate myself for reading about other people’s sex lives, though this is an unavoidable aspect of modern biography. Ian meanwhile was having an affair with his editorial assistant Norah Smallwood so… so people will be people.

Superficial though it sounds, the relationship with Trekkie lasted for the rest of their lives.

The growth of Bloomsbury

The other theme which emerges is the slow steady growth of the Bloomsbury industry. Post-war interest in Virginia and other figures just kept on growing. The surviving members of the network –published books every year and fed the market throughout the 1950s (p.433). The advent of the swinging 60s, sexual liberation, the decriminalisation of homosexuality in 1967, a greater openness about sex, made the Bloomsburies, with their fluid sexuality and open relationships, seem forebears and founders.

The members wrote autobiographies and memoirs, and a steadily growing tribe of academics wrote books about them. Glendinning describes some of the early Virginia scholars who began to approach Leonard asking for help, advice, an interview, and whatever papers he could spare.

Glendinning records Leonard’s growing involvement with not just American scholars but professional buyers of manuscripts such as Hamill and Barker, to whom he sold off packets and parcels of letters, manuscripts and diaries, through the 1950s and ’60s, for lucrative sums (pages 427, 450).

The schism between academics and public intellectuals

This move to biography was encouraged by the growing schism between general, freelance public intellectuals such as Leonard, and the growing number of professional academics housed in the growing number of postwar universities. When Virginia and Leonard started writing all intellectuals were on about the same level, with some being experts at universities, but many freelance writers knowing quite as much across a broad range of subjects. The tone of discourse across public writers and academics was comparable. In the new era of academic specialisation, academics developed technical terms and jargon, assumed specialist knowledge, which increasingly cut them off from generalists let alone the man in the street.

Leonard fell victim to this specialisation with his book on international politics, After the Deluge, published in 1955. He intended it to form the third part of a trilogy (the previous books published in 1931 and 1939) which he allowed himself to be persuaded to give the grandiose title Principia Politica. This begged comparisons with the masterworks of Newton (Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica), Whitehead and Russell’s Principia Mathematica or GE Moore’s Principia Ethica, but it was nothing of the kind, as reviewers were quick to point out. Compared to the new ranks of professional academics, Leonard appeared discursive, repetitive, anecdotal and amateurish (p.444).

The spread of universities and growth of a class of specialist academics was epitomised by the opening, in 1961, of the University of Sussex, just outside Brighton and only 5 miles from Leonard’s rural retreat in the village of Rodmer (p.465).

For the public intellectual locked out of the growing ivory tower of academia, there remained publishing (he continued to be a director of the Hogarth Press), ‘the higher journalism’ (he continued to edit the Political Quarterly, and biography and memoirs. So this feeds back into the growth of Bloomsbury books – none of the survivors (Vanessa, Duncan, Quentin and so on) were really expert, scholarly expert-level on anything except… themselves.

Leonard himself epitomised the trend. Having had his masterwork of political commentary rubbished he retreated to the safer territory of his own life, and commenced his own autobiography which ended up taking no fewer than six volumes:

  • Sowing: An Autobiography of the Years 1880 to 1904 (1960)
  • Growing: An Autobiography of the Years 1904 to 1911 (1961)
  • Diaries in Ceylon 1908 to 1911, and Stories from the East: Records of a Colonial Administrator (1963)
  • Beginning Again: An Autobiography of the Years 1911 to 1918 (1964)
  • Downhill All the Way: An Autobiography of the Years 1919 to 1939 (1967)
  • The Journey Not the Arrival Matters: An Autobiography of the Years 1939 to 1969 (1969)

I’d never heard of these but they won him prizes. Beginning Again won the W.H. Smith book prize and the handy sum of £1,000.

Michael Holroyd’s two-volume biography of Lytton Strachey published in 1967-8 proved to be a turning point. Its openness about Strachey’s homosexuality, his numerous affairs, his thousands of camp letters, shed a completely new light on the Bloomsburies, rendering much that had been written up to that point obsolete, but confirming their reputation as sexual pioneeers (p.475).

Pointless

In the last volume of his autobiography Leonard candidly, devastatingly, adjudged that a lifetime of political activism, sitting on innumerable committees, spending years researching and writing position papers and polemical books (calling for international co-operation for peace) achieved more or less nothing.

‘I see clearly that I achieved practically nothing.’ (quoted p.484)

Thoughts

Authoritative, thorough, empathetic, insightful, fascinating and often very funny, nonetheless Glendinning’s definitive biography becomes increasingly focused on the mental illness of poor Virginia, relentlessly building up to Virginia’s suicide which is so terrible, so upsetting, so devastating, that I could barely read on and stopped trying to review it after that point.


Credit

‘Leonard Woolf: A Life’ by Victoria Glendinning was first published by Simon and Schuster in 2006. Page references are to the 2007 Pocket Books paperback edition.

Related links

Virginia explaining and justifying her technique in ‘Modern Novels’ (TLS 10 April 1919):

The mind, exposed to the ordinary course of life, receives upon its surface a myriad impressions–trivial, fantastic, evanescent, or engraved with the sharpness of steel. From all sides they come, an incessant shower of innumerable atoms, composing in their sum what we might venture to call life itself; and to figure further as the semi-transparent envelope, or luminous halo, surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end. Is it not perhaps the chief task of the novelist to convey this incessantly varying spirit with whatever stress or sudden deviation it may display, and as little admixture of the alien and external as possible.

Let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind in the order in which they fall, let us trace the pattern, however disconnected and incoherent in appearance, which each sight or incident scores upon the consciousness. Let us not take it for granted that life exists more in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small.

Revised as ‘Modern Fiction’ in The Common Reader (1925).

Not I, But The Wind… by Frieda Lawrence (1935)

We are so much more than we understand. Understanding is such a little part of us, there is so much in us of unexplored territory that understanding can never grasp.

I believe the chief tie between Lawrence and me was always the wonder of living . . . every little or big thing that happened carried its glamour with it. (p.60)

D.H. Lawrence died of tuberculosis in Vence in the south of France on 2 March 1930. His wife and soul-mate Frieda Lawrence tells us that she initially meant to pay her husband the tribute of complete silence about their 18 turbulent years together. But someone obviously prevailed on her to write a memoir and this book was published in 1935.

I owe it to him and to myself to write the truth as well as I can.

Ceaseless travelling

It’s an odd, uneven, patchwork but compelling work. On the factual front, it is arranged in simple chronological order with a chapter apiece about each of the main eras of their marriage. In particular you learn a lot about the extraordinary number of places they lived in. They were tramps, hobos, perpetual itinerants. At two or three places they seem to have lived for a couple of years, maximum, but some of the chapters describe half a dozen places they moved between, and they are always moving, travelling. After the war to Florence, then Capri, then several different residences in Sicily, before they took up Mabel Luhan’s invitation to join her in Taos, New Mexico, which triggered their round the world journey by ship across the Mediterranean, to Ceylon, to Australia, where they stay at a place on the west coast, before a few days in Sydney, then moving to a cottage 50 k south. Even when they arrived in Toas they moved locations till Mabel kindly gifted them a ranch in the foothills of the Rockies. But after a hard winter Lawrence took Frieda south to Mexico where, again, they never settled, staying in Mexico City, then to a place on Lake Chapara, then somewhere in Oaxaca.

Here it gets complicated because Frieda wanted to go back to Europe to see her mother, so they travelled together to New York, where she caught a ship for Europe (after a flaring argument on the quayside). After heading west to Chicago, then back to Taos, we suddenly find that Lawrence has taken ship for England, where he stays a bit in London, before heading south to France to a quiet place on the Italian border named Spotalino. They take a breather here, but only a few pages later are heading for Switzerland, then jaunts back to Germany to see her family.

What I found mind-boggling about all this is that they were poor, really poor, dirt poor, and yet could afford to up sticks and travel round the world and stay at a bewildering number of places, many if not most of which were in lovely settings. The world they moved through seems in this account to have been simpler and much, much, much cheaper than the world I grew up in fifty years later, and vastly more free and easy than the super-expensive Euro world we live in today.

Domesticity

What comes over is how, at every place they settled in, Lawrence and Frieda set about washing and cleaning and scrubbing, throwing out the awful old furniture and buying old native furniture or even making their own, painting the walls and crockery, turning every place they stayed into a home, no matter how transiently. Whether laying the pipes from a spring or carving a rocking chair, or making sure there were vases of flowers everywhere, the book is flavoured with a lovely sense of beautifying domesticity.

Arguments

Not that it was all sweetness and light. For feminist readers, or anyone looking for ammunition to attack Lawrence, Frieda gives plenty of examples of his temper tantrums, his bullying and abuse: he ridiculed her painting, mocked her in letters to her own mother, threw a glass of wine in her face at a dinner with her own family. He could be a very difficult man to live with. It’s not only ridiculous that such a weedy, frail specimen wrote so cockily about the need for men to be men, about the need for male culture and male struggle and so on – at some points it becomes creepy when he demands her submission to him.

Living intensely

But then, there are two things which redeem the situation. For all his demanding nature, Lawrence let Frieda live as no-one before or since had done. So when they kissed and made up, on the sunny days, she experienced a fullness of life, a richness in moment-to-moment living unlike anything else, wonderful incandescent.

Everything he met had the newness of a creation just that moment come into being. (p.31)

Wherever Lawrence was, the surroundings came alive so intensely. (p.99)

Travelling with him was living new experiences vividly every minute. (p.101)

Living with a genius

The other thing she makes clear is that Lawrence was a genius and genius is difficult.

As for pretending to understand Lawrence or to explain him, I am neither so impertinent nor such a fool. We are so much more than we understand. Understanding is such a little part of us, there is so much in us of unexplored territory that understanding can never grasp. As Lawrence and I were adventurers by nature, we explored.

I only know that I felt the wonder of him always. Sometimes it overwhelmed me, it knocked out all my consciousness as if a flame had burnt me up. I remained in awe and wonder.

Sometimes I hated him and held him off as if he were the devil himself. At other times I took him as you take the weather. Here’s a spring day, glorious sunshine, what a joy!…

I learned that a genius contains the whole gamut of human emotions, from highest to lowest. I learned that a man must be himself, bad or good at any price.

Patchwork

I mentioned it being a bit of a patchwork. This is because it contains quite a few of Lawrence’s letters. A standard biography would consist mostly of the author’s text with selected quotations from the subject’s letters to demonstrate a point. But here Frieda gives you 6, 7, 8 pages describing the events of a particular period (their time in Cornwall during the Great War, say, or their stay in Australia) and then a block of 7, 8, 9, 10 letters from Lawrence in their entirety. There are so many letters, quoted in full, that it’s almost like reading two books, Frieda’s version of events, then Lawrence’s dashed-off letters, side by side.

And not just letters but poems, the text includes half a dozen or so poems which she associates with particular places and times. Towards the end she just includes an essay of Lawrence’s about nightingales. So it’s a sort of mosaic. Or maybe a scrapbook of memories.

Mother

If Frieda was by his side most of their lives who were these letters to? Her mother. Lawrence developed a close relationship with Frieda’s mother and wrote her long, considerate, informative and funny letters describing their latest adventures in Australia or New Mexico or Mexico. He regularly addresses her, jocularly, as die Schwiegermutter (German for mother-in-law). But there are also letters to Frieda’s older sister, Else. Most if not all of these he wrote in German and Frieda has translated.

At moments it almost feels like an edition of Lawrence’s letters with a little light commentary from Frieda. For example, the chapter called ‘Going away together’ has just 2 pages of Frieda and 21 pages of Lawrence’s letters and the ‘Back to Europe’ chapter includes an epic 70 pages of letters. But then again, other chapters are entirely Frieda with no letters at all. So it varies.

Lack of specificity about Lawrence’s writings

About Lawrence’s actual writing, Frieda is often quite vague. She mentions particular works which were written at particular places but rarely goes into any detail, about characters, plot or meaning. Here’s a typical example:

We spent some weeks at Zell-am-See with Nusch, her husband and children at her villa. We bathed and boated and Lawrence wrote his ‘Captain’s Doll’ there. (p.84)

Or:

He wrote ‘Birds, Beasts and Flowers’ and ‘Sea and Sardinia’ at Fontana Vecchia, and also ‘The Lost Girl’. ‘Sea and Sardinia’ he wrote straightaway when we came back from Sardinia in about six weeks. And I don’t think he altered a word of it. (p.100)

Anybody looking for insight into particular works will be disappointed. I was particularly disappointed that there was no detail about the three big legal controversies: the banning of ‘Women in Love’, the banning of ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’, and the shutting down of the exhibition of his paintings in London.

She does the general psychological impact rather than the details. So in several places she comments on Lawrence’s ability to utterly focus.

Then he would sit in a corner, so quietly and absorbedly, to write. The words seemed to pour out of his hand onto the paper, unconsciously, naturally and without effort, as flowers bloom and birds fly past. His was a strange concentration, he seemed transferred into another world, the world of creation. (p.38)

And, later:

Often before he conceived a new idea he was irritable and disagreeable, but when it had come, the new vision, he could go ahead, and was eager and absorbed. (p.173)

Chapters

  1. Foreword
  2. We Meet
  3. Going Away Together
  4. Isartal
  5. Walking to Italy
  6. 1913 to 1914
  7. The War
  8. Lawrence and My Mother
  9. After the War
  10. America
  11. Going Back to Europe
  12. Nearing the End
  13. Conclusion

1. Foreword

Frieda establishes the setting where she is writing the book. She is back on the ranch, the Kiowa Ranch, which Mabel Luhan gave to them, and where she, Lawrence and, later, the artist Brett, lived together, in 1924 and 1925. Many of the chapters start with her describing the peaceful rural scenery around her, before she starts describing the events of each chapter.

It was still cold last night, though it is the middle of May.

Here the ranch, with the Sangre de Cristo mountain range behind it to the northeast, slopes to the desert. The big pine trees stand like dark sentinels in the night at the edge of the twenty acre alfalfa field. Beyond them floats the desert. You can see far. A few lights twinkle at Ranches de Taos. A shepherd’s fire glows. All is covered by an enormous sky full of stars, stars that hang in the pine trees, in Lawrence’s big tree with his phœnix on it that the Brett painted, stars that lean on the edge of the mountains, stars twinkling out of the Milky Way. It is so still. Only stars, nothing but stars.

This morning early there was still ice on the edge of the irrigation ditch from the Gallina Canyon. There is such a rush of water. The ice is melting high up in the mountains and the water sings through one’s blood.

But now, about midday, it is warm. The desert below circles in rings of shadow and sunshine. The alfalfa field is green, during these last days of sunshine it has turned green.

I am in the little cabin that Lawrence built with the Indians. I sit in the chair that he made with the ‘petit point’ canvas that we bought in the Rue de la Paix in Paris and that I embroidered. It took me a long time, and when I got bored, he did a bit.

It is a nice chair, although a bit rough, carved as it was with only a penknife.

So here I sit and try to write.

2. We Meet

Three and a half pages. Frieda was 33 and had everything a woman was meant to hope for, a respectable marriage to a man successful in his field (the notable philologist Ernest Weekley), a nice home and three lovely children. But a friend had recently been teaching her the new theories of Sigmund Freud which had begun to make her think about the search for an authentic self. So the door was already ajar when Lawrence came to lunch with her husband. They had some time alone together chatting before the meal and found themselves on the same wavelength. Rather vaguely, Frieda describes three or four further meetings, often with the children. The following appears to be the crunch moment:

One day we met at a station in Derbyshire. My two small girls were with us. We went for a long walk through the early-spring woods and fields. The children were running here and there as young creatures will. We came to a small brook, a little stone bridge crossed it. Lawrence made the children some paper boats and put matches in them and let them float downstream under the bridge. Then he put daisies in the brook, and they floated down with their upturned faces. Crouched by the brook, playing there with the children, Lawrence forgot about me completely. Suddenly I knew I loved him. He had touched a new tenderness in me.

3. Going Away Together

Two pages of Frieda’s narrative, 21 pages of his letters to her. They meet at Charing Cross station, take ship across the Channel, travel to Metz. Lawrence met Frieda’s father just the once, and they sat in glowering silence, the hostile aristocrat facing the miner’s son.

4. Isartal

Isartal is a name given to the valley of the River Isar, near Munich, in Bavaria, south Germany. Here, after delays, they met up and started their life together, living cheaply in a little flat lent them by a friend.

This morning I found the wild red columbines that I had first found with him. There they were at my feet, in the hollow where the workmen have been cutting the logs for the new house. A delicate blaze of startling red and yellow, in front of me, the columbines, like gay small flags. A rabbit stood still behind an oak shrub and watched me. A humming-bird hummed at me in consternation, as startled at me as I was at him. These things are Lawrence to me…

When Lawrence first found a gentian, a big single blue one, I remember feeling as if he had a strange communion with it, as if the gentian yielded up its blueness, its very essence, to him. Everything he met had the newness of a creation just that moment come into being.

Lawrence talked about his embattled boyhood, whereas Frieda had a lovely childhood in the garrison town of Metz.

Lawrence’s thriftiness

One day I bathed in the Isar and a heel came off one of my shoes on the rough shore; so I took both shoes off and threw them into the Isar. Lawrence looked at me in amazement. ‘He’s shocked, as I must walk home barefoot, but it’s a lonely road, it doesn’t matter,’ I thought. But it wasn’t that; he was shocked at my wastefulness. He lectured me: ‘A pair of shoes takes a long time to make and you should respect the labour somebody’s put into those shoes.’ To which I answered: ‘Things are there for me and not I for them, so when they are a nuisance I throw them away.’

Frieda’s children

She is mortally wounded about having to abandon her children. Her husband vowed she’d never see them again. Her mourning irritated Lawrence. Selfishly, he wanted her to devote herself to him alone, and have no rivals for her love.

Lawrence’s changeableness

He’d have quick changes of mood and thought. This puzzled me. ‘But Lawrence, last week you said exactly the opposite of what you are saying now.’ ‘And why shouldn’t I? Last week I felt like that, now like this. Why shouldn’t I?’

5. Walking to Italy

In August 1913 they set off to walk from south Germany across the Alps into Italy. It was Lawrence’s birthday en route. It took about 6 weeks. Sometimes they slept in haylofts. They were tramps.

I remember Lawrence saying to me: ‘You always identify yourself with life, why do you?’ I answered: ‘Because I feel like it.’

They danced and sang with the peasants they met en route.

6. 1913 to 1914

Back in London their best friends are John Middleton Murry and Katherine Mansfield, a perfect friend. When they finally got married at a registry office, JMM and KM were the witnesses. Lawrence quickly bought a new wedding ring and Frieda gave her old one to Katherine, and it was buried with her when she died (wretchedly young, in 1923) (p.66). Cynthia and Herbert Asquith became friends and Cynthia stuck with them during the bad times of the war and legal prosecution.

They went back to Italy and found a cottage at Lerici and got to know the housekeeper and her family. Here he wrote The Rainbow, originally titled ‘The Sisters’. He was upset when his literary mentor, novelist, literary critic, editor and reviewer of the day, David Garnett, didn’t like it (p.61).

Rejection

When I think that nobody wanted Lawrence’s amazing genius, how he was jeered at, suppressed, turned into nothing, patronized at best, the stupidity of our civilization comes home to me. How necessary he was! How badly needed! Now that he is dead and his great love for his fellowmen is no longer there in the flesh, people sentimentalize over him. (p.63)

Frieda’s lack of social stuffiness

With the dangerous quality of his work he accepted his more than doubtful financial position and I think one of my merits in his eyes was my never being eager to be rich or to play a role in the social world. It was hardly merit on my part, I enjoyed being poor and I didn’t want to play a role in the world.

7. The War

War breaks out. They are in London. They meet Eddie Marsh and Rupert Brooke who already looks doomed. One night they see a zeppelin over Hampstead Heath. They take a cottage in Berkshire. They have a Christmas 1914 meal with guests Gordon Campbell, Koteliansky, the Murrys, the artist Mark Gertler and Gilbert and Mary Cannan.

He goes to meet Bertrand Russell and is introduced to Lady Ottoline Morrell and her clique at Garsington Manor. The Rainbow is published then prosecuted in an obscenity trial at Bow Street Magistrates’ Court on 13 November 1915. As a result 1,011 copies were seized and burnt. After this ban, it became unavailable in Britain for 11 years. Lawrence was very bitter indeed and took it out on Frieda and vowed not to write another book.

‘The Rainbow’ appeared and was suppressed. When it happened I felt as though a murder had been done, murder of a new, free utterance on the face of the earth. I thought the book would be hailed as a joyous relief from the ordinary dull stuff, as a way out into new and unknown regions. With his whole struggling soul Lawrence had written it. Then to have it condemned, nobody standing for it—the bitterness of it! He was sex-mad, they said. Little even now do people realize what men like Lawrence do for the body of life, what he did to rescue the fallen angel of sex. Sex had fallen in the gutter, it had to be pulled out. What agony it was to know the flame in him and see it quenched by his fellowmen! ‘I’ll never write another word I mean,’ he said in his bitterness; ‘they aren’t fit for it,’ and for a time the flame in him was quenched. (p.71)

They move to a cottage in Cornwall, along with the Murrys who come to live nearby. Charming details of domestic life. They plan a commune of like-minded artists. But they are spied on and suspected. Their house is repeatedly searched. These sorry events are chronicled in great detail in the famous Nightmare chapter of ‘Kangaroo’. Eventually the authorities gave them three days to pack their bags, and expelled them from Cornwall.

When we were turned out of Cornwall something changed in Lawrence for ever. (p.78)

They go to London to stay with the poet H.D. and Richard Aldington, who would edit so many of Lawrence’s writings and provide introductions to the Penguin editions of his works. Then they go to stay at a cottage in Berkshire which partly heals Lawrence, but even here they are surveilled and followed. Then the Armistice (11 November 1918).

8. Lawrence and My Mother

A short chapter detailing the close relationship between Lawrence and Frieda’s mother who was the much-loved matriarch of the Richthofen household, wonderful mother to her and her two sisters. How much Lawrence enjoyed the company of the three women.

9. After the War

Lawrence doesn’t want to visit Germany immediately after the war so he goes direct to Florence. Frieda meets him there. She arrives at 4am and he insists on taking her on a carriage ride tour of the city in the mist: ‘and ever since Florence is the most beautiful town to me, the lilytown, delicate and flowery’.

Frieda makes passing reference to what I think she implies is the community of gay Brits in Florence but Frieda wasn’t impressed by their ‘wickedness’.

The wickedness there seemed like old maids’ secret rejoicing in wickedness. Corruption is not interesting to me, nor does it frighten me: I find it dull.

They move on to Capri but Frieda didn’t like it.

From Florence we went to Capri. I didn’t like Capri; it was so small an island, it seemed hardly capable to contain all the gossip that flourished there. So Lawrence went to Sicily and took Fontana Vecchia for us, outside Taormina. Living in Sicily after the war years was like coming to life again.

Frieda gives half a dozen letters Lawrence wrote to her mother. One of them is interesting from a literary point of view:

I am not working at the present time. I wrote three long stories since we are here—that will make quite a nice book. I also collected my short stories ready for a book. So, for the moment I am free, I don’t want to begin anything else…

This is interesting because it confirms the sense you have, reading his works chronologically, that after ‘Women in Love’ was published, and the three novellas and the short stories arranged – there was a hiatus. There is a distinct pause and change of pace in Lawrence’s output. And when he resume writing novels they feel considerably different from the pre-war ones, with all three of ‘Aaron’s Rod’, ‘Kangaroo’ and ‘The Plumed Serpent’ feeling below par, what Richard Aldington called improvisations.

Frieda briefly describes their travels and experiences in Sicily. She doesn’t explain any of the reasoning for why they decided to take up Mabel Luhan’s invitation to go and stay in her artists’ colony in Toas, New Mexico, and why Lawrence decided to travel there Eastwards, across the Mediterranean, through the Suez Canal, onto Ceylon and then stopping at Australia. Frieda gives us five of Lawrence’s letters to her mother and daughter, in which he gives wonderfully spooky descriptions of Australia’s uncanniness which haunt his novel ‘Kangaroo’.

Australia is a weird, big country. It feels so empty and untrodden. The minute the night begins to go down, even the towns, even Sydney, which is huge, begins to feel unreal, as if it were only a daytime imagination, and in the night it did not exist. That is a queer sensation: as if life here really had never entered in: as if it were just sprinkled over, and the land lay untouched. (p.115)

10. America

16 pages of text, 22 of letters.

A brisk account of settling at Taos and some of the friends they made. The chief point is the battle with Mabel Dodge for Lawrence’s soul. After just a few pages she’s whisked us off to Mexico.

Lawrence went to Guadalajara and found a house with a patio on the Lake of Chapala. There Lawrence began to write his ‘Plumed Serpent’. He sat by the lake under a pepper tree writing it. (p.122)

After six months or so in Mexico, they went back to the States, going to New York where she caught a ship back to Europe, while Lawrence headed west then south, back to Taos. Then he was persuaded to go back to England. As so often, it descends into a bewildering list of destinations: London, then to Paris, to Strassburg and Baden-Baden, back by ship to America, New York then back to Taos.

Here they had an idyllic summer. Middleton Murry and Katherine Mansfield came to stay nearby. They laid pipes from the freshwater spring. they had a cow and chickens. In the autumn they went back to Mexico City. Brief anecdote about a lunch with Somerset Maugham who Frieda thought was an acid, unhappy man. Then they rented a house in Oaxaca where Lawrence quickly write ‘Mornings in Mexico’ and revised ‘The Plumed Serpent’. Interestingly, Lawrence later told Frieda he wished he’d ended the novel differently. Anthony Burgess doesn’t like its hanging, indeterminate ending, either. But I think it’s entirely appropriate to Lawrence characters’ endless vacillations.

Here he becomes ill and they go back to Mexico City where a specialist tells them Lawrence has tuberculosis and only a few years to live (p.133).

They had returned to New Mexico with Brett, the artist, and Frieda devotes a couple of pages to describing how unhappy she was at Brett’s slavish devotion to Lawrence so that it turned into a competition for his approval. Throw in Mabel Luhan, the American patron, and you had three women vying for Lawrence’s affections.

11. Going Back to Europe

Leaping over times and details, Frieda says Lawrence wanted to return to Europe and lo and behold they take a house in Spotorno which had been recommended to them by the published Martin Secker. Her grown-up daughter Barbara comes to stay and there is an almighty argument between the three of them with Lawrence throwing a glass of wine in Frieda’s face and Barbara telling Lawrence he doesn’t deserve Frieda. Compounded when Lawrence’s sister, Ada, turns up, and forms an anti-German alliance with her so that Lawrence for a while locks his bedroom door to Frieda.

That spring, they move again, this time to a villa outside Florence – the Villa Mirenda – and, for the first time, she thinks she gets the Italian feel for life. It’s here that he starts writing ‘Lady Chatterley’. This is everything she has to say about it.

Then he wrote ‘Lady Chatterley’. After breakfast – we had it at seven or so – he would take his book and pen and a cushion, followed by John the dog, and go into the woods behind the Mirenda and come back to lunch with what he had written. I read it day by day and wondered how his chapters were built up and how it all came to him. I wondered at his courage and daring to face and write these hidden things that people dare not write or say.

For two years ‘Lady Chatterley’ lay in an old chest that Lawrence had painted a greeny yellow with roses on it, and often when I passed that chest, I thought: ‘Will that book ever come out of there?’

Lawrence asked me: ‘Shall I publish it, or will it only bring me abuse and hatred again?’ I said: ‘You have written it, you believe in it, all right, then publish it.’ So one day we talked it all over with Orioli; we went to a little old-fashioned printer, with a little old printing shop where they had only enough type to do half the book — and ‘Lady Chatterley’ was printed. When it was done, stacks and stacks of ‘Lady C …’, or Our Lady, as we called it — were sitting on the floor of Orioli’s shop. There seemed such a terrific lot of them that I said in terror: ‘We shall never sell all these’. A great many were sold before there was a row; first some did not arrive at their destination in America, then there came abuse from England… but it was done… his last great effort.

He had done it… and future generations will benefit, his own race that he loved and his own class, that is less inhibited, for he spoke out of them and for them, there in Tuscany, where the different culture of another race gave the impetus to his work. (p.172)

Lawrence takes up painting, with absolutely no training. In one of the letters he says:

I seem to be losing my will-to-write altogether: in spite of the fact that I am working at an English novel – but so differently from the way I have written before! I spend much more time painting – have already done three, nearly four, fairly large pictures. I wonder what you’ll say to them when you’ll see them. Painting is more fun than writing, much more of a game, and costs the soul far, far less. (p.196)

Aldous and Maria Huxley come to stay nearby and become good friends. Huxley tried to teach Frieda how to ski but her legs got tangled up and she was always falling over.

But Lawrence gets tired of the country and wants the sea so he goes and finds a place to stay at Port Cros, an island off the south of France. He’s become friendly with Richard Aldington and Frieda tells us it was here that Aldington began his classic novel ‘Death of a Hero’. Then they move to Toulon and spend the winter in the Beau Rivage hotel. Here Lawrence wrote his series of poems titled ‘Pansies’ (p.175).

In the spring they went to Spain, to Barcelona then to Mallorca. See what I mean by their restless, endless travelling? She barely mentions the publication and legal proceedings against Lady Chatterley (‘…what with the abuse of Lady Chatterley and the disapproval of the paintings…’ is as much detail as we get). They both travel to London to see the exhibition of his paintings at the Warren Gallery. It’s not clear from her account whether they’re still there when the paintings were confiscated by the police.

Suddenly Lawrence is in Florence and falls ill again. So Frieda takes him north, to Germany, to the Tegernsee, where they stay in a rough peasant house. From now on it was all about tending to his ill health.

It’s here that Frieda inserts a seven-page essay about the nightingale, which is a sort of commentary on John Keats’s famous poem on the same subject, followed by a huge section of letters, 70 pages, 46 letters, in total! They contain lots and lots about travel arrangements, and all kinds of boring details about publishers and translations and fees and contracts. One of the most striking passages is in a letter to Else where Lawrence gives his response to prosecution brought against his paintings in London.

You hear the pictures are to be returned to me on condition that they are never shown again in England, but sent away to me on the Continent, that they may never pollute that island of lily-livered angels again. What hypocrisy and poltroonery, and how I detest and despise my England. I had rather be a German or anything than belong to such a nation of craven, cowardly hypocrites. My curse on them! They will burn my four picture books, will they? So it is decreed. But they shall burn through the thread of their own existence as a nation, at the same time. Delenda est Cartago – but she will destroy herself, amply. Che nuoia! (p.248)

12. Nearing the End

Moving and upsetting description of Lawrence’s steady decline in the villa Beau Soleil at Bandol, her pity for his painful coughing, the wearisome drawing of breath as his TB progressed, and their mutual forgiveness.

I can only think with awe of those last days of his, as of the rays of the setting sun . . . and the setting sun obliterates all the sordid details of a landscape. So the dreary passages in our lives were wiped out and he said to me: ‘Why, oh why did we quarrel so much?’ and I could see how it grieved him… our terrible quarrels… but I answered: ‘Such as we were, violent creatures, how could we help it?’

It was here, on his deathbed, that he wrote his final work, ‘Apocalypse’. A doctor sent by their friend Mark Gertler, advises he move to a higher altitude, and so he took the exhausting train journey from Toulon to Antibes and then by car up to Vence, to a sanatorium named ‘Ad Astra’ (Latin for ‘To the stars).

There’s no indication how long this all took, though time for lots of visitors, close friends bringing varieties of food to find something he could keep down. I was intrigued to learn he was visited by H.G. Wells. Sometimes he was cruel to her.

One day he said to my daughter: ‘Your mother does not care for me any more, the death in me is repellent to her.’ (p.262)

The fact that she sets this down suggests how much it hurt her. They took him out of the sanatorium to a villa, putting him to bed. Right at the end he was in such pain he cried out for morphine. Fascinating that Aldous and Maria Huxley were there in these last days and it was Aldous who went off to find a doctor to get the drug. He returns with a doctor who injected morphine, he grew calmer, his breathing slowed, became interrupted, then stopped. He was dead. Frieda’s account of her loss, the completeness of her loss, the extinction of someone so full of life, made me cry.

13. Conclusion

In its entirety, this last section consists of a disclaimer:

Now that I have told my story in such a condensed way, letting blow through my mind anything that wanted to blow, I know how little I have said – how much I could say that perhaps would be more interesting. But I wrote what rose up, and here it is.

So there you go.

Thoughts

As I’ve said, there are fascinating biographical titbits scattered throughout, such as Frieda freely admitting she was useless at housework and Lawrence did it all, the strong implication that he was really unpleasant to her during the war years, some upsetting accounts of his nastiness to her – then again, loads of descriptions of bucolic happiness at Taos or their various villas.

But what stands out head and shoulders above all that is their extraordinary freedom to travel. All the world seems to be their oyster. There are hundreds of descriptions of wonderful places that turn the reader quite green with envy.

We are on the top of the island, and look down on green pine-tops, down to the blue sea, and the other islands and the mainland. Since I came I have not been down to the sea again – and Frieda has bathed only once. But it is very pretty. And at night the lights flash at Toulon and Hyères and Lavandou.

Or:

I think of Bandol and our little villa ‘Beau Soleil’ on the sea, the big balcony windows looking toward the sea, another window at the side overlooking a field of yellow narcissus called ‘soleil’ and pine trees beyond and again the sea. I remember sunny days when the waves came flying along with white manes, they looked as if they might come flying right up the terrace into his room.

I wish I’d had even one holiday as fresh and scenic and lovely as Lawrence and Frieda seemed to enjoy on almost every day of their blessed existence.


Credit

‘Not I, But The Wind… by Frieda Lawrence was published in 1935 by William Heinemann. References are to the 1983 Granada paperback edition.

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Expressionists: Kandinsky, Münter and the Blue Rider @ Tate Modern

This is an outstanding exhibition, a massive review of one of the great movements of modern art, with plenty of fascinating cultural context, some questionable digressions, and three novel ‘immersive’ rooms.

The exhibition is titled ‘Expressionism’ but really focuses on a subset of that broad German art movement. A quick skim through any article about Expressionism tells you that arguably the first Expressionist group was Die Brücke (The Bridge), formed in Dresden in 1905 by Fritz Bleyl, Erich Heckel, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner and Karl Schmidt-Rottluff, later joined by Emil Nolde, Max Pechstein, and Otto Mueller. None of these artists appear in, or are mentioned, in this exhibition.

Instead the Tate show focuses on the second circle of artists associated with the term, the group based around Russian lawyer-turned-artist Wassily Kandinsky who, in 1909 set up the New Artists’ Association of Munich (NKVM), and in 1911 published an artistic manifesto in the shape of The Blue Rider Almanac and so came to be called the Blue Rider group. (The story used to go that this was named after a 1903 painting of the same name by Kandinsky, although there’s an alternative story that BR co-founder Franz Marc liked horses and Kandinsky liked riders [specifically, knights on horseback] and they both found the colour blue deeply symbolic.)

Tiger by Franz Marc (1912) Lenbachhaus Munich, Donation of the Bernhard and Elly Koehler Foundation 1965

Both groups had 15 or so members but this exhibition focuses on a handful of them, namely:

  • Wassily Kandinsky
  • Gabriele Münter
  • Franz Marc
  • Marianne von Werefkin
  • August Macke
  • Lyonel Feininger
  • Alexej von Jawlensky
  • Paul Klee

The first four, in particular (Kandinsky, Münter, Marc, von Werefkin) form the core of the show, works by them appearing in virtually every room.

The exhibition’s ten big rooms are in loose chronological order so one aspect of strolling through them is to watch the development of these major artists. The two central figures are very clearly Kandinsky and Münter, the earliest members and most powerful presences.

Wassily Kandinsky (1866 to 1944)

The leading figure by number of works is Kandinsky and the exhibition allows us to watch his evolution as an artist through a series of extraordinary masterpieces. Kandinsky needs little commentary, he is one of the great wonders of early modern art. We start with the beautiful, fairy tale richness of ‘Riding Couple’:

Riding Couple by Wassily Kandinsky (1906-1907) Lenbachhaus Munich, Donation of Gabriele Münter, 1957

Then see works which are increasingly ‘abstract’ but in which you can still just about make out the subject, such as The Cow (1910):

Installation view of ‘Expressionists Kandinsky, Munter and the Blue Rider’ at Tate Modern 2024 showing ‘The Cow’ by Wassily Kandinsky. Photo © Tate (Larina Fernandes)

And then onto the works in which he slips the shackles of realism and creates a new kind of painting in which the colours are designed to reflect spiritual truths, human feelings, triggering and capturing new emotions.

‘Improvisation Deluge’ by Wassily Kandinsky (1913) Lenbachhaus Munich, Donation of Gabriele Münter, 1957

What I noticed this time round is that there is an OCD business about his paintings. Whether it’s the magical pointillism of the early works or the abstraction of the last ones in the show, a Kandinsky painting is always busy, with lots of lines and colours and dabs and lines.

Gabriele Münter (1877 to 1962)

Kandinsky is closely followed in the number of works included by Gabriele Münter. In fact if you count her photographs (see ‘Ethnicity’ below) she is the most represented artist here.

Münter’s style feels well established from the start. This picture, ‘Listening’, captures one of the many evenings the friends spent sitting round, drinking, smoking and talking about art and spirituality to the early hours.

‘Listening (Portrait of Jawlensky)’ by Gabriele Münter (1909) Lenbachhaus Munich, Donation of Gabriele Münter, 1957 © DACS 2024

In the caption to it, Münter is quoted as saying:

‘Those who look at my paintings with close attention, will discover the draftswoman in them. Despite their colourfulness, they boast a firm graphic framework. Mostly, I draw my paintings with a black brush onto the board or canvas before I add the colours.’

This was pretty obvious already, but this quote really drives it home and explains the strikingly clear, almost stark outlines which characterise all her work, for example in one of the best images of the show, her portrait of the ubiquitous Marianne von Werefkin (strong black outlines, coloured in).

Portrait of Marianne von Werefkin by Gabriele Münter (1909) Lenbachhaus Munich, Donation of Gabriele Münter 1957 © DACS 2024

Münter lived to a ripe old age and in the 1950s gave interviews cheerfully describing the lives of these friends and innovators, what they talked about, how they developed their theories and so on. In particular, she gives a quote which gets to the heart of the entire movement.

‘After a short period of agony, I took a great leap forward, from copying nature – in a more or less impressionist style – to feeling the contents of things, abstracting, conveying an essence.’

There you have it: the Great Leap Forward from the Old World (copying nature in an Impressionist manner) to the Brave New World (trying to convey not what is there, not what you see, but how what you see makes you feel).

The quote made me realise that the word ‘abstract’ has numerous meanings. As an adjective, it means not relating to concrete or specific things in the world and so is a category of thought, and it’s in this sense that it’s used to describe the various schools of ‘abstract’ painting i.e. not depicting anything in the real world. But the phrasing of this quote made me realise that it is also a verb, that ‘to abstract’ something means to extract or remove something – and that this connotation hovers over Münter’s words. By using primary colours in an unnaturalistic way, her paintings remove or extract from a scene its deeper meaning or feeling.

Münter (as far is this exhibition is concerned) never took the last, bold step into total abstraction, which Kandinsky did and which is why he is the more important figure in art history. She continued to paint (on the evidence here) easily recognisable landscapes and people. But what The Great Leap Forward meant for her is that she ceased worrying about painting what was in front of her looked like, and liberated herself to paint how what was in front of her made her feel. The result is a stream of works which are less flashily dramatic than either Kandinsky or Marc but every bit as wonderful. I just loved this piece to bits because, to my mind, you can feel the excitement of an artist set free from the old constraints. A new way of feeling.

Jawlensky and Werefkin by Gabriele Münter (1909) Lenbachhaus Munich, Donation of Gabriele Münter 1957 © DACS 2024

Franz Marc (1880 to 1916)

Marc isn’t as present as either Kandinsky or Münter in the first half of the exhibition but comes into his own in the big Room 8 which is packed with masterpieces. In particular it features his breath-takingly masterful images of animals, including The Tiger (at the start of this review), the image of a doe hunkering down in a rainstorm, and this wonderful, lovely, life-affirming painting of happy cows. The world needs more happy cows.

Cows, Red, Green, Yellow by Franz Marc (1911) Lenbachhaus Munich

The joy comes through partly in the unlikely image of the dancing cow but mostly in the uninhibited use of the boldest most vibrant colours. (Also note the absence of the strong black outlines which characterise all of Münter. In this respect, I suppose there’s a heavy squat thereness about Münter’s paintings, whereas the lack of strong outlines, the way Marc just leaves it to the colours themselves to define objects, contributes to his sense of wonderful lightness and energy.)

Modern sensibilities: gender and race

If I am always going on about gender and ethnicity in my exhibition reviews it’s simply because modern curators make them the central issues of their exhibitions, so I am simply reflecting what I read (see the slavery show at the Royal Academy, the feminist exhibitions Women in Revolt and Now You See Us at Tate Britain and Judy Chicago at Serpentine North, the post-colonial works of Yinka Shonibare CBE at Serpentine South, and so on and so on).

Thus some visitors might be surprised that the wall labels of the first three rooms contain so many references to ‘gender’ and ‘race’:

Room 1 displaying photographs Münter took on a visit to America:

In other photographs she reflects on social subjects including gender, racial tension in the southern USA, and economic inequalities.

Room 2 describing the group which was to form the Blue Rider:

The collective included women artists and those exploring their gender identities.

The painting belongs to a series featuring Sacharoff in crossdress, exploring gender fluidity through art and performance.

The strong facial features, direct assertive gaze and use of bold colours [in Werefkin’s self portrait] play with traits associated with masculinity employed to confront gender stereotypes of the time.

And that the exhibition goes on to feature entire rooms devoted to gender fluidity, post-colonial criticism, and cultural appropriation.

But this is where we are now. Contemporary art discourse is soaked in concepts and terms derived from sociological discourse around gender, race and ethnicity, colonialism and imperialism, and all aspects of ‘identity’.

Art, even art of the past, is no escape from these contemporary ideologies. The reverse: all art exhibitions and their curators nowadays not only have to take account of old-style feminism (pretty old hat by now), but:

  1. of new-style concerns about gender stereotypes, gender binaries, gender roles, gender fluidity, non-binary identity, heteronormativity, the male gaze and more
  2. have to be sensitive to all the concerns and terminology generated by decades of post-colonial theory the easiest of which to grasp is ‘racism’, accompanied by newer terms like Eurocentrism and the Eurocentric gaze
  3. have to be sensitive to accusations of cultural appropriation, which means that if you paint anything that is not from your own exact culture you run the risk of being accused – as the Blue Riders are accused here – of being patronising and exploiting folk craftspeople and of cultural appropriation

Since the curators repeatedly invoke these ideas, and devote an entire room to gender identity, I am simply reporting what is here. Let’s look at these three topics more closely.

1. Gender

Here’s the curator’s introduction to Room 5, ‘Performing Gender’. As usual I quote the curators’ words at length so you can capture for yourself every nuance of their meaning and it’s not filtered through my words or interpretation:

Traditionally, theatre and performance offered safe environments for the exploration of sexuality and gender. Performers could switch gender and power roles, and engage with transgressive themes. Artist and patron [Marianne von] Werefkin was attracted to the free arts of street theatre and popular entertainment for their freedom of expression and potential to disrupt the highly regulated social structures women were confined to.

Werefkin experimented with expressionist painting while also grappling with questions of identity. This included navigating the legal and social barriers of gender inequality. Her privileged upbringing and financial independence allowed Werefkin to assume a position of power, acting as patron and supporter of the arts – a field traditionally monopolised by men. In this period, such women were given the pejorative label ‘manwoman’ to denote their being ‘unnatural’, members of a ‘third sex’. This perspective was critically explored in the writing of contemporary philosopher and minority rights activist Johannes Holzmann.

Resenting gender binaries, Werefkin stated: ‘I am not a man, I am not a woman, I am I.’ She shared affinities with artists challenging traditional gender roles. This is reflected in her support of performer Sacharoff. Presenting androgynously both on and off stage, Sacharoff explored gender fluidity through new styles of performance that activated form through free movement. Believing that dance resembled music or painting, Sacharoff said: ‘In the art of dance the body must be an elaborate instrument capable of expressing the soul. In this sense, it must be as valid as the word, the sound and the colour’. Performance was central to both Werefkin and Sacharoff’s investigations and constructions of self-identity.

The room features three big photographs of Sacharoff dancing, plus a display case of Werefkin’s notebooks, and then Werefkin’s big blue painting of Sacharoff.

‘The Dancer, Alexander Sacharoff’ by Marianne von Werefkin (1909) Fondazione Marianne Werefkin, Museo Comunale d’Arte Moderna, Ascona

Of this painting the curators write:

Sacharoff entranced audiences with ground-breaking free-movement performances, radically disrupted gender norms by performing in women’s or gender-fluid outfits. Sacharoff also assumed an androgynous off-stage and in social life. Werefkin’s portrait of the dancer in the role of Salome is a powerful celebration of the body, transgressing the sexualisation of the male gaze. Rejecting both traditional and modernist modes of bodily representation, she presents an empowering image of that challenges the turn-of-the-century’s societal norms and expectations.

When I was young, men dressing as women, or adopting sexually ambivalent personas, especially in the worlds of ballet and dance, were well known enough and casually accepted by anyone sympathetic to the arts. Not long ago I went to an exhibition about David Bowie, whose debt to dancer Lindsay Kemp was freely acknowledged back in the 1970s. The adjective ‘androgynous’ was routinely applied to Bowie in the early 70s i.e. 40 years ago.

What feels completely new is the curators making such an immense song-and-dance about it, as if this Russian guy dressing as a woman, sporting a woman’s haircut and makeup, was such a centrally important part of the Blue Rider movement that it requires a room of its own to celebrate it.

This struck me as evidence of contemporary curators’ concerns (obsessions) rewriting and reprioritising what you could call ‘the facts’ of the historical record. For example, later in the show they mention the intense spiritual and religious concerns of Kandinsky and Marc, but don’t properly explore them. If you read other accounts, the diaries and letters of the group, you discover that they spent all their time debating a whole range of spiritual and religious issues, from theosophy to Buddhism. The curators mention these interests but don’t give them anything like the centrality they had to the actual artists.

Instead, what lights their fire are the modern turbo-charged issues of gender stereotypes, gender binaries, gender roles, gender fluidity, non-binary identity, subverting gender stereotypes and societal conventions. Thus in the third paragraph of the curator text for the ‘Performing Gender’ room, you’ll notice they include a quote from Sacharoff himself, saying:

‘In the art of dance the body must be an elaborate instrument capable of expressing the soul. In this sense, it must be as valid as the word, the sound and the colour’.

The key word in this quote is soul but you can see how the curators skip over this, don’t pick up on it, and instead surround it with no fewer than eight references to their own concern, gender issues. The Blue Rider artists’ concern with spirituality isn’t concealed – it’s mentioned in half a dozen places – it is merely eclipsed by the power and charge of the new ideology.

I’m not really bothered by this – as an old member of the Campaign For Homosexual Equality I’ve been a lifelong supporter of the kind of gender liberations they’re talking about. What I find fascinating is the way this intense focus on ‘identity’ (not just sexual but racial, too) has become the central concern of progressive artists, curators, academics and commentators and eclipses all other issues.

Also I’m not that bothered because this is the way culture works. Each new generation has it own concerns and interprets the record of the past (not just the artistic record but the immense record of all human events which we call ‘history’) in the light of these new concerns, and each new generation of scholars, academics and curators reads the past, and projects onto the past, the concerns of the present.

What fascinates me so much about the Tate curators’ editorial decisions and the wall labels justifying them. is that they make this generational, cultural shift so evident.

For me, as an old lefty, it feels like the worldview I grew up in which was concerned with inequality, extremes of wealth and poverty, economic exploitation, which routinely deployed a lexicon of rhetoric around socialism, communism, revolution, nationalisation, trade unions, redistribution and so on, has been completely superseded by this new progressive lexicon concerned with 1) gender stereotypes, gender binaries, gender roles, gender fluidity, non-binary identity, and 2) parallel concerns with race and ethnicity, tied to the red button topics of immigration and refugees.

So to summarise, for me, when I read wall labels like this, I don’t think I’m learning much new about the ostensible subject (one of the members of the Blue Rider group was a Russian dancer who liked dressing as a woman) but I am experiencing a kind of generational shift in discourse and political concerns, away from the hard political and economic concerns of the 1970s and 80s into the new world, the world we now inhabit, which is drenched in super-sophisticated terminology about gender and identity to such an extent that it overshadows or completely eclipses all the other issues raised by the subject, even the ones which the artists themselves said were central to their lives and thinking.

Back to the art: Werefkin

I didn’t like Werefkin’s paintings. I thought they were crude and amateurish next to the works of the big three (Kandinsky, Munter, Marc). When you compare the photos of Sacharoff with this painting, you see how poor it is – not vividly inventive and visually revolutionary like the Big Three’s work, but just scrappy and amateurish.

Nonetheless, Werefkin features very heavily in the exhibition, is references more than Paul Klee, Lyonel Feininger and August Macke put together. So many of her works are included maybe because 1) she was a consistent organising presence in the group, partly as a rich patron. But also because 2) this exhibition is consciously downplaying the male members and deliberately foregrounding and emphasising the women members of the group (see below). And further, because 3) Werefkin pushes all the up-to-the-minute buttons about gender fluidity, trans men and so on. Here’s another of her paintings.

Self-portrait I by Marianne von Werefkin (about 1910) Lenbachhaus Munich

Actually this one is rather good, but most of her other works here aren’t as successful. Go and make your own mind up.

2. Ethnicity and colonialism

To my surprise Room 4 is nothing to do with art or painting but entirely devoted to photos taken by Münter on an extended trip she and Kandinsky made together to Tunisia.

Münter’s Tunisian photographs were taken during her and Kandinsky’s trip to North Africa in December 1904 to March 1905. During French colonial occupation (1881 to 1956), Tunisia became a popular tourist destination for Europeans. Following established routes, Münter produced her second largest group of photographic works. Marking the start of a period of active artistic experimentation, she explored new forms of expression using traditional media (painting, embroidery and reverse glass painting) alongside new technologies (photography and linocut prints).

Münter’s architectural imagery demonstrates her interest in depicting the simplified, abstracted essence of a scene. They also reveal her occasional engagement with the established European visual culture of orientalism. This genre of painting and photography tended to depict places and people in North Africa and West Asia in reductive, stereotypical and exoticised terms.

Some images reflect Münter’s broader curiosity and engagement with modern Tunisia as an outsider. She captures a range of scenes including photographs of women in different roles – as mothers, travellers, camel riders and active participants in city life. These photographs counter the orientalist trope of women as odalisques – sexualised depictions of enslaved women. They also reveal the complexities of a colonial capital in a way that doesn’t appear in contemporary orientalist paintings.

This seemed a very odd decision. None of these photos really feed into her subsequent paintings, which are overwhelmingly portraits or landscapes of German rural scenes. Choosing to devote an entire room to Münter’s photographs felt to me designed to hit two nails on the head: One is the modern feminist curator’s compulsion to restore women to the narrative of art history. I wouldn’t be surprised if this trip to Tunisia features in standard biographies of Kandinsky and so the curators chose to tell it, but from the point of view of the woman. This obviously fits with the same feminist, restore-women-artists-to-the-record imperative at work in Women in Revolt and Now You See Us at Tate Britain.

But the room also goes out of its way to introduce questions of colonialism, exploitation and race into the exhibition which, otherwise, I don’t think would really crop up, for why would they in a show about a handful of Bohemian artists living in rural German towns quietly painting the scenery? None of them made a habit of painting oriental odalisques so this room felt like an odd digression, fuelled solely by the modern curator’s need to say something about colonialism and racism.

This motive, concern (or obsession) explains the rather odd final paragraph introducing Room 3 which is supposedly setting the historical context of turn-of-the-century Munich where the Blue Rider artists first met. Its ostensible purpose is to give a background to the government of newly unified Germany in the 1870s and 80s.

The government embraced imperial and colonial ambitions including the exploitation of people and resources overseas. Public fascination with world cultures was underpinned by racist narratives and cultural and ethnic hierarchies of imperialism. These perspectives were reinforced by staged public ‘ethnographic exhibitions’ and displays at museums across Germany.

I don’t think we particularly need to know any of this in order to understand the Blue Rider artists, but the curators very obviously need to tell us. It’s part of the new ideology in which even the slightest hint of imperial or colonial involvement must be dragged into the full light of day, described at length, and utterly condemned by curators concerned to tick every box on their Diversity and Inclusion checklist. You can almost see the boxes being ticked off, one by one. Deplore gender inequality, tick. Support trans people, tick. Condemn imperialism, tick. Outraged by racism, tick. (I’m not being that satirical. I work at a big government agency. We have Diversity and Inclusion checklists and mandatory diversity and inclusion courses we have to go on.)

As to Münter’s photos, they’re OK, some of them are pretty good, but nothing to write home about. It’s revealing that the press office don’t included any in their press pack and none of them are on the exhibitions web pages. No – because people have come to see the paintings. The main impression I got from them was how little has, apparently changed. Some of them looked like they could have been taken yesterday.

3. Cultural appropriation

‘Room’ 7 is the name given to the narrow corridor in the Tate Modern layout linking small Room 5 (Performing Gender) and the massive Room 8, the one containing masterpieces by Marc and Kandinsky, in particular. This narrow passage is tailor-made for display cases more than pictures hanging on a wall, and here it is used to display half a dozen examples of the kind of naive folk art from the rural regions around Munich, specifically the idyllic market town of Murnau where Kandinsky and Münter lived from 1909 to 1911 and and which they, especially Münter, liked to include in their paintings, especially still lives.

Thus there’s a still life by Münter, ‘Madonna with Poinsettia‘ (1911) alongside the actual wooden statuette of the Madonna which features in the painting. Cool. And the other cases contain other craft objects which feature in various of their works.

However, these days no work of art goes unpunished and so the curators use this mildly interesting and, you’d have thought, fairly harmless little display, to spank both the artists and, by implication, the naughty gallery goer who just likes this kind of thing without asking the difficult questions required by their post-colonial studies tutor. Because the artists’ habit of collecting objects made by local craftsmen turns out to be far from innocent:

Objects produced by local and international artists and craftspeople who were not academically trained were perceived by European modernists as ‘unspoiled’ and ‘authentic’. When shown in modernist exhibitions and illustrated in publications these works were often presented anonymously and removed from their original context. They were showcased purely for their stylistic qualities, artistry and boldness of colour.

The curators don’t use the phrase ‘cultural appropriation’ but they don’t have to. Torn from their cultural context, unattributed to the people who made them, patronised as ‘unspoilt’, these objects now have to be regarded through the half century of post-colonial discourse which nowadays throngs the humanities.

If you haven’t completed your reading list of post-colonial theory, tut tut, why not?

The Tate family of galleries provide an outstanding service, all round the country, of curating, presenting, and introducing the best of world art in beautiful settings, with all manner of helpful introductory videos and tours and books and so on. But you can’t help feeling that very often visiting one of their exhibitions is like walking through a series of Guardian editorials or walking into a sociology seminar at university to discover you’re the only white male in the room and everyone is looking at you accusingly. In the old days you visited an exhibition to be informed. Nowadays you are more likely to be lectured.

Evidence from Amazon

I was toying with buying the exhibition catalogue on Amazon (£35 at the exhibition, £22 on Amazon) when I was struck by several things which confirm the interpretation I’ve just given. One is that the brief book summary provided by the publisher mentions Alexander Sacharoff’s freestyle dancing and Gabriele Münter’s photographs before any actual painting, and doesn’t mention Kandinsky, the central figure in the movement, at all.

Then I was gratified by the comments of a couple of people who’d bought and read the book and shared my impression of the obtrusive, obstructive nature of the curators’ concerns:

“I bought the book for the reproductions and, unlike the previous reviewer, I am happy with them. However, the texts dwell heavily on all the usual 21st century concerns and issues in an attempt to force the art of the Blue Rider group to relate to them. But the artists concerned lived in a different era with different concerns. It would be more enlightening to try to understand them in their own context.”

And:

“Very good illustrations of work from all The Blue Rider group but the essays seem to want to impose today’s values on a group working over a 110 years ago.”

Exactly.

Other figures

There were about 20 members of the NKVM and 15 of the Blue Rider group but it felt, to me, as if almost all of them were marginalised in order to focus on the previously unknown photography of Gabriele Münter and the gender-fluid issues surrounding von Werefkin.

Thus there were a few bright and colourful abstracts by Robert Delaunay who exhibited with the Rider group, and an article about him appeared in the Almanac – he was more rooted in Paris and associated with the colour experiments of the movement Apollinaire named Orphism, but I would have liked to have seen more of his light and happy works.

Circular Shapes, Moon no. 1 by Robert Delaunay (1913) Lenbachhaus Munich and Gabriele Münter and Johannes Eichner Foundation, Munich

Sonia Delaunay is represented by an interesting experimental work, ‘Prose on the Trans-Siberian Railway and of Little Jehanne of France 1913’, which is a long scroll or parchment hanging which combines, on the left, a series of her abstract paintings designed to accompany or illustrate or interact with a long prose poem by French poet Blaise Cendrars printed down the right-hand side. The pair called this format a ‘simultaneous book’ whose aim was to ‘bring together text and design to express spoken words through colour’.

August Macke is represented by some wood cuttings, a portrait of his wife, and a handful of very distinctive scenes of urban life, of the urban bourgeoisie out for a stroll on a Sunday afternoon. His figures have a characteristic tube shape, elongated and willowy, while his trees and leaf canopies are converted into semi-abstract curves.

Promenade by Auguste Macke (1913) Lenbachhaus Munich, Donation of Bernhard and Elly Koehler 1965

Macke appears to have been an eminently sane man, who wrote:

‘work for me means a thorough enjoyment of nature, the blazing sun and trees, shrubs, human beings, animals, plants and pots, tables, chairs, mountains, water of illuminated becoming. I immerse myself in the snow-drop’s friendly nodding, in the rhythm of the bird-laden twigs swaying in the sun…’

Erma Bossi was born in the Austro-Hungarian Empire in 1875. She met Kandinsky and Münter in Munich after moving there from the multicultural city of Trieste. She was drawn to Werefkin’s circle and became a member of the NKVM. She is represented by a portrait of Werefkin in her role as founder and host of the artistic and intellectual salon, and by this lively painting of the circus.

‘Circus’ by Erma Bossi (1909) Lenbachhaus Munich, on permanent loan from the Gabriele Münter and Johannes Eichner Foundation, Munich

Maria Franck-Marc, born in 1876, was an artist and member of the Blue Rider collective. Born in Berlin, she moved to Munich to study at the Ladies’ Academy of the Royal School of Art. It was here that she met Franz Marc. An active participant in the Blue Rider group, she took part in conversations around the Almanac concept and content. She also exhibited at the second Blue Rider exhibition.

Franck met Marc in 1905. The couple broke social conventions by moving in together before marrying several years later, in 1913. There’s an (uncharacteristically dull) portrait of her by her husband, and three of her own paintings which reveal her interest in children and childhood as a subject.

‘Girl with Toddler’ by Maria Franck-Marc (about 1913) Lenbachhaus Munich © Legal succession of the artist

Another artist I could have done with seeing a lot more of was Lyonel Feininger, born in 1871 in America to German parents who returned to the Fatherland in 1887. He is notable for a very distinctive sort of vertical cubism, in which fairly straightforward buildings are transformed into tall, thin Vorticist apparitions as if from a science fiction future. He only has two paintings here, including ‘Behind the Church‘ (1916), and I’d have liked to have seen a lot more of his stuff.

It seemed odd that artists like Feininger (2 paintings), Robert Delaunay (3), Sonia Delaunay (1), Elizabeth Epstein (1), even the great Paul Klee (2 paintings) and quite a few others, feel very under-represented, while Gabriele Münter has not only a dozen or more paintings but an entire room devoted to her 20 or so pretty average holiday snaps. But then, you’ve read my reasons why I think the curators have distorted or re-oriented their reading of the past, in order to conform to modern concerns.

Three immersions

Exhibition organisers are always keen to diversify and jazz up their shows with something inventive and the curators of this one have excelled themselves.

1. Colours and prisms

There’s a room devoted to the Blue Rider artists’ interest in colour theory. This concerns the visual and psychological impact of every colour and shade of colour, added to which a painted like Kandinsky attributed to colours powerful spiritual vibrations (as explained in his book ‘Concerning the Spiritual in Art’). I’ve been to several exhibitions devoted to this subject, for example Making Colour at the National Gallery, and read several books and, in the end, find it extremely dull. Not least because every artist has a different theory and palette and these quickly become confusing. But mostly because, while they’re explaining the colour theory of Newton or Goethe or Monet or van Gogh, these books ignore the elephant in the room which is the supersaturation of modern life with visual elements drenched in the cunning use of colour which would probably provide more useful and up-to-date examples we could all relate to.

But it’s in this room that the curators have set up small prisms on two stands through which visitors are intended to view Franz Marc’s masterpiece Deer in the Snow II by Franz Marc (1911). The idea is that when you look through the prism you should notice how the colours faintly overlap. These overlapping edges either produce a neutral grey, signifying complementary colours, or coloured edges. signifying uncomplementary ones. (In case it doesn’t work for you, or there’s a queue for the prisms, there’s a big reproduction on the wall showing the blurred effect you’re striving for.)

Expressionists Kandinsky, Munter and the Blue Rider installation view at Tate Modern 2024. Photo © Tate (Larina Fernandes)

This was, I’m afraid, a little underwhelming.

2. White light

A bit better is the room off to one side which contains another experiment. Tate asked contemporary artist Olafur Eliasson to explore the impact of changed lighting conditions on our reading of Kandinsky’s abstracts, specifically hanging a work titled ‘Improvisation Gorge’ in a room lit by a very bright overhead fluorescent lamp.

‘Improvisation Gorge’ by Wassily Kandinsky (1914) Lenbachhaus Munich, Donation of Gabriele Münter, 1957

The aim is to show how a different quality of light from that encountered in the rest of the gallery, changes our reading of the painting. To be honest, it just made the painting look a bit washed out to me, and quite quickly the very bright white light made me feel uncomfortable. Reminded me too much of the overbright open plan office where I work.

Installation view of ‘Expressionists Kandinsky, Munter and the Blue Rider’ at Tate Modern 2024 showing ‘Improvisation Gorge’ by Wassily Kandinsky (1914) in the Olafur Eliasson room. Photo © Tate (Larina Fernandes)

3. Schoenberg and atonalism

On 2 January 1911, Kandinsky and Marc attended a concert of works by the experimental composer Arnold Schönberg. A few days later Kandinsky created his work ‘Impression III (Concert)’ as a visual response. Like the Riders, Schönberg wanted to create a new, spiritual art which broke free of traditional forms and constraints. His great achievement was to jettison notions of melody, harmony and all the great forms of repetition (sonata, fugue etc) and instead to create music which exists in the present. In writings and conversation Schönberg associated musical tones with colours and the mixing of instruments, timbres and musical effects with an artist’s mixture of composition and colour. He even made paintings of his own which were considered good enough to be included in Rider exhibitions.

For their part, several members of the Blue Rider were professionally trained musicians: Kandinsky was a skilled cellist and Klee and Feininger were serious violinists and so could perform Schönberg’s compositions.

Kandinsky’s intense interest in the relationship between colour and sound naturally led to an interest in the condition known as synaesthesia, where a person experiences one sense through another, such as perceiving sound as colour and vice versa.

Schönberg contributed to the Almanac with an essay, ‘The Relationship to the Text’, which explored the abstract nature of poetry as it relates to sound.

This immersive room focuses on these themes. A display case shows the book he created which combined free verse and woodcuts and which he called Klänge or ‘Sounds’, published in 1913. In a cool bit of digital technology, the entire book has been digitised and you can skim through the pages and select ones to blow up to full size on a monitor.

But the ‘immersive’ aspect of the room is that while one wall is devoted to displaying ‘Impression III (Concert)’, hidden speakers play some of the Schönberg pieces which inspired the painting, namely his breakthrough pieces, the Second String Quartet in F Sharp Minor opus 10, and the Three Piano Pieces, opus 11.

This is very successful although not, it turns out, particularly novel. The same thing was done at the Arnold Schoenberg Center in Vienna in 2000 and, I imagine, at other art centres, too.

Still, the non-sequitur nature of Schönberg’s pieces, in which musical events follow each other unpredictably, without reference to previous moments or traditional structures, correlates closely to the Kandinsky piece in which different colours and tones and shapes exist in themselves, in their own right, unconstrained by the requirement to refer to anything in the world. All this is summed up in a famous letter Kandinsky wrote to Schönberg, in which he describes ‘the particular destinies, the autonomous paths, the lives of individual voices’ of the latter’s compositions. These, he stated, ‘are precisely what I have been looking for in pictorial form.’

This is a nice installation, well worth sitting on the bench, in the darkened room, calming right down from the packed exhibition rooms, slowing right down to appreciate every colour and nuance of the painting, alongside the ‘autonomous paths’ and unexpected moments of this strange, beguiling music. If only they could lay on tea and snacks I’d have closed my eyes and let my imagination provide colours and patterns to match Schönberg’s free-running tones.

The promotional video


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Gesture and line: Four post-war German and Austrian artists @ the British Museum

In 2013 the British Museum received a gift of 67 works on paper from the collection of Count Christian Duerckheim. The works are by four German and Austrian artists who are relatively unknown in the UK, being:

  • Karl Bohrmann (German)
  • Rudi Tröger (German)
  • Carl-Heinz Wegert (German)
  • Hermann Nitsch (Austrian)

This FREE exhibition displays about a dozen or so works by each of the four. What they all had in common was a preference for drawing over painting, sculpture etc, which is why the exhibition is situated in the Museum’s print rooms up on the third floor.

Drawing in post-war Germany

From the 1960s drawing assumed a prominent position among a rising generation of post-war artists in Germany and Austria. The works of the three Germans is characterised by a quiet introspection and they largely shunned the limelight of the art world.

Karl Bohrmann (1928 to 1998)

Karl Bohrmann was born in the southern German city of Mannheim in 1928. He studied art in Saarbrucken and from 1948 to 1949 Stuttgart. In 1959 he moved to Munich and started exhibiting regularly. In 1961 he travelled to Paris and encountered the work of Giacometti.

Although he made paintings and prints, drawing was Bohrmann’s preferred medium. From the 1970s he taught at the art school in Frankfurt. By the 1990s he was living in a tiny flat in Cologne, stacked with piles of his drawings – female nudes, still lifes, interiors. His last works were drawn on the back of architectural drafting paper, invoices or old manuscripts. Quietly introspective, they are informed by his dictum: ‘A drawn line is a moment in time through which the artist has lived’.

Drawing by Karl Bohrmann as featured in ‘Gesture and line: Four post-war German and Austrian artists at the British Museum’ © The Trustees of the British Museum

His abstracts are nice enough but what stood out for me was two pairs of rough female nudes, one set in blue, one in red, which stood out as striking images. I really like the combination of big expressive lines creating the image and the space it’s set in, with pale washes gesturing at perspective, and then patches of intense rich blue, particularly in the figure on the left.

The combination of untouched paper with patches of intense colouring create a great visual dynamic. They also indicate the interior space the figure is in, which seems more than domestic, somehow troubled or stricken, a prison cell maybe. Maybe the figure on the left is hanging from a rope, maybe not, but it feels very intense.

Installation view of Untitled (blue female nudes) by Karl Bohrmann (1995). Photo by the author

Rudi Tröger (born 1929)

Tröger is a painter, draughtsman and printmaker who has chosen to live a secluded life away from the art world. He trained at the Munich Art Academy where he met his wife, Klara Weghofer, a textile student who he married in the early 1960s. He went on to be a teacher at the academy from 1967 to his retirement in 1992.

The 16 drawings by Tröger in the Duerckheim gift span the period from the late 1950s to the 1980s. The early ones are figure drawings executed in a thick graphite line, but it was during the 1960s that Tröger developed the thin, wispy line characteristic of his pen and ink drawings.

Ordinary domestic scenes featuring Klara and his family are set in the studio, home or garden. The distorted space and elongated figures give his drawings their highly charged, introspective vision. Tröger once explained what he was after: ‘Drawing something so that it becomes something else’.

Untitled by Rudi Tröger © The Trustees of the British Museum

I think it’s fair to say I actively disliked all the Rudi Tröger drawings on show. A quick skim of the internet suggests that his paintings are much, much better than these drawings.

Carl-Heinz Wegert (1926 to 2007)

Wegert was born and spent most of his life in Munich. A shy, retiring individual, Wegert deliberately avoided the art world as much as possible and it was only due to sponsors like Count Christian Duerckheim and a few others that he was able to survive as an artist.

Wegert worked in collage, drawing, photography and sculpture. Wegert’s sensitive drawings are characterised by a weblike delicacy, creating entire microcosms from just a few spare lines. Some of his larger drawings from the 1980s suggest a spiritual affinity with Japanese Zen, and sometimes go so far as to include a haiku poem or a Chinese seal in the composition.

Untitled by Carl-Heinz Wegert (1986) Blue oil pastel, yellow wash and pencil on white paper © The Trustees of the British Museum

I think Wegert’s work is the subtlest of the four and the easiest to overlook, so delicate that a lot of them placed together dilute the effect. They require the effort to be looked at and pondered individually. So the more you ponder the work, above, I think the more it does its subtle work.

Hermann Nitsch (1938 to 2022)

Nitsch is the only Austrian from the group and, in contrast to the quiet Germans he is a very ‘loud’ presence. From the 1960s Nitsch attracted public controversy through his highly provocative performances, or ‘Actions’, involving nudity, animal slaughter and Christian symbolism.

From 1957 until his death in 2022 the principal theme of his work was the Orgien Mysteriens Theaters, consisting of immersive performances bringing together music, painting and performance, saturating all the senses in semi-ritualistic events designed to attain what he claimed was a ‘more purified place of consciousness’. The events involved scores of participants and took place at the Schloss Prinzendorf, a rundown castle he bought in the 1970s and adapted for his performances.

Nitsch’s prints were a spin-off from this grand project. The 15 lithographs in the Dürckheim gift come from the huge printmaking project which Nitsch ran from 1984 to 1993. Working with the Munich printer Karl Imhof, Nitsch produced hundreds of lithographs in multiple iterations and combinations.

In this one Nitsch drew directly onto the lithographic stone to present an anatomical figure in several layers. The skin has been cut away to reveal the sinews and intestines of the human figure. Nitsch makes reference to Leonardo’s écorché drawings (‘a painting or sculpture of a human figure with the skin removed to display the musculature.’) and to his technique of mirror writing (which you can see in the upper middle of the image).

Installation view of ‘Untitled’ from the series ‘The Architecture of the Orgies Mystery Theatre’ (1984 to 1993) by Hermann Nitsch. Photo by the author

Bloodthirsty, gruesome, but bold and distinctive. The one below is a schematic architectural drawing showing the projected plan for an underground theatre on different levels. Each of the rooms is marked with a different number. The blotches of black ink either indicate that they’re working plans or maybe neglect and ruin. There’s a strong science fiction vibe about Nitsch’s work.

Installation view of ‘Untitled’ from the series ‘The Architecture of the Orgies Mystery Theatre’ (1984 to 1993) by Hermann Nitsch. Photo by the author

Conclusion

By itself this show is maybe not quite worth the hassle of catching the Tube and waiting in the long British Museum queue – but if you’re going to see either the Le Moyne botanical drawings or the Ed Ruscha Insects, then it’s definitely worth making the effort to see these, too. The Bohrmann nudes a bit, but especially the Nitsch works – they have the most distinctive look and impact. And once you’ve processed these, maybe the quieter and Wegert works will work their magic…


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Salisbury: Victorian Titan by Andrew Roberts (1999) part 2

‘Whatever happens will be for the worse and therefore it is in our interest that as little should happen as possible.’
(Salisbury writing about the Balkan crisis of 1887 in a sentence which sums up his political philosophy)

‘Salisbury: Victorian Titan’ is divided into two equal parts of about 430 pages each:

  1. Tory Tribune, 1830 to 1885 (pages 5 to 422)
  2. Tory Titan, 1885 to 1903 (pages 425 to 852)

By the second half I thought I had a good handle on the book’s strengths and weaknesses. Its obvious strength is the way it examines all the major political events and issues in British and international politics between about 1865 and 1902 in fantastic detail, as seen from the point of view of the hero of this enormous biography, Robert Cecil, 3rd Marquess of Salisbury.

Using extensive quotes from Salisbury’s correspondence and speeches, plus citations from the letters or reported remarks of those around him (principally his political colleagues, occasionally his family) we get day-by-day, sometimes hour-by-hour recreations of how it seemed to Salisbury, what his thoughts and strategems were, how he manoeuvred those around him or attacked those on the opposition party, how he managed the relentless, hyper-complex task of managing British domestic, international, and imperial challenges.

So: amazing insights into a figure who really does emerge as a giant of his times, Prime Minister from 1885 to 1902, with only a three year gap. And yet the book’s strength is also, I think, its weakness, which is that the focus is so unrelentingly on Salisbury, what he said and thought and wrote, his speeches around the country and in the House of Lords, his comments over dinner or at parties, what family and confidantes recorded him saying to them – that, although the book covers an amazing number of issues, I began to realise that you fail to get a well-rounded presentation of those issues.

One example stands for many: only as much of the ill-fated expedition of General Gordon to Khartoum is explained and described as is necessary to understand what a political opportunity it presented to Salisbury to attack Gladstone for failing to relieved besieged Gordon in time. But the full background to the Mahdi’s rising, explaining the context of his rise, his appeal, and previous military engagements, and the subsequent history of British involvement in the Sudan are mostly missing. The topic swims into view as it affects Salisbury then, when it ceases to be relevant to him, disappears.

A bigger, more dominant and recurring theme is Ireland and Irish nationalism. Again, it initially feels like you’re getting a lot of information but, after a while, I realised it was a lot of information only about Salisbury’s day-to-day management of the way successive Irish crises impinged on British politics. So Roberts mentions agrarian disturbances, the regular murders and atrocities, and he mentions that this is mostly caused by inequalities to do with land and rents – BUT you don’t get a clear explanation of why. There’s no stopping to give a broader explanation of the context of Irish discontent, the rise of nationalism, the background to rural violence and so on. Roberts mentions a number of organisations, such as the Irish Brotherhood, but without any background on their formation and activities.

The great tragic Irish leader Charles Stewart Parnell appears in the narrative mainly in a very detailed account of his trial which Salisbury helped to organise and provided evidence for. Yet after reading pages and pages about this I was still left feeling unclear what the distinctive thing about Parnell and his party was. And Roberts throws away the event that ruined Parnell, his being mentioned in a divorce case, which led his puritanical supporters to abandon him, in a few phrases. So I didn’t get a full, rounded, thorough explanation of Parnell’s success and rise, just a few episodes as they impinged on Salisbury’s concerns to manage the Irish Problem.

I hope by now you’ve got my drift: this is an awesomely huge, thoroughly researched, insightful, clever and beautifully written biography of Salisbury BUT it is not a good history of Britain during his times. Every page is plastered with quotes and citations from his letters and speeches but these focus entirely on how Salisbury used events to manipulate the politics around him.

It is an extraordinarily detailed view of what politics is actually like i.e. the ceaseless calculating of what is to your own or your party’s advantage, the constant jostling and politicking against the opposition party and just as much with enemies within your own party. Reading about Salisbury’s Machiavellian manipulations is wonderfully insightful and entertaining. But time and again I felt I was being short-changed on the issues themselves. It’s perfectly logical and entirely sensible that we only see events or issues insofar as they impinge on our man Salisbury. But as page 400 turned to page 500, and then on to page 600, I became a little irked at a sense that I was missing out on the actual history of the period.

Contents

Roberts gives sub-titles to his chapters which summarise the issues each one covers, so an effective way of conveying its scope is simply to copy that:

Chapter 26: Reconstruction at home and abroad (January to April 1887)

  • 1887: Salisbury reshuffles his cabinet, coming to rely on George Joachim Goschen, 1st Viscount Goschen, a former Liberal, then Liberal Unionist, who he makes Chancellor of the Exchequer; Sir Michael Hicks Beach as the Chief Secretary for Ireland
  • death of Stafford Henry Northcote, 1st Earl of Iddesleigh, formerly Lord Northcote, Salisbury’s challenger in the Commons to leadership of the Tories
  • 1887: The Mediterranean Agreements, a series of treaties with Italy, Austria-Hungary and Spain
  • Bulgaria: Alexander of Battenberg, prince of Bulgaria, abdicated in 1886 after a pro-Russian coup, triggering a Balkan crisis about who to replace him: the constant worry was that Russia would interfere, prompting Austria to retaliate, triggering a general European war
  • 1888 June: Kaiser Wilhelm II ascends the throne of the German Empire, worrying everyone with his impetuous outbursts and lack of understanding of the intricate skeins of European diplomacy
  • Egypt: ‘I heartily wish we had never gone into Egypt’, Salisbury wrote. British influence was necessary to safeguard the Suez Canal but upset the Ottoman Sultan, the rival Power, France, and the people of Egypt who resented British influence
  • The French were afflicted by a permanent ‘inferiority complex’ and so behaved badly at every opportunity, in a dispute about the Newfoundland fisheries, in the New Hebrides in the Pacific, obstructive in Egypt, planting a flag in the empty wastes of Somalia

Chapter 27: ‘Bloody Balfour’ (March 1887 to July 1891)

  • March 1887 Salisbury appointed his nephew Arthur Balfour the Chief Secretary for Ireland. An aloof, philosophical man, commentators thought he would be a soft touch but he implemented Salisbury’s strategy of cracking down on lawlessness that, in the wake of the Mitchelstown Massacre when Irish police opened fire on protesters killing 3 (9 September 1887) and Balfour gave them his full support, he was nicknamed ‘Bloody Balfour’. Conversely, Balfour’s sternness impressed the future defender of Ulster, Edward Carson.
  • (It speaks volumes about this society and this ruling class, that the Irish Viceroy, the 6th Marquess of Londonderry, had been Balfour’s fag at Eton.)
  • July 1887: Balfour steered the passage of the ‘Perpetual Crimes Act’, a Coercion Act to prevent boycotting, intimidation, unlawful assembly and the organisation of conspiracies against the payment of agreed rents which led to the imprisonment of hundreds of people including over twenty MPs
  • March and April 1887: The Times newspaper published letters they claimed proved Parnell’s association with the Phoenix Park murders and violent crimes. Parnell sued the newspaper whereupon it emerged that the letters were all forged by a notorious crook. Salisbury backed the Times and the prosecution i.e. Tories talk about ‘honour’ and ‘the law’ when it suits them, but break it or ignore it when it suits them

28: ‘The genie of imperialism’ (May 1887 to January 1888)

  • June 1887: Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee; interesting to learn what a struggle the authorities had to know how to mark it appropriately; in the end it was the template or trial run for the much bigger Diamond Jubilee ten years later; of course a cartload of ‘honours’ were doled out, usually as a reward to the Unionist cause (p.461)
  • The Colonial Conference: Salisbury was not a doctrinaire imperialist and was against the idea of forging a closer union or federation with the (mostly white) colonies i.e. Canada, the Cape Colony, Australia and New Zealand; but the Colonial Secretary Sir Henry Holland took advantage of all the premiers being in London for the Jubilee to stage one anyway
  • In the 1880s Britain took control of Bechuanaland, Burma, Nigeria, Somaliland, Zululand, Kenya, Sarawak, Rhodesian and Zanzibar
  • 13 November 1887 ‘Bloody Sunday’: a crowd of marchers protesting about unemployment and the Irish Coercion Acts, and demanding the release of Irish Nationalist MP William O’Brien, clashed with the Metropolitan Police, with 400, 75 badly injured, two policemen were stabbed and one protester was bayonetted
  • Tithes: an example of Salisbury’s defence of the Church of England, his Tithe Rent-Charge Bill was wrangled over for 4 years, from 1887 to 1891; it aimed to get non-payers of tithes to the Church subject to County Court judgements which would make it easier for the clergy to obtain their money
  • Allotments: Salisbury strongly objected to a Bill brought to allow local councils to compulsorily purchase land in order to create allotments for the poor;
  • Fiscal retaliation: this was another phrase for protectionism which Salisbury was also vehemently against; the issue was to grow and grow, reflecting the fact that sometime in the 1880s Britain lost the industrial and economic lead she had enjoyed for most of the century; protectionism was raised at party conferences again and again but Salisbury managed to stave it off; after his retirement the policy of imperial protectionism would tear the party apart and contribute to the Tories’ catastrophic defeat in 1906

Chapter 29: Rumours of Wars (February to July 1888)

  • A reshuffle:
  • ‘Pom’ Macdonnell: Salisbury appointed as his personal private secretary Schomberg ‘Pom’ McDonnell, fifth son of the Earl of Antrim who turned out to be an outstanding administrator and confidante
  • The Vienna Incident: the new young touchy Kaiser thought that his diplomatic overtures had been snubbed and so made it known that he planned to ‘cut’ his uncle, the Prince of Wales, when they were both on visits to Vienna; diplomatic panic; chancelleries and embassies go into overdrive; children
  • General Boulanger’s war scare: Georges Ernest Jean-Marie Boulanger, nicknamed ‘General Revenge’, was a French general and politician, an enormously popular public figure who won multiple elections in the 1880s, vowing revenge for the defeat of 1870, taking on not only Germany but Britain if necessary, causing many sleepless nights in the Foreign Office; at the height of his popularity in 1889 it was widely was feared that he might make himself a dictator; as usual with French bluster, it came to nothing
  • Newfoundland and Bering Sea disputes: diplomatic fracas with France about fishing rights off Newfoundland and then with America about ownership of the sea around the Bering Straits; the point of all these quarrels is the way Salisbury managed them down, without letting them escalating into fighting talk
  • House of Lords reform: surprisingly, Salisbury supported reform of the House of Lords (mainly to kick out crooks) but was predictably against professionalising it; he defended the House of Lords not for its members’ achievements or intelligence but because simply by dint of being wealthier and better educated than most people, they were less likely to be influenced by ‘sordid greed’ (p.493); this of course sits at odds with the reams of evidence throughout the book that those who sought ‘honours’ were precisely the ambitious and greedy
  • February to July 1888: Sir Garnet Wolseley, hero of the (unsuccessful) march to relieve Gordon at Khartoum (1885), was promoted to Adjutant-General to the Forces in the War Office from where he issued a series of alarmist warnings about the threat of a sudden invasion from France and cuts to the army budget, all of which an irritated Salisbury had to manage down

Chapter 30: The Business of Government (August to December 1888)

  • County councils: the most important piece of domestic legislation of 1888 was the creation of County Councils as the primary instruments of local government replacing the previous ad hoc and regionally varying procedures (p.499)
  • The Drinks trade: the nonconformist and Temperance interest among the Liberal Unionists tried to add to the local government bill provisions to limit pub opening hours and cut back on the drinks trade; Salisbury opposed this, believing every Englishman should be free to go to hell his own way
  • Votes for women: in the County Council elections which were held in 1889 women candidates were elected for the first time (p.502); Salisbury wasn’t against women having the vote, and is cited as saying he had no problem with educated women having it; he was against extending the franchise to the lower classes; in the event, like lots of other pressing issues he managed to block and delay it so women’s suffrage became an issue which damaged the Edwardian Liberal governments
  • In 1888 Sir Lionel Sackville-West, British minister at the Washington legation, made a rookie error by replying to a letter, ostensibly from an Englishman in America, asking who he should support in the presidential election; Sackville-West wrote back suggesting Grover Cleveland would be better for Britain; the letter was a ruse, written by an American, Sackville-West’s reply was published in the newspapers and the US government kicked him out for this undiplomatic faux pas i.e. an ambassador expressing about an election in a foreign country; Salisbury was furious; during the fracas Sackville-West succeeded to his father’s title and went back to the huge Knole Park estate with a state pension
  • A ‘black man’: in 1885 a Tory colonel had won the Holborn by-election against an Indian, Dadabhai Naoroji; in 1888 Salisbury made a speech in which he referred to this event and made the remark that ‘I doubt if we have yet got to the point where a British constituency will elect a black man to represent them’; not only the Liberals but many commentators came down on him like a ton of bricks; interestingly, the Queen wrote to criticise him; Dadabhai Naoroji was elected MP for Finsbury Central in 1895, becoming Britain’s second ethnic minority MP; he enjoyed referring to himself as ‘Lord Salisbury’s black man’
  • The Viceroy’s India proposals: before Frederick Temple Hamilton-Temple-Blackwood, 1st Marquess of Dufferin and Ava, was sent off to India to be viceroy (in 1884) he had drawn up proposals to extend the powers of viceregal and local legislative councils, including an element of direct voting; Salisbury quashed these as all other hints at Indian self-rule
  • This leads Roberts into a consideration of Salisbury’s diplomatic style which was highly secretive; he often didn’t inform cabinet colleagues about initiatives; this was partly because he considered the Foreign Office ‘a nest of Whiggery’ and the level of ambassadorial competence generally very low (p.514); Roberts discusses the basis of his diplomatic thinking which was utterly pragmatic – most treaties, he admitted, are based on force or the threat of force (p.512) or, as he put it somewhere else, bluster and bluff; 15 years later, as the world entered the new century, that bluster and bluff would no longer do – big armies, big navies and heavy industry increasingly became key to international affairs
  • Fascinating fact: before 1914 Britain only had 9 ambassadors (compared to 149 in 1997) and just 125 diplomatic posts abroad

Chapter 31: Africa (1885 to 1892)

When Salisbury left the Foreign Office in 1880, nobody talked about Africa. When he returned in 1885, everyone was talking about Africa, and the quarrels it was causing between the Powers (p.518).

Between 1885 and 1900 most of the borders of modern Africa were set by European statesmen who’d never been there. To this day, this is one of the root causes of the chronic instability, political and economic backwardness of Africa. But at the time the various deals the nations of Europe struck, and the straight lines they drew through jungles and deserts, represented a triumph because the primary aim was never fairness or the interests of Africans, it was to prevent European nations going to war.

The lines on the map weren’t drawn in accordance with the logic of geography or tribes, traditional territory, language or commerce. The aim was to stop Europeans going to war.

‘We have been engaged in drawing lines upon maps where no white man’s foot has ever trod. We have been giving away mountains and rivers and lakes to each other, only hindered by the small impediment that we never knew exactly where the mountains and rivers and lakes were.’ (p.529)

(Some) reasons the European colonisation of Africa accelerated in the last decades of the nineteenth century:

  • the discovery of gold and diamonds in South Africa
  • the opening up of East Africa by the Suez Canal
  • the evangelical impulse to eliminate the slave trade and convert the heathen
  • France’s lust for la gloire after her ignominious defeat in the Prussian War
  • private adventurism and entrepreneurship (Rhodes)
  • the quests of each nation’s industry to sources of raw materials and markets
  • the evil greed of Belgian’s King Leopold II
  • Britain’s need for a safe route to India
  • the invention of steamships and advanced weaponry (the Gatling gun)
  • the development of medicines for tropical diseases (p.518)

African issues:

  • Bullying Portugal: ‘a tiresome little Power’ (p.520) I was surprised how much trouble it was to negotiate a treaty with Portugal to stop their incursions into what we called Nyasaland, thus preventing the Portuguese owning a belt right across the middle of Africa, from Angola in the west to Mozambique in the East
  • Zanzibar: managing German attempts to overthrow the Sultan of Zanzibar and to establish Uganda as a German protectorate; Salisbury was appalled at the Germans’ brutality to Africans; acquiring Zanzibar involved a trade-off whereby we accepted France’s acquisition of Madagascar (p.529)
  • March 1890 the Kaiser abruptly sacked Bismarck (p.525); Salisbury negotiated a deal to hand Germany Heligoland in the Baltic in exchange for sole protectorate over Zanzibar
  • Britain acquired the future Uganda and Kenya, Germany kept Tanganyika, Rwanda and Burundi;
  • 1890 The Sahara: Salisbury agreed Conventions with France whereby we backed the Royal Niger Company’s claim to the Niger valley in exchange for agreeing French control of the western Sahara and the Algerian hinterland as far as Lake Chad
  • Italian ambitions: in exchange for British control of the Nile valley Salisbury let the Italians stake the Red Sea coast i.e. Eritrea and Somalia
  • Cecil Rhodes: Salisbury though Rhodes a chancer but backed his request for a royal charter to develop the huge area in south-central Africa which would develop into Rhodesia; in thanks for his support Rhodes named the dusty capital of his new territory Salisbury (which would become the city of Harare, capital of modern Zimbabwe) (p.534)

During a seven year period Salisbury laid down the outlines of colonial Africa which were to last well into the twentieth century.

Chapter 32: Mid-Term Crises (January 1889 to December 1890)

  • The Kaiser pays Victoria a visit, potentially embarrassing because he had been rude to the Prince of Wales the previous year
  • General Boulanger, a bellicose right-winger who had threatened a coup in Paris, in the event fled to Brussels
  • Royal grants: Salisbury became very close to the Queen, they thought alike on many matters, and so he tried to move the question of grants to minor royals out of the Commons, where it had become a regular peg for Liberals and Radicals to make republican remarks
  • The two-power standard: Salisbury secured cabinet support to greatly increase spending on the navy and invented a new rule of thumb, that the Royal Navy should be as big as the next two largest navies (of France and Russia) combined
  • The Paris Exhibition: Salisbury refused to let the British ambassador attend the centenary celebrations of the French Revolution, an event which haunted Salisbury and informed his reactionary Toryism
  • The Shah’s visit: after initial reluctance Salisbury hosted Nasr-el-Din in London and at his Hatfield home
  • The ‘socialist’ current: the London dock strike from August to September 1889 and the huge marches to support it worried gloomy Salisbury that socialism was on its way; he thought it represented an attack on property and law (of contracts, rents etc)
  • The Cleveland Street Scandal: scandal about a male brothel just north of Oxford Street, frequented by members of the royal household and some posh army officers
  • A mid-term crisis: objections to a slew of domestic bills bring his government close to losing a vote and having to quit
  • Prince Eddy in love: Eddy being Prince Edward’s eldest son, second in line to the throne; when he fell in love with a French princess it threatened the delicate balance of European power because Salisbury’s general aim was to keep in with the central powers (Germany and Austria) as protection against France and Russia; having a potential French queen-in-waiting would wreck his whole strategy so he moved heaven and earth to get Victoria to forbid the marriage
  • Trouble at Barings bank which faced bankruptcy until the ruling class rallied round to refund it

Chapter 33: Alliance Politics (January to October 1891)

  • Visitors at Hatfield: the Kaiser visits; Salisbury thinks he is mad and dangerous; and then Crown Prince Victor Emmanuel of Italy
  • Free education: a policy of Chamberlain and the Radical Unionists to which Salisbury acquiesces, creating an Education Bill which passed in August 1891
  • The Prince of Wales in difficulties: Salisbury negotiates peace in a bitter row between the prince and some offended aristocrats
  • The death of W.H. Smith, a steadfast and loyal supporter of Salisbury as Leader of the House of Commons; after careful politicking Salisbury has the post filled y his nephew Arthur Balfour
  • Party organisation: the importance of chief agent of the conservative party, Richard Middleton, and Chief Whip, Aretas Akers-Douglas
  • The Liberal Unionist alliance: the importance of the good working relationship with the super-posh Marquess of Hartington, 8th Duke of Devonshire, leader of the Liberal Unionists

Chapter 34: Leaving Office (November 1891 to August 1892)

  • The general election: friends and colleagues die; the Tory government finds it hard to pass bills; by-elections go against them; much debate whether to call an election for the end of the year (Salisbury’s preference) or June; July 1892 it was and although the Conservatives and Liberal Unionists won 314 seats and the Liberals 272, the balance of power was held by the Irish Nationalist MPs who won 72, and who went into alliance with the Liberals on the understanding that Gladstone would introduce a Home Rule bill
  • Gladstone: Salisbury considered Eton and Christ Church-educated, Anglican Gladstone a traitor to his class in the long bloodless civil war which is how he saw British politics
  • Cabinet style: Salisbury accepted the result and in August tendered his resignation to the Queen, who was very upset; she loathed Gladstone; his cabinet colleagues testify to Salisbury’s calm and cheerful collegiate style; once they got rid of Randolph Churchill, it had been a successful and good tempered cabinet

Chapter 35: Opposition (August 1892 to June 1895)

  • The Second Irish Home Rule bill: Gladstone lost no time in forming an administration, then moving his Home Rule Bill on 13 February 1893; Salisbury’s calculations about the best strategy to block it, his effectiveness because it was defeated by 10 to 1 in the House of Lords
  • Gladstone resigns: Gladstone found himself increasingly at odds with his own cabinet, in particular opposing the ongoing increase of the Royal Navy; he was the oldest person ever to be Prime Minister, aged 84, and on 2 March resigned
  • Lord Rosebery: the Queen couldn’t call for her favourite, Salisbury, because the Liberals still had a majority in the Commons, so Gladstone was replaced by the Liberal Imperialist Archibald Philip Primrose, 5th Earl of Rosebery, who was Prime Minister from March 1894 to June 1895 when he called, and lost, a general election; Rosebery was naive and fell into Parliamentary traps Salisbury laid for him, undermining confidence in his government
  • Evolution: Salisbury was sympathetic to science and Roberts describes a major speech he gave at Oxford about Darwin’s theory of evolution which, however, basing itself on Lord Kelvin’s completely erroneous theory about the age of the earth, claimed there wasn’t enough time for Darwin’s theory to have taken place; all completely wrong, as Kelvin’s theories were utterly wrong: Kelvin thought the sun about 20 million years old, whereas we now know it is about 4.5 billion years old, and that the earliest life on earth probably developed about 3.5 billion years ago
  • Dissolution: The Spectator called Lord Rosebery ‘the butterfly Premier’ and he couldn’t heal the widening divide between his form of Liberal Imperialism, aggressive abroad, radical at home, with the Liberal core; his cabinet split on all its policies, namely the annexation of Uganda, the increased navy budget and appointing Lord Kimberley foreign minister, and Home Rule and the introduction of a graduated death duty at home
  • 21 June 1895 Rosebery lost a minor vote, when his war minister was censured for a supposed lack of cordite for the army, and chose to take the opportunity to resign; the Queen called for Salisbury who agreed to take office and prepare a general election for July
  • Chamberlain: though he disagreed with some of his Radical policies Salisbury came to respect Chamberlain for his forthright character and that, not having gone to public school or university, he didn’t give himself airs

Chapter 36: Problems with Non-Alignment (June to December 1895)

  • A landslide: oddly, to us, Salisbury formed his government before holding the election; it was a landslide, the Tories taking 340 seats, their allies the Liberal Unionists 71, with the Liberals on 177, and 82 Irish Nationalists; the cabinet numbered 19, compared to 1886’s 15 (today it is 22)
  • The Hamidian massacres: series of atrocities carried out by Ottoman forces and Kurdish irregulars against Armenians in the Ottoman Empire between 1894 and 1896, named after the Ottoman Sultan Abdülhamid II, up to 100,000 died; Salisbury wanted to send the fleet to the Dardanelles but was over-ruled by his cabinet and the reluctant Royal Navy, infuriating him, and then he was castigated in the press and by the opposition for being weak

I was particularly interested in the fervid debate about this because lots of well-meaning liberals and churchmen insisted that ‘something must be done’, just as they do nowadays when there are atrocities in the Arab/Muslim world, but Salisbury’s objections remind me of the modern debate I’ve followed in the pages of Michael Ignatieff, Frank Ledwidge and so on, which is, there’s only so much we can do? Exasperated, Salisbury asked one correspondent would he have us invade Turkey and take on the Sultan’s army of 200,000? And then other European powers come in on Turkey’s side thus triggering a European war? No.

  • The signing of a Franco-Russian Entente led to the setting up of a Joint Naval and Military Defence Committee
  • Walmer Castle: his other nominees crying off because of the cost, Salisbury ended up appointing himself Warden of the Cinque Ports
  • Venezuela: the problem – America takes a very tough line about a border dispute between Venezuela and British colony, British Guiana, with President Cleveland seeking re-election, populists and the yellow press calling for war; Salisbury loftily ignores the fuss

Chapter 37: ‘Splendid Isolation’ (December 1895 to January 1896)

  • The Jameson Raid: the foolishness and failure is dealt with in my review of The Boer War by Thomas Packenham
  • The Kruger telegram: the Kaiser congratulated the Boer president, Paul Kruger, for snuffing out the Jameson Raid before it got started; the British press went mad with anti-German hysteria; rumour had it Germany was sending marines to help the Boers; Britain responded by sending battleships; it knocked British trust in German good faith
  • The poet laureate: Tennyson died in 1892. In 1895 Salisbury appointed his sometime all, the small poet and pamphleteer Alfred Austen to the job; Roberts thinks was a joke at the expense of the literary establishment
  • ‘Splendid isolation’: Roberts is at pains to show that Salisbury was never a splendid isolationist, a phrase coined by a Canadian politician and which he rejected; on the contrary he had signed various treaties and deals which allied us with various European powers, but his belief was that the country should act independently of treaties, in response to ever-changing events
  • Venezuela: the solution – the Americans continued very belligerent and Canada made plans to repel an American attack and Salisbury asked the war office to make plans to send Canada help, but after months of bombast an international tribunal resolved the Venezuela question

Chapter 38: Great Power Politics (February 1896 to May 1897)

  • The Jameson aftermath: i.e. the raiders were handed back over to the British authorities who brought them back to Britain for trial, as well as setting up a Royal Commission which, as usual, exonerated the senior political figures (most notably Chamberlain who almost certainly encouraged the raid) while sending to prison some small fry
  • The march on Dongola: on 1 March 1896 the army of the Emperor Menelik II of Ethiopia defeated the Italian army of Eritrea at Adowa. This raised fears that he might incurse into Sudan and so threaten southern Egypt. This was the pretext Salisbury needed to send an army south into Sudan to retake it from the Dervishes also known as the Mahdi Army, who had held it ever since the killing of Gordon at Khartoum in 1885
  • September 1896: The Balmoral Conversations: against the backdrop of another pogrom against Armenians, with Tsar Nicholas II about Turkey in which Salisbury raised his hobby horse that the Powers partition the Ottoman Empire while the Tsar said his country wanted control of the Dardanelles
  • The ‘wrong horse’ speech: Salisbury’s speech to the House of Lords on 19 January 1897 announcing an end to support for Turkey and its bloody Sultan, saying British policy since Lord Palmerston (the 1850s) and the Crimean War (1853 to 1856) had been mistaken; ‘we put all our money the wrong horse’ (p.646); British Near Eastern policy had shifted from Turkey to Egypt (p.703); a major foreign policy rethink; into the vacuum left by Britain’s rescinded support stepped Germany, as described in The Berlin-Baghdad Express: The Ottoman Empire and Germany’s Bid for World Power, 1898 to 1918 by Sean McMeekin
  • Crisis on Crete: Christian Greeks outnumbered Muslim Turks 7 to 1 and wanted to be united with Greece; Salisbury thought it ridiculous that the territory or policy of a modern nation ought to be based on its literary history; he blockaded Crete ports to try and enforce peace but representatives of Greek Prince George landed and acclaimed him leader of liberated Crete at which point both Greece and Turkey started preparing for a major land war. Salisbury cajoled the cabinet into blockading Greece but war broke out in April 1897 with Turkey quickly invading northern Greece who promptly begged the Powers to intervene for peace: ‘The Greeks are a contemptible race’
  • Gerald Balfour: Salisbury appointed another nephew, Gerald Balfour, Chief Secretary for Ireland, and he promptly brought out an Irish Land Bill which Salisbury thought contemptible and worked to defeat in the Lords; then the idea of a permanent royal residence in Ireland, like Sandringham, except none of the royal family approved; then the 1898 Irish Local Government Bill
  • The Transvaal: the economic and political build-up to the Boer War, namely that British experts predicted that the Transvaal’s mineral wealth would soon make it the pre-eminent power in South Africa to which the Cape Colony would defer; Salisbury appointed Lord Milner as Governor of the Cape Colony and High Commissioner for Southern Africa; Salisbury himself wanted to avoid a conflict with the Boers, but in his first official meeting with British officials in SA, Milner made it clear he was determined to engineer one

Chapter 39: Apogee of Empire (June 1897)

  • The Diamond Jubilee: detailed description
  • Jingoism: Salisbury was against extreme patriotism and sabre rattling in speeches and articles; in practice he believed all international affairs derived from physical force but a permanent aggressive imperialist stance hemmed in a foreign policy which he believed had to remain agile and adaptive; scornful of the two Jingo pipe-dreams of 1) a Cape to Cairo railway entirely through British territory, 2) an Imperial Federation behind protective tariffs
  • The three high points of Jingoism were the Diamond Jubilee, Mafeking Night and the Khaki Election (p.835)
  • Honours: Roberts gives a sustained consideration of Salisbury’s attitude to, and record of, giving ‘honours’ (see section below)
  • Bishop-making: as with the honours, an assessment of his policy of bishop making which was pragmatic i.e. he tried to make equal appointments from the Low, Broad and High church traditions in order to keep the Church of England together, something he believed vital for the nation
  • The Munshi: Victoria became irrationally attached to an Indian Muslim named Abdul Karim, aka the Munshi, meaning ‘teacher’, who came to represent all her Indian subjects to her; unfortunately, pretty much the entire Royal household hated him and Salisbury was called in on several occasions to calm arguments

(It’s worth noting Queen Victoria’s striking lack of racism, the reverse, her active wish to promote and encourage subjects of all races from across the empire. Thus she repeatedly demanded that the army in South Africa be supplemented by Sikhs, Gurkhas and Zulus, only to be met by obstructiveness from the War Office, Cabinet and Salisbury himself. Their arguments were 1) distributing arms to coloured subjects set a bad precedent and 2) in a tight spot, English squaddies might refuse to take orders from a person of colour; p.756.)

Chapter 40: Choosing his ground (July 1897 to September 1898)

  • Imperial Federation: pipe-dream Salisbury pooh-poohed; thought Britain stood to lose out economically and, if every citizen in the Federation got a vote, politically, too
  • A French convention:
  • Port Arthur: the Russians seized Port Arthur on the coast of China forcing British ships to vacate the area, signalling a ramping up of the scramble for China; newspapers, politicians and even his own cabinet saw this as a humiliation and claimed Salisbury’s policy of splendid isolation had failed, but Salisbury’s mild response was because he saw trouble brewing with France
  • Anglo-German relations: when Salisbury was off sick his Secretary for the Colonies, Chamberlain, suggested to the German ambassador that Britain and Germany sign a non-aggression pact
  • 4 May 1898 the ‘dying nations’ speech: to a packed audience of the Primrose League at the Royal Albert Hall describing a Darwinian vision of nation states, that weak states become weaker whilst strong states become stronger; “The nations of the earth are divided into the sheep and the wolves – the fat and defenceless against the hungry and strong”; as a comment on the rise and fall of nations it was banal enough; its real purpose was to justify Realpolitik
  • The death of Gladstone: Salisbury was one of the coffin bearers and was genuinely upset which is strange given his deep-seated loathing of Gladstone as a traitor to his class, not least in Ireland (p.693)
  • Curzon as Viceroy: January 1899, Salisbury appointed George Nathaniel Curzon, aged just 40, Viceroy of India; he was to be an inspired choice (p.694)
  • Secret Convention with Germany (‘the Delagoa Bay agreement’, p.719) agreeing no other Power allowed to intervene in Angola or Mozambique the two huge colonies of the weak Power, Portugal, and how the 2 colonies would be divided if Portugal collapsed
  • 2 September 1898 The Battle of Omdurman: part of General Kitchener’s campaign to retake Sudan from the Mahdist Islamic State, revenge for the death of Gordon, a disciplined Anglo-Egyptian force let 50,000 or so Mahdists charge their lines and massacred them with machine guns; around 12,000 Muslim warriors were killed, 13,000 wounded and 5,000 taken prisoner while Kitchener’s force lost 47 men killed and 382 wounded (p.697); journalists present with the British force, and young Winston Churchill in his account of it, were critical of Kitchener for allowing the wounded Sudanese to be murdered; Kitchener was rewarded by being made Baron Kitchener of Khartoum
  • 1898: Winston Churchill published his first book, aged 24

Chapter 41: The Fashoda Crisis (September to November 1898)

  • The Fashoda Crisis was the biggest international crisis since 1878. The intrepid Captain Marchand of the French army marched across the Sahara and planted the French flag at the abandoned mud-brick fort on the banks of the White Nile named Fashoda. A week later General Kitchener, fresh from the victory of Omdurman, arrived with his army and insisted that Fashoda, like all of the Sudan, belonged to Britain. There was a real risk Britain and France would go to war. Salisbury wasn’t fussed about places in mosquito-ridden West Africa (about which we signed Conventions with France) but was insistent that British control of the Nile valley was a sacrosanct principle of British foreign policy
  • France was being disputatious over colonies around the world including Siam (Thailand), Tunis, Madagascar, Niger; ‘They [the French] are so unreasonable and have so much incurable hatred of England’ (p.480)
  • It’s worth remembering how rubbish France was; a century of revolutions, not least the 1871 Commune, had left its society riven by religious and class hatred which had been revived by the bitter Dreyfus Affair – Émile Zola published his famous letter ‘J’Accuse…!’ on 13 January 1898 – and France was on her seventh government since 1893; that’s why its governments and ruling class were so touchy about Britain’s apparently effortless superiority; that’s why populist press and politicians whipped up patriotic feeling against Britain – to try to paper over the large cracks in French society
  • The Marchand expedition: the impressive achievement of Captain Marchand who led 20 French officers and NCOs and 130 French Senegalese over 2,000 miles on a 24-month trek on foot and by boat from Loango at the mouth of the Congo to the Nile
  • When Kitchener met up with Marchand at Fashoda the two men raised their respective flags, denied each other’s right to occupy it, then settled down into a cordial friendship while they let the politicians back in Europe sort things out
  • Parisian politics: the British ambassador worried that war fever was running so high there might be a military coup in Paris led by generals who would use a war with Britain to smother the ongoing Dreyfus scandal; while her populist press ranted for war, ministers were uneasily aware of Germany’s ongoing animosity, and when the Tsar explicitly proclaimed the Franco-Russian entente didn’t apply outside Europe France’s position got steadily weaker; the French government looked like collapsing (again)
  • Triumph: realising they couldn’t win, the French backed down, covering their pusillanimity with vaunting rhetoric; Marchand was ordered to make his way to the Red Sea through Abyssinia (he didn’t have enough provisions to return the way he’d come and returning down the Nile under British supervision would have been humiliated)
  • In February 1899 a Convention was signed with a new French ambassador laying out clear demarcation between the zone of French influence in west Africa and the Maghreb, giving Britain exclusive influence over Egypt and Sudan

Chapter 42: The Outbreak of the Boer War (December 1898 to October 1899)

  • grossly overweight Salisbury had a tricycle with raised handlebars made for him and cycle paths laid out in the grounds of Hatfield House
  • like many grandees back in London, Salisbury had a low opinion of the Boers who he had met on his travels 30 years earlier and thought rough, ignorant slave drivers of the native Africans;

Background: Britain had annexed the Cape Colony, the band of territory right at the bottom of Africa, with the results that the Boer population, descendants of the original Dutch settlers, undertook their ‘Great Trek’ into the interior and set up what developed into two states, the Orange Free State and, to its north, the much larger Transvaal, so called because it was on the other side of the River Vaal. Their descendants called themselves the voortrekkers.

In the 1880s diamonds and gold were discovered which promised to make the Boer government rich. In 1882 the Boers elected as president Paul Kruger, a hard-core, unrepentant Boer nationalist.

The issue was that tens of thousands of migrants had moved into the Transvaal, to work in the ever-growing mines. The Boers referred to them as ‘Uitlanders’ and subjected them to an array of discriminatory laws: they were heavily taxed but in return had worse schools, poor accommodation, were subject to high prices, police brutality, arbitrary arrest, biased legal decisions, censorship of the press and so on. Above all, although they paid taxes, they were forbidden from voting. In Roberts’ opinion the Boers ran little less than ‘a tight, tough, quasi police state’ (p.717). Most of these Uitlanders were ‘freeborn’ Britons so that when the British Uitlanders petitioned the Queen to intervene on their behalf, the war party could claim that lack of help undermined the prestige and authority of Britons throughout her empire.

So British men of the war party, such as Cecil Rhodes, Joe Chamberlain and Lord Milner, kept up a steady barrage of propaganda back to their masters in London, claiming the Boers subjected their black workers to slave-like tyranny, were backward and uneducated, were liable to declare war on friendly black tribes, as well as all the injustices meted out to the Uitlanders.

The fundamental argument was that the ongoing existence of two troublesome, unjust, unpredictable colonies disturbed Britain’s settled rule in South Africa and would only get worse. The war party argued that conflict was inevitable, and so helped to create the expectation, in Parliament and the press, for war. Milner sent Salisbury a note comparing the British workers were treated like ‘helots’ (p.721), Salisbury said they were treated like serfs.

The Boer view was it was their country which they had founded by the sweat of their brows in the face of native reprisals, and that they had their own, highly puritanical ultra-protestant belief and culture, all of which were being swamped by tens of thousands of incomers, and also by the booming immigrant population in the Cape. In other words, they felt their entire identity and heritage was being threatened (p.726).

  • Sir Alfred Milner: High Commissioner of the Cape Colony, was instructed to negotiate better rights for Britons at the so-called Bloemfontein Conference, but found Kruger unmoveable and called him ‘a frock-coated neanderthal’ (p.722)
  • Appeasing Germany: Britain and Germany had been haggling about possession of the islands of Samoa; Salisbury didn’t care tuppence about Samoa so happily gave them all to Germany with a view to mollifying the ever-aggrieved Kaiser
  • Lady Salisbury’s illness: she suffered a stroke and showed signs of dementia, partly distracting Salisbury from his duties; you wonder whether Roberts inserts this as an extenuating factor, softening Salisbury’s responsibility for the war
  • Exasperation with the Transvaal: Kruger offers to give Uitlanders the vote once they had been resident for 7 years, plus guaranteed seats in the small Transvaal parliament; some in the cabinet thought the crisis was over
  • (The Aliens Bill: Roberts points out that at the same time as Salisbury et al were supporting unlimited emigration to the Cape and were compelling it on the Boers, his cabinet passed an Aliens Bill designed to severely restrict immigration into Britain; this was to address the flood of Jewish immigrants who were fleeing antisemitic pogroms in Poland and Russia)
  • Both sides arm: British intelligence reported that both the Transvaal and Orange Free State were buying arms in Europe and importing it via Delagoa Bay, the major port right at the bottom of Mozambique, only 30 or so miles from the border with Transvaal (p.724); for their part the British government moved troops into Natal
  • The Smuts Proposals: Transvaal’s Attorney General Jan Smuts contacts the ambassador to make a series of proposals which represent significant concessions around offering Uitlanders the vote and representation in parliament, but premised on the Transvaal remaining independent and outside British suzerainty
  • The Boer Ultimatum: the British government ramped the pressure up on the Boers, with a series of demands which the Boers, initially, acceded to; so it was a surprise when it was the Boers who issued the set of demands or ultimatum which finally triggered the conflict, setting out a list of demands which must be met by 5pm on Wednesday 11 October

Chapter 43: ‘The Possibilities of Defeat’ (October 1899 to May 1900)

I was wrong about Roberts mentioning Lady Salisbury’s illness in a bid to exonerate his hero because he does the opposite; he heavily blames Salisbury for the Boer War. He cites AJP Taylor who apparently said that Milner dragged Chamberlain who dragged Salisbury into the conflict – but in order to flatly contradict him (Taylor).

No, Salisbury had masterminded British foreign policy for over a decade, was a master of far-seeing strategy; he personally approved every dispatch sent to the Boers, and Roberts cites memos and messages between the key ministers which show Salisbury approving the escalation of Britain’s demands, approving the sending of troops to Natal, and manipulating the presentation of the issues so as to ensure the casus belli (cause of war) was one which would rouse and unite the widest number of the population, or politicians and the press (p.736).

Salisbury should have known better. He should have accepted Kruger’s very fair offers to address the issue of the Uitlanders and worked to extend British suzerainty slowly, by economic means maybe. He should have thought of a clever solution.

Instead he let himself and the British government be painted into a corner where the only two options were fight or have British prestige around the world undermined (p.734). This was an epic failure of statecraft. It was Salisbury’s war and, although he proved remarkably phlegmatic about its initial reverses (so-called ‘Black Week’, Sunday 10 December to Sunday 17 December, when the British Army suffered three devastating defeats) its length, bitterness, cost, the way it divided the nation, the enmity it raised in the other Powers, especially Germany, and the sheer cost of death and misery, all are down to Salisbury.

As Britain’s powerful and long-serving Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary, Salisbury must bear overall responsibility for the situation. (p.732)

Moreover, it was entirely his responsibility that the War Office and the British Army were so poorly prepared to fight such a war (p.756).

  • The death of Lady Salisbury: Salisbury was devastated and never the same again
  • ‘Black week’: Sunday 10 December to Sunday 17 December (p.749): the British army began its war the same way it had begun every one since Waterloo, led by useless generals to a series of disastrous defeats
  • A peace offer: the presidents of the two Boer republics (the Transvaal and the Orange Free State) offered peace, so long as they retained sovereignty, which Salisbury contemptuously refused, claiming they had started the war
  • In the first weeks of the war the Boers surrounded and besieged three major towns, Ladysmith, Kimberley and Mafeking. The military turning point probably came when Ladysmith was relieved on 28 February 1900 but the psychological breakthrough came with the relief of Mafeking on 17 May 1900 after 217 days (p.761) though not before 478 people had died of starvation

Chapter 44: Resolution (May to October 1900)

  • Curzon: Curzon was an outstanding Viceroy in India but was obsessed with the idea that Russia was extending its influence into Persia and that we must fight back; Salisbury put up with Curzon’s criticisms but complained that he spoke as if Salisbury had an army of 500,000 at his back (as the Czar did) when a) there weren’t that many British troops in the whole world and b) the most active forces were tied up in South Africa
  • The Boxer Rebellion: see my review of The Boxer Rebellion and the Great Game in China by David J. Silbey (2012)
  • On 3 September General Frederick Roberts formally annexed the Transvaal
  • Social policy: Liberal Unionist Joe Chamberlain bombarded Salisbury with proposals for social reform bills almost all of which Salisbury managed to reject; they did manage:
    • 1897 Workmen’s Compensation Act
    • 1899 Small Dwellings Acquisition Act
  • The ‘Khaki’ election: held between 26 September and 24 October 1900, when popular opinion believed the Boer War was won, the Boer president Kruger had fled to Holland and all their regular forces had surrendered; result: the Conservative and Liberal Unionist Party 402, Liberal Party 183
  • The Unionist alliance: a short review of the effectiveness of Salisbury’s coalition of Conservatives with Liberal Unionists; Chamberlain said he was treated with more respect as a Liberal Unionist in a Conservative cabinet than he had been as a Radical in Gladstone’s Liberal cabinet

Chapter 45: Reconstruction (October 1900 to January 1901)

The ‘Hotel Cecil’: Salisbury handed out so many official positions to members of his extended family that he prompted widespread accusations of nepotism and croneyism (pages 789 to 790), something he himself acknowledged (p.825). Conservative MP Sir George C. T. Bartley wrote to Salisbury in 1898 complaining that in the Tory Party:

‘all honours, emoluments and places are reserved for the friends and relations of the favoured few’ (p.788)

It says it all that, when he finally resigned as Prime Minister, on 11 July 1902, he was succeeded by his nephew, Arthur Balfour.

The death of Queen Victoria: they had become very close, and even if they disagreed, the Queen was always a fixed point of reference to navigate by, so Salisbury took her sudden death (on 22 January 1901) very hard. Late in her life her eyesight was failing and notes to her had to be written in letters one inch high, often only ten words to a page. In return she sent replies written in a handwriting which had become so indecipherable that special experts were called on to explicate it (p.794).

What this kind of anecdote displays is not so much something about Victoria, but about Roberts and the kind of book he wants to write, namely popular, unacademic, accessible, strewn with humorous anecdotes and so, very readable.

Chapter 46: ‘Methods of Barbarism’ (January to December 1901)

  • King Edward VII: Salisbury had had some professional encounters with the new king, when they sat on committees, but he generally ignored his suggestions and limited what government papers he saw; but to his own surprise they quickly formed an effective working relationship
  • The Boer War, the second phase: the main fighting ended but the Boers upset everyone by mounting a scattered guerrilla war; when you consider that they were fighting for the land they had settled and called their own, for land they and their forefathers had worked for generations, it’s entirely understandable
  • Anglo-German relations: after victory in the Khaki election of 1900, Salisbury reshuffled his cabinet but the biggest change was him giving into cabinet pressure and relinquishing the dual role he had had of Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary; he was replaced by Lord Lansdowne, a Liberal Unionist, who had had a poor reputation at the War Office (but then, everyone did); Lansdowne’s arrival marked a break with what had come to be regarded, rightly or wrongly, as Salisbury’s policy of ‘Splendid Isolation’ i.e. refusing to commit to alliances with any of the major European Powers (France, Germany, Austria, Russia)
  • The concentration camps: Roberts seeks to set the record straight: the concentration camp was not invented by the British but by the Spanish in the war against America 2 years earlier; the camps came about because thousands of Boer women and children, left undefended when their men went off to join commando unit, were at the mercy of the Blacks and/or unable to fend for themselves; plus the deliberate British policy of deliberately burning homesteads anywhere near where a commando attack took place rendered them homeless; but the British were completely unprepared for the scale of the immigration and coralling all underfed people in barbed wire encampments quickly led to the spread of epidemic disease; at their peak the numerous camps held some 118,000 white and 43,000 coloured inmates; the Royal Army Medical Corps had planned to serve 40,000 soldiers – in the event they had to cater to 200,000 soldiers and over 200,000 refugees; some 20,000 women and children died (4,000 adults, 16,000 women); these were obviously not extermination camps like the Nazi ones, but British incompetence led to a holocaust of innocents which is held against us to this day; Roberts lists all the possible extenuating circumstances (a handy list) but is robust regarding his hero: Salisbury ‘must bear the ultimate responsibility for what happened’ (p.806) campaigner Emma Hobhouse blamed it on ‘crass male ignorance’ i.e of the hygiene and accommodation required by women and children

It’s worth pointing out that even in Roberts’s broadly sympathetic account, Salisbury, as I understand it, habituates himself to lying about the causes of the war; its origins were all about redressing the injustices suffered by the Uitlanders; once the fighting started, some Boer units mounted incursions over the border into the Cape Colony; and this allowed Salisbury to completely change his rhetoric and claim that the British were acting in self defence against a dastardly invasion. He took to repeating this in public speeches, in private correspondence and diplomatic replies to the Powers, for example in a note to the new king, advising him how to reply to a personal communication from Tsar Nicholas:

‘The war was begun and elaborately prepared for many previous years by the Boers and was unprovoked by any single act of England’ (p.808)

Obviously, he is presenting the strongest, most unambiguous case possible to one of the great Powers, and during a time of war but it was a line he peddled in a variety of contexts, including private correspondence. Here he is writing to his son:

‘This unhappy war has lasted much longer than we expected…but I have no doubt that it was forced upon us and that we had no choice in regard to it.’ (p.810)

This strikes me as being a very Big Lie. Moreover, if Salisbury and his ilk based their claim to rule the country on the idea that they represented a disinterested values of honour and legality, then bare-faced lies and distortions like this undermined that claim, and showed them up to be just another special interest group protecting their own interests (and grotesque mistakes).

The cost of the Boer War

Salisbury spent a lifetime castigating the Liberals for the costs of their policies and claimed to run a fiscally responsible administration. Roberts shows how the Boer War blew that claim out of the water. It ended up costing some £223 million, led to increases in income and other taxes, and a vast increase in government borrowing. Salisbury left his successor (Balfour) a fiscal disaster.

  • The Taff Vale judgement: on 22 July 1901 the House of Lords handed down a judgement that a trade union could be sued (by employers who suffered from a strike). Superficially a victory for the forces of Reaction, this decision single-handedly galvanised working class movements and activists to realise they needed organised representation in Parliament and led to the setting up of the Labour Party.

Chapter 47: A Weary Victory (January 1902 to August 1903)

  • The Anglo-Japanese alliance: 30 January 1902 Britain departed the splendid isolation she had enjoyed for decades by making a defensive pact with Japan to last 5 years; this was to counter relentless Russian expansion into decaying China and the worry that the Russian and French fleets combined outnumbered the British one and so could, potentially, disrupt Britain’s Pacific trade
  • Coronation honours: Salisbury strongly opposed some of the names the new King Edward put forward for his coronation honours, particularly Thomas Lipton who he thought entirely unworthy of entering the House of Lords
  • The Education Bill: English education policy was stymied because the core of the system was so-called Voluntary schools which were run by the Church of England and taught Anglican religion; many of these schools were poorly funded and so Salisbury wanted to give them government support; however, ratepayers from other religions, some Catholic but many non-conformists, refused to pay rates if they were going to support their children being taught a different religion; the solution was, obviously, to increase the provision of non-denominational state schools but Salisbury blocked this because a) of his deep attachment to defending the Church of England and b) because of his scepticism about teaching the children of the working classes, anyway; Roberts digs up some scandalous comments from his journalism period, in which Salisbury says what’s the point of educating working class kids if they’re just going to return to the plough or the factory; this was not only a scandalously snobbish, privileged point of view, but economically stupid; while Britain wasted a huge amount of political time and money fussing about these issues, the Germans and Americans were instituting practical educational systems appropriate to the needs of a modern industrial economy i.e. technical and engineering apprenticeships and colleges; Salisbury embodied the kind of ‘principled’ and ‘honourable’ Reaction which condemned Britain to slow economic decline
  • Peace at Vereeniging: 31 May, after prolonged negotiations, a peace was signed ending the Boer War; Milner had wanted to fight on until every Boer combatant was killed but head of the army Kitchener thought enough had been done, a difference of opinion reflected in fierce arguments in the cabinet; the treaty terms were surprisingly lenient, amnestying most Boer fighters and letting them return to their farms (the ones that hadn’t been burned down) and families (the ones who hadn’t died in the British camps)
  • Retirement: Salisbury had said he would go when the war ended; with his wife dead and Queen Victoria dead and the war over, he began to feel his age and infirmities, nodding off in cabinet meetings;

‘I thought I had much better resign and get out of the way; especially as, since the death of the last Queen, politics have lost their zest for me.’ (p.829)

  • Salisbury prepared the way for his retirement with his cabinet colleagues; he rejected the plan to have his nephew, Balfour, replace him on the same day as smacking too much nepotism; and went to see the King to hand over the seals of office on 11 July 1902; the King was prepared for the visit and handed him the Grand Cross of the Royal Victorian Order; within 24 hours his nephew was appointed Prime Minister, to much mocking from the Liberal and Irish Nationalist benches; allegedly, this is the origin of the phrase ‘Bob’s your uncle’, though that is disputed; Balfour found it difficult to fill his uncle’s giant shoes, the coalition began losing by-elections, and was eventually massacred in the landslide Liberal victory at the 1906 election
  • Death: he went steadily downhill after retiring, suffering a series of ailments (ulcers, kidney problems) then a heart attack which led to the final decline and he died on 22 August 1903

The legacy

What an enormous biography this is, overflowing with facts and insights, completely achieving its goal of persuading the reader that Salisbury was one of the titans of the Victorian age. Roberts makes a sustained case for his hero but the more he defends him, the more negative the final impression one has, of a big reactionary buffalo who set his face against all change in any aspect of British society, and solidly, intransigently in defence of his class, the landed aristocracy, its wealth, privileges and power.

The nature of the Conservative Party

‘Hostility to Radicalism, incessant, implacable hostility, is the essential definition of conservatism.’

‘The use of Conservatism is to delay changes till they become harmless.’ (writing to Lady Raleigh after the 1892 election defeat; p.841)

Salisbury engaged in a lifelong struggle against what he saw as the forces of atheism and political progressivism, becoming a master of patient obstructionism. (p.841)

The Conservative Party opposed the extension of the franchise, votes for women, reform of the voting system, home rule let alone independence for Ireland or any of the other colonies, opposed trade unions and workers’ rights, opposed universal education, opposed old age pensions, opposed the welfare state, opposed the National Health System, opposed the abolition of the death penalty, equal rights for women, gay liberation, opposed the expansion of universities and every new artistic movement for the past 200 years. In other words, the Conservative Party opposed every political measure and social achievement which most modern people would describe the hallmarks of a civilised society. They defended the privileges of the aristocracy and the bigoted Church of England, hanging, fox hunting, the brutal administration of Britain’s colonies, and corrupt nepotism. In international affairs they gave us the Boer War, Munich and the Suez Crisis. In every argument, on every issue, they have been the enemy of enlightenment, peace and civilisation.

And what kind of people are attracted to this small-minded, snobbish, xenophobic party of reaction? Admittedly he was writing in a private letter to the Radical Liberal Unionist Joe Chamberlain, but in 1900 Salisbury described the Conservative Party as:

‘a party shackled by tradition; all the cautious people, all the timid, all the unimaginative, belong to it. It stumbles slowly and painfully from precedent to precedent with its eyes fixed on the ground.’ (p.800)

Roberts reports this all quite candidly. It’s for the reader to decide how much this description still applies to the Conservative Party of today.

No policies

To explain, or put the case for the defence, Salisbury’s was a strong disbeliever in theories, manifestos and policies. He distrusted all such claptrap. He despised continental philosophy and was proud of being a philistine in the arts. 1) He thought general theories (such as everything the Liberals espoused) led to unintended consequences, and tended to overthrow the established practices he was so attached to (see the French Revolution, proclaiming brotherhood and ending in tyranny). And 2) he thought a politician needed to be free of pre-commitments in order to react to each issue or crisis as it arose, with the maximum of flexibility, without having his hands tied by promises made to get elected years previously. Epitome of pragmatism.

‘I believe that freedom from the self-imposed trammels of particular theories is necessary if you want to deal with the world as it is.’ (p.475)

He could barely be persuaded to issue any kind of manifesto or platform before the general elections he fought. He thought it sufficed to say the government of the country would be in safe, conservative hands.

Foreign policy

The case is stronger for Salisbury’s foreign policy. Here his dislike of prior commitments was (arguably) a virtue, as it led him to reject every suggestion by his cabinet colleagues to form alliances with this or that of the Powers (France, Germany, Austria or Russia). The central portion of the book makes it clear that this was important as it allowed Salisbury maximum freedom of manoeuvre in handling the many crises which kept coming up, especially in the decaying Ottoman Empire. In fact the major learning from the diplomacy of the 1880s and 90s was how close Europe repeatedly came to a general conflagration, and Roberts shows that Salisbury’s adept diplomacy often prevented that coming about.

Roberts calls the period from Salisbury’s becoming Foreign Secretary to his retirement the Pax Saliburiana. On the face of it the Boer War is a massive, disastrous stain on that claim but from Salisbury’s point of view the single most important thing about it was that none of the major Powers got involved. They complained but the crisis didn’t trigger a general European war.

Same with the Scramble for Africa. In most modern books this is viewed from a woke perspective as a scandal, a historic crime. But seen in context, the thing is not that Africa was arbitrarily carved up with no consultation of the people who lived there, but that none of the potential conflicts between the Powers led to actual war. At the back of his mind was fear of a vast European conflict and he was 100% successful in avoiding this. As Roberts pithily puts it, one of the most remarkable things about the First World War was not that it occurred, but that it didn’t break out earlier.

Everything changed as soon as he retired, and the Entente Cordiale of 1904, far from securing Britain’s security and the peace of Europe, was just the first of the web of alliances which was to plunge Europe into the catastrophic World War ten years later. Would the war have occurred if Britain had stuck to Salisbury’s policy of splendid isolation? Discuss.

Salisbury sayings

‘I was delighted to see you had run Wilfred Blunt in. The great heart of the people always chuckles when a gentleman gets into the clutches of the law.’ (p.448)

The Pope is ‘to be looked upon in the light of a big gun, to be kept in good order and turned the right way.’ (p.449)

‘Always tell the Queen everything.’ (p.515)

Salisbury cynicism

Salisbury was brutally honest about imperialism. He didn’t waste his time with fancy ideas of civilising and morality and whatnot. He really disliked colonial adventurers and chancers. He saw imperialism as an extension of the precarious balance of power between the ‘powers’ or main countries of Europe (Britain, France, Germany, Austria, Russia). Thus he was under no illusion that empire was anything other than the imposition of force to maintain Britain’s interests. Thus Egypt and Sudan had to be held in order to secure the Suez Canal as the conduit to India (p.519), whereas he frankly rubbished the fantasy the fantasy of Cecil Rhodes and the Jingoists of building a railway running from Cairo to the Cape without leaving British territory (p.534).

Thus Britain installed a new pliable ruler of Zanzibar who was installed:

as soon as British warships had bombarded the palace and ousted the pretender. (p.52)

Overthrowing the Ottoman Sultan for a more biddable alternative; overthrowing the king of Burma; overthrowing the Khedive of Egypt; overthrowing the Amir of Afghanistan; overthrowing the heir to the Zanzibar throne, and so it goes on, Britain bringing ‘civilisation’ to the rest of the world and then lecturing everyone about rights and duties and law and honour. No wonder the French despised the British establishment for its deep-dyed hypocrisy.

Imperialism

Poor Lord Curzon saw all his grand schemes for India and beyond (winning influence in Persia, building railways lines across the Middle East) stymied by Salisbury’s basic principle of not alienating Russia and then, when the Boer War drained Britain’s finances, by chronic lack of money. In one of his many letters to Curzon Salisbury gives a (maybe exaggerated) insight into imperial policy earlier in the century:

‘In the last generation we did much what we liked in the East by force or threats, by squadrons and tall talk. But we now have “allies” – French, German, Russian: and the day of free, individual, coercive action is almost passed by. For years to come, Eastern advance must depend largely on payment: and I fear that in this race England will seldom win.’ (p.809)

Salisbury was always gloomy about the present, but this suggests the interesting idea that the empire was created during a unique ‘window’ when force and bluster won huge territories but, by 1900, that era had ended. (Cf taking colonies by force, p.511)

Manipulating the legal system

One of the things that comes across powerfully is the way the ruling class of all flavours (Tory, Liberal, Liberal Unionist) blithely manipulated the legal system, throwing their weight behind prosecutions or releasing individuals early, as it suited them, for example, releasing Irish MP John Dillon early from prison because he was ill, to ensure he didn’t die behind bars and become a martyr (p.451). In the case of the Cleveland Street scandal, Roberts casually mentions that his hero ‘technically’ conspired to pervert the course of justice and committed misprision of a felony, but he did it in a good cause so that’s alright (p.546).

The rotten ‘honours’ system

And the way politicians treated the ‘honours’ system as a simple set of partisan rewards. There was absolutely nothing ‘honourable’ about them, as there isn’t to this day. ‘Honours’ were used to reward loyal service to the government or big financial donors or, frequently, to get rid of unwanted colleagues, ‘kicking them upstairs’ to the House of Lords. Talking of the Liberal Unionists, Robert remarks:

although they refused the rewards of office Salisbury ensured that they were liberally sprayed by the fountain of honours. (p.427)

Home Secretary Henry Matthews was considered to have performed badly during the Jack the Ripper crisis (3 April 1888 to 13 February 1891):

and in 1895 he was awarded a viscountcy as a consolation for not being asked to return to office. (p.507)

The Duke of Beaufort, an important Tory magnate:

corresponded with Salisbury over twenty-five years on the usual aristocratic subjects of cadging arch-deaconries for friends, baronetcies for neighbours and honours for the mayors of towns on his estate. (p.546)

The only reason the Lord Mayor was keen on the visit of Kaiser William was that he thought ‘he might cadge a baronetcy out of it’ (p.555). In 1890 some Tories planned to lure the Liberal Lord Bernard over to their party with the offer of an earldom (p.569). Salisbury himself turned down the Queen’s offer of a dukedom not once but twice, but allowed his son (already Lord Cranbrook) to be raised from a viscount to an earl (p.579).

When forming his 1895 cabinet Salisbury did not appoint Henry Holland, Lord Knutsford, and so gave him a ‘consolation’ viscountcy; Matthews was no reappointed but made Viscount Llandaff; Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett wasn’t given a job, but ‘picked up a consolation knighthood’ (p.602).

Thomas Lipton the tea magnate brown-nosed the queen by donating a huge £25,000 to the Princess of Wales’s project to give London’s poor a banquet at the Diamond Jubilee. Salisbury considered him ‘worthless’ (p.796) but he was a friend of the Prince of Wales and so ‘duly received his knighthood the next year’ (p.661). Basically, you can buy these ‘honours’ if you pay enough and put in enough brown-nosing.

Salisbury despised ‘the rage for distinctions’ but used it as cynically as any other prime minister (pages 668 to 673). In fact in the 6 months of his short caretaker government, he doled out no fewer than 13 peerages, 17 baronetcies, and 23 privy councillors. As Roberts says, not a bad haul for party hacks the party faithful (p.670).

The man more responsible than anybody else for the self-defeating fiasco of the Boer War, Lord Milner, was, of course, given a barony as reward (p.800). Then, as now, colossal failure was rewarded by corrupt politicians.

(Roberts uses the verb ‘cadge’ so many times to describe pushy officials grubbing for honours that I looked it up. ‘Cadge’ is defined, formally, as: ‘to ask for or obtain something to which one is not strictly entitled’, less formally as: ‘to get (food, money, etc) by sponging or begging.’ So you can think of all those Victorians jostling and bothering the Prime Minister for honours as well-heeled beggars and pompous spongers.)

The endless queue of people in the worlds of politics, the church or local government relentlessly pestering him for awards and honours made Salisbury’s view of human nature even more cynical and jaded:

‘Directly a man has satisfied his most elementary material wants, the first aspiration of his amiable heart is for the privilege of being able to look down upon his neighbours.’ (p.668)

And yet he continued to hand them out like smarties, as politicians have continued to do right down to the present day.


Credit

Salisbury: Victorian Titan by Andrew Roberts was published in hardback by Weidenfeld and Nicholson in 1999. References are to the 2000 Phoenix paperback edition.

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Cars: Accelerating the Modern World @ the Victoria and Albert Museum

The blight of cars

I hate cars.

Pollution

Cars emit vast amounts of toxic fumes, poisoning passersby and making our cities hellholes of pollution.

Due to the increase in the use of private cars, road traffic pollution is considered a major threat to clean air in the UK and other industrialised countries. Traffic fumes contain harmful chemicals that pollute the atmosphere. Road traffic emissions produce greenhouse gases that contribute to global warming. (Road Traffic and pollution)

Destruction

The post-war obsession with cars led councils and developers to rip the historic hearts out of most English cities and towns, creating inhumane, alienating and polluted labyrinths of urban freeways with urine-drenched concrete subways as an afterthought for the humble pedestrian.

Death

Cars kill people, lots of people.

According to the World Health Organisation, more than 1.25 million people die each year as a result of road traffic crashes, and injuries from road traffic accidents are the leading cause of death among people aged between 15 and 29 years of age. (Road accident casualties in Britain and the world)

Cars killed childhood

Lastly, the number one concern of most parents of small children isn’t paedophiles or internet porn, it’s that their kids might be run over by traffic. (Play England website) That explains why parents don’t let their kids play in the street as they did in the halcyon past, but prefer to keep them safely inside. Which contributes to lack of exercise and growth of obesity among children, as well as adversely affecting children’s mental health. Car culture, in other words, killed childhood.

Personally, I think cars should be banned, period.

Cars: Accelerating the Modern World at the Victoria and Albert Museum

This is a dazzling exhibition celebrating the rise and rise of cars which shows how they are not just machines for getting from A to B but were, right from the start, spurs to all kinds of other industries, helping to create:

  • countless aspects of industrial and commercial design, from instrument panels to ergonomic chairs
  • innovations in industrial production, specifically the assembly line techniques pioneered at the Ford car plant in Detroit
  • entire new areas of engineering relating to roads and then to motorways, the construction of stronger road bridges, flyovers, ring roads etc using the new materials of concrete and tarmac
  • an explosion of consumer accessories from safety hats and goggles to driving coats and gloves all the way up to modern Satnavs
  • as well as providing a mainstay for the advertising industry for over a hundred years
  • and becoming a dominating feature of popular culture in films, novels and much more

The car is, when you stop to consider it, arguably the central product of the twentieth century, the defining artifact of our civilisation (and, in my jaundiced view, a perfect symbol of our society’s relentless drive to excess consumption, ruinous pollution and global destruction.)

They promised us the freedom of the road, instead we got day-long traffic jams on 12-lane highways, toxic air pollution, and over a million dead every year. This photo shows congestion blocking the G4 Beijing-Hong Kong-Macau Expressway

The car has transformed how we move around, how we design and lay out our cities and towns, it has transformed our psychologies and imaginations. As one of the curators explains:

“The V&A’s mission is to champion the power of design to change the world, and no other design object has impacted the world more than the automobile. This exhibition is about the power of design to effect change, and the unintended consequences that have contributed to our current environmental situation.

Structure of the show

This exhibition is brilliantly laid out. You progress through a labyrinthine serpentine curve of cases displaying over 250 artefacts large and small, and studded by no fewer than 15 actual cars, from one of the first ever built to a ‘popup’ car of the future.

Photo of the Benz patent motor car, model no. 3, 1888. Image courtesy of Daimler

The exhibition is immensely informative, with sections and sub-sections devoted to every aspect of cars, their design, manufacture, the subsidiary industries and crafts they support, the global oil industry, and car cultures around the world, it really is an impressively huge and all-embracing overview.

But the thing that made the impact on me was the films.

I counted no fewer than 35 films running, from little black-and-white documentaries showing on TV-sized monitors, through to clips of Blade Runner and Fifth Element on large screens.

There’s the iconic car chase from Bullitt on a very big screen hanging from the ceiling and then an enormous, long, narrow, gallery-wide screen which was showing three long, slow and beautifully shot films of landscapes which have been impacted by the car – a complicated freeway junction in Japan, oil fields in central California, and the ‘lithium triangle’ in Chile, between Chile, Bolivia and Argentina, where lithium is extracted for battery production a vast expanse of flat desert which is being mined to produce lithium and its landscape converted into a colourful patchwork of slag and beautiful blue purification reservoirs.

At both the start and the end of the show are totally immersive films which are projected on screens from floor to ceiling, the first one a speeded-up film of a car journey through London, projected onto three split screens; the final experience in the show is standing in front of a shiny round little Pop-Up Next car around which stretches a curved screen onto which is projected a montage of car disaster imagery, including car crashes, road rage incidents, the Deepwater Horizon oil rig disaster, Jimmy Carter telling us about the energy crisis, which gets louder and faster and more intense until it collapses into a high speed blur of colour. And looming over us, the viewers, I realised after a while, is an enormous drone hanging from the ceiling and looking down on us like one of H.G. Wells’s conquering Martians.

Cars Exhibition, 19th November 2019

All very trippy and intense and sense-bombarding. If you fancy a quiet exhibition, this is not it, sound from all the films is playing at once and, given the subject matter, they are almost all dynamic and fast-moving.

The exhibition is divided into three parts although the continuous serpentine journey past the display cases and films isn’t divided, as in a ‘normal’ gallery, into ‘rooms’.

1. ‘Going Fast’

The exhibition with records of all the gee-whizz visions of a perfect techno future which the car has been lined with throughout its history, with lots of illustrations from magazines and sci fi stories, clips from movies predicting flying cars such as Blade Runner or The Fifth Element. On a massive projector screen right at the start is playing Key To the Future, a film made by General Motors for their 1956 Motorama car show.

This was just one of a series of Firebird concept cars produced by General Motors. Interestingly, the design was inspired by the new jet fighter planes which had just started flying, and the cars copied the jets’ fluid silhouettes, cockpit seats and gas turbine engines designed to reach 200mph. they weren’t actually sold but were produced as experiments in function and design. And to thrill the public at motor shows with exciting visions of hands-free driving.

One feature of these designs for future cars was that a number of them were Russian, from Soviet-era drawings of an ideal communist future. It’s worth noting that the curators have made an effort to get outside the Anglosphere. Unavoidably most of the footage and technology is from America, with a healthy amount about the British car industry, and then sections about Fiat in Italy and Citroen in France.

But the V&A have gone out of their way to try and internationalise their coverage and they commissioned a series of films about car culture in five other parts of the world including one on South African ‘spinners’ (who compete to be able to spin cars very fast in as small a circle as possible), California low-riders, Emirati dune racers in the Middle East, and Japanese drivers of highly decorated trucks. As well as a section towards the end about the ‘Paykan’, a popular people’s car heavily promoted in Iran in the early 1970s which became a symbol of modernity and affluence.

Installation view of Cars at the Victoria and Albert Museum showing an Iranian Paykan on the left, a desert-crossing Auto-Chenille by Citroën in the centre, and a funky bubble car on the right. Note the massive projection screen at the back displaying a panoramic film of oil fields in central California

The section continues with the first-ever production car, the Benz Patent Motorwagen 3, introduced to the public in 1888, and the futuristic Tatra T77 from the Czech Republic, which was designed in the 1920s by Paul Jaray, the man who developed the aerodynamics of airships.

French advertisement for the Tatra 77 (1934)

There’s a whole section about the founding and development of car races, from the Daytona track in Florida, to Brooklands race track in Surrey, both accompanied, of course, by vintage film footage. They explain how the British Gordon Bennett Cup prompted the French to invent the Grand Prix in 1906. There’s racing against other cars, but also, of course, the successive attempts to break the land speed record which attracted great publicity from the 1920s, through the 30s, 40s and 50s.

Britain First Always – Buy British, UK (1930s) Artwork by R. Granger Barrett

And there’s a feminist section of the show which focuses solely on the great women car drivers who appeared at Brooklands such as Camille du Gast from France and Dorothy Levitt, and Jill Scott Thomas who became an important symbol of the women’s rights movement.

There’s a gruesome life-size sculpture of a man named ‘Graham’, which shows what shape a human being would have to be to withstand a car collision. Graham was commissioned last year by The Transport Accident Commission in Victoria, Australia to demonstrate human vulnerability in traffic accidents, and made by Melbourne artist Patricia Piccinini in collaboration with leading trauma surgeon Christian Kenfield and crash investigation expert Dr David Logan.

Graham: what humans ought to look like to optimise their chances of surviving a car crash

2. ‘Making More’

The second section is devoted to the manufacturing of cars and focuses heavily on the range of innovations in manufacturing pioneered at the Ford Motor Company in Detroit as early as 1913. There are models of the factory, black and white film footage of conveyor belts, unexpected footage of meat processing plants where Ford worked as a young man and which the car plants were to some extent modelled on, photos and sketches of all aspects of the production line along with a list of the very tough rules and regulations Ford imposed on his workers.

Sure, they were paid double what they could earn at other factories (a whopping $5) but the stress of staying in one place performing the same function for 12 hours a day, with no smoking or talking and strictly regulated loo breaks took its tool: many workers developed psychological illnesses, many just quit.

Ford’s factories were designed by the architect Albert Kahn who pioneered an entirely new construction space that allowed for larger, more flexible workspaces, a design which quickly spread around the world, for example at Fiat’s Lingotto factory. There are floorplans, architects’ designs, models and photos of all this twentieth century innovation, plus the animated feature Symphony in F celebrating the complex supply chains Ford had established which was shown at the 1933 ‘Century of Progress’ Chicago World’s Fair.

By contrast one wall is filled with some immense film projections of a modern, almost totally-automated BMW car assembly plant in Munich, and there’s a Unimate Robotoc Arm, one of the first robot implements used on a production line as early as 1961 at the General Motors plant in New Jersey The principles are the same but human input, effort and endurance have been almost completely eliminated.

Murals were commissioned to celebrate the wonderful new productiveness of human labour, including the wonderful Detroit Murals by Mexican mural maker Diego Rivera

Production line methods were quickly adopted to a wide range of goods including everything from furniture to architecture, and the speed and rhythms of factory life spread into pop culture, influencing music, dance, fashion and the propaganda of the new totalitarian states.

Hitler, the show reminds us, was a big admirer of Henry Ford, who was himself a noted anti-Semite, and consulted Ford about mass production techniques to help improve German efficiency, which resulted in the remarkably enduring design of the Volkswagen and Hitler’s pioneering Autobahns, but also led the Germans to the efficient mass manufacture of other consumer goods like the Volsempfänger or People’s Radio.

At the other end of the cultural scale, the exhibition includes the ‘production line’ video made in 1965 for the Detroit girl group Martha and the Vandellas song Nowhere To Run To. The Motown Sound which they typified was, after all, named after Motor Town, the town that Henry Ford built up into the centre of the American car industry.

There were to (at least) reactions against production line culture. An obvious one was the creation of powerful unions formed to represent assembly line workers. Following the landmark sit-down strike from 1936 to 1937 in Flint, Michigan, membership of the Union of Automotive Workers grew from 30,000 to 500,000 in one year! Thirty years later, and the exhibition includes some of the posters produced by a Marxist art collective in Paris to support striking car workers during the 1968 mass strikes in France.

But another reaction was against mass production, and in favour of luxury. The Model T meant cars for the masses, but what about cars for the better off? In the 1920s luxury car manufacturers returned to creating bespoke, hand-crafted models, and this triggered a growing market for high-end car accessories. The exhibition includes examples of chic hats and lighters and motoring gloves, all associating the idea of motoring with glamour and luxury (‘To drive a Peugeot is to be in fashion’).

A custom-made Hispano-Suiza Type H6B car from 1922 provides a close-up look at the luxurious and meticulously crafted world of early automotive design.

Hispano-Suiza Type HB6 ‘Skiff Torpedo’. Hispano-Suiza (chassis) Henri Labourdette (body) 1922. Photo by Michael Furman © The Mullin Automotive Museum

Thus the development of mascots on car bonnets, a small symbol which allowed consumers to quietly flaunt their wealth and taste. Thus between 1920 and 1931 French designer René Lalique produced a series of car bonnet ornaments made of glass, which are on display here.

There’s a section devoted to the development of colours, shades and tones, and to the science of producing lacquers and paint which would be durable enough to protect cars in all weathers. Even mass market manufacturers took note and in 1927 General Motors was the first producer to set up an entire department devoted to styling, the ‘Art and Colour Section’. As far back as 1921, under chairman Alfred Sloan, General Motors implemented a policy known as ‘annual model renewal’. Taking its lead from the fashion industry, the cars would be restyled and relaunched annually, with a new look and new colours (although the engineering and motors mostly stayed the same).

And hence the development of extravagant car shows like ‘Motorama’ launched in 1949 by General Motors, an annual series which came to involve celebrity performers, original songs, choreography, models in clothes straight off catwalks, and promotional films.

The ever-growing commercialisation of cars and life in general sparked a backlash in the 1960s and the exhibition explains how the humble VolksWagen became a cheap and cheerful symbol of people who dropped out, adopted alternative lifestyles, and often decorated their VW with hippy images and symbols.

The exhibition features a striking example of a car customised by Tomas Vazquez, a member of the lowrider culture that emerged in Latino communities in Los Angeles in the 1950s and 60s.

3. ‘Shaping Space’

The final section of the exhibition explores the vast impact of the car on the world’s landscape, nations, and cities. It looks at how the petrol engine beat early electric and steam-powered competitors by promising the ability to travel the world, transforming drivers into individual explorers.

Displays include the first ever Michelin guide published in 1900, a little red book giving tips about where to drive in France – examples of the tremendous artwork Shell commissioned to encourage drivers to get out and explore Britain (the Shell guides), and a look at the special off-road cars called Auto-Chenille by Citroën and created to undertake a publicised treks across Africa and Asia.

This section looks at the vast ramifications and impact of the oil industry around the world, from the early days when it was celebrated as a miracle resource, through the evolution of oil-based products like Tupperware and nylon. There are fascinating maps of oil reserves, films about oil extraction

And then on to the 1970s oil crisis which helped inspire the new environmental movement. There’s footage of a grim-faced president Carter making a TV broadcast to the American people and telling them they have to be more careful how they use their limited resources, ha ha ha, and a poster for the first ever Earth Day, called by new environmental activists for 22 April 1970.

Poster for the first Earth Day, 22 April 1970, designed by Robert Leydenfrost, photography by Don Brewster

So it’ll be Earth Day’s 50th anniversary in a few months. And how well have we looked after the earth in the past 50 years?

Not too well, I think. Most of us have been too busy buying stuff, consuming stuff, competing to have shinier, newer stuff, and top of the list comes a shiny new car. I was amused to read the recent report that all the world’s efforts to get people to use electric cars have been completely eclipsed by the unstoppable rise of gas-guzzling Sports Utilities Vehicles. These throng the streets of Clapham where I live. In twenty minutes I’m going to have to dodge and weave among these huge, poisonous dinosaurs as I cycle to work.

As a tiny symbol of our ongoing addiction to the internal combustion engine, there’s an animated map showing the spread of motorways across Europe from 1920 to 2020, which contains the mind-boggling fact that plans are well advanced for a motorway which will stretch from Hamburg to Shanghai! More cars, more lorries, more coaches and buses and taxis and motorbikes and scooters, burn it up, baby!

This final room has the most diverse range of cars on display, including early cars from the 1950s that attempted to address fuel scarcity such as the Messerschmitt KR200 bubble car, alongside the Ford Nucleon, a nuclear-powered concept car, and the exhibition closes with the immersive film I mentioned above, streaming around the ‘Pop.Up Next autonomous flying car’ co-designed by Italdesign, Airbus and Audi.

Summary

I think this is a really brilliant exhibition, setting out to document a madly ambitious subject – one of the central subjects of the 20th century – with impressive range and seriousness. It covers not only ‘the car’ itself but touches on loads of other fields and aspects of twentieth century history, with a confident touch and fascinating wall labels. The serpentine layout combines with the clever use of mirrors and gaps between the partition walls to make it seem much bigger than it is, as do the umpteen films showing on screens large, extra-large and ginormous.

It’s a feast for the mind and the senses.

And it’s not at all a hymn of praise: the curators are well aware of the baleful effects of car culture: there’s a digital clock recording the number of people who’ve died in traffic accidents so far in the world, and another one (in the 1970s oil crisis section) giving a countdown till the world’s oil resources are utterly exhausted (how do they know? how can anyone know?).

But there’s also another digital counter showing the number of cars manufactured in the world so far this year and it shows no sign of abating or slowing down. Car, lorry, bus, truck, coach, motorbike production continue to increase all around the world and is often [author puts his head in his hands and sighs with despair] taken as the primary indicator of a country’s economy.

We’re going to burn this planet down, aren’t we?

Promo video

Curators

The exhibition is curated by Brendan Cormier and Lizzie Bisley, with Esme Hawes as Assistant Curator.


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Käthe Kollwitz @ the British Museum

This is a really brilliant exhibition. Kollwitz is a genius and this is a searing, dazzling, breath-taking exhibition of 48 of her best prints – and it is FREE! You should go see it.

Biography

Kollwitz (1867 to 1945) was the fifth child of Karl Schmidt, a radical Social democrat, and Katherina Schmidt, daughter of a freethinking pastor. She was born and raised in Koenigsberg in East Prussia. Two key points: her family were committed socialists who exposed her to the social realist novels of Zola et al, as well as discussing the social issues of the day – supported her through her art school studies.

The result was that her work, throughout her life, was devoted to the suffering of the poor – especially poor women – and a particular interest in moments of rebellion and uprising and social conflict.

Plate 2 Death from A Weavers Revolt (1893 to 1897) by Käthe Kollwitz © The Trustees of the British Museum

Berlin

After studying art in Berlin and Munich, in 1891 Kollwitz moved permanently to Berlin, when she married Karl Kollwitz, a doctor. They lived near his practice in a poor working class district of the rapidly growing city. They were both politically committed special democrats, and it shows, God it shows, in a series of dark, raw and intense prints showing the harrowing poverty and squalor of working class life.

Between 1908 and 1910 she made fourteen drawings in this realist style for the satirical magazine Simplicissimus, on social realist themes such as unemployment, alcoholism, unwanted pregnancy and suicide, including this one.

Unemployment (1909) by Käthe Kollwitz © The Trustees of the British Museum

One of the captions refers to the plasticity of her style, the superb modelling of faces and bodies. In a work like Unemployment this comes over in the dramatic contrast between the faces of the two toddlers and the baby on the bed, and the sparseness and vagueness of other areas of the composition, notably the hard troubled faces of the two adults. These key areas are soft and sensitive, while the surroundings – and the brooding figure on the left – feel harsher, darker, rebarbative.

As early as 1888, aged 21 and at the Women’s Art School in Munich, she had realized her strength was not as a painter, but a draughtswoman, and the strength and shape and depth of all the compositions here is wonderful. Thus her increasing focus on the techniques of etching, lithography and woodcuts.

Series

Paintings are often one-off affairs which can be sold at a premium (especially if commissioned by a rich patron), but the effort required in making prints, etchings and woodcuts has meant that artists often conceive of them as series, to be produced and sold in limited runs, and maybe collected into books.

The Weavers: Six prints, 1897 to 1898

Kollwitz based her first series on a play by Gerhart Hauptmann, The Weavers, which dramatized the oppression of the Silesian weavers in Langenbielau and their failed revolt in 1844. She produced three lithographs (Poverty, Death, and Conspiracy) and three etchings with aquatint and sandpaper (March of the Weavers, Riot, and The End). See the grim image which opens this review. When they were exhibited in 1898 they made her name.

The Peasants War: Seven prints, 1902 to 1908

Kollwitz’s second major cycle of works was the Peasants War which occupied her from 1902 to 1908. This was another rebellion of the workers, in this case the maltreated peasants who rose up against their feudal lords in the wake of the Protestant Reformation, in 1525, and were eventually defeated in a bloodbath.

Plate 5 Outbreak from The Peasants War (1902 to 1903) by Käthe Kollwitz © The Trustees of the British Museum

At first sight there is a tremendous dynamism in this image, with the figure of the woman rousing and encouraging the men dominating the foreground. Looking closer I was struck by the ape-like clumpiness of many of the peasants – look at the man on the right. This heaviness, this simian Neanderathal appearance, seems to bespeak their status as oppressed serfs, as people who are in fact, barely human, so low have they been degraded.

All the images are tremendous but I was thrilled by Arming in the vault where she uses dark and light to convey the sense of a great horde of proletarians emerging from the underworld, armed to the teeth, ready to cause havoc.

And there is a detailed and devastating print titled simply Raped which shows the foreshortened body of a woman lying amid dead leaves in an orchard or garden, wearing a skirt but her hard peasant’s feet and calves and knees towards us, while lost in the overhanging trees, her young son looks down at her ravaged body. Note how the woman’s head is set at an unnatural angle, lying back into the leaves.

Sensuality

But alongside the historical-political series, Kollwitz also produced images of startling sensuality. They date from the early 1900s after she had made several trips to Paris and been amazed at the colourfulness and vivacity of its streets and social life as well as its brilliant Impressionist and Post-Impressionist painting. The experience inspired experiments in sensual and also with colour. This female nude is stunning. I found the pinpoint accuracy of the draughtsmanship breathtaking.

Female nude seen from the back with green shawl (1903) by Käthe Kollwitz © The Trustees of the British Museum

Self portraits

Kollwitz made a total of 275 prints, in etching, woodcut and lithography, of which about 50 are self-portraits. The wall labels tell us that she also kept extensive diaries and wrote many letters describing and analysing her own feelings, her art and career.

One wall of the show is devoted to half a dozen or so self-portraits which showcase her tremendous draughtsmanship and accuracy, along with a deep brooding gaze, and the ability to capture mood and personality to a spooky extent. She is as harsh and unforgiving on herself as she is on her grim peasants and mourning mothers. What technique! What a godlike gift for capturing the intensity of the human soul!

Self Portrait (1924) by Käthe Kollwitz © The Trustees of the British Museum

The Great War

Then Europe went to war and her youngest son, Peter, aged 18, volunteered, marched off, and was killed in October 1914. The suffering of poor mothers had been a constant topic of her social-realist work, and – eerily enough – a decade earlier she had created this haunting image of a mother cradling a dead son, for which she had herself modelled, holding the self-same Peter as a seven-year-old boy.

Woman with dead child (1903) by Käthe Kollwitz © The Trustees of the British Museum

In fact the exhibition contains three of the eight working versions of this work, which demonstrate how she created, modelled and evolved her way towards the final image, a fascinating insight into her technique.

The War series: Seven woodcuts, 1922 to 1923

The loss of her son, and the slow strangulation of Germany caused by the Allied blockade, the loss of so many sons and husbands, as well as the gradual impoverishment of the entire nation, burned and purified her art to its essence, resulting in the scathing series of woodcuts she titled simply War.

God! How searing and blistering are her stark woodcut prints of mourning mothers and starving people, carved out of what look like blocks of coal, or ancient fossilised trees, images which reach right down into the roots of the earth, deep into the lineage of human experience.

All the light and shade, the modelling and depth and (sometimes brutal) sensuality of the earlier works has been burnt away in the fires of war. Now Anguish speaks in stark flat images dominated by lignite black, from which lined and haggard faces emerge like nightmares.

Plate 7 The People from the War series (1922) by Käthe Kollwitz © The Trustees of the British Museum

All seven of the War prints are here – The Sacrifice, The Volunteers, The Parents, The Widow I, The Widow II, The Mothers, and The People – ranged along the opening wall, bringing a new visual intensity to her approach.

It’s that emotional intensity and the stark black and white of the images which leads some histories to group her with the German Expressionists, except that the Expressionists were mostly a pre-war movement, and Kollwitz’s pre-war images had been much more smooth and naturalistic, as we have seen.

In fact Kollwitz went on producing work into the 1930s and indeed up till her death, in 1945. Her last great series of prints was the Death cycle of the mid-1930s.

Death Cycle, Eight prints, 1930s

Her last great cycle rotated around the figure of Death and consisted of: Woman Welcoming Death, Death with Girl in Lap, Death Reaches for a Group of Children, Death Struggles with a Woman, Death on the Highway, Death as a Friend, Death in the Water, and The Call of Death.

It marks a return to lithographs, with their ability to give depth and shade, unlike the medieval starkness of the war woodcuts. And also a return of the Neanderthal or simian quality which recurs throughout many of the harsher works, gaunt images of creatures who are barely human, with thick, knotty hands and feet. Big, clunky hands and especially feet, bony feet, huge knuckled feet, used to carrying burdens and long days of physical labour, are a trademark feature of her work, even in so ‘tender’ an image as Woman holding a dead child, the knees and feet are prominent and brutal.

Plate 8 Call of Death from the Death series (1937) by Käthe Kollwitz © The Trustees of the British Museum

This one, Call of Death, reminded me of Holocaust or Gulag or prisoner of war imagery. Homo redux, reduced by the crimes and the atrocities of the twentieth century to a bare minimum, barely human rump. And reminded me of the great poem, Death is a Master from Germany, written at the end of the war by Paul Celan.

death is a master from Germany his eyes are blue
he strikes you with leaden bullets his aim is true

Summary

All of the images in this exhibition are brilliant. I honestly can’t think of another exhibition I’ve ever been to where the quality of all the works is so uniformly high. The images of peasants pulling ploughs in muddy, wet fields, with harnesses round their necks are searing.

The barely human, half-apes sharpening their scythes from the Peasants War series are terrifying.

The woodcut she made commemorating the funeral of Communist agitator Karl Liebknecht is a great piece of popular art, albeit in a dubious cause (Liebknecht wanted to bring Leninist rule to Germany, but was murdered by right-wing militias in 1919 during the chaotic street fighting which followed the collapse of the German Empire. Same year Kollwitz was the first woman elected to the Prussian Academy of Arts. In letters she is recorded as explaining she had no sympathy for his cause, but was moved by the huge crowds of working class mourners who attended his funeral, the class she had been depicting for decades.)

Even before the Great War Kollwitz was a well-established artist in her genre, acknowledged by her receiving the position at the Prussian Academy immediately the war ended. But between the wars she developed a reputation not only in America (land of the rich collector) but, amazingly, in inter-war China, riven by civil war and Japanese invasions, where her blistering images of the poorest of the poor peasants working the land influenced the Woodcut Movement among socially conscious artists in that vast, peasant-based country. Her Peasants War work was seen by, and directly influenced, the Chinese artist Li Hua, who founded the Modern Woodcut Society at the Guangzhou Art School in 1934.

Struggle (1947) by Li Hua © The Trustees of the British Museum

The Campbell Dodgson collection

Kollwitz made a total of 275 prints, in etching, woodcut and lithography. This exhibition features 48. Why these 48 and no others? Because these prints were collected by Campbell Dodgson, former Keeper of the Department of Prints and Drawings (1893 to 1932) who then bequeathed them to the British Museum in 1948. Dodgson was influenced by his colleague Max Lehrs of the Dresden and Berlin Print Rooms – Kollwitz’s first and greatest champion – and acquired as many of her works as he could.

And then donated them to the museum. And now all 48 are on display here, along with generous picture captions and labels which give full explanations of her life and work and the motivation and process behind each one of these wonderful works. She is a really great, great artist. This exhibition is FREE. I can’t recommend it too highly.

Death and woman (1910) by Käthe Kollwitz © The Trustees of the British Museum


Related links

Germany between the wars

Art and culture

History

Victorian poverty and violence

Other British Museum reviews