Jeanne Hachette – Defender of Beauvais

by | Mar 27, 2020 | Europe, France, Middle Ages (500 - 1500 AD) | 2 comments

The story I’m telling you today is a relatively short one, but exciting nonetheless! While Jeanne was definitely a real person, the accounts on her life differ from source to source, but one thing is clear, she was a total badass. When her city was attacked, many of the women living there refused to be bystanders and joined the fight – including 18 year old Jeanne, who grabbed a hatchet and played a key role in defending the city from capture. But let’s start at the beginning. 

Born around 1454 in the city of Beauvais, her real last name was either Fourquet or Laisné. She might have been the daughter of a butcher and, after her father’s death, could have been adopted by one of the city guards, which would explain the different names. Whatever the case, she was apparently not unfamiliar with blades. Another story tells that since childhood, she adored her namesake Jeanne d’Arc and dreamt of being like her someday. And she got her chance. 

Fast forward to 1472 when the Duke of Burgundy, who was revolting against the King – long story and not all that important for this article – advanced on Beauvais with an army of 80.000. They had already laid waste to the surrounding villages in an especially brutal fashion, hoping to scare the city into surrender. On June 27, workers on the cathedral roof spotted the approaching army and raised the alarm. The first onslaught was overwhelming. While Beauvais was well fortified, it had no artillery and the Burgundian soldiers were climbing the wall. Swiftly one of the suburbs was taken and there was a huge hole in one of the city gates. But the city didn’t surrender. Instead the citizens took up arms and threw themselves into battle – and not only the men, but women and children as well. Hot water, oil and molten lead were poured on the enemy soldiers storming the gate, men and women were blocking the gate, armed with whatever was available, sometimes only with their fists. But slowly they were losing ground and slowly their courage wavered.

Amidst all this chaos, 18-year-old Jeanne grabbed a hatchet and climbed the city walls with a band of women, all armed for combat. The Burgundians were still scaling the walls and the women got to work, shoving enemies back down and toppling ladders. Some soldiers got through though and one of them was intent on planting the Burgundian flag on top of the wall, a sign of victory. Jeanne swiftly threw him into the moat, holding the flag high over her head. This reignited the bravery of her fellow fighters and the battle waged on. At some point the broken gate was set on fire and kept aflame to make it harder for the enemies to enter. 

For two weeks they kept the flames burning until the Duke decided to attack another portion of town. Cannonballs destroyed big parts of the city, but he couldn’t get through the walls to conquer it. Even though Beauvais didn’t have any artillery, the defenders – many of them women – were valiant and quite inventive, hurling stones, torches and boiling water at the enemy. Wherever the soldiers attacked, a defense system was already in place, keeping them at bay. 

On July 22nd, after almost a month of fighting, the Duke had to retreat. He lost around 3.000 men, including about 20 lords against a city that had no ranged weaponry and an army that mainly consisted of citizens, many of them women – a humiliating defeat.

A defeat that might just have turned the tides of the Duke’s revolt. You see, he might have been able to beat the King… had he not wasted that much time on the city of Beauvais. As things were, he was forced to retreat to his own lands. The revolt had failed. King Louis XI recognized the contribution of the valiant citizens of Beauvais and granted the town certain privileges, like a lower tax rate. He also recognized the important role women had played in this defense and suspended the sumptuary laws which were common at the time. That means women were allowed to wear whatever clothing they liked, regardless of rank or gender norms.

And Jeanne? Jeanne was rewarded as well. Not only did she get money, but she and her descendants would never have to pay taxes, ever. Furthermore she was allowed to marry the man she loved, Collin Pillon, and some even say it was the King himself who held the ceremony.

That year the first Fêtes de l’Assaut (“Celebration of the Assault” – weird name, I know) is held with a procession through the city with Jeanne at the front, carrying the flag she conquered. Behind her the women of the city, honored for their inventiveness in ammunition. Since then this procession is held every year on the last weekend of June and it’s often called Fêtes Jeanne Hachette after our heroine and the name she became known for.

From then on her traces are lost in time. But her memory lives on forever in the town of Beauvais – their very own Jeanne d’Arc. 

image credits:

1: Jeanne Hachette Transformation cards (c. 1870, image cropped) – Steffen Völkel Rare Books – Link
2: “Beauvais (Oise, France) – Statue de Jeanne Hachette” (2008) by User Markus3 (Marc Roussel) in Wikimedia Commons – Link
3: “The women of Beauvais defending their city under Jeanne Hachette” from page 172 of “The story of the greatest nations, from the dawn of history to the twentieth century” by E.S. Ellis & C.F. Horne, 1900 – page scan uploaded to flickr by Internet Archive Book Images – Link
4: “La statue de Jeanne Hachette” by Béatrice Butstraen on her blog Les petits plats de Béa [French], 2018 – Link

Helen and Elizabeth Cumming – Women Behind the Whisky

by | Dec 11, 2018 | Europe, Mid Modern Period (1750 - 1914), UK | 0 comments

Today I’ll introduce you to not only one but two extraordinary Scotswomen who founded a whisky distillery that still exists today – and they did it illegally!

You see, in 18th century Scotland, the taxes on whisky were raised and raised as the English tried to control Scottish production. The laws honestly got pretty confusing and no distillery was charged at the same rate – and for most the taxes became unmanageable. By the end of the century there was a flourishing black market and illicit distilleries thrived. And one of them was spearheaded by our heroines for this week: Helen and Elizabeth Cumming.

Our story begins in 1811 when 34-year-old Helen and her husband John leased a small farm in on Mannoch Hill, above the River Spey in Scotland. They named their new home Cardow and, like many of their neighbors, set up an illicit distillery. While John worked the farm, Helen took care of the household and the whisky. Not only did she work the stills, the first recorded woman to do so, she was also responsible for the product’s distribution. 

And so she would walk the 20 miles or so to the nearest township of Eglin, whisky skins hidden underneath her skirts, and sell them on the streets to whoever was interested. She also sold bottles of her whisky through the window of her farmhouse to whoever passed by. To avoid detection by the authorities, she developed a pretty smart scheme: Whenever officials were approaching her hometown she would disguise the distillery as a bakery and invite them in for tea. As there was no inn in the area, she would invite them to stay the night as well and while they were busy stuffing their faces, Helen would go into the back yard and raise a red flag or hung her laundry for all her neighbors to see, warning them to hide their whisky production as well. And even though John was convicted three times over the next five years, business never halted and soon the Cummings had earned a reputation for their high quality single malt. It wasn’t only their business that flourished, their family did too and before long there were eight children out and about – although some of them were likely born before they moved to Cardow.

Finally in 1824 taxes were lowered and one of the first people to purchase an official distilling license was Mr. John Cumming. Their eldest son Lewis had established a network of contacts already and helped Helen expand their distribution. It was also Lewis who had married our second heroine, Elizabeth, at some point and the young woman got involved with the family business almost immediately. She possessed a quick mind and an understanding for numbers and in the following years they grew their reputation; despite being the country’s smallest distillery they became quite well known.

In 1846 John died, leaving the brewery to his son. Yes, John was the official owner, not Helen, as married women still were not allowed to own property and her late husband had left it to their son. It was a wise decision though, Elizabeth and Lewis were an amazing team and soon doubled their output, meeting the increasing demand. By 1854 their business went so well that they had to employ two more people and couldn’t maintain their farm year-round, starting seasonal work. Now the fields were only worked during the summer while the other seasons were reserved for whisky-making.

The news came that the new Strathspey railway was being built, a promise to increase business even more. What a disappointment it was when it was finally finished but the nearest station was four miles away from their home, connected only through poor roads. Then in 1872 Lewis died prematurely, leaving his mother, wife and their four children behind. But that didn’t get Elizabeth down; she took over the distillery and registered their single malt under the trademark Car-Dhu, meaning “Black Rock.” It was a total success. Unfortunately it wasn’t over with deaths in the family. After continuously working in the family business for more than fifty years, Helen passed away in 1874 only three years short of her 100th birthday. She lived to see her eight children grow up and met all of her 56 grandkids.

Under Elizabeth’s management the production grew steadily but still by 1884 she could’t meet the high demand for her product anymore. Promptly she bought four acres of land in the neighborhood and moved the business to the new buildings which she simply called New Cardow. The old building was sold to a then brand-new startup distillery called Glenfiddich. New Cardow had three times the capacity of the old premises and once again business boomed. 

According to brewing and distilling historian Alfred Barnard

“Mrs Lewis Cumming personally conducted the business for nearly seventeen years, and to her efforts alone is the continued success of the distillery entirely due.”

She had just begun to show her son John the trade when the market suddenly took a dive. It was only a short crisis however and only two years later the distillery entered a decade-long boom again and by 1892 they had outgrown their capacity again.

Elizabeth, now an old woman, realized that the business had become bigger than their family could handle. Just one year later she sold the distillery at just the right time to John Walker & Sons, a blending house that had been a customer for years. She made a lucrative deal too and made sure that none of her workers would lose their jobs. Furthermore she negotiated that electricity was brought to their area – as one of the first places in the Spey Valley. But she didn’t let go entirely, although she herself retired: she only sold under the condition that her son was made board member and would continue to be involved in the business. And she bought 100 shares of the new company, thus securing her family’s fortune.

One year later Elizabeth died, leaving her family with a tremendous legacy and the business she helped to build still flourishing. Until this day every bottle of Cardhu Whisky has a woman on its red label, waving a flag.

Find out more about Cardhu Distillery on their website!

image credits:

1: The first Cardow farm – Link
2: Cardhu Distillery in 1893, ctsy Cardhu – Link
3: Cardhu Distillery, 1846 – Link
4: Elizabeth Cumming – Malt Whisky Trail on Flickr – Link
5: Cardhu Distillery, 1892 – Link
6: Elizabeth Cumming – Malt Whisky Trail on Flickr – Link
7: Cardhu 12 Jahre 40%vol. 0,7l on Home of Malts

Hipparchia of Maroneia – A Cynic Life

by | Sep 21, 2018 | Ancient History (before 500 AD), Europe, Greece | 0 comments

Today’s article is taking us to the philosophers of Ancient Greece, specifically the Cynics. And to a woman who challenged the conventions of a philosophical school devoted to challenging society’s conventions. Meet one of the few female philosophers of the time, Hipparchia of Maroneia.

As her name suggests, Hipparchia was born around 350 BC in Maroneia, a small town on the coastline of the Greek region of Thrace, and her birth was soon followed by that of her brother Metrocles – with whom this story actually begins. You see, he was a philosopher’s student and quickly won over a teenage Hipparchia as well. One day Metrocles came home mortified, he had farted while giving a speech at the Lyceum, what an embarrassment! Promptly he locked himself up in his room, set on starving himself to death. Enter Crates, a Cynic philosopher who had heard of the situation and came to resolve it. Calling on the despairing young man, he convinced him that his actions had been an entirely natural act and no cause for shame. Intrigued by this philosophical approach, Metrocles became a follower of Crates and soon he introduced him to his family. To enable him to study with his new mentor, the whole family moved to Athens, the cultural hotspot of Ancient Greece.

While his parents must have been incredibly grateful that their son had refrained from suicide, they were less than happy when Hipparchia announced that she planned on marrying Crates. They pleaded with her to reconsider, to choose one of her more “fitting” suitors, after all he was already an old man at the time, but to no avail. They only succeeded in having their second child threatening suicide as well, should they not stand aside. To understand their opposition, you need to understand the life a Cynic was leading. Cynicism teaches that human life should not be limited and complicated by the conventions and traditions of society, but should be lived in accordance with nature. This meant renouncing all physical possessions, only keeping that what is necessary, and acting according to natural impulses instead of societal norms. That included the institution of marriage which was seen as impeding on the individual’s personal freedom.

Failing to talk Hipparchia out of her idea and unable to intervene further, her parents begged Crates to talk some sense into her. Let’s say, the talk didn’t exactly go as planned. He pictured their life together in the bleakest colours, home- and penniless, living on the charity of others and owning nothing but the clothes they wore. She remained certain that his kindness, empathy and intelligence was enough for her to be happy and worth more than the wealth that surrounded her at the moment. Running out of ideas, Crates supposedly tore off his cloak, hoping to scare her off with his age and probably unkempt appearance, announcing “this is the groom, and these are his possessions; choose accordingly.” And Hipparchia chose him. They were married around 326 BC.

It was a happy marriage and Hipparchia turned out to be right. She did not miss her former life in luxury and the marriage went on to last more than 30 years until his death around 285 BC. She lived out the last five-ish years of her life as a content woman. But back to her younger years. Besides her philosophical lectures she also worked as a counsellor for those in need, never charging but gladly accepting donations. One of her specialities was marriage counselling, obviously. It is also reported that the couple had at least one son, named Pasicles, and one daughter. They were raised according to their parents’ values, sleeping in a tortoise shell cradle and when her daughter wanted to get married, her parents did not object. They did however ask that she lived with her intended for one month before making a final decision. This marks the first trial marriage in history – it is not known if it worked out or not.

Hipparchia quickly became popular with other Cynics, so much that they would later make an exception for her whenever they talked about their opposition to marriage. They figured that she truly lived according to Cynic values, challenging their own traditions by marrying in the first place and those of society by renouncing all possessions and becoming a philosopher in doing so. However not everyone was impressed.

Hipparchia had a habit of attending philosophical discussions and dinner parties with her husband, something respectable women usually refrained from. At one such banquet she was approached by a man named Theodorus who questioned her right to be there. She retorted that it could not be wrong if he was doing it, so it could not be wrong for her and swiftly added that, in conclusion, if it isn’t wrong for him to hit himself, it would not be wrong for her to hit him as well. Hurt, but not defeated, he tried another jab by asking if she wasn’t neglecting her work at the loom in order to attend a banquet. She answered that, yes, she was, but wasn’t it right to devote herself to education and knowledge instead of such useless tasks? Theodorus had no comeback. An anecdote recalls that at loss for a better argument, he stripped her of her cloak, but Hipparchia did not flinch. To her nudity was natural and not a reason for shame.

She had used her understanding of Cynic philosophy to free herself.

image credits:

1: Engraving depicting the Greek philosophers Hipparchia of Maroneia and Crates of Thebes. From the book Proefsteen van de Trou-ringh (Touchstone of the Wedding Ring) written by Jacob Cats. Hipparchia and Crates are depicted wearing 17th-century clothing. In the scene depicted, Crates is trying to dissuade Hipparchia from her affections for him by pointing to his head to show how ugly he is. (1637) – Uploaded to Wikimedia Commons – Link

2: Wall painting showing the Cynic philosophers Crates and Hipparchia. From the garden of the Villa Farnesina, Museo delle Terme, Rome (ca. 1st century) – Uploaded to Wikimedia Commons – Link

Lee Miller – Taking Photos in Hitler’s Bathtub

by | Sep 8, 2018 | Contemporary (1914 - today), Europe, North America, UK, USA | 0 comments

I would like to start with a little warning: This article covers a number of uncomfortable topics like rape, World War II and its aftermath, PTSD, alcoholism, and to a certain degree child abuse. Please only proceed if you feel safe to do so.

Lee Miller is certainly one of the most interesting people I have yet encountered in my research. She led many lives, reinventing herself time and time again. At first as a model in the 20s, then as a photographer and war correspondent in World War II. On the other side lay trauma and self-destruction and a broken relationship with her only son. Let’s dive into this multifaceted story of a fascinating woman.

On a spring day in 1907 in the city of Poughkeepsie in New York, little Elizabeth was born as the second child of Theodore and Florence Miller (after brother John who was two years her senior). Three years later the youngest, Erik, was born. Their father was an engineer but his passion and hobby was photography and as Lee was his favourite child, he introduced her to the medium at a very early age and took many pictures. Then when the girl was only seven years old, the first traumatic event transpired, as she was raped and infected with gonorrhea. Throughout her life, Lee would never talk of the incident, even keeping it a secret from those she was closest to. Disturbingly only one year later her father would start taking nude photographs of her and continue to do so until well into her twenties. It has never been found out or made public who the perpetrator of her abuse was.

Her story picks up again in 1925 when she travelled to Paris to study art. However her stay only lasted a year. 19-year-old Lee returned home, called back by her father. She did not give up on her art career though, enrolling in the Art Students League in New York City. And that’s when fate hit her – in the form of a car. Well, it was about to hit her when she was saved by Vogue publisher Condé Nast. Intrigued by her beauty and recognizing her potential, Condé introduced her to the modelling world, making her a Vogue covergirl in 1927. Lee was the perfect embodiment of the emerging “modern girl,” a look that would make her one of New York’s top models for the next years to come. But only two years later she had enough of the business, the shallowness of it all boring her. And she escaped to Europe again.

Lee arrived in Paris in 1929 with her mind set on becoming the apprentice of Man Ray, who was already a distinguished photographer and artist at the time. After making her way to his Montmartre studio, she introduced herself by announcing that she was his new student. Insisting at first that he did not take any students, he eventually succumbed to her charms and accepted her, although she became more than just his student. She went on to be his muse, his model and valued collaborator and finally his lover too. Soon she became an avid contributor to the surrealist movement, opening her own studio and living the Bohemian dream, befriending artists like Max Ernst, Picasso and Paul Élouard and becoming a muse to many. Jean Cocteau, the author of Les Enfants Terrible, was so fascinated by her beauty that he made a plaster cast of her to use as a statue in his movie The Blood of a Poet. 

Despite their IT-couple status, she often didn’t know where their next meal would come from, but she was happy, stating that she had never felt more alive then at that time. Her little brother Erik visited her once during this time, sharing her fascination with photography and learning from her. But as with many dreams, this one ended abruptly and in a huge fight. Man Ray found her when she was working on negatives he had discarded and threw her out of their apartment. She bought a ticket home, leaving him depressed in the realization that he had lost her, spending the next to years on a painting of her lips.

Back in New York City, she opened a portrait and commercial photography studio in 1932, this time in cooperation with Erik as her darkroom assistant and with the help of a loan over $10,000 (which she seems to have been able to pay back). Lee also rented an apartment next to her studio which became her home. Business boomed and many illustrious clients went in and out of her studio. Within the same year, Lee was included in the Modern European Photography Exhibition at the Julien Levy Gallery in New York and in the Brooklyn Museum’s exhibition International Photographers, receiving favourable critiques through the bank. One year later The Julien Levy Gallery gave her the opportunity to host a solo exhibition – the only one in her lifetime.

In 1934 though, she abandoned her flourishing studio to marry Egyptian businessman Aziz Eloui Bey and, after a honeymoon at Niagara Falls, moved to Cairo with him. While she did not continue her career there, she didn’t stop taking photos and even partook in exhibitions. The desert inspired her and she created quite a few surreal motives there, one of which you can see to the right. And her pictures in turn continued to inspire her artistic friends; Magritte’s Baiser was modelled after one of her photos of the desert. Nonetheless life in Cairo did not seem to satisfy her and by 1937 she once more took off to Paris, where she met British surrealist painter and curator Roland Penrose. Together the pair travelled to London, Athens and later wandered the Balkans, photographing the village life in remote areas. In 1938 she returned to her husband, but only one year later Roland came to visit and she was excited to show him her beloved desert. In love with Roland, she parted ways with her husband in June 1939 and moved to London with Roland, right when World War II was about to begin.

Living in Hampstead, London at the time, she witnessed the bombing of the city first hand. Instead of returning to the US, as friends and family begged her to do, she became a freelance photojournalist for British Vogue, documenting the London Blitz. She also squeezed in two more exhibitions in London in 1940 and 1941. After the US entered the war in 1942, she was made an official war correspondent for the army, once again working for Condé Nast. She was the only female photographer given permission to travel independently in the European war zones. In this role, teaming up with American photographer David E. Scherman, she went to the front lines of the Allied advance from Normandy where she recorded the first use of napalm at the siege of St. Malo in 1944 (see picture). She witnessed the liberation of Paris and the Battle of Alsace and eventually her regiment reached Germany.

On April 8, 1945 Langenstein, a part of the Buchenwald KZ was liberated by Allied forces and Lee was there, documenting it all. 21 days later she was there when the Dachau KZ was liberated as well, still taking photos, despite her deep shock. The next day, her troop marched into Munich, where they found the private apartment of Adolf Hitler. One of the first to enter, tracing the mud from the KZs she had seen into his home, she had David Sherman, who still accompanied them, take a picture of her in Hitler’s bathtub. Only a few hours later, in a bunker in Berlin, Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun would commit suicide. When their deaths were announced, she was more or less living in his apartment, having really bathed in his tub and slept in his bed.

Writing about this incident to her Vogue editor she recounted:

“Well, alright, he was dead. He’d never really been alive to me until today. He’d been an evil-machine-monster all these years, until I visited the places he made famous, talked to people who knew him, dug into backstairs gossip and ate and slept in his house. He became less fabulous and therefore more terrible, along with a little evidence of his having some almost human habits.”

In her role of documentary photographer she also travelled to Vienna and then to Hungary, where she took pictures of life after the war, of death that was ever present and finally of the execution of Prime Minister László Bárdossy, the driving force behind Hungary’s affiliation with Germany.

Finally, after four years of either being in the middle of war or witnessing its aftermath, Lee was able to return back home to London, moving in with Roland Penrose again. The things she had seen left a toll on her, she suffered from severe posttraumatic stress and depressive episodes and turned to alcohol for comfort. Still she kept working for Vogue for two more years, mainly covering fashion and celebrities in her photos. Roland accompanied her to a trip to the US in 1946, where she not only visited family and friends but also Man Ray who had moved to California during wartime and with whom she had by now formed a deep friendship. The picture shows the couple in Sedona, Arizona.

Back in London, upon discovering that she was pregnant at age 40, she divorced her husband and married Roland Penrose on May 3rd, 1947. Four months later her only son, Antony Penrose, was born. When he was two, the little family moved to the Farley Farm House in rural Chiddingly, East Sussex. The sky blue, brick red and sunny yellow they decorated the house with seemed to fit more into Southern France than the south of England and it quickly became an artistic hotspot. Among their frequent guests the likes of Miró, Henry Moore and Picasso (whom baby Antony really liked – and once bit in the finger. Look at that sweet photo Lee took of them!)

However, it was not a happy family. Lee’s alcoholism was hard to deal with for the boy, his mother switching from caring and sensitive, to sniding and verbally abusive. Roland was kind, but distant, having grown up the same way.

Generally their relationship was a very unconventional one. During her time as a war photographer, Lee has had a relationship with her partner David, while afterwards Roland’s first wife moved in with them. Furthermore both had affairs with many of the artists that visited the homestead regularly, sometimes separately, sometimes together. Amongst Lee’s conquests was Picasso who painted her six times! But all this attention made her feel isolated at times. “I looked like an angel on the outside. That’s how people saw me,” she wrote. “But I was like a demon inside. I had known all the suffering of the world since I was a very little girl.” In the meantime little Antony spent most of his time in boarding schools, growing to resent his mother.

But Lee was a fighter and eventually she overcame her addiction, reinventing herself once more in 1960. This time she became a gourmet cook. Yes, you read that right. While still modelling and taking pictures occasionally, oftentimes for Vogue, her focus now lay on the recreation of historical dishes with a surrealist touch: blue spaghetti and green chicken were only a few of the creative and colourful meals she served. The relationship with her son however remained tumultuous and Antony left home as soon as he was able too. Even though he most likely wasn’t aware of it at the time, this parallels his mother’s actions when she went to Paris for the first time, over 50 years ago. He travelled the world and eventually married in New Zealand. It was his wife Suzanna who reconciled mother and son, with them forming a grudging affection for each other, and in the spring of 1977, she held her first grandchild, Ami, in her arms. Three months later she died in her homestead. Her ashes were spread in her beloved herb garden.

If you think this is the end of Lee’s story, you are wrong. Not long after her death, Suzanna found a bunch of negatives, prints and articles while cleaning out the house’s attic and showed them to her husband. Antony has had no idea about his mother’s past as a photographer or about her time in Paris with Man Ray or about anything that has happened before the war really. And he was determined to find out more. In writing about her, he found a way to get closer to her and still he dedicates his life to preserving her legacy.

further reading and images: http://www.leemiller.co.uk/
and you can visit her home at: https://www.farleyshouseandgallery.co.uk/

image credits:

1: Lee Miller, Vogue, March 15, 1927: Georges Lepape – Link
2: Lee Miller and Man Ray in her Studio, 1932 (© Lee Miller Archives) – Link
3: Lee Miller by George Hoyningen-Huene, 1932 – Link
4: ‘Portrait of Space’ by Lee Miller, Egypt, 1937 – Link
5: ‘Fall of the Citadel, Aerial bombardment’ by Lee Miller, St. Malo, France, 1944 (© Lee Miller Archives) – Link
6: Lee Miller in Adolf Hitler’s bathtub, Munich, 1945, by David E. Scherman (© The LIFE Picture Collection) – Link
7: Roland Penrose & Lee Miller, Sedona, Arizona, 1946 – Link
8: Picasso and Antony Penrose by Lee Miller, 1950 (© Lee Miller Archives) – Link
9: Hallway [Hiquily sculpture] at Farley’s House (© Lee Miller Archives) – Link
10: Dining room fireplace (detail) at Farley’s House (© Lee Miller Archives) – Link
11: ‘Picnic’ by Roland Penrose, clockwise L-R, Nusch Éluard, Paul Éluard, Lee Miller, Man Ray and Aby Fidelin, Île Sainte-Marguerite, Cannes, France, 1937 (there is a picture taken by Lee with Roland sitting instead of her as well) (© Lee Miller Archives) – Link
12: Lee Miller Grocery Shopping – Link

Ida Ferenczy – The Empress’ Best Friend

by | Jul 1, 2018 | Austria, Europe, Hungary, Mid Modern Period (1750 - 1914) | 0 comments

Born to a family of lower nobility, the most that was expected of her was to marry into a good family. Ida Ferenczy disappointed her parents on that front – but isn’t it much better to be the best friend of an Empress?

The Ferenczys of Kecskemét in the Hungarian plains already had three children when Ida was born in 1839, and they would go on to have two more. Like her sisters, she was sent to school to become a proper lady, learning how to read and write as well as the basics of the German language. But Ida longed for knowledge, so she devoured all the books she could find, teaching herself where her teachers failed her. She even got the attention of a professional writer, Ida Miticzky, and so she was trained in the art of reading aloud when she was around twenty years old.

It was around that time that Empress Elisabeth of Austria, who was about the same age as her, began to learn the Hungarian language and decided to surround herself with Hungarian ladies. She had always been fond of the country and having been crowned its Queen, her love only grew. Feeling trapped in the strict conventions of Austrian court, she fled to Gödöllő Palace in Budapest as often as possible, enjoying the looser etiquette and winning the favor of the people. Sisi, as she was nicknamed, soon realized she would much prefer to be surrounded by Hungarian ladies all the time and promptly she was given a list from which to choose. The last name on this list was that of Isa Ferenczy. This was highly peculiar, you see, as she was not technically qualified for her job, her status as rural nobility not acceptable at the Imperial Court. On top of this minor scandal, Ida’s name had been added to the list in a different handwriting than the others. And of all the names, Empress Elisabeth picked hers! She sent for Ida’s picture and for the real girl shortly after. Of course the picture on the left was painted much later, but I think it captures her kind heart very well.

The two women met in 1864 and connected immediately. Ida had known of the Empress’ beauty, but her wit and charms impressed her even more. Elisabeth was taken by Ida’s honesty and her open mind, authenticity being a scarce trait in higher nobility. And even though she could never become a true lady of the court due to her high-but-not-high-enough birth, Elisabeth insisted she stayed, making her her official reader.  

Soon a close friendship formed between the two women, Ida was allowed in her chambers at all times and became the only one Elisabeth addressed by first name. Even though she was never fully accepted and even avoided at court due to her nationality, Ida was happy. Never once did she want to leave, even if that meant to never marry, loving her Empress with all her heart. So loyal was she that she even partook in royal mischief. On a masked ball for example she helped Sisi flirting with a guest under the guise of anonymity. Even though the gentleman in question did recognize her, Ida made sure Elisabeth never found out about it, making it possible for her to enjoy a few careless moments in the middle of strict court etiquette.

Although Ida never took advantage of her position, she did help a lot with Hungarian-Austrian relations, facilitating many important contacts, which earned her the Emperor’s respect as well. It was thanks to her that Sisi met Count Gyula Andrássy, a pardoned Hungarian revolutionary, who would become a lifelong friend and confidante. Frequent trips to Ida’s home country, on many of which Andrássy accompanied them as well, soon became lengthy trips all over Europe.

The Empress loved to travel and Ida was by her side. They went to see the ancient ruins of Troja and Ida was there when Sisi got a little anchor tattooed on her shoulder in Greece. Greece was the “home of her soul,” as Elisabeth called it, and they spent a lot of time on Corfu, her favourite place in the world. She even built a palace there, the Achilleion, where she spent a lot of time – Ida always there with her. Having taught Sisi in Hungarian language and culture for so many years, she now learned new things again herself! Elisabeth was just as hungry for knowledge as she was and hired local teachers and guides wherever she went.

The long journeys, which often included long walks on foot through rough terrain eventually had their toll on the Empress’ entourage however and in 1890 Marie Festetics, who had been in Elisabeth’s service for not quite as long as Ida but became a close friend to both women quickly, broke her ankle. And Ida too began to feel too old for the strenuous travels without much rest inbetween. So with a heavy heart both, Ida and Marie were deployed to in-house duties. But not before Ida was given the Order of the Starry Cross for her loyal service. The Imperial Court, especially the empress dowager, was not too happy about it, but Elisabeth really pressed for it. So as not to travel all by herself, she hired two young Hungarian noblewomen for company but never got just as close with them. And whenever she was at the Imperial Palace in Vienna, she spent time with Ida and Marie. In turn Ida befriended Sisi’s fourth and favourite child, daughter Marie Valerie, who was called “the Hungarian child” for her place of birth.

Eight happy years they lived like that, until Elisabeth’s tragic death in 1898. Her murder hit Ida hard, having spent almost forty years at her side – “I have lost everything,” she exclaimed upon hearing the news. In the last picture ever taken of the Empress, Ida is standing next to her.

Marie Valerie asked Ida to help her with bringing her mother’s estate in order and entrusted her with a majority of Sisi’s literary remains. And Ida never disappointed that trust, keeping the inheritance until her own death. Death however should not come soon. First she and the other Hungarian ladies were forced to move out ot the palace. Fortunately Marie Festetics, who had always been a woman of foresight, had been prepared for an event like this ever since she broke her foot. She had rented an apartment in Vienna already and managed to have Ida move in right next door. Giving each other comfort, both women worked through the death differently. Marie began to travel again (albeit not as recklessly as before), visiting the places she had seen with Elisabeth, while Ida went to Budapest to open a museum dedicated to her. It survived until World War II but was unfortunately destroyed then.

Ida survived her beloved Empress for thirty “long years,” as she said herself. She also lived through the deaths of Maria Fesetics, her long-time friend and companion, and Marie Valerie, the Hungarian child, only one year apart. Finally in 1928 she found rest as well, dying at age 89. Her body was taken back to Kecskemét, where she had been born all those years, a lifetime, ago and interred in the family tomb.

image credits:

1: Ida Ferenczy de Vecseszék […] in traditional Hungarian court gown (before 1896) – Link (Wikimedia Commons)
2: Ida Ferenczy (3rd from the right) next to Empress Elisabeth on a hike – Link (Wikimedia Commons)
3: Empress Elisabeth of Austria and Ida Ferenczy. Purports to be the last photo of the empress, taken the day before her death. – Link

Hortense Mancini – The Runaway Dutchess

by | May 17, 2018 | Early Modern Period (1500 - 1750), Europe, France, UK | 0 comments

This time I’d like to introduce you to one of my biggest history crushes: Her name is mostly mentioned in relation to her famous family and as a famous mistress, but she is so much more than that. Today’s post is about Hortense Mancini, a runaway wife who bedded kings. Are you interested yet? Because it keeps getting better. But let’s start with the beginning.

Hortense was born in Rome as the fourth of the five Mancini sisters, who were to become famous for their beauty and wit. When their mother was widowed in 1650, she sent the girls to Paris to live with their uncle Cardinal Mazarin. She hoped that his position as the king’s minister would allow her daughters to find suitable husbands. And the plan worked. The sisters were superstars at the French court, famed for their olive-skinned beauty which differed from the “standard French girl” and for their scandalous lives; either praised or despised, but definitely talked about. They even had a collective name: “The Mazarinettes” – remind you of anyone? (In the picture, Hortense is the one on the far right.)

Anyways, there were a lot of suitors. And I mean a lot. And they were respectable too. But because Hortense was her uncle’s favourite, no one seemed to be good enough for her. The cardinal had rejected a ton of suitors, among them Charles II, the exiled King of England (who funnily enough was legitimized only a few months later and was quick to reject the cardinal’s offer of Hortense’s hand and a lot of gold – hurt pride and all.) Finally in 1661, on his deathbed, Mazarin signed a marriage contract between Hortense and one of Europe’s wealthiest men: Armand Charles de La Porte de La Meilleraye. Not a good choice as it turned out.

Hortense was a cheerful girl (just look at the flower portrait on the left!), liked by everyone who met her, while Armand was a grumpy and jealous person. Also he was twice her age. Not to mention that he had that weird obsession with sex – and not in a good way. In his vast art collection, every bit of nudity was either painted over or chipped off, the teeth of his female servants were knocked out so they wouldn’t attract suitors and he tried to keep them from milking the cows (because udders are sexual, you know). Hortense was forbidden from meeting with any other men and often woken up at midnight when her husband decided to sweep her room for hidden lovers. Finally he forced her to move to the countryside with him, away from her beloved city.

Sure enough, Hortense was more than unhappy. And she decided to do something against that. And so she took a lover who was her age. Her name was Sidonie de Courcelles. Armand was shook when he found out, oh, the immorality. So he put both girls in a convent. That’ll teach them. Well, that plan kinda backfired – who would have thought? Honestly, I’m a little sorry for the nuns. The two girls were basically the Fred and George of the nunnery: they spiked the Holy Water with ink, flooded the nun’s beds and even tried to escape through the chimney. So in the end Hortense had to reluctantly return to her husband. She stayed for seven years, in which she bore four children. She did not idly take the abuse though. It was around that time when she started on her memoirs – highly unusual for women in the 17th century. Her main reason was to chronicle her husband’s behavior to have a solid case against him in court. It did not do her any good though and her attempt to divorce Armand failed.

But now she truly had enough and bolted, donning men’s clothing and leaving her children behind. A move so unusual at the time, that it attracted a lot of attention – not only from the public, spawning own magazines devoted to the topic, but also from the court. Soon the French King and her former suitor, the Duke of Savoy offered themselves as her protectors. Graciously she accepted the pension offered by the king and moved into the household of the Duke. Unfortunately he died not long after and his wife kicked her out again. Once more she was alone. Her husband had managed to freeze all of her bank accounts, including her pension from the King, which left her penniless – unless she returned to him. But that was out of the question. Enter the English ambassador. To secure his own status and maybe even improve it a little he’d like Hortense to try and replace the current mistress of Charles II. Does that name ring any bells? Right, the guy she’s supposed to seduce is the same King of England who wanted to marry her earlier, which didn’t quite end so well. Still, she was willing to give it a shot. Where else should she go anyways?

Soon she was on her way to London, pretending to be visiting her cousin there and once again dressed as a man. She travelled through Germany, having her memoirs basically published on the way. In January 1675 she arrived at the English court and by August she had been given an apartment and a generous pension by King Charles II. Less than one year later, she fully took the place of his chief mistress. It was the perfect match. They both loved lavish parties, riding and fencing. The King didn’t even mind her refusal to address him as “majesty” or her numerous affairs (playwright Aphra Behn even dedicated the introduction of one of her novellas to Hortense, turning it into a full-blown love poem.) And he liked her penchant for cross-dressing. Life could have been great.

And it was, until Hortense decided to start a relationship with Anne of Sussex. You see, generally the king didn’t care which beds she hopped into, but Anne was his daughter – an illegitimate daughter, but still. It didn’t really help that the two girls were caught in the midst of a friendly fencing match. In their nightgowns. Right in the middle of a public park. Watched (and presumably cheered on) by a group of onlookers. Immediately Anne was sent to an estate in the country, where she reportedly refused to leave her bed and just lay there, kissing a small painting of her beloved Hortense. That alone would not have tipped the King over the edge, but then Horense took the Prince of Monaco as her lover. Another royal was just too much for poor Charles II and he refused to pay her pension for a few days, but quickly relented. Hortense however had to give up her position as the King’s favourite to her predecessor in 1677. They did however remain friends until his death in 1685.

With both of her protectors dead however, Armand came back. Yep, I had hoped to never hear of him again as well. And so in 1689, he went to court, demanding his wife to return to Italy with him. But Hortense fought – and won. She was allowed to stay in England. And while her pension was reduced by the new King she kept her estate, which she turned into a salon for intellectuals and artists. In 1699, Hortense too died. It isn’t entirely sure how, but her drinking problem is mostly assumed to have been her downfall, but there are also rumors of a suicide.

One might think the story of Hortense Mancini ends here. But did you forget that Armand is still alive? Yes, even after her death, he couldn’t just let her be. He literally took her dead body with him while he travelled the country, visiting all the estates she had despised so much. It took four months until he finally allowed her to find a resting place in her uncle’s tomb. I hope she whoops his ass in the afterlife.

You can still buy her autobiography (and that of her sister)!
It’s on amazon but if you can, please support your local bookshop!

image credits:

1: “Three Nieces of Cardinal Mazarin” (detail; fltr: Marie, Olympia, and Hortense) by an unknown French artist, ca. 1660 – Link
2: presumed portait of Hortense Mancini by Jacob Ferdinand Voet, 1671 – © Hermitage Museum (ГЭ-5743) – Link
3: “Hortense Mancini, Duchess of Mazarin, as Cleopatra” by Jacob Ferdinand Voet, 17th century – © Bonhams (Lot 17) – Link
4: “Portrait of Ortensia Mancini, as Aphrodite” by Jacob Ferdinand Voet, ca. 1675 – © Christie’s (Lot 202) – Link