Helen and Elizabeth Cumming – Women Behind the Whisky

by | Dec 11, 2018 | Europe, Mid Modern Period (1750 - 1914), UK | 1 comment

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

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

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

Edith Cavell – Spy Nurse

by | Apr 9, 2018 | Belgium, Europe, Germany, Mid Modern Period (1750 - 1914), UK | 0 comments

In World War I a nurse was executed for treason by a firing squad. Do you wonder how she ended up like that?
Please read on.

Edith Cavell’s life didn’t start out that extraordinarily. She was born in Norwich in 1865 as the eldest of four children. Although the family wasn’t exactly rich, her parents believed into sharing what they had with the less fortunate. A sentiment that stayed with Edith all her life. She was educated in several boarding schools, like quite a few girls with her upbringing, and after graduating started working as a governess. After a brief period of travelling however, her father fell sick and she decided to return home and care for him. This was when the seed of her wish to become a nurse was planted.

Eventually he recovered and Edith began her job as a nurse probationer in London Hospital when she was 30. It was a hard job, but it showed she had a real talent for it. She even earned a medal for her work during a typhoid outbreak in Kent! Edith was dedicated to her job, working in several hospitals and visiting patients in their homes.

In 1907, she was approached by Dr Antoine Depage, the director of a newly established nursing school in Brussels, who wanted her to teach there. Upon realizing how poorly trained Belgian nurses were (as it has been long regarded a male profession there) she accepted and packed her bags. Her teaching was strict and her standards high, but the hard work paid off. Even Queen Elizabeth asked for a nurse trained there when she broke her arm, giving the faculty the royal seal of approval. In 1910, Edith decided it was time for a professional nursing journal and promptly launched one herself, called L’infirmière. And so her reputation grew and within a year she trained nurses in 3 hospitals, 24 schools, and 13 kindergartens in Belgium. On the right, that’s her when she lived in Brussels. The dog on the right, “Jack” was rescued after her death.

Taking a break from her busy life, she was just visiting her mother (her father had died shortly before) when World War I broke out. Hastily Edith returned to Brussels to care for all the wounded soldiers that came flooding in. For her efforts she became matron of the hospital, overseeing the nurses’ activities and organizing them. In the picture you can see her amidst her nurse squad.

When the Germans occupied Belgium in 1914, Edith began sheltering soldiers – both, Allied and German – and helped them flee the country. Not only did she hide them in her own cellar until trusted guides were found to send them to the next station in the smuggling network, she also invented ruses for them to be able to flee safely. And that’s not all! Written on fabric and sewn into clothes and hidden in shoes, Edith and her organization sent military intel to the British. Unfortunately Edith was a generally outspoken person, so she wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. And in 1915 she was betrayed by a member of her network (who ironically was executed all the same) and arrested by the German military police.

For 10 weeks she was kept in solitary confinement but refused to talk. Eventually though, she was tricked. Her captors told her that her comrades had already confessed and if she did too, she could save them from execution. Naively she believed them. Edith signed her confession one day before her trial. Unfortunately she was a little too thorough, admitting not only to helping Allied soldiers flee the country but also sending them to a country at war with Germany – namely Britain, from where they would often send her postcards upon their safe arrival. Never leave a paper trail, people! Unfortunately the punishment for that crime was death, according to German military law (which, in times of war, did not only apply to Germans but to all people in occupied areas.) So she was sentenced to death by shooting.

Interestingly enough, quite a few countries had something to say about this. Not only did Great Britain try to save her (denying the espionage charge of course), but the formerly neutral countries of Spain and the USA objected to the sentence as well. Unfortunately they were powerless. And so on 12th October 1915, Edith Cavell was executed by a German firing squad. On the night before her execution, she said to the priest who gave her Holy Communion: “Patriotism is not enough. I must have no hatred or bitterness towards anyone.” These words were inscribed to the statue of her that still stands in St. Martin’s Place, near Trafalgar Square in London (see the picture). Her final words are recorded to have been: “Tell my loved ones later on that my soul, as I believe, is safe, and that I am glad to die for my country.”

As the mention of a statue in her honor might have indicated, killing Edith was a propaganda catastrophe for Germany. Even though Edith herself said, she had expected the trial’s outcome and believed it to be just (after all she had committed the offense she was charged for), she was hailed a martyr. In Great Britain her death was told over and over by newspapers, pamphlets and books (often not very accurately and always dropping her espionage activities) which instilled strong anti-German sentiments in the population. All because she was a woman and a nurse – the picture of innocence. Especially her fearless approach to death contributed to her popularity. 

One more quote of hers: “I have no fear or shrinking; I have seen death so often it is not strange, or fearful to me!”

further reading: https://edithcavell.org.uk/

image credits:

Edith and her dogs: Imperial War Museum © IWM (Q 32930)
Nurse Squad: Imperial War Museum © IWM (Q 70204)
Statue: User Prioryman in Wikimedia Commons – Link

Lady Emma Hamilton – More Than Just A Muse

by | Apr 4, 2018 | Europe, Mid Modern Period (1750 - 1914), UK | 0 comments

This week I would like you to meet Lady Emma Hamilton, although you might know her already as the muse of several famous paintings (notably by George Romney, see picture). But there is a lot more to her than her pretty face and that’s what this post will be all about. 

Born 1765 in the English town of Ness, her original name was Amy Lyon. Not much is known about her early life, but that she was earning her living as a maid. Her next job was dancing at the “Temple of Health,” an establishment lead by a quack doctor, where she met her first lover when she was 15. He wasn’t a very kind guy and ditched her when she became pregnant with his child. She had however formed a friendship with Charles Greville, Earl of Warwick, who was not a very interesting person and double her age, but kind and sincere.

So she decided to become the mistress of Greville, who after all was of noble blood and a nice man – and smitten with her. He accepted her into his London home under the condition that she severed all ties to her former life, as it had been a tumultuous and at times scandalous one, that he did not want associated with his person, being of nobility and all.

And so she did, adopting the new name of Emma Hart, and moving into Greville’s appartement in 1782. She was taught noble manners, had writing and singing lessons and became interested in literature and the arts. She was also introduced to famous painter George Romney, as her lover wanted to have her portrait painted.

Romney fell in love with Emma too, on an intellectual, artistic level, so she became his muse and the subject of many of his paintings. He never had her sit in any indiscreet poses though, even if he had her model nude, showing how much respect he had for her. Through these paintings, she became quite famous in London’s society, being witty and smart on top of her beauty and elegance. And quite a few painters decided to portray her in their works, her ability to adapt a variety of roles attracting them. (see picture, by Louise Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun)

In the meantime, just one year after she had moved in, Greville’s love for Emma diminished and he hoped to find a rich heiress to marry, helping his measly financial situation. The relationship with his mistress however posed a threat to these goals, no potential bride would accept him when he openly lived with another woman.

Luckily it was exactly then that his uncle Sir William Hamilton came to visit him from Naples – and fell head over heels for Emma. She remained faithful to Greville however and did not return his avances.

In 1786, Emma departed for Naples nonetheless – an only six-month stay, Greville had promised, while he was away on business in Scotland. This was nothing but a scheme though and all Greville wanted was to usher Emma off to become Hamilton’s mistress, so that he could marry his sugar mama. At first she felt homesick, but Hamilton proved himself a true gentleman who shared many of her interests and introduced her to Naples’ high society. So she grew to like life in the city, learned Italian and French and was fascinated by Hamilton’s vulcanic research. Not too much later though, she realized she was supposed to stay in Naples as her host’s mistress. She wrote many letters to Greville, assuring him of her love and that she felt nothing but friendship for his uncle. He coldly replied she was to do as his uncle wished. There was nothing else she could do, so she accepted Hamilton, who was 35 years her senior, as her lover.

Making the best of her situation, Emma began to live her artistic ideas, starting to exhibit “living pictures” for her guests (see picture). Using minimal requisites, she managed to captivate her audience, making these kind of performances an accepted art form. With these “attitudes,” as she called them, as well as with her singing voice she was soon known throughout Europe – basically the Marilyn Monroe of her time. She even managed to win over members of the court, who had originally disdained “the courtesan.”

In 1790 Sir Hamilton decided to legalize their relationship. Greville was shocked (heh!). This marriage could prove fatal to Hamilton’s position as British ambassador though, so they travelled to London to ask the king for permission. Emma used this trip to reconnect with many of her former acquaintances, including George Romney who created several more paintings of her. Although Queen Charlotte refused to meet “the mistress,” King George III gave his blessing in secret. On September 6th, 1791 they were married in Marylebone Church, where Emma, now Lady Hamilton, signed the register with “Amy Lyon,” her birth name – a scandal in British aristocracy.

On their way back home, they came through revolution-torn Paris, where they talked with Marie Antoinette and received a confidential letter to the Queen’s sister in Naples, Queen Maria Carolina. Emma delivered the letter, a meeting that resulted in a long and close friendship with the Neapolitan Queen – there were even rumours of a lesbian relationship (but as much as I love my historic lesbians, I highly doubt that and consider it propaganda, there were a shitton of critics).

With this friendship Emma’s role became a more and more political one, acting as middlewoman for correspondence and translating delicate documents. That’s how she met Admiral Nelson, who returned from battle wounded but victorious. Emma nursed him back to health and eventually they fell in love. This affair was entirely tolerated by the elderly Sir Hamilton, who had nothing but respect for the Admiral – a feeling that was mutual.

When the French were advancing into the kingdom of Naples. The Hamiltons fled with the Queen’s household on Nelsons ships to Palermo, Sicily. The Neapolitan territory was recovered but the Hamilton estate destroyed, so the couple did not return home. Instead they embarked on a sea journey with Nelson where Emma spent the nights with the Admiral, eventually becoming pregnant. Finally back in England, Emma now met Nelson’s wife Fanny for the first time in late 1800. Only a few months later, Fanny ended the marriage as Nelson was not willing to give up Emma, which resulted in him moving in with the Hamiltons. Society did not approve.

After Emma gave birth to Nelson’s daughter, who was named Horatia, the triad moved to Merton Place, a residence in the outskirts of London in 1801. Two years later Sir Hamilton died with both Emma and Nelson holding his hands. Unfortunately Greville (remember him?) was appointed the sole heir of his uncle’s estates, the price for Emma years ago. She only got a small yearly pension.

Even though Nelson was a sea frequently, the couple enjoyed their times together and Emma encouraged him in fulfilling his duty even if she probably didn’t like seeing him that seldomly. In 1805, they were married in St. Paul’s Cathedral just before his final departure. While the Battle of Trafalgar was won by the British, it was Nelson’t final fight. He was struck by a bullet and died immediately. Neither her nor his ex-wife Fanny were invited to his burial. She did inherit Merton Place and got a yearly pension, but Nelsons final wish that she be supported by the state of Naples for her diplomatic deeds was rejected.

In the last decade of her life, Emma’s health and wealth deteriorated, a huge contribution being her ensuing alcoholism. Her pensions were often paid to late and didn’t suffice to pay her considerable debt (she had never been good with money). Finally she was forced to sell her home to pay off a part of her creditors and placed in a small barrack under house arrest with her daughter. In the end the small family fled to France (the irony) where Emma died in Calais in 1815.

The picture on the left is a pastel owned by Nelson, painted around 1800.

A tumultuous and scandalous life for sure and a woman who was much more than just a pretty face, just trying to find happiness and being taken along by the flow of life. But forever immortal in a multitude of paintings.

image credits:

1: “Emma Hart, Lady Hamilton as Circe” by George Romney, ca. 1782 – © National Trust, Waddesdon Manor (104.1995)
2: “Lady Hamilton as a Bacchante” by Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun, ca. 1790 – © Lady Lever Art Gallery (WHL 712)
3: from “Drawings Faithfully copied From Nature at Naples and with permission dedicated To the Right Honourable Sir William Hamilton” by Friedrich Rehberg – Link
4: “Emma, Lady Hamilton”, by Johann Heinrich Schmidt, 1800 – © National Maritime Museum Collections (PAJ3940)