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Author Archives: Sandra Schwab

Cover of Sandra's novella A Tangled WebTo continue with the Waterloo theme of Diane’s posting on Monday, let’s turn to the hero of Waterloo himself, Arthur Wellesley, and the large equestrian statue of the man and his horse Copenhagen. The erecting of the statue in 1846 and the whole controversy that surrounded the event form the backdrop to my upcoming novella A Tangled Web, which will be released next week. (Just a few days ago, I updated the cover – how do you like the new version?)

His many successes during the Napoleonic Wars earned Arthur Wellesley not only the title of Duke of Wellington, but also the adoration of the nation. For many years after the wars he remained a prominent political figure, and as he neared the end of his political career, it was felt that something needed to be done to honor the Iron Duke’s many achievements.

And what could be more natural and more proper than to erect an equestrian statue of the great man (and his horse)? And not just any equestrian statue! The LARGEST equestrian statue in the whole of Britain!!!

Punch01A committee was formed, funds were raised, a sculptor appointed (Matthew Cotes Wyatt), and then the job was under way. French cannons captured at Waterloo were melted down to provide the bronze for the statue. The Duke sat for the artist, as did a horse (the faithful Copenhagen had died a few years before, so a substitute was used).

In 1846, after many years of labor, the statue neared its completion, and the Duke and members of the press were invited to preview it. One London paper considered it “premature to hazard an opinion as to the general effect of this statue when elevated in the position to which it is destined, but our impression is a favourable one, and we shall look forward to its public appearance with interest” (reprinted in The Bristol Mercury, 6 June 1846).

Most others did not. The Critic called it a “monster statue” (19 Sept. 1846), and the Daily News regarded the statue as an “atrocious violation of all artistic principle”: “Never since the time of the Trojan horse, such an equestrian monster paraded the streets of the capital. […] Without any desire to detract from the glories of his Grace F.M. the Duke of Wellington […] we wish to know why respect to the Duke must express itself by outrage to taste? Because his Grace’s merits outrun all measure of praise, must his statue violate all laws of proportion?” (16 Sept. 1846)

But it was not only the sheer size of the duke’s monument that garnered scorn and ridicule, but also the place where it was to be erected: on top of the Wellington Arch: “When placed upon the arch, the statue will have the face towards Piccadilly; the consequence will be that his grace will have his look fixed intently on the windows of Apsley house [i.e., the Duke of Wellington’s home], while the extended arm points at Buckingham Palace. ‘The Iron Duke’ can thus never approach his windows without having his gaze retuned by his brazen counterpart outside” (Morning Chronicle, 30 Sept. 1856).

Punch02
Besides, would the arch be able to bear the weight of Wyatt’s colossal monster? Punch speculated “that the whole concern will come down with a tremendous crash, and that the Duke’s horse will be found kicking and plunging about in the fearful gap his own weight will have occasioned.” Indeed, Wyatt’s creation, Punch surmised, would not only reach the skies – the statue was typically depicted with the Duke’s head either disappearing in clouds or attracting a flock of birds – but it would also tear the world asunder when it fell of the arch. (Given that you know how much I love Mr. Punch, it won’t surprise you that the writers and artists of my own Victorian magazine, Allan’s Miscellany, share those sentiments.)

Punch03
On 29 September, the statue was dragged with great pomp and circumstance from the artist’s workshop to the triumphal arch. People lined the streets to watch two military bands, a trumpeter, and more than 400 members of the Life Guards and Grenadier Guards accompany the bronze duke. Thanks to the size and weight of the statue, its progress was troublesome. Therefore, the procession took far longer than planned (and probably scared a few people witless, Punch thought 🙂 ).

Punch05

For today’s post, I originally planned to write something about murdered gamekeepers in the winter of 1843/44 (this is the backdrop for my current WIP, which starts with the murder of a gamekeeper), but because that’s a rather depressing topic and because I stumbled across something last night that bowled me over, I’m going to talk about something else.

Or rather, someone.

Mr. Shakespeare.

Shakespeare
As you might know, my day job consists of torturing teaching students at Mainz University, and at the moment I’m teaching Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night in one of my classes. One of the problems I always have with teaching a play is that the text doesn’t really come alive until it is performed. I always include a session on the Elizabethan stage, and if I have time enough, I also try to show at least excerpts from one of the many film adaptations of Shakespeare. (And I do like Trevor Nunn’s Twelfth Night with Imogen Stubbs as Viola and the dashing Toby Stephens as Orsino – even though Orsino is a bit of a wet blanket! – and – oh! – the wonderful Ben Kingsley as the fool. I haven’t yet figured out why this adaptation is set in the 19th century, but what the heck!)

So a few weeks ago I was looking for some more detailed info about The Globe, and I checked on YouTube whether I could find something featuring the inside of The Globe. Instead I found a short little film in which David Crystal and his son Ben talk about the pronunciation in Shakespeare’s time. (David Crystal is a linguist who in the eyes of academia has done the unforgivable: He has made his research topics interesting for the unwashed masses. This is generally considered to be A Very Bad Thing.) (Please note the sarcastic tone here. Personally, I think he is rather wonderful, and I heartily recommend his book The Story of English in 100 Words – fascinating stuff!) This is what I found:

(WP is supposed to embed this video, but I haven’t yet managed to embed videos on my own blog. Hmph. So I hope it works here.)

Fascinating, isn’t it?

But it gets even better! Last night I stumbled across this talk by Ben Crystal, where he talks about performing Shakespeare, about developing scenes using the invisible cues within the text itself, and, of course, about the Original Pronunciation.

It’s like… Ooooooh my! Light bulbs!

In the middle of that talk, I had to pause the film and order all of his books on Shakespeare. And then I wrote a quick e-mail to our course administration office and told them I’d like to teach a double dose of drama next term. Including a class on Shakespeare. 🙂

~~~~~

So let’s hear it: Do you have a favourite Shakespeare play? And what’s your favourite film adaptation of Shakespeare?

~~~~~

P.S.: I’m so going to model one of my future heroes on Ben Crystal! 🙂

Punch Dinner in 1895

Punch Dinner in 1895

An important aspect of Allan’s Miscellany, the fictional magazine in my new series, is the weekly staff dinner on Wednesday nights. The dinner will be first mentioned in the second volume, where (unlike in The Bride Prize) the staff of Allan’s actually consists of more than two people. This is the relevant snippet:

In the courtyard of Allan and Sons, the lanterns had already been lit Jack saw, as he strode towards the stars that led to the open upper gallery. When he pushed open the door at the end of the short passage, warm, mellow light spilled from the room, and Jack was greeted by the sounds of male voices and laughter.

This was ‘the Den,’ the editorial office of Allan’s Miscellany, whereat the large table dominating the room, a magazine was fashioned week after week, where flame-haired William MacNeil ruled his crew of writers and artists with an iron fist. It was here that the staff assembled on Wednesday nights to discuss the next issue over an opulent dinner sponsored by their publisher. After all, Uncle Allan had argued, Fraser’s had a dinner and Punch had a weekly dinner, too — and what was good enough for them was certainly good enough for Allan’s!

As you can see from this snippet, not just my inner history geek, but also my somewhat obsessive love for Punch are coming to the fore again. The aspect of community is something I find extremely fascinating about the history of nineteenth-century periodicals in general and the history of Punch in particular. Community was as important to Victorian writers as it is to writers today — or perhaps even more so: in some cases the very survival of a writer / artist and his family depended on the charity of his colleagues. Dickens, for example, often organised amateur theatricals for the benefit of a colleague or his family.

But also in their normal everyday lives and their work, community and personal relationships were important to the journalists of the time. One editor had the habit of leafing through rivaling periodicals, and whenever he saw a negative review of a friend’s book or a negative article about a friend, he would immediately insert a passionate rebuttal into his own magazine. Dickens broke with Bradbury & Evans, his publishers, because Punch (also published by Bradbury & Evans) had refused to print his open letter to the public, in which Dickens explained the reasons for his separation from his wife.

For some magazines, the communal factor became relevant even when producing the magazine: as mentioned in the snippet above, the inner staff of Punch met for weekly dinners (on Wednesday nights, of course *g*), where they discussed the topic and motif for the next issue’s large cut, the central one-page political cartoon. The Punch dinners were legendary; in a way, they were one of the most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in London: you could only attend upon invitation from the editor.

Below you can see an idealized depiction of the Punch Table from the 1890s, with Francis Burnand (editor from 1880-1890) on the left, making the toast of the evening. To his right sits Sir John Tenniel, who illustrated Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland books and had become a member of the staff of Punch in 1850. Dominating the background is a sculpture of Mr. Punch himself, and on the walls you can see portraits and busts of late staff members (e.g., the portrait of Mark Lemon, the first editor, is on the left; the bust on the left is Thackeray and the bust on the right is John Leech, the artist).

Punch Table 1891

Punch Table 1891

In my series, I use the weekly dinners to introduce readers to the staff of Allan’s, to depict the sense of community that binds these men together, and to show the development of the magazine: as the magazine grows in importance, so do the numbers of writers and artists. The dinners are also a great opportunity for me to plant Easter eggs and running jokes like Matthew Clark’s whoopee cushion. The following is another snippet from Falling for a Scoundrel, the second volume in the series (aka the WIP I was supposed to finish by the end of May *cue in manic laughter*)

“Jack! There you are!” Matthew Clark — theatre and literature — shouted. “You won’t believe what I’ve found in that curiosity shop I told you about!”

Behind him Lawrence Pelham, comic artist, emphatically shook his head. Do not ask! he voiced silently.

“It’s the most splendid thing!”

Gervase Carlton, who covered general news as Mr. Copperwit, smirked. “Knowing our Matt, I say he’ll inflict that thing upon us for years to come.”

“Thing?” Jack echoed, his brows raised. Having shed his heavy coat, he sank down onto his chair — which bleated like a dying goat.

Jack jerked upright, his hand on the knife he carried hidden at his side.

Matt grinned delightedly. “See? You’ve found it! It’s a whoopee cushion. Isn’t it the most splendid thing?”

Taking a deep breath, Jack let his hand fall to his side and reminded himself that his colleague couldn’t possibly know how close his precious new whoopee cushion had come to being separated from its whoopee forevermore.

~ Sandy

I’m back! Carolyn has kindly invited me to do a guest post at the Riskies every other Wednesday, so here I am. 🙂

Last week it was time again to pack my bags and to take the train to Berlin for the LoveLetter Convention 2014. The LLC is RT’s smaller German sister —minus the costume parties and the cover models. It is organised by the only German romance magazine, the LoveLetter, and is attended by both German and international authors, by people from the publishing industry, and by readers. Lots and lots and lots of readers! Indeed, this year the convention has grown from 500 visitors to 700 visitors, and the conference office nearly overflowed with the umpteen boxes full of conference bags.

LoveLetter Convention 2014As always, readers could decide to attend workshops or games or meet & greet events or one of the panel discussions (moderated by yours truly). My favorite panel this year was “New German Authors,” which introduced authors who attended the conference for the very first time to the audience. There was also a book signing on Sunday afternoon, which brought back fond memories of the RWA signings I attended in the past.  🙂

In contrast to 2011 and 2012 when the conference took place in one of the suburbs of Berlin, this year we were at the Prenzlauer Berg, right smack in the middle of the city. It’s such a wonderful, quirky quarter, with many small cafés, restaurants, and small shops. And did I mention the ice cream? In Berlin you’re never far from an ice cream vendor —and they all have fantastic ice cream!!!

Prenzlauer Berg, Berlin

As in the years before I took my sketchbook. Thanks to the fact that I’m normally moderating all the panel discussions, I don’t have much time for sketching during the conference, but I always manage to squeeze in a few leisurely walks around the neighborhood beforehand. This time I even managed to dash into the Pergamon Museum, which has truly breathtaking exhibits from classical antiquity, Babylon, and Assyria.

Sandy's Berlin Sketchbook

I spent four hours sketching various different exhibits and managed to miss about half of the museum. But to make up for that I was asked twice whether I sell my sketches. (Wow!) If you’d like to see more of my Berlin sketches: in the next few days I’ll add all of them to this album on Flickr.

Eglinton Castle in the early 19th century

You are invited to a tournament. In Scotland no less! There will be a few men in kilts, lots of people in medieval costume, knights in shining armor, and a multitude of shawls and bonnets that are, alas, neither waterproof nor color-proof. (Btw, you might want to bring an umbrella!!!)

“A tournament?” you might wonder. “Are we talking medieval romance now?”

Nope. We are talking about a tournament in 1839. That summer ten thousands of people — ultra-conservative members of the British aristocracy and gentry as well as people from all around the world — flocked to Ayrshire in Scotland and overran several small, sleepy villages (the traffic jams in the area were dreadful and unlike anything anybody in Ayrshire had ever witnessed) in order to watch young Lord Eglinton’s medieval spectacle. He and some of his friends were to don medieval armor (commissioned from Messrs. Pratt in Bond Street, London) and joust like medieval knights. You know, just like the characters in Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe!

The noble knights had rehearsed for weeks in the garden of the Eyre Arms in St. John’s Wood (the “dress rehearsal” was watched by about 2000 people, which gives you some indication of the interest the tournament elicited), and they had given themselves proper chivalric names; names like The Knight of the Dragon (= the Marquis of Waterford) or The Knight of the Dolphin (= the Earl of Cassillis) or even The Knight of the Burning Tower (= Sir F. Hopkins). Lord Eglinton was Lord of the Tournament, and his stepfather Sir Charles Lamb acted as Knight Marshal of the Lists. As every tournament needs a Queen of Beauty to crown the victors, this role was given to Lady Seymour, who was allegedly one of the most beautiful women in all of Britain.

Doyle TournamentBut why would anybody want to give a tournament in 1839?

From the late 18th century onward, the Middle Ages had garnered new interest in Britain. The upper classes put medieval follies and fake ruins into their gardens or built themselves castles. Many of these neo-gothic buildings were invested with political symbolism, for medieval architecture became increasingly regarded as a symbol of Old England, where democracy was an unheard of thing. In addition, there was a flood of studies on all aspects of medieval life; portraits of people in medieval armor became all the rage; and Regency ladies amused themselves by painting medieval scenes on blinds.

But to spark the frenzy for all things medieval which emerged in the 19th century, it needed something more. It needed fiction written by an author who filled the imagination of his readers with images of noble knights and heroic deeds and whose imitators would feed and ever-growing audience with ever more glorious tales of the days of old when knights were bold. This author was Sir Walter Scott.

Numerous adaptations of Scott’s novels as well as his imitators increasingly presented audiences with an indealized version — a Disneyfied version, if you like — of the Middle Ages. The feudal age was transformed into a happy, glorious time when everybody knew their place and men were still men (hey, those knights fought against evil! and all kinds of monsters!! DRAGONS!!!!) and women stood helpless around, waiting to be rescued by a noble knight.

So when the old king died and a new queen was about to be crowned, everybody was looking forward to those age-old customs: the public state banquet for the Peers in Westminster Hall after the coronation service and that most wonderful ceremony of the King’s Champion riding into Westminster Hall and challenging all present to deny the queen’s right to the throne. It was going to be wonderful! Fabulous! And Sir Charles Lamb (Lord Eglinton’s stepfather) as Knight Marshal of the Royal Household was to marshal the Champion for Queen Victoria.

But then, alas, it was announced by the Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne, that the young queen was to be crowned without antiquated medieval pomp and circumstance. There would be no banquet. No Queen’s Champion.

The Tories were incensed. There were protests in the House of Lords against this “Penny Coronation,” yet despite heated arguments, the Prime Minister stood firm. Poor Sir Charles and his whole family were utterly disappointed. To cheer Lord Eglinton up, one of his acquaintances suggested that he should add some kind of medieval party to the next annual private horse race at Eglinton Park. And soon a rumour spread like wildfire: Lord Eglinton was going to give a tournament at his country estate in Ayrshire! How romanti! How exciting! And because Lord Eglinton was a bit of a young fool, he finally announced that the rumour was true and thus embarked on what Ian Anstruther has called “the greatest folly of the century.”

——

You’ll hear more about the Eglinton Tournament next month when I’m going to launch a new series of novellas set in the early Victorian age. In the first story, THE BRIDE PRIZE, my hero and heroine are going to meet at the tournament. In medieval costume, of course, but sans umbrella, alas.