Poverty is a great preservative

The beauty of Chastleton House is that it has remained within the same family for much of its existence, and because for much of that time family fortunes varied – usually for the worst – its upkeep suffered and improvements were few. So what you see is a perfect Jacobean house albeit shabby. When the National Trust took over, they decided the tradition would be maintained. And so, you walk through its faded glory expecting ghosts at every corner. 

The house was built between the years of 1607 and 1612 by a prosperous wool merchant, Walter Jones. He had high aspirations, but his descendants blew it, going against the grain of history and taking the losing side on every occasion. Royalist or Jacobite, it didn’t matter. They went for it. The owner of Chastleton in the 1930’s and 40’s, Irene Whitmore Jones, would tell visitors that the family had lost all their money ‘in the war,’ referring not to the First World War but the Civil War 300 years earlier.

A corner of the Long Gallery

Long Gallery and hearth

long Gallery

Close up of hearth

Walter Jones’ grandson, Arthur, fought for the king and was nicknamed ‘the Cavalier,’ after  one particular event. Pursued by Roundheads after the Battle of Worcester, he fled to Chastleton pursued by Cromwell's men.  Arriving twenty minutes or so before them, he hid in a secret closet adjoining his bedroom. The pursuing Roundheads found Arthur’s winded horse in the stables, knew its rider must be about, but couldn't find him. To the horror of his wife, Sarah, they based themselves in the bedroom where Arthur was hiding. That night she offered the soldiers beer laced with laudanum, allowing Arthur to escape. A great and romantic story which did little for the family fortune as they lived through years of punitive fines.

                                                                           The bedroom

                                         The location of  secret closet lost during later renovations

Arthur’s grandson, Walter Jones III inherited the house in 1688 aged 14. As an adult, he made some much-needed improvements with the help of his wife’s dowry (Anne Whitmore) and the financial support of his wife’s brother, Sir William Whitmore. Even so, when Walter died in 1704, he left Anne, four children, and an estate heavily in debt.

                                                           Wonderful panelling 

                                               A particularly ornate bedroom ad magnificent tapestries

Make do and mend. The end of this bed is part of a re-purposed door. The sharp sighted might even discover the keyhole.

His heir, John Jones was six years old so Anne ran the estate for him and returned it to solvency – which he had blown by the time he died in 1738.

The next heir, Henry Jones was imprisoned in Oxford gaol for debt. His successors, John Jones II and Arthur Jones II made stalwart efforts to make much needed repairs and on Arthur’s death in 1828, the estate passed sideways to a distant cousin, John Henry Whitmore-Jones.

I was struck by the small glass goblets used to sip strong beer!  Seems a bit weird to me. 

                          But beer in small goblets is compensated by this wonderful C17th tapestry.

The story of bad luck and ne’er-do-wells continued in the C19th, with the women, by and large coming to the rescue. For much of this time, the house was rented as money ran short. Irene Whitmore Jones became sole custodian in 1917 after the death of her husband. By 1936 she had been forced to sell the entire estate of 1,250 acres and five farms, leaving just her and a butler called Wing, and a maid called Old Sarah. In the 1940s she was reduced to opening Chastleton to paying guests. 

In 1954  Barbara and Alan Clutton-Brock inherited Chastleton, the latter being a distant relative of the Whitmore-Jones family. The couple were energetic bohemians, hosting the likes of George Orwell, E.M Forster, and fringe members of the Bloomsbury Group. They embraced the nature of the house they’d inherited, Barbara pointing out that ‘Poverty is a great preservative.'

After the death of her husband Barbara stayed, refusing to abandon the house. She lived alone but for her 20 cats and a parrot, inhabiting a few rooms on the ground floor and a bedroom. Her allowance was supplemented by the occasional paying visitor. The lady was indomitable, wiring part of the house herself and chivvying her daughter to get up there and repair the roof when occasion demanded. It took its toll upon her, once admitting she had never been warm in her life.

These rooms have been preserved as they were when the Clutton-Brocks lived there.

One of the rooms Barbara lived in after her husband died. I loved the small period details.

                                             Her bedroom with its 1590's tapestry

 After fifteen years of living alone in this large, freezing cold house, wandering around like a pea in her Jacobean pod. . . 

                     The kitchen's smoke stained ceiling and rack for hanging bacon etc

                                                                  Original implements

 

                                       Jacobean hearth with the later 'modern' cast iron range

The wine cellars

Barbara Clutton-Brock finally admitted defeat, selling it to the National Trust and being taken in by her daughter. She died in 2005 The house lives on, as do the gardens

Love’s Labours Lost

In primary school we had a teacher called Sister Kevin, a sweet, elderly nun who was generous with sweets. Henry VIII brought out her dark side. It may have been the only history lesson she gave, but one I never forgot. She was talking about the death of Henry VIII, and she spoke with vindictive passion as she described his distended belly bursting in its coffin, its stench driving people out from the church. She may have been mixing up the story with a similar story referring to William the Conqueror’s funeral; it’s possible she would have told the same story when talking about Oliver Cromwell. But this small boy didn’t give a fig. The story made history interesting and has done ever since. 

Years later, I too taught Henry VIII with, I hope, more accuracy and with different stories. Having explored the Reformation, the Dissolution of the Monasteries and the execution of Thomas More, some light relief is called for, and I found it in the love letters from him to Anne Boleyn. 

The man was besotted, a lovelorn loon in heat. 

These snippets from letters writing between 1527-28 indicate the power of his passion, one that would destroy the English Catholic church along with much stained glass.

 

(I wish) ‘truly to honour, love and serve you . . . praying you also that if ever I have in anyway done you offence, that you will give me …absolution …. henceforth my heart shall be dedicate to you alone, greatly desirous that so my body could be as well, as God can bring to pass if it pleaseth Him, whom I entreat once each day for the accomplishment thereof, trusting that at length my prayer shall be heard, wishing the time brief, and thinking it but long until we shall see each other again. 

Written with the hand of that secretary who in heart, body and will is

Your loyal and most ensured servant,’

H. autre  AB  ne cherce R.’

Like a little schoolboy, he drew a heart around the letters AB.

 

When Anne falls ill, he is distraught. His gift to her is robust as befits an Englishman.

‘I send you this letter, praying you to advertise me of your well-being, the which I pray God may endure as long as I would mine own. And to the intent what you may the more remember me, I send you by this bearer a buck, killed by my hand late yesternight, trusting that as you eat of it you will have in mind the hunter.’

She may have preferred chocolate.

 

‘News has come to me suddenly tonight, the most displeasant that could be brought, for the which of three reasons I must needs lament. The first, to hear of the illness of my mistress, whom I do esteem more than all the world, whose health I desire as much as mine own, and the half of whose malady I would willingly bear to have you healed thereof…..’

H  AB  R

 

‘The cause of my writing now, good sweetheart, is only to understand of your good health and prosperity……and seeing my darling is absent, I can no less do than to send her some flesh representing my name, which is hart flesh for Henry, (promising) that hereafter, God willing, you must enjoy some of mine, which…I  would I were now.’

Perhaps a little kinky.

 

‘…. wishing myself (especially an evening) in my sweetheart’s arms, whose pretty dukkys I trust shortly to kiss.’

Written with the hand of him that was, is, and shall be yours by his will. 

HR

Dukkys . . . interesting  term and clearly impeccable when one considers the trouble they caused.

 

Six years later a different passion took hold. 

A small but tasteful monument on the spot where Anne was executed. The flowers are a nice touch.

It was gossiped that Henry may have been an unobtrusive witness from a nearby window, and that Anne may have even at that moment been hoping for a reprieve.

 

Her words were recorded by Edward Hall in his Chronicle The Triumphant Reign of Henry VIII:

‘Good Christian people, I am come hither to die, for according to the law, and by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I am come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak anything of that, whereof I am accused and condemned to die, but I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never: and to me he was ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord. …And thus, I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. O Lord have mercy on me, to God I commend my soul” And then she knelt down saying: “To Christ I commend my soul, Jesu receive my soul” divers times, till that her head was striken off with the sword. And on the Ascension Day following, the king wore white for mourning.’

And thinking of someone else's  dukkys.

Value Judgements

 

Our son queued for three hours  at the Hay Festival to have his book signed by the author himself. Neil Gaimon was patience personified, (as was our son who was last in the queue). Every person in the line had the author’s undivided attention for three to five minutes as he signed and talked to them individually. I also like his books, in particular American Gods. 

You can imagine my unease on reading recent allegations concerning Neil Gaimon’s sexual shenanigans with women much younger than himself. The nurse, a New Zealander call Scarlett, he accuses of false memories. The other, ‘K’was an eighteen year old fan he met at a book signing. The relationship began when she was twenty. He argues it was consensual. She argues otherwise, accusing him of forceful behaviour, and on one occasion of rape.

At this particular point, value judgements, tribal loyalties and financial calculation come into play—all of them centred around the age-old question, can you—should you—separate the man/woman from their art?

If we look at two extremes, Caravaggio and Gary Glitter, most will agree ‘The Head of John the Baptist’ is superior to ‘My Gang?’ Does Caravaggio then warrant a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card for repeated violence, murder and attempted castration? Pope Paul V didn’t think so, sentencing Caravaggio to death.

After some years on the run, it was Caravaggio’s art and wealthy benefactors that redeemed him, and his paintings now sell for millions. History has spoken, money talks.

With the likes of Woody Allen and Roman Polanski the jury is still out, but the issues are essentially the same: money, peer group, and value judgements. One suspects a similar calculation was made regarding Harvey Weinstein; one hopes that Gaimon will prove more fortunate—or again, is that a value judgement on my part? 

I suspect Neil Gaimon will weather the storm, his fanbase and monetary value to the publishing and television/film industry should see him through; though another question does come to mind. What will the actor David Tennant do? 

Recently he said this about a politician he disagrees with. “Until we wake up and Kemi Badenoch doesn’t exist anymore whilst we live in this world, I am honoured to accept this award. I don’t wish ill of her. I just wish her to shut up.” A large number of people will agree with those sentiments—Kemi Badenoch should be cancelled—ie value judgements against one they dislike. If Neil Gaimon is found guilty of rape, I for one will be disappointed, but what about David Tennant? Will he again take the moral high ground, this time withdrawing from the money-spinners like ‘Good Omens’ or does a different set of values come into play? 

Shield Your Eyes Now

A few weeks ago, I remember twitching with annoyance on reading an article about Oxford’s Pitt Rivers’ Museum. It seemed that in accordance with the perceived wishes of a Nigerian tribe, the Igbo, a mask would be removed from the museum’s display. 

                                                                Shield your eyes now

It was an Igbo ceremonial mask that no Igbo woman was allowed to see; reminiscent, I suppose of the Garrick Club’s long-standing preference for a male only space. Three cups of tea later, I was still pondering the issue. To what extent should an alien culture’s preferences be respected a thousand or more miles away and years after those cultural ideas held sway? Do modern Igbos share similar prejudices, and would discrimination be the answer rather than a blanket ban on the female gaze—the solution lying perhaps in preventing Igbo women from seeing said masks instead of women in general?

And how far should respect for other cultures go? A relativist might argue that all cultures should carry equal weight, though, to be honest I was astounded by the apology of certain Anglican clerics for past missionary endeavours. Perhaps Christ had got it wrong in exhorting his followers to preach to the far ends of the world.

Others have more robust views, arguing that some cultures are inherently superior to others. Aztec human sacrifices anyone?And if you want to ignore the relativist arguments, you can cut to the chase ie the Thucydidean observation that ‘Might is Right.’ 

This is beautifully summed up in the British experience in India. Sir Charles James Napier, Commander in Chief of British forces in India (1843-1847) made his views clear to a Hindi priest’s objection to a British law recently imposed upon them. In 1829 the British had outlawed the custom of Sutti, ie the burning to death of a man’s widow.

“Be it so. This burning of widows is your custom; prepare the funeral pile. But my nation has also a custom. When men burn women alive, we hang them, and confiscate their property. My carpenters shall therefore erect gibbets on which to hang all concerned when the widow is consumed. Let us all act according to national custom.”

And yet, despite all this: the twitch of annoyance and the thoughts that followed, I may have been misled, barking up a tree that didn’t exist. 

Soon after the article was published, the Pitt Rivers’ Museum denied its veracity. 

They claimed the mask in question is in storage and there is no record of it ever having been put on public display. It also denied that it is working with groups to ensure that objects are ‘selectively displayed,’ as the article claimed, though its alternative explanation: “We are working with groups to allow them to decide how their own cultures are represented,” amounts to much the same thing. 

In this age of post truth, it depends upon who to believe, or who you wish to believe. 

Ultimately, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Display the Igbo Mask and have done with it.