Histories of the Unexpected E-Book

Sam Willis

• Herausgeber: Atlantic Books
• Kategorie: Bildung
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

'History as you've never seen it before.' Dan Snow 'A wonderful, eclectic and entertaining history of everything, full of fascinating, surprising stories.' Suzannah Lipscomb Did you know that the history of the beard is connected to the Crimean War; that the history of paperclips is all about the Stasi; and that the history of bubbles is all about the French Revolution? And who knew that Heinrich Himmler, Tutankhamun and the history of needlework are linked to napalm and Victorian orphans? In Histories of the Unexpected, Sam Willis and James Daybell lead us on a journey of discovery that tackles some of the greatest historical themes - from the Tudors to the Second World War, from the Roman Empire to the Victorians - but via entirely unexpected subjects. By taking this revolutionary approach, they not only present a new way of thinking about the past, but also reveal the everyday world around us as never before.

Leseprobe

‘History as you’ve never seen it before.’ Dan Snow

‘Irreverent, witty and fabulously well-informed. Histories of the Unexpected is a blast of historical treats and full to the gunwales of extraordinary connections and trivia from the past.’ James Holland

‘History isn’t straightforward. It’s a complex web of twists and turns. This book will show you how surprising, exciting and downright unexpected history can be.’ Jania Ramirez

‘This is a wonderful, eclectic and entertaining history of everything, full of fascinating, surprising stories.’ Suzannah Lipscomb

For Julia and Tors

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Introduction

  1. The Hand

  2. Gloves

  3. Perfume

  4. The Bubble

  5. Shadows

  6. Beards

  7. Clouds

  8. Dust

  9. Clocks

10. Needlework

11. The Itch

12. Holes

13. The Bed

14. Dreams

15. Hair

16. The Paper Clip

17. Letters

18. Boxes

19. Courage

20. Mountains

21. Chimneys

22. Tears

23. Lions

24. Rubbish

25. Snow

26. Cats

27. The Smile

28. The Scar

29. The Lean

30. The Signature

Selected Further Reading

Illustration Credits

Index

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

1.Thomas Eakins, The Writing Master (1882)

2.Bejewelled imperial glove from Palermo worn by the Holy Roman Emperor, c.1220

3.Albrecht Dürer, Emperor Charlemagne (1511–13)

4.Jean Siméon Chardin, Soap Bubbles (1733–34)

5.Dosso Dossi, Allegory of Fortune (1530)

6.John Everett Millais, Bubbles (Pears’ soap advertisement) (1890)

7.Portrait of Pope Sixtus V (r.1585–1590)

8.Lavinia Fontana, Portrait of Antonietta Gonsalez (1614)

9.John Singer Sargent, Gassed (1919)

10.Photograph of a Texas dust storm, 1936

11.The pocket watch of 27-year-old Robert Douglas Norman, who perished in the Titanic disaster. The hands are rusted at seven minutes past three, presumably when he entered the water.

12.The embroidered front cover of Princess Elizabeth’s translation of Marguerite de Navarre’s The Miroir or Glasse of the Synneful Soul which she presented to Katherine Parr in 1544.

13.Hand-coloured etching by Thomas Rowlandson entitled ‘An old maid in search of a flea’ (1794)

14.The Syphilitic (1496), engraving by Albrecht Dürer

15.3D laser image of the priest hole at Coughton Court, Warwickshire, produced by researchers at the University of Nottingham.

16.Jewelled terminal of aestel – the Alfred Jewel (871–99)

17.Dragon image in a ninth-century manuscript

18.Holes repaired by nuns with embroidery in a fourteenth-century manuscript

19.The Great Bed of Ware, c.1590

20.Matteo di Giovanni (c.1430–1495), Dream of St Jerome in 375 (1476)

21.Hans Holbein the Younger, Portrait of the Merchant Georg Gisze (1532)

22.Seventeenth-century trunk belonging to the postmasters of the Dutch city of The Hague – Simon de Brienne and his wife Maria Germain – containing 2600 unopened letters dating from 1689–1706.

23.Gravestone of Marcus Caelius, son of Titus, wearing his medals, c.9 CE. He was from Bologna and a centurion in the First of Legio XVIII.

24.Sir Edwin Landseer, Neptune, a Newfoundland Dog, the property of W. E. Gosling Esq (1824)

25.Sam Willis in the Zarafshan mountains with the Sogdians in 2015.

26.Wheal Coates, an abandoned Cornish tin mine, near St Agnes, Cornwall.

27.The King’s Pipe, Falmouth

28.Conservation at the National Library of Scotland of the seventeenth-century Dutch map that was found stuffed up a chimney.

29.Giotto Frescoes in Santa Croce, Florence, thirteenth century

30.The lion figurehead on Gustavus Adolphus’s Vasa warship, which sank in 1628.

31.Oxyrhynchus Papyrus 52. Report by Aurelius, Didymus and Silvanus, public physicians, to Flavius Leucadius, a senior municipal official, stating that they had visited the daughter of Aurelius Dioscorus and found her suffering from wounds caused by his house falling down.

32.British advertisement for Rowntree’s Clear Gums, 1929

33.Scythian tattoo of fabulous beasts on the skin of a child’s arm from Barrow 2 at Pazyryr, Altai, Russia, fifth century BCE.

34.Snowman in the margins of a Book of Hours (c.1380)

35.Fresco depicting a snowball fight in January at Castello Buonconsiglio, Trento, Italy (c.1405–1410)

36.The Gayer-Anderson Cat, an ancient Egyptian statue of a cat dating from 664–332 BCE and now held at the British Museum.

37.Franz Hals, Malle Babbe (1633–1635)

38.Gerrit van Honthorst, The Laughing Violinist (1624)

39.Corfe Castle in Dorset was partially scarred or demolished (slighted) during the English Civil War, giving the walls a distinct lean.

40.The Shambles, York

41.Sailors’ round robin, 1620s

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book is about sharing great research and new approaches to history. Our first acknowledgement, therefore, must go to all of those brilliant historians – professional and amateur – who are writing today and who are changing the way that we all think about the past. You are all doing a fabulous job, and it is one that often goes unremarked and unrewarded. Thank you all for your time, effort, energy and brilliance. We could not have written this book without you.

More specifically we would like to thank those historians who have particularly inspired us with their creative thinking, support and encouragement over the years. Since this book is intended for a wide and general audience we have chosen not to publish with extensive footnotes. We acknowledge our indebtedness to fellow historians in the selected further reading section at the end of the book, which is also intended as a spur to further research for our readers.

We would like to thank the many colleagues and friends who have generously offered ideas, guidance, support and sustenance, intellectual and otherwise: Andy Gordon, Nadine Akkerman, Nick Barnett, Sue Broomhall, Anthony Caleshu, Erika Gaffney, Lee Jane Giles, James Gregory, Daniel Grey, Emma Haddon, Dan Maudlin, Angela McShane, Elaine Murphy, Svante Norrhem, the Lord John Russell, the Worshipful Company of Glovers, Adam Smyth, Jacqueline Van Gent, Charlie and A. J. Courtenay, Suzie Lipscomb, Janina Ramirez, Phillip Northcott, Darius Arya, James Holland, Michael Duffy, Andrew Lambert, Richard Nevell, Jennie Stogdon, and among the twitterati @HunterS_Jones, @RedLunaPixie, @KittNoir, and @Kazza2014.

Collective thanks are also due to Dan Snow, Dan Morelle, Tom Clifford, Natt Tapley and the fabulous History Hit team for all their support and encouragement, as well as to Will Atkinson, James Nightingale, Kate Straker, Seán Costello and everyone at Atlantic Books.

We would also like to thank everyone (and there are hundreds of thousands of you) who has listened to the podcast or come to see one of our live events and been so charming and enthusiastic.

Most of all, however, we would like to thank our families, young and old, for everything they have done and continue to do, to cope with – of all things – a historian in their lives.

But we have created this book for you.

Sam and James

Isca – Escanceaster – Exeter

The Feast of St Eligius – 12 Rabī ‘al-’ awwal 1439 – I.XII.

MMXVII – 1 December 2017 ‘

INTRODUCTION

This book was born from our Histories of the Unexpected podcast series, which has provided us both, as professional historians, with more fun and intellectual stimulation than anything either of us has ever done before. It has fundamentally changed the way that we think about the past – and the present – and we hope that it will do the same for you.

The idea is simple. We believe that everything – and we mean simply everything, even the most unexpected of subjects – has a history, and that those histories link together in unexpected, and often rather magical, ways.

This book is intended as a journey of historical discovery that tackles some of the greatest of historical themes – from the Tudors to the Second World War, from the Roman empire to the Victorians – but via entirely unexpected subjects.

You will find out here how the history of the beard is connected to the Crimean War; how the history of paper clips is all about the Stasi; how the history of the bubble (and also cats) is all about the French Revolution; how the Titanic, the nuclear destruction of Hiroshima and Ground Zero are all connected, and what they have to do with Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations; you will come to understand why the history of the scar is so important; why the history of chimneys is so charming; why the history of snow is so inspirational.

The past to many is still often presented as the study of great men and women, events, wars and revolutions, cultural movements or epochs that move us from the ancient and medieval to the modern world. Some historians privilege different aspects of the past such as religion, society, economics, gender, politics, military affairs or ideas. All of this is useful; it brings different perspectives and insights to our study of the past. However, history as we know and understand it today is exceptionally complex and interconnected, and no one perspective on the past is really adequate in order to unpack it in its entirety.

We hope that Histories of the Unexpected will help to bridge this gap between the well-established scholarly embrace of complexity – achieved through mind-bending thought paths and innovative research – and the public appetite for digestible but meaningful and thought-provoking history.

Essentially, we believe that reading about the past in a predictable, linear way is unsatisfactory. History is like a maze; to get the most out of history you need to ramble around it, get lost in it – and then hope you can find your way back to the beginning. That, therefore, is EXACTLY how we have written this book: each chapter links to the next and the last to the first.

Let’s begin with your hands, which are holding this book…

•1•

THE HAND

The history of the hand is all about… time travel, medieval magic, cave painting, royal power, intimacy and grief.

Knock, knock…

Knock, knock…

What are your hands doing? Ours are knocking on the door of your brain. They are waking you up. They are starting a conversation. They are starting this conversation – by typing. Yours, presumably, are holding a book or tablet. But how many different ways have you used your hands today? And how many more different ways will you use them before tomorrow? You have presumably got dressed, washed, prepared food, fed yourself, picked up or put down an enormous variety of objects, communicated to yourself by touching or communicated to others by writing, typing or gesturing. Maybe you have shaken hands, waved goodbye, raised your fist in anger or delivered a thumbs-up or ‘OK’ sign to broker friendship.

Such gestures from the past survive in the present day in a number of forms, but perhaps most powerfully in prehistoric art dating from as far back as 40,000 years ago.

CAVE PAINTING

Hand stencils are a common visual form of prehistoric art. They have been discovered across sites in France, Spain, Africa, Australia, Argentina and Borneo (which are thought to be by far the oldest examples c.40,000 years ago). They were created either by blowing or spraying paint made from charcoal or a pigment called red ochre over the hand, thus creating a type of hand shadow – the most common type of images that survive – or by covering the hand in paint to create a print.

Prehistoric rock drawings and handprints in the caves of Cueva de las Manos, Río Pinturas, in the province of Santa Cruz, Patagonia, Argentina.

In our evolutionary past the hand was significant because the opposable thumb, fine motor skills and the manual use of tools was a distinctly human characteristic that distinguished Homo sapiens from animals. Hands had significance in prehistory in other practical ways: digits for counting, or the hand’s span as a rough and ready way of measuring; the height of horses was also measured in hands. It is no surprise, then, that hands were one of the commonest forms of visual expression in our most ancient history. The compulsion to create art, moreover, is one of the few but crucial things that define us as human, along with the ability to think and plan for the future and also (and here is the historian writing) the ability to remember and learn from the past. These hand stencils, therefore, are not just part of the history of art but evidence for the evolution of the modern human mind; they are a chapter of the very earliest history of Homo sapiens.

The creation of these images is believed to hold some form of magical or ritual significance and we know that, in some locations, the prints would have been extremely uncomfortable for a person to make on their own, and that other prints would have been impossible to make without help. In these single hand prints, therefore, is some of the earliest evidence of human teamwork. In some locations there are so many hand prints in one place that the artwork would have taken both planning and considerable time. They also show a surprising variety of hand shapes, sizes and patterns. Intriguingly, many have been shown with apparently amputated digits. The belief that the images were accurately depicting hands with missing fingers has now been consigned to the past. Our modern understanding focuses on the way that the hand can be manipulated by bending fingers inwards or downwards – in much the same way as it is for shadow puppetry – to make the hand shadow appear unusual.

This in turn suggests that the fingers were somehow significant in ancient communication. Researchers have even tackled the question of who left these prints and it remains uncertain. Recent work has suggested that three-quarters of the surviving Neolithic hand prints from eight cave sites in France and Spain were likely to have been made by women. This research was itself based on the work of a British biologist who discovered that men and women can be identified by the relative lengths of their index and ring fingers.

A HISTORICAL CLUE

This raises the interesting question of the hand as a historical signpost. Not only can hands be ‘read’ in history for gender, but also in other, simpler ways for differences in age, race and class related to hand size and the colour and condition of the hand’s skin. Workers’ hands, for example, are often marked by the signs of manual labour, with calluses or fingers lopped off, an indication of the dangers of work, especially among factory operatives. These might be compared to the pampered hands of the pianist or the history professor, or the clerk’s hands stained with ink. One Victorian clerk, Benjamin Orchard, wrote bitterly of his lot in 1871:

We aren’t real men. We don’t do men’s work. Pen-drivers – miserable little pen-drivers – fellows in black coats, with inky fingers and shiny seats on their trousers – that’s what we are. Think of crossing t’s and dotting i’s all day long. No wonder bricklayers and omnibus drivers have contempt for us. We haven’t even health.

Inky figures were, for the Victorian clerk, a marker of occupation, a stain on their hands that signified their Bob Cratchit-like, lowly place within society.

Hands could be physically distorted, mutilated through agricultural accident or otherwise broken and shapeless through torture. The breaking of hands was one of the techniques of the torturer’s trade. In his Latin autobiography the Jesuit priest John Gerard describes his imprisonment in late Elizabethan England, and the torture that he underwent because of his involvement in the networks that surrounded the Gunpowder Plot. His hands were so badly mangled that, at first, he was not able to hold a pen:

I could scarcely feel I had anything between my fingers. My sense of touch did not revive for five months, and then not completely. Right up to the time of my escape, which was after six months, I always had a certain numbness in my fingers.

With broken hands, therefore, he was barely able to write, a clear intention of the torturers: writing was one of the key ways in which imprisoned Jesuits communicated, in secret letters and invisible ink, with the outside world.

Not only could your hands betray you to a historian but also to the law. The ‘criminal hand’ itself might even be missing – cut off in punishment – or burned as a public branding of criminality. It was a public sign from which it was very difficult to escape. In Tudor England a criminal could escape a death sentence by claiming ‘benefit of clergy’, in other words saying that they were a member of the Church (a defence that required someone simply to read from a Bible), and they would then be burned on the thumb so that they could not use this legal loophole a second time. When the sixteenth-century English wastrel and serial womanizer Anthony Bourne sent a Frenchman to murder his wife Elizabeth by stabbing her with a dagger, the would-be killer (for the act of violence failed) was identified as a criminal by dint of his being ‘burned in the hand’.

Hands are also fascinating for the historian because they age over time – they are a historical document in their own right, as they become marked by signs of ageing, by liver spots, blemishes and wrinkles, and their skin loses its elasticity. One of the most beautiful observations of this is in a painting by the American artist Thomas Eakins (1844–1916) called The Writing Master (1882) [see fig. 1]. It is the most magnificent observation of a man who has dedicated his life to his hands by a man who has also dedicated his life to his hands, but in a different way. For this artist’s father, Benjamin Eakins (1818–99), was a calligrapher and teacher of penmanship. Notice how the light falls so beautifully on the hands of this venerable, professional man at his work. If you were lucky enough to shake Benjamin’s hand you would find it cool and soft, like silk.

Here Eakins holds a pen with which he is communicating, but hands have long been an important way of communicating in their own right, and many of the gestures with which we are now familiar – the handshake, the thumbs-up, the V-sign, the salute, the high five, the fist bump – are all embedded with symbolism. Others in history, such as the biting of one’s thumb or the flicking of the chin, are less well known and have meanings in distinct contexts that we are still discovering.

GRIEF

Exeter Cathedral Founded in 1050 in Exeter in the south-west of England and rebuilt in the Gothic style between 1258 and 1400. Notable features include the carvings on the west front, the longest uninterrupted vaulted ceiling in England and an astronomical clock.

Consider the pulling of one’s beard. On the west front of Exeter Cathedral in Devon is one of the great architectural features of medieval England. Begun in 1340 and not finished for 130 years, this screen of well over 100 carvings marked the end of a great phase in the building’s history when the Norman cathedral (founded in 1133) was rebuilt in the Gothic style. Statues inhabit niches on three rows and all are surrounded by detailed and exquisite carvings of plants, animals and angels. The entire screen covers almost a third of the cathedral’s west front. Originally the image screen would have been entirely coloured; what we see now, though still impressive, is but a shadow of the building’s former glory – one of the casualties of the Reformation.

All of the medieval statues were carved from local limestone, a perfect material for working but also one which suffers from erosion. A good number of the statues have lost many of their characteristics, but one stands out from all of the others for the quality of its execution as well as the rather odd gesture that it depicts. Here is a man, immediately to the side of the west door, hunched over and pulling at his beard. To our eyes it seems peculiar but in the medieval period we know that this particular gesture was associated with grief. One of the most vivid depictions comes from the eighth-century epic poem The Song of Roland, which describes the Emperor Charlemagne coming across the body of his nephew on a battlefield. His reaction was both violent and very public. Surrounded by soldiers ‘weeping violently’ the emperor ‘pulls at his white beard and tears his hair with both hands’.

Charlemagne (742–814) Otherwise known as Charles the Great, during his reign Charlemagne united most of Europe. He was king of the Franks (from 768), the Lombards (from 774) and, from 800, the Holy Roman emperor.

The meaning of these statues in Exeter remains something of a mystery and the identity of each is still debated. There are definitely depictions of apostles, prophets and evangelists and also the kings of Judah. The old man stroking a beard is certainly a king, identified by his crown and royal bearing, and if you are looking for an English king whose entire reign and subsequent reputation was defined by grief, you need look no further than Henry I (1068–1135), whose only son died in a shipwreck in 1120, plunging England into a long and bloody civil war. Accounts say that, on hearing the news, he collapsed with grief. And he never smiled again. It is likely that the statue is of this most miserable of English kings.

This beard-pulling gesture is personal, emotional and instinctive, and it is part of a history of gesture that includes any kind of body movement, from standing, walking and sitting, to kissing, hat-tipping and bowing. The moving human body itself is an unexpectedly valuable historical text.

ROYAL POWER

Within this history, the hand has also played an important part in ceremonies, such as the joining of hands in marriage, or the lifting up of hands in oath taking. One particularly interesting example of this is the ‘royal touch’, a ceremonial laying-on of hands to cure disease, and in particular a nasty skin complaint known as scrofula. Linked to tuberculosis, scrofula was a disease that caused great lesions on the neck, which resulted from an infection of the lymph nodes. In more advanced cases the masses on the neck would swell and rupture, leaving what was essentially a festering open wound. With the decline of tuberculosis in the second half of the twentieth century, scrofula became less common. Throughout the Middle Ages in England and France it was believed that the royal touch – the laying-on of hands by the sovereign – could cure disease. This supposed ability to cure what became sometime known as the ‘king’s evil’ was connected to the divine right of kings, and popular superstitious belief in the quasi-magical power of medieval monarchy. Anglo-French kings were able to harness popular beliefs to legitimize their rule, with charisma working alongside military and fiscal might to buttress their position.

The earliest mentions of the miraculous healing attributes of the royal touch occur as early as the eleventh century, with supplicants often offered ‘the royal coin’ by members of the monarch’s inner circle, which may have guaranteed an audience at this display of supernatural powers. This practice continued into the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and beyond, with Elizabeth I of England (1533–1603) reputedly laying hands on more than 1,000 of her subjects on a single occasion. The flamboyant French king, Louis XIV (1638–1715), while averse to the practice of touching the infected, saw more than 1,700 sufferers in one day, while the recently restored English monarch Charles II (1630–85) is thought to have touched upwards of 100,000 of his people in these healing rituals, even though they were frowned upon by the Church as a backward superstitious practice. The proximity that it allowed ordinary people to royal personages perhaps survives today in the crowd-pleasing public perambulations by the British royal family or in their regular garden parties.

Charles II performing the royal touch; engraving by Robert White (1684)

INTIMACY

The historical significance of the hand is also all about the significance and meaning of the bare or naked hand – as opposed to a hand encased in a glove. The protocols of when it was acceptable to reveal one’s hand were influenced by customs of politeness. As a general rule subordinates would go bare-handed in the presence of their social superiors, and women were more likely to be allowed to cover their hands than men. In seventeenth-century England it was customary to have bare hands in the presence of royalty, or when in church, or when at court. It was also deemed good manners to have bare hands when eating or when shaking hands, the bare hand being seen as intimate and friendly unless it was unbearably cold. In seventeenth-century Polish society a subordinate would kiss the hand of a superior. The polite thing to do was for the recipient of the kiss to proffer a bare hand; failure to do so expressed displeasure, as in the case of Ladislaus IV Vasa (1595–1648) who in 1644 held out a gloved hand to one of the burghers of Cracow to kiss, a gesture of the utmost royal disapproval. Bare hands, in short, were a mark of respect.

Historical hands were also ‘gendered’ – which is to say that men’s and women’s hands were viewed as being different. Women’s fair hands were idealized as sensual representations of female beauty. In his sixteenth-century conduct manual, the Italian courtier and writer Baldassare Castiglione (1478–1529) addresses the subject of women’s hands:

It is the same with the hands; which, if they are delicate and beautiful, and occasionally left bare when there is need to use them, and not in order to display their beauty, they leave a very great desire to see more of them, and especially if covered with gloves again; for whomever covers them seems to have little care or thought whether they be seen or not, and to have them thus beautiful more by nature than by any effort or pains.

In popular wedding practices in premodern England it was traditional for the bride to go bare-handed, which was symbolic of purity and intimacy, while the bridegroom’s hands could be covered. The eroticism of the intertwining of men’s and women’s hands – of the act of holding hands – is explored in Romeo and Juliet (Act I, Scene v) when Romeo, taking Juliet’s hand, considers

If I profane with my unworthiest hand

This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand

To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

Here Juliet’s ‘sacred feminine’ hand is contrasted with Romeo’s profane and rough male hand – which raises the very important question of what happens when you cover up a hand, and the unexpectedly fascinating history of gloves…

•2•

GLOVES

The history of gloves is all about… the holy Roman empire, gift giving, poisoning and manliness.

James has a historical glove fetish. It is only a recent thing, but over the last few years he has developed an obsession with gloves – the object that the Germans delightfully call Hand-schuh (hand shoe) and the Anglo-Saxons knew as glof. Part of this has to do with the intricate beauty of gloves from the past – the skilful leather and silk work, the stunning embroidery and designs – but more than anything it is the tangible and intimate connection that gloves have to the past that is so enchanting. These objects once gloved the hands of those who made history: to study them is the nearest thing to being able to actually touch the past.

THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE

Take, for example, this magnificent bejewelled imperial glove, one of a pair that dates from the period immediately prior to 1220 [see fig. 2]. Probably made in Palermo in Sicily, it was part of the ceremonial regalia of the holy Roman emperor, and is the most spectacular historical glove that either of us has seen. Think Michael Jackson… only more sparkles. The gloves are made of red silk, and decorated with a dazzling number of jewels, pearls, enamelled plaques (or badges) and gold metal thread. On the front – the palm side of the glove – an eagle with outstretched wings, the emblem of the holy Roman empire, is depicted in intricate goldwork and the detailed patterning continues on the back of the glove, with two birds featured on the cuff. It is possible that the gloves were illustrated by the gifted German artist Albrecht Dürer (1471–1528) in a portrait of Charlemagne (742–814), which now hangs in the Germanisches Nationalmuseum in Nuremberg [see fig. 3]. At this particular point in history, it seems clear that nothing said imperial power quite like a glove. These ornate bejewelled gloves were part of a coordinated and rather glamorous outfit worn by the emperor, the opulence of which symbolized magnificence, status and grandeur. They would have cost a small fortune to make, the intricate jewel work and embroidery a labour of love by master craftsmen.

SHAKESPEARE

This question of how gloves were made takes us into a glover’s workshop, perhaps even that of William Shakespeare’s father, John Shakespeare (1531–1601), a glover in Stratford-upon-Avon in Warwickshire. At the time, as well as actually making the gloves, being a glover included preparing hides and tanning leather, a labour-intensive and rather gruesome business, and one which would have formed a significant part of Shakespeare’s early life. Unsurprisingly, therefore, references to glove making regularly crop up in Shakespeare’s plays and bring to life this curious industry.

In Act IV, Scene iv of The Winter’s Tale, the characters Mopsa and Autolycus both make reference to perfumed gloves at the sheep-shearing festival; in Love’s Labour’s Lost Biron swears ‘By this white glove’ (Act V, Scene ii, line 411), while gloves are referred to as gauges issuing a challenge to combat by both Henry V and King Lear. In The Merry Wives of Windsor (1602) Shakespeare connects the leather-working tools of the profession to a male character, Master Slender: ‘Does he not wear a great round beard, like a / glover’s paring-knife?’

The paring knife* was an extraordinary item, a sharp and heavy circular cutting tool with a wooden handle which was used in the strenuous process of preparing skins, whereby the blood, hair and fat would be scraped off prior to the tanning process. Only once the leather had been treated could it then be cut to fit the size and contours of the hand. This heavy-duty and filthy work was generally undertaken by men, with women later employed as embroiderers to add the decorative elements and designs to the leather gauntlet. The industry itself was regulated by the medieval guild of the Worshipful Company of Glovers, first founded in the fourteenth century and still thriving today, as an important part of the ceremony and rituals of gloves and glove making.

RITUALS AND RELICS

The glove itself was imbued with ritual and symbolism. Gloves were used for liturgical purposes in Rome from the tenth century, and in other regions even earlier. Often knitted, with intricate embroidered religious designs, these beautiful sacred garments survive in museums throughout the world, testifying to a medieval glove-related practice that continues in the high ceremonies of the Catholic Church today when celebrating solemn pontifical mass, but which, post-Reformation, was rendered obsolete in Protestant countries.

Reformation A schism in Western Christianity begun in 1517 in Germany which became a widespread cultural upheaval that led to the rise of Protestantism and altered Europe forever.

At the heart of liturgical glove-wearing rituals was the desire to separate the holy from the worldly, to preserve the blessed purity of the host and prevent contamination from ‘human’ hands. A tapestry originating in the southern Netherlands and dating from 1400–10 depicts several bishops in religious garb, which included gloves, and many examples of such religious gloves survive in museums today. These include an exquisite pair of ecclesiastical gloves held by the Victoria and Albert Museum in London dating from sixteenth-century Spain, knitted out of red and yellow silk wrapped with silver strip, and with the Christian monogram IHS** on the top of the glove.

Similarly, gloves played an important part in the ceremonies of the British monarchy. Queens Elizabeth I (coronation 1558) and Elizabeth II (coronation 1952) both had ornate pairs of gloves produced by the Glovers Company to commemorate and play a central part in their coronations, which were worn when carrying the orb and sceptre of state, themselves hallowed objects. Within civic life, mayors and aldermen wore gloves of office, and were often painted in portraits wearing such gloves, which stood as visual testimony of their power. Gloves were also part of a whole series of rituals and ceremonies connected with rites of passage: they were presented to guests at weddings as tokens, while at funerals in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries pairs of black gloves were passed out to mourners as marks of respect. Gloves clearly fitted into the ceremonial customs of all walks of life.

Gloves associated with famous historical figures, such as monarchs, could assume a sacred status as relics after their owners’ deaths. Gloves survive that are purported to have been worn by Mary, Queen of Scots (1542–execution 1587) and Charles I (1600–execution 1649) on the scaffold. Mary’s glove was an exquisitely embroidered leather gauntlet, whose pattern features a bird in flight and whose edges are trimmed with silver pendant beads, while King Charles’s gloves, which survive at Lambeth Palace Library in London, and date from around sixty years later, were larger leather gauntlets, embroidered with metalwork and edged in silk trim. Charles’s gloves are even said to have royal bloodstains from his execution. These gloves have now assumed a status as Royalist relics connected to executed monarchs, which is quite separate from their function as gloves worn by a woman and a man at particular points in time. They clearly demonstrate how gloves can come to mean different things throughout their life cycle: practical gloves worn for protection or fashion could then be given as a gift, passed on as an heirloom, or kept as a treasured relic memorializing their one-time wearer.

Lambeth Palace Library Founded in 1610, it is the library of the Archbishops of Canterbury and one of the main archives for the history of the Church of England.

SEX

The varied meanings of the gloves in different contexts show that what one actually did with a glove was important. During the medieval and early modern period and beyond, for a man to strike another man with a glove was to issue an insult or challenge to combat, while for a woman to drop a glove in front of a man, or to be painted with a single dropping glove, was a sign of sexual availability. A wonderful example survives in a portrait of one of Elizabeth I’s maids of honour, Anne Vavasour, attributed to John de Critz in around 1605, which depicts her in a highly fashionable embroidered gown, with one glove on and the other one dangling in the fingers of her left hand – a sign of her sexual availability. It is therefore perhaps unsurprising to learn of her chequered romantic life, which saw her enter into an adulterous affair with the queen’s champion Sir Henry Lee, and a bigamous marriage in 1618.

The wearing of gloves by a woman at the royal court enabled her to touch another courtier or to dance with a man, and the removal of a glove was a gesture that could be erotically charged, as in the famous glove scene in Thomas Middleton’s play The Changeling (1622) where Beatrice-Joanna drops a glove hoping that the handsome Alsemero might find it, but instead it is picked up by the detested retainer De Flores; finding this out she casts the other glove down, now wishing to disown both, the first having been touched. De Flores’s reply is savagely sexualized, punning on his own hide being tanned, and violating her gloves by forcing his fingers into them:

I know she had rather wear my pelt tann’d

In a pair of dancing pumps than I should

Thrust my fingers into her sockets here.

I know she hates me, yet cannot choose but love her.

Thomas Middleton (bap. 1580–d.1627) Playwright and contemporary of Shakespeare and son of a bricklayer. His plays include The Honest Whore (1604), The Roaring Girl (1611 with Thomas Dekker), A Chaste Maid in Cheapside (1613) and A Game at Chess (1624).

GIFT GIVING

The discarding of gloves here represents a rejection of someone detested, and yet the opposite is also true, and there is a distinct history of giving gloves as gifts. Take Elizabethan Tudor England where gloves were intimately connected to the custom of gift giving at the royal court, and are listed in the fascinating New Year’s gift rolls. These are wonderful historical sources; 12-foot-long vellum rolls that on one side recorded all the gifts presented to the monarch, and on the other, all the gifts that she gave in return. They thus record not only the elaborate ritualized gift exchange at the heart of Elizabeth’s political regime, but also precisely who is in favour in any particular year throughout her reign, since it was an honour to be allowed access to the monarch’s person at court. Among the many different kinds of gifts listed are several dozen assorted and bejewelled gloves given to the queen by men and by women. The 1579 gift roll, for example, records the following entry: ‘By Mr. William Russell, a paire of gloves, garnished with gold and sede perle’.

Women of the bedchamber were also key figures as political intermediaries, and the delivering of gifts – including gloves – formed an important part of this complex political exchange, as recorded by Frances Lady Cobham in a letter to Lord Burghley which reports that ‘her majesty hathe resevyd your gloues and lykethe well of them and wylled me to thanke yow for them’, adding that the buttons and silk that garnished them ‘plesethe her much’. Many of the pairs of gloves presented to the queen were in fact perfumed, including in January 1578 ‘By the Lady Mary Sydney, one peir of perfumed gloves, with twenty-four small buttons of golde, in every of them a small diamond’. Perfuming gloves with exotic scents lent the gloves a refined and exclusive edge, but also usefully masked the strong smell of leather.

The fact that Elizabeth received perfumed gloves is particularly interesting as it raises the olfactory problem that historians face of recreating a ‘smellscape’ of the past. It’s certainly nice to know that Elizabeth received perfumed gloves, but it would be wonderful to know what that perfume smelled like. Recipes for perfuming gloves appear in manuscript and print throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, including writer Gervase Markham’s heady glove perfume recipe in his English Housewife (1615) which was coupled with a notably sexualized recommendation that women should let their scented gloves ‘dry in your bosom, and so after use them at your pleasure’.

To perfume Gloues

To perfume gloues excellently, take the oyle of sweet Almonds, oyle of Nutmegges, oile of Benjamin of each a dramme, of ambergreece [ambergris] one graine, fat Muske two graines: mixe them all together and grinde them vpon a Painters stone, and then annoint the gloues therwith: yet before you annoint them let them be dampishly moistened with Damaske Rose water.

POISON

Christopher Marlowe (bap.1564–d.1593) English playwright, poet and government agent. The son of a shoemaker. Stabbed to death in a house in Deptford.

The giving of gifts to the monarch was something done personally, an intimate act that required access to the royal person, which was therefore fraught with security problems because perfume was intimately connected with poison; the glove in Elizabethan England – when access to the queen was strictly controlled – was a much more effective assassin’s weapon than the knife. Gifts of poisoned gloves were not unknown, so much so that they were dramatized in Christopher Marlowe’s play Massacre at Paris (1593), in which the character of the Old Queene fatally accepts poisoned gloves, remarking

Me thinks the gloves have a very strong perfume,

The scent whereof doth make my head to ache…

… the fatal poison

Doth within my heart: my brain-pan breaks,

My heart doth faint, I die.

Rather than being absorbed through the skin by wearing the glove, the poison was administered through the fumes of its smell. Elizabeth’s reign is notable for the almost constant threat of assassination which hung over her. Early in her reign in 1563, draft precautions in the hand of William Cecil, Secretary of State, regarding the ‘apparel and dyett’ of the newly installed queen warned her not to accept ‘Apparel or Sleves’ or ‘Gloves’ from any stranger, lest they ‘be corrected by some other fume’ – in other words, in case the gloves’ perfume was poisoned.

William Cecil (1520/21–1598) One of the most important Tudor statesmen. A page of the chamber to Henry VIII, he became Elizabeth’s chief adviser.

MANLINESS

This idea of a history of gloves presenting a danger to their wearer raises the important question of its opposite – the history of gloves providing protection to their wearer and what that can tell us about the culture in which they were made and worn. Gloves were worn for protection in a whole host of activities, each with its own extraordinary history, from the wearing of rubber gloves for cleaning with domestic chemicals to wearing kid gloves – that is to say gloves made out of kid skin for its own peculiar qualities – for protection from flash fires in modern warships. Baseball gloves in particular are a fascinating window into the past because they are now such an icon of the sport, and of America itself, and yet baseball players did not, initially, wear gloves. The game, which has murky origins at the end of the eighteenth century but first became popular in America during the American Civil War (1861–5), was initially played at slow speed and all throwing was underarm. Gradually however, speed, athleticism and the frequency of play increased until, in the 1870s, calluses and broken bones were the mark of a baseball player. They were also, in this post-Civil War era of Industrial Revolution, the mark of a man, a symbol of masculinity. Against this background the glove was adopted for fielding in baseball.

The exact origin of glove wearing in baseball is unclear but it is certain that one of the earliest pioneers was Charles C. Waite, a first baseman for New Haven in Connecticut who wore a glove in a match against Boston in 1875. His glove was a fingerless mitt without any of the modern webbing that characterizes the modern glove but, crucially, it was a light-brown ‘tan’ colour – the same colour as his skin. Waite chose this colour for the specific reason that it would be difficult for the spectators to see: there is a history of shame in glove wearing, for he chose the colour to preserve his masculinity. He was later queried about his glove by another player, the famous pitcher A. G. Spalding. Waite admitted to Spalding that he was ‘a bit ashamed’ to wear it which was the reason he had chosen the colour. His attempt to hide his glove failed and he was teased and taunted by spectators and fellow teammates. However, the idea began to gain some traction and, a year or so later, Spalding set up a sports equipment company and began to manufacture and sell baseball gloves. Spalding’s reputation helped the glove overcome the stigma and the gloves he sold were almost black; they had transformed from something that was hidden to a proud symbol of the sport, which the baseball mitt came to define, and which challenged American perceptions of masculinity.

PROTECTING THE PAST

But what of the flip side to this history? What of people wearing gloves to protect the objects they are holding rather than their hands? This is a question intimately linked with history itself and the practice of being a historian, specifically when handling historical objects, and particularly historical manuscripts.

We have all watched historical documentaries where the presenter leafs through an old book or touches a rare manuscript having donned a pair of white gloves, an image intended to inspire in the viewer a sense of awe in these sacred literary remnants of the past. But gloves are a trick used by the documentary director to instil that sense of wonder when, in the world of archives, it is well known that wearing gloves can in fact be harmful to manuscripts. Experts agree that, instead of wearing gloves, the reader or ‘toucher’ should wash and dry hands before use, thus removing any oils that could potentially damage the manuscript. Clean and dry hands are infinitely preferable in the majority of circumstances. Wearing gloves when handling books, manuscripts or fragile paper can endanger the item being viewed as it reduces manual dexterity and the sense of touch, increasing a tendency to grab. The gloves’ cotton fibres, moreover, may lift or dislodge pigments, inks or other material on the surface and the cotton can snag surprisingly easily on page edges. Gloves do have their place in archives, but only in very specific circumstances – such as the handling of lead seals or old photographs.

The practice of historians wearing white gloves is, in fact, a relatively recent phenomenon dating from the nineteenth century, probably begun by photographers keen to protect negatives from greasy fingerprints. From there cotton-glove use spread to rare book and archives reading rooms. Archivists are now rising up together in their war on gloves. In 1999 the unthinking and widespread use of gloves unleashed a torrent of reaction from specialists. The curator of rare books at Smith College, Massachusetts, wrote: ‘I require my readers NEVER to wear gloves of any kind, except when handling photographs. Where is the logic in making the nice people wear an ill-fitting thing which makes them more clumsy and reduces their sense of touch?’ It’s an important point for any historian intending to ‘read’ an object, for you must do so with your hands as much as with your eyes, whether it be a glove or a written document, because touch is a profoundly valuable historical tool. The main thing to remember if you are handling documents is that you should wash your hands thoroughly first to ensure that they are rid of all chemicals – which raises the important question of the history of perfume…

* A good example survives at the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust in Stratford.

**Iesus Hominum Salvator (Jesus Saviour of Man)

•3•

PERFUME

The history of perfume is all about… memory, squid beaks, the Reformation, cats, napalm and the plague.

MEMORY

There is an unexpectedly intense relationship between smells and memory. The French novelist Marcel Proust (1871–1922) identified smell as a key mechanism for evoking a remembrance of the past, famously writing in his novel In Search of Lost Time (1913)

But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone, more fragile but more enduring, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, remain poised a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.

Think of the different periods in your own lives. What distinct smells allow you to recall early memories? A childhood evoked by a mother’s perfume; freshly mown grass; lime groves in Greece; lavender in Provence; or perhaps the smell of the toilet cleaner that scented the lid and bowl as you threw up drunk for the first time as a teenager. Such smell-memories are deeply personal, and trigger associations and meanings from former times.

The reason for this, the scientists of smell tell us, is because tiny olfactory receptor cells in the nose relay information to the brain associated with ‘good’ and ‘bad’ smells where they are then stored for later recall. We know this thanks to Richard Axel and Linda B. Buck, the 2004 Nobel Prize winners in physiology or medicine, and their impressively titled research on ‘Odorant Receptors and the Organization of the Olfactory System’. The prize committee’s official summary explained that

A unique odour can trigger distinct memories from our childhood or from emotional moments – positive or negative – later in life. A single clam that is not fresh and will cause malaise can leave a memory that stays with us for years, and prevent us from ingesting any dish, however delicious, with clams in it. To lose the sense of smell is a serious handicap – we no longer perceive the different qualities of food and we cannot detect warning signals, for example smoke from a fire.

This then is how we understand smell today, but that understanding itself has a history – it is the history of how smell has been understood across time, in specific locations and periods. And here the history of smell is related to the history of the senses as connected to the body: touch (the hand), taste (the tongue), hearing (the ears), sight (the eyes), and of course the sense of smell itself (the nose).

HISTORIC SMELLS

The history of perfume, or in other words of smell (the olfactory history of the past), is a challenging one to write, since odours from centuries ago seldom linger. Only in very rare instances do smells actually survive from history, and their rarity gives them a powerful historical pull.

Two significant examples have survived from shipwrecks where the ship has, for one reason or another, been sealed as a time capsule. Henry VIII’s warship the Mary Rose sank in battle off Portsmouth harbour in the summer of 1545. She sank with such force that her hull was driven deep into the mud of the Solent, which wrapped her in an anaerobic blanket for 437 years. She was raised in 1982 revealing an entire Tudor world. One of the areas of the ship that was preserved forever in the blink of an eye was the surgeon’s cabin. In his medicine chest was a collection of jars containing a variety of ointments and other ingredients for medicines, and when the archaeologists first pulled the corks from one of the bottles they were met with the whiff of Tudor menthol.

The Mary Rose An English warship launched in 1511 during Henry VIII’s reign that became one of the world’s most important historic ships. She served for thirty-four years in wars against France and Scotland before sinking off Portsmouth during a battle against the French in 1545. The wreck was raised in 1982.

Another example comes from a shipwreck off Bermuda discovered in 2011. This ship, the Mary Celestiar, foundered in 1864, and sealed in her bow were a number of unopened perfume bottles made by the famous London perfumiers Piesse & Lubin (est. 1855). A great deal of historical material survives about these intrepid and ingenious partners who transformed the history of perfume. W. G. Septimus Piesse in particular was a genius who invented the concept of ‘notes’, a scent scale used to rank the odours of perfume. Rather brilliantly, Piesse described this as an ‘odaphone’. Piesse & Lubin created some of the most famous scents of the Victorian period, which reads like a ‘greatest hits’ of historical perfume and also provides a window into the fascinating question of Victorian marketing strategies.

Ambergris (1873)

Hungary Water (1873)

Kiss Me Quick (1873)

Bouquet Opoponax (1875)

The Flower of the Day (1875)

White Rose (1875)

Frangipanni (1880)

Kisses (1880)

Myrtle (1880)

Frolic (1894)

For all that we know about these men we did not know what any of their perfume actually smelt like until the discovery of that Bermudan shipwreck. In 2014, however, science and history collided. One of the perfume bottles was opened, its contents analysed and the perfume was reproduced by the Bermuda Perfumery.

This is not the only example of heritage scientists collecting, cataloguing and understanding historic odours using pioneering methods. The technique used in Bermuda is fabulously entitled ‘gas chromatography with mass spectrometric detection’, and it has also allowed scientists to collect smells from old books, objects and buildings using carbon sponges that absorb the organic compounds they emit. These are then run through the instruments to produce what is effectively a blueprint of – or recipe for – the chemical components of that particular smell. ‘Old book smell’, for example, is acetic acid, furfural, benzalde-hyde, vanillin and hexanol. This is nothing less than the scent of history itself: the fact that smell has a history may be surprising, but who knew that history itself has a smell?

By breaking down smells in this way it is possible to record and then reassemble smells at a later date, which has huge implications for museums and heritage sites, as well as historians interested in odiferous aspects of the past. Think of the potential for recreating the waft of fresh buns from the bakery at the Tower of London in 1078 when it was built. Less appetizing is the potential for recreating other types of stench, though there would be value in it.

What of the smell of gangrene from a wounded soldier during the First World War, or the sewers of Viking Jorvik, or the hideous pits of the tallow chandlers on the banks of the Thames where they boiled up animal bones and fat to make candles?

The Worshipful Company of Tallow Chandlers A livery company of the City of London founded around 1300 to protect and regulate the trade in tallow, a valuable product made from animal fats and used in the production of tallow candles, oils, ointments, lubricants and preservatives.

Hideous maybe, but it is important. Contemporary records often mention stench, and of the very worst kind. The smell of the burning of human flesh in particular is one that sears itself in the brain. The horrors of Auschwitz or of napalm as remembered in sensory ways are partly connected to the horrors of smell.

A survivor from Auschwitz, Esther Grossman, described the hell-like experience of life in the concentration camp:

I could never eat a piece of meat because of the smell of burning flesh and hair. We saw the flames, heard the screaming, and smelled the burning flesh and burning hair. All night long we heard screaming. The flames were shooting high, and the whole sky was red.

One can only imagine the horror caused by such a smell, which was so specific to a particular time and place, and is unbearably and indelibly scarred on the human memory of survivors.

PERFUME INGREDIENTS

The recreation of aromas is, in some instances, made possible by surviving perfume recipes. These can be found in a variety of places: herbal manuals, gardening books, religious tracts and accounts of the plague. From these literary sources we are thus able to reconstruct something that is sensory.

A seventeenth-century English recipe book contains the following sweet-smelling recipe for ‘A Perfume to Burn’, indicating the methods by which perfumes during this period were commonly home-made:

Take 2 ounces of the powder of juniper, benjamine, and storax each 1 ounce, 6 drops of oyle of cloves, 10 grains of musk, beat all these together to a past with a little gum dragon, steeped in rose or orange flower water, and roul them up like big pease and flat them and dry them in a dish in the oven or sun and keep them for use they must be put on a shovel of coals and they will give a pleasing smell.

Unusual ingredients used for perfume were so well known that they could also be mentioned for comic effect in plays, as in Shakespeare’s As You Like It (Act III, Scene ii) where a conversation between two characters touches upon the misunderstanding of the shepherd Corin that ‘courtiers’ hands are perfumed with civet’, something that is used to mock his rustic simplicity, but also poke fun at the court. The scene is all the more fun when the shepherd has it explained that civet is, in fact, ‘the very uncleanly flux of a cat’ – the discharge from a cat’s anal glands. Civet, however, really is a perfume ingredient – it is a fixative, and that changes the way we should think about this example. Like all good comedy it has its roots in truth and here that truth was twofold: on the one hand there was truth in the fact that the courtiers perfumed their hands; on the other there was truth in the fact that perfume was often made from quite extraordinary, and occasionally deeply unpleasant, ingredients.

Perhaps the most famous such ingredient was, and still is in some modern perfume, ambergris. Scientists still don’t know exactly what ambergris is but what they do know is unpleasant enough. Simply put, ambergris is something that forms in the intestines of sperm whales. Sperm whales primarily eat squid, and the discovery in lumps of ambergris of the only hard bits of squid – their beaks, eye lenses and a quill-like organ known as a pen – has led scientists to believe that ambergris is part of a process designed to break down or eject that which cannot be digested. A sperm whale regularly vomits out these tough bits of squid, but occasionally it does not and the beaks and eye lenses pass into its intestines where it begins to form into ambergris. The process, therefore, is the result of an imperfection or failure in a whale’s digestive system. In time the mass of squid beaks solidifies, grows larger and eventually acts as a dam, forcing the gut to absorb faeces, which builds up behind it. Exactly how the ambergris is then ejected is also uncertain – but it is either excreted or, in the case of particularly large lumps, it blocks the intestine of the whale, causes its death by internal rupture and then only emerges to float in the sea once the whale’s corpse has rotted and been torn apart by a million ravenous sea creatures. In every case ambergris is exceptionally rare because it has been estimated that it is only created in one per cent of sperm whales.

Once in the sea the ambergris then goes through another transformation process as it is baked by the sun and drifts semi-submerged in salt water, sometimes for decades. Only then does it become a perfumier’s treasure and in that sense it is a deeply historical object – it is one of a handful of things in this world which is only formed by time and which only improves with time. But that history is always lost to us – we have no way of knowing when or where or by which whale it was produced. In that respect it is both historical and utterly ahistorical: ambergris, in short, is a perfect historical conundrum. It is also only ever discovered by chance as it washes up ashore and is stumbled upon by a beachcomber or is hauled aboard a fishing boat in a lobster pot or is even found in the belly of a fish: in 1909 the Washington Post described a fisherman discovering a lump of ambergris inside a swordfish he had caught off Boston. That piece was then estimated to be worth $20,000 – an uncommon fortune.

Ambergris is valuable not only because it is so rare, but also because it has unique qualities for a perfumier. The first is its unique scent, which humans have tried, and utterly failed, to describe ever since it was discovered. In an 1844 article in the American Journal of Pharmacy, it was said to have a ‘smell somewhat resembling old cowdung’, and the desperate author of an article in the New York Times