chelseagirl

"Von der Parteien Gunst und Hass verwirrt/ schwankt sein Charakterbild in der Geschichte" (Schiller about Charles' contemporary Wallenstein; less elegantly put in a prose translation into English, "distorted by the favour and hatred of factions, the portrait of his character flickers through history". Up until a few years ago, I assumed there was at least consensus about Charles I., while possessing "private" virtues (i.e. good son, father and husband), not having been a very good King, what with the losing his head over it, but no, he does have his defenders in that department as well, present day ones, I mean, not 17th century royalist. I haven't read Leandra de Lisle's Charles biography, but I did read her recent biography of his wife Henrietta Maria, which makes a spirited case for her as well. (My review of the Henrietta Maria biography is here.) While I'm linking things, Charles I. inevitably features heavily in two podcasts I listened to in the last two years, one named "Early Stuart England" and thus concluded (it ends with the start of the Restoration), and one ongoing, called "Pax Britannica" and about the story of the British Empire, which has only just arrived at the Great Fire of London; both start with Charles' father James (VI and I), and do a great job offering context and bringing all the many players of the era alive, not "just" the respective monarchs. They appear to be both well researched, but come to quite different conclusions as to what Charles thought he was doing in his final trial in their episodes about those last few months in the life of Charles I. Stuart . (Also regarding where Cromwell initially thought the trial was going.) If you don't have the time for an entire podcast but want to hear vivid presentations of the trial itself and the summing up of Charles I., good and bad sides, that go with it, here is the trial/execution episode of Early Stuart England, and here the one from Pax Britannica.

Now, on to my own opinions and impressions re: Charles I. Which after reading and listening up in the last years on the Stuarts didn't change as much as my opinions on his father James did, but that's another, separate entry, which I will probably write as well. Years ago I thought Charles had a lot in common with his maternal grandmother Mary Queen of Scots - they both died undeniably with courage and flair, they both saw themselves as martyrs of their respective faiths, they both were great at evoking personal loyalty in people close to them - and neither of them was an actually good ruler, not least because their idea of the kingdom and people they were ruling and the actual people differed considerably. Mostly I still think that, though now I also see considerable differences.

Not least because Mary literally became a Queen as a baby, and once she was smuggled out of the country as a toddler, she grew up very much the adored future Queen of France, in France, and some of her later troubles hailed from the abrupt change from the role she'd been prepared for - Queen Consort of a Catholic kingdom - to the one she had to fulfill - Queen Regnant of a by now majorly Protestant Kingdom. Meanwhile, her grandson Charles might have been male, but wasn't expected to reign at all, because he was the spare, not the heir, through his childhood and early adolescence. Not only that, but he was overshadowed by both his older siblings, brother Henry and sister Elizabeth, he was sickly small child and for years not expected to live at all, he was handicapped twice over (stuttering and having trouble walking, with the usual ghastly historical methods used to cure him of both). Mary was a golden child (as were Charles' siblings), young Charles was the family embarassment and reminds me of no one as much as of Frederick I. of Prussia (that's the grandfather of Frederick the Great), another "spare" who was suffering from physical impairments and spent a childhood overshadowed by his glamorous older brother, his father's favourite, with whom he nonetheless had a good relationship and grieved for when he was gone. (Think Boromir and Faramir.) That makes for a very different psychological and emotional make-up, and both Charles I. and Frederick I. compensated later in life, when they unexpectedly did become the heir and then the monarch, by very much leaning into the ritual and splendour of Kingship. No "Hail fellow, well met" type of attitude for them (which for all their absolutism the Tudors were so good at); they were monarchs who rather treasured the distance and remoteness, as if in compensation of all that early ridicule and disdain.

If you're curious about the first Frederick, more about him here. Of coure, he died in bed, having created a new kingdom (and a lot of debts), whereas Charles ended up beheaded, with (most) of his family in exile, his three kingdoms at war and England a Republic (or if you want to be hostile a military dictatorship) for the next twelve years. Some of the reasons for this different results are Charles' fault, but not all. He did live in very different circumstances, not least because he inherited some baggage from the previous reign, fatally a very bad relationship between King and Parliament, and his father's favourite, Buckingham. (In fact, Buckingham managing to be the favourite of two monarchs in a row instead of being kicked out once his original patron was no more was a feat hardly any other royal favourite has accomoplished.) But he also from the get go was good at making his own mistakes, ironically enough at first by being completely in sync with the mood of the times. The peace with Spain was a signature James I. policy and achievement (and a very necessary one at the point he inherited the kingdom from Elizabeth, with both England and Spain financially exhausted by the war) - and deeply unpopular. When young Charles (still Prince of Wales) and Buckingham after their misadvantures in visiting Spain and NOT returning with a Spanish infanta as a bride for Charles went into the opposite direction and became heads of the war party which wanted a replay of the Elizabethan era's greatest hits, Charles was, for the first and last time in his life, incredibly popular. And once James was dead, an attempted replay was exactly what he and Buckingham went for - which turned out to be a disaster. Instead of glorious victories, there were defeats. Buckingham just wasn't very good as either admiral or war leader. And Charles was stubbornly loyal to his fave.

This is a trait sympathetic in a private human being and disastrous in a monarch, because the "evil advisor" ploy is ever so useful if you need to blame someone for an unpopular policy and/or monumental fuckup, and James, for all that he adored his boyfriends, had used it if he had to. Charles I.' sons, Charles II. and James II., drew very different lessons from their childhood and adolescence in an English Civil War, not least in this regard . Charles II. was ruthless enough to sacrifice unpopular royal advisors if needs must, James II. was not and was more the doubling down type, and guess which one died a king and which one died in exile. Buckingham had already been hated under James, but under Charles this really went into overdrive, and there was a rather blatant attempt at getting him killed via show trial when parlamentarians (aware that Charles who refused to let Buckingham go insisted that Buckingham had only fulfilled his orders) thought they had a winning idea by insinuating Buckingham had murdered James (which Charles hardly could cover for), only to find Charles indignantly shot that down as well. Buckingham ended up assassinated anyway, by a disgruntled veteran but to the great public cheer of Parliament, and you can't really call Charles paranoid for developing the opinion that most MP were fanatics not above lying in order to kill his friends with flimsy legal jiustifications.

(Fast forward to Wentworth/Strafford getting killed in just such a fashion years and years later.)

Buckingham's successor as person closest to the King and accordingly hated for it was Charles' wife, Henrietta Maria, and here we have shades of Louis XVI., because in both cases the fact these two Kings didn't have mistresses and were loyal to their wives worked against them and contributed to the wives fulfilling the role of the royal favourite in getting blamed for everything going wrong, and there was an increasing amount of things going wrong. Leandra de Lisle points out that actually, far from dominating Charles and making him do her bidding, Henrietta Maria had to live with the fact that Catholics under Charles had it worse, not better, than they had lived under James I., because no, Charles wasn't a crypto Catholic. Going all in with the High Church idea and the bishops etc. together with Archbishop Laud wasn't in preparation for an eventual return to Rome. Which didn't make it better in terms of the result. It was one of those head, desk, moments demonstrating what I said earlier, that Charles kept misjudging what the people in the countries he was ruling wanted and were like (he really seems to have thought it was all a couple of troublemakers in Westminster that objected, but really, out there in the countryside, etc.).

Now, for all that he spent his first three years as a toddler in Scotland, he had otherwise zero experiences of the place, and none of Ireland, so he has some excuses there, and like I said, I can understand the emotional background to the increasingly terrible relationship with the English Parliament. But it still means he failed at his job, to put it as simplified as possible. There were monarchs before and after who were also absolutely and sincerely convinced they were God's anointed (and knew better than anyone elected). Elizabeth certainly thought she was. And most of her favourites were deeply unpopular. (It's telling that the sole one who wasn't, Essex, was the one ending up rebelling and getting executed.) But she was aware she had to woo Parliament now and then to get what she wanted in terms of budget. And she was really good at a mixture of prevaricating, not allowing herself to be pinned down in one particular corner. Charles I.'s near unerring instinct for finding "solutions" to his problems that made things worse, not better, and then refusing to offer scapegoats or listen to advice that required a complete reevaluation of his own beliefs was a fatal combination of traits which, again, would have well fitted a private citizen - but not a monarch in early modern England.

So did Charles leave the country something other than a Civil War in which some 6% of the population died? (Hence the "man of blood" label, though of course it's a bit rich coming from the likes of Cromwell - just ask the Irish.) An A plus art collection, and I'm not just being flippant. He had superb taste in paintings, not just in terms of dead and already declared great painters but of his own contemporaries. (Charles I. as a nobleman and patron without royal responsibilities - say, as the King's younger brother he was originally supposed to be - , would probably get an admiring footnote in any cultural history.) The idea that monarchs/heads of government can be put on trial and held reponsible not by other fellow monarchs but by their people. (Well, in principle. In practice, the trial in question was extremely questionable from a legalistic pov, not least because it wasn't even conducted by the actual elected Parliament but by the leftover "rump" that remained after having been purged by the military of anyone who might disagree. Hence Charles, who like grandmother Mary was at his best when backed into his last corner, pointing just this out as if he was a trained lawyer. Stupid, he was not. Whether that makes his previous fuckups as a ruler worse is for you to decide.) Anyway, I would say that the National Assembly putting Louis XVI on trial had a better claim of being actually representative of the country AT THAT POINT than the Rump was of Civil War England. And both trials presented an intriguing paradox, to wit: a) the monarchs they judged were guilty of at least some of the accusations - Louis XVI HAD conspired with foreign powers against his people in his last two years, Charles had, among other things, restarted the Civil War after it had already been believed to have ended, but b) any just trial should allow for the possibility that the defendant could be found innocent, and there was no way in either trial that would have happened, the only acceptable outcome was a guilty verdict and a death sentence, because the accusers and the judges were one and the same. (One of the podcasters disagrees and belongs to the school of historians who think hat if Charles had submitted to the authority of the trial and had entered a plea, he wouldn't have ended up executed, btw.)

(BTW, Robespierre originally was, unless I'm misrenembering, against a trial against Louis XVI for that reason - not because he didn't want him dead, but because, and here his inner lawyer spoke, a trial should allow for the possibility of innocence, and if Louis was innocent, the entire Revolution was wrong, which could no be, hence there should not have been a trial.)

Charles to his last hour did not consider himself guilty in the sense he was accused of being. He did think his death was divine punishment, not for failing his people - he thought, as mentioned, he had done his best throughout his life, and it wasn't his fault that it hadn't worked out - , but for letting Parliament bully him into signing the death warrant for Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Stafford, a man he knew to be innocent and to have been condemned just as a lesson to him. This, he said in his final speech, was why his fate was deserved. I think this perspective both shows why I wouldn't have wanted to be ruled by him, but why I also think he was, as a human being, a far cry from our current lot of autocrats who wouldn't know how to spell guilt and responsibility, be it personal or political.

The other days

A day early, because I'll be on the road tomorrow for most of the day, and thus without internet access.


Personal backstory: Previous Bronte-related musings by yours truly can be found under this tag. The short version is that I care a lot, both about their works and the family. And one thing that has become increasingly obvious in the last twenty years or so is the increasing villainization of Charlotte Bronte. Now, Charlotte isn't my favourite, and of course there's a lot you can critique about her, as a writer (cue Bertha Mason) and as a human being, definitey including her treatment of Anne's second novel, The Tennant of Wildfell Hall (i.e. ensuring it would not be republished after Anne's death), and general underestimation of Anne. But the way fictional treatments of the Bronte sisters have made her into the villain or at least antagonist definitely has become a trend.

Part of it is, I think, because Charlotte is the sibling we know about most (she lived the longest, she had the most connections to people outside the family, there is therefore the most material from and about her available, and inevitably it also means she is the one through whose glasses we see the family initially). While it's not true you could put the reliable primary biographical material from Emily and Anne (i.e. written by them, not by someone else about them) directly on a post card, it really isn't much, not just by comparison to Charlotte but also to father Patrick and brother Branwell, both of whom left far more direct material. There are the two "our lives right now" diary entries from Anne and Emily separated by several years which offer a snapshot of not just how they saw their lives right then but also the intermingling of the fictional and the real, i.e. they both report of what's going in their lives and what's going on in Gondal and in Angria, the two fictional realms created by the siblings (and btw, the fact Emily and Anne know about Angrian developments years after stopping to write for Angria and creating their own realm of Gondal prove that they kept reading it). Emily's entries (very cheerful and matter of factly in tone) also counteract her image as the wild child barely able to interact with civiilisation. But that's pretty much it. And that means you can project far, far more easily on Emily and Anne than on Charlotte. Can form them how you want them to be. It's much more difficult with Charlotte, whose opinions on pretty much anything, from Jane Austen (boo, hiss) to politics (hooray for the Tories, down with the Whigs!) to religion (Catholics are benighted and/or scheming, but in a pinch a Catholic priest can be oddly comforting) is documented to the letter.

(Along with the projecting, editing also is easier with Emily and Anne. For example: Anne's rediscovery as a feminist writer due to Wildfell Hall rising in critical estimation these last decades, is well desesrved, but I haven't seen either fictional or non-fictional renderings focusing on her intense religiosity, and I suspect that's because it makes current day people cheering on her heroine Helen Huntington leaving her husband uncomfortable.)

There is also the matter of long term backlash. After Charlotte died, one of the things Elizabeth Gaskell tried to accomplish with her biography of Charlotte was the counteract the image of all three Bronte sisters as a scandalous lot - see their original reviews - by presenting the image of Charlotte as a faultless long suffering Victorian heroine, with her siblings living at a remote isolated place barely within civilisation. creating art of such unpromising material solely because they had nothing else. Now as well intended as that was, and as long enduring as the image proved to be, it's also hugely misleading in many ways. Juliet Barker in her epic Bronte family biography devotes literally hundred of pages on how Haworth wasn't Siberia but had lively political struggles, how the Brontes could and did go to cultural events such as concerts by a world class pianist like Franz Liszt or grand exhibitions in Leeds, and most importantly, how the "long suffering faultless Victorian heroine" image leaves out all of Charlotte's sarcastic humour and wit, her (unrequited but fervent) passion for a married man, her bossiness etc.; I won't try to reduce all of that into a few quotes. Though let me re-emphasize that the removal of humor via Gaskell proved to be really long term and fatally connected to Bronte depictions, not just of Charlotte. And it's a shame, because they were a witty family. Charlotte's youthful alter ego Charles Wellesly in the Angrian chronicles is making fun of pretty much everything, including Charlotte herself and her siblings, and most definitely of her hero Zamorna. (Proving that Charlotte the Byron reader didn't just go for the Childe Harold brooding but the Don Juan wit and Last Judgment parody.) In all the adaptations of Emily's Wuthering Height, I am always missing the scene which to me epitomizes Emily's own black humour and self awareness of the danger of going over the top with melodrama - it's the bit where a drunken Hindley Earnshaw threatens Nelly Dean with a knife and Nelly wryly asks him to use something else because that knife has just been used to carve up the fish with, ew. (Wuthering Heights adaptations also suffer from the fact that it's hard to convey in a visual medium the sarcastic treatment our first personal narrator Lockwood gets from his author, because he's consistently wrong about every single first impression he has of the people he meets and their relationships with each other, and if the adaptation includes the scene where child!Cathy and child!Heathcliff throw the religious books they don't want to read into the fire, they're missing out the titles which are Emily parodying the insufferable titles of many a religious Victorian pamphlet.) And Patrick, in direct contradiction of his image as a grim reclusive patriarch, for example wrote a witty and wryly affectionate (for all sides) poem documenting the grand battle between his curate (Charlotte's later husband Arthur Nicholls) and the washer women of Haworth who were used to drying their laundry on the tombstones which Nichols tried to stop them doing). Etc.

Anyway, the point I am trying to make is that once research went beyond the Gaskell biography, I suspect a lot of people subconsciously felt cheated and blamed Charlotte for it, casting her as a hypocrite instead of a Victorian saint. (And more recently as a BAD SISTER, jealous of Emilly, Anne or both.) But Charlotte herself had never claimed to be the later. And honestly, I doubt that her postumous editing of her sisters' works came from anything more sinister than remembering all those early negative reviews casting the "Ellis brothers" as immoral and wanting to change these opinions. Not to say that Charlotte couldn't be jealous, of course she could be - I'm not just thinking of her depiction of her unrequited crush's wife but of her bitter remark re: Patrick's grief for Branwell directly after Branwell's death that betrays her anger about Patrick having loved Branwell better than her, for example -, and given Charlotte and Branwell, so close as children and adolescents, lost each other as writing partners once they became adults, I can also see her being somewhata envious about Emily's and Anne's continuing collabaration, though here I venture into speculation, because there isn't a quote to back this up. But it was also Charlotte who insisted they all pubilsh to begin with - not just herself - who, as oldest surviving sister, felt herself responsible for her younger siblings, and who was keenly aware that the moment Patrick died - and none of them could have foreseen he'd outlive all of his children - they could depend only on themselves for an income. It was Charlotte who despite hating (and failing at) being a teacher and a governess tried her best to improve nost just her but Emily's chances in that profession (basically the only one available for a woman without a husband and in need of an income) - and cajoled Emily into joining her in that year in Brussels, who did all the corresponding with publishers who initially kept sending back their manuscripts. Who had that rejection experience years earlier already when as a young girl she sent her poetry to Southey (today only known because Byron lampooned him in Don Juan and The Last Judgment) only to hear that she should turn her mind to only feminine pursuits and leave the writing to men. Who not only had survived the hell of charity school where she saw her older two sisters sicken (not die, the girls were sent home to do that) after abuse but went on to see all her remaining siblings die years later. Who kept writing and hoping and never stopped opening herself to new friendships instead of becoming bitter and grim. Charlotte had an inner strength enabling her to do all this, and she had it from childhood onwards. It's a big reason why Charlotte survived and became better as a writer and Branwell fell apart. Charlotte wasn't any less addicted to their fantasy realm of Angria than he was, well into adulthood. But she didn't react to rejection and crashes with reality by completely withdrawing into fantasy, she couldn't afford to, and it let her grow.

I've said it before, I'll say it again: given her allergic reaction to Jane Austen (which strikes me as having been mostly caused by her publisher's well intentioned but fatally patronizing - "go read Jane and take her as a role model for female writerdom" advice), it's highly ironic, but Charlotte of all the Bronte siblings strikes me as the one most like an Austen and not a Bronte character. (Especially, but not only because of how her marriage came to be.) Both in her flaws and in her strengths. And I wish current day authors would regard her in that spirit instead of making her the bad guy in their adoration of her sisters.

The other days