I remember reading a review of this book when it first appeared, though I’m surprised, now that I’ve looked at the title page, to discover that it was published in 1999. I didn’t read the book itself then and, although I acquired my copy last autumn (by somewhat roundabout means – I didn’t exactly choose it), I have been in no hurry to read it. However, a couple of weeks ago, having subsisted for perhaps too long on a reading diet of mostly crime fiction, but too tired to embark on one of the ‘serious’ history books I have in reserve, I decided to give it a go.
I was pleasantly surprised to discover that it is both witty and extremely erudite. Mea culpa, but, either because I misremembered the review or the review misrepresented the book, I had assumed that it would be lighter and frothier than it actually is. Beginning with the stories of the mistresses of the Greek gods and continuing with that of Heloise and Abelard (in which I have a particular interest, because George Moore offers a version of it in one of his novels), it traces the story of the mistress through history, sorting her into types: the royal mistress, the political mistress, the artist’s mistress etc. Griffin announces at the very start of the book that she is a mistress herself. She says this with some defiance, indicating that she has chosen the role in preference to that of wife, and that ‘mistress-types’, particularly if they are writers, like herself, or pursuers of some other creative career, value the freedom that being a mistress gives them. Wise mistresses know not to stray into the territory of the wife and they certainly don’t seek to replace her: those who attempt the latter usually find that they lose their lovers in the process.
Griffin is both knowledgeable and entertaining, but there is something about this basic premise that I just can’t swallow. Given that she concedes that mistresses not only have to endure the privations associated with being forced to keep their liaisons secret, but also spend many hours waiting in vain for their lovers to arrive, I cannot understand how this makes them ‘free’ to pursue their own interests. For example, only a very special type of writer can shut out all specific annoyances and worries from the external world to get on with her/his work. Most writers are super-sensitive to any kind of external niggle or worry and find that thinking about it impairs or completely destroys their concentration. Not knowing when, or even if, their lovers were going to turn up would certainly not help mistresses who were also writers to fill in the intervening hours with productive work.
Then there’s that burden of secrecy. The brunt of it is shouldered by the mistress, who sometimes cannot confide in or complain to even her closest friends if her lover neglects, forgets or completely abandons her. It is a condition insisted upon by the lover in order to protect his ‘real’ life, to ensure that it is comfortable and free from a wife’s chidings, tears or worse. In other words, engaging in an ‘affair’ or illicit liaison carries very unequal benefits for the two participants. I’ve known only a few mistresses during the course of my life (though there may have been others among my friends and acquaintances who were discreet enough to conceal their affairs completely) and, without exception, they’ve been worn down by the deceit, the waiting, the uncertainty and often, ultimately, tragic abandonment after many years of ‘service’. Griffin herself acknowledges that she and her lover have discussed whether, if his wife were to die or divorce him, they would marry, and concludes that they probably would. ‘But’, says the lover, ‘I really want you to be my mistress.’ Griffin presents this conversation as mature, sophisticated and loving. To me it reveals a childish man with a huge ego, a man who succeeds in getting away with ruthlessly having his cake and eating it by cloaking his real outlook with a flimsy veneer of wistfulness. He is doubly fortunate in that Griffin, who is proud of her financial independence, also refuses to let him pay for her, whereas a mistress from an earlier era would undoubtedly have expected substantial monetary assistance from her lover.
Something else that I find difficult about this book is that all the ‘mistresses’ are women – ‘the other woman’; all the lovers (i.e., duplicitous two-timers) are men. The book would have had more credibility had Griffin also included some accounts of two-timing women being unfaithful to their husbands. History offers some famous examples: Emma, Lady Hamilton; Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire; even some of the mediaeval queens, such as Isabella of France, who cuckolded Edward II when she embarked upon her liaison with Roger Mortimer. Although she devotes a chapter to George Eliot and George Henry Lewes, Griffin says little about the equally interesting affair that precipitated Eliot into Lewes’ arms: that between Agnes, Lewes’ wife and Thornton Hunt, which, very unusually for the mid-Victorian period, had resulted in Agnes’ giving birth to several of Thornton’s children whom Lewes then acknowledged as his own.
I’d like to suggest that today this is no longer an unusual phenomenon and that women are just as capable as men of being the double-dealer in a love triangle. I offer a very commonplace example, my second cousin Ruby, some years my senior, a pale and fairly insipid girl who aspired neither to obtaining a good education nor to building a career and had only limited interest in becoming a ‘home-maker’ – I realise that this is a very catty description, but Ruby, who certainly won’t be reading it, would as certainly agree that it is accurate if she were to. She bore one man’s child very shortly after her marriage to another man who was not the child’s father and caused both men to come to blows as they competed for her favours.
I suppose what I’m trying to say is that women can give as good as they get and that mistresses who accept martyrdom sugared over with ‘free spiritedness’ have only themselves to blame, particularly today, when the kind of double standard that allowed Lewes to mix with the Victorian literati while George Eliot was obliged to sit at home, completely ostracised, no longer prevails. Psychologists say that in every relationship there is always one partner who cares more than the other. I think that perhaps this is the truth that I am trying to explore and I’d suggest that in probably 90% of cases it is the ‘secret’ mistress who cares more for her lover than he for her and that she is deluding herself if she believes otherwise, however noble and ‘pure’ (in the sense of independent of material consideration) she may paint their love.
Nevertheless, The Mistress is a book of many delights because of the histories that it recounts and the ideas it expresses, all captured in Victoria Griffin’s very fine prose. I am sure that it will become a classic, if it is not regarded as one already (hence the reprint). I recommend it to anyone who is looking for some unusual and gripping non-fiction to read this weekend. Let me know what you think!
I’ve always thought it a great paradox that there’s no better way of relaxing than with a good crime novel. I don’t know why this should be; it is perhaps because reading about murder and mayhem, trickery and treachery helps you to appreciate the safety and security of your own world and to put all the people who’ve annoyed you during the course of the working day into perspective: a perspective reinforced also by all the ones who’ve been especially helpful or kind (as there are many more lovely people in the world than crime writers acknowledge).
I read voraciously all the time and I like to alternate reading fiction with non-fiction, sometimes having two novels and two non-fiction books simultaneously on the go. My preferred non-fiction subject categories are biography, memoirs, natural history, (more selectively) geography, particularly of Lincolnshire and Yorkshire, archaeology and history. Especially history. I love local history (again, particularly of ‘my’ two counties, as I’ve mentioned before), but I read history books about all periods and places, all of the time. Coming back to what is most relaxing, I think that nothing can beat history books about the high middle ages – perhaps because, just like crime novels, they tell of appalling acts that are remote enough to reassure the reader that he or she is unlikely to experience them first-hand, whilst offering the opportunity to drink up the excitement that they offer.
I’ve read many more books about the Wars of the Roses than any other mediaeval period, so in my most recent expedition to a bookshop (it was Waterstones in Leeds) I decided to buy Dan Jones’ The Plantagenets: the kings who made England. I have read accounts of individual reigns in the Plantagenet period, but until now I’ve had no broad overview of it. Jones’ book turned out to be the ideal choice for this purpose. He succeeds superbly well at explaining how each Plantagenet king built on the heritage of his predecessor to make England a strong, united country (they also enjoyed modest successes in Wales, made almost no headway in Scotland and none at all in Ireland) with well-defined laws. Despite the fact that, at the beginning of the Plantagenet period, in the mid-twelfth century, the English king and nobles also held vast swathes of land in France and by the end of it, two and a half centuries later, almost all of these had been lost, the Plantagenets also transformed England from being an impoverished country largely ignored by its European counterparts to a prosperous land and international force to be reckoned with, whether for peaceful trading or highly aggressive warfare.
As with all dynasties that span long periods of time, the Plantagenets had their failures as well as their successes. The greatest Plantagenet kings were Henry III and Edward III; the weakest were Edward II (who was spectacularly incompetent) and Richard II (who was less so, but like Edward II failed to understand the dangers of empowering his favourites). It was directly owing to Richard II’s shortcomings that the great Plantagenet dynasty fell. No less fascinating are the Plantagenet queens: they may have been consorts rather than rulers in their own right, but such royal wives as Eleanor of Aquitaine, Eleanor of Castile and Isabella of France were every bit as colourful, determined – and fierce – as their husbands; in each case, they were the de facto monarchs of England for significant periods of their husbands’ reigns; and in each case they defied their husbands at crucial junctures, often changing the course of history in the process: for example, Isabella of France was directly responsible for deposing the insipid and unkingly Edward II and placing Edward III on the throne instead. She and her lover Roger Mortimer then tried to manipulate the new king, a ploy that failed because Edward reasserted the power and pride of the Plantagenet line in all its pomp and glory. Mortimer was executed; but Isabella carried on enjoying full regal honours as the king’s esteemed mother. One queen for whom I did feel pity as I was reading was Berengaria of Navarre, Richard I’s plain and neglected wife. He seems to have married her simply because he was determined not to marry Alice of France, to whom he had been betrothed as a child but who had probably been seduced by his father, Henry II. They had no children: there is some evidence that Richard was a latent homosexual (though Jones does not subscribe to this theory).
I enjoyed this long book hugely. I have a few reservations about it: one is the portrayal of Richard I himself. Jones seems to have accepted the version of him traditionally peddled to primary school children, of a brave and warlike king who brought honour and renown on his country by fighting against Saladin in the crusades. Most works of scholarship now concur that it was irresponsible of Richard to abandon his country and run up huge debts, especially as he knew that his brother John would make a weak, self-interested king. Jones also uses certain phrases irritatingly frequently: the one that grated on me the most was ‘smacks of’, which he uses in the sense of ‘seems to be’. This is not how I would use this phrase myself, but, even if I agreed with Jones’ usage, I’d still like to see this figure of speech appear less frequently.
But these are minor quibbles. The dark, cold winter nights are upon us now. If you want to take a break from crime, but still want something thrilling to read that will absorb you totally in adventure and happenings stranger than fiction, this book is for you.
There is a shop in Wakefield that sells party dresses for little girls. The name over the door is ‘Little Princess’ and its stock is overwhelmingly pink. As well as dresses, it sells shoes, capes, handbags, party bags, toys, napery and little crowns – almost all in pink.
To the girls of my generation, frilly party dresses were a cause for rebellion. I and my contemporaries fought hard to be allowed to wear trousers (‘trews’, as they were called by shop assistants, to make them respectable and distinguish them from what boys wore; I remember that my grandmother almost fainted the first time I appeared in a pair of trousers with flies) and later jeans. When we were a little older, we wanted to be different (like everyone else) by dressing entirely in black. We recognised that, although these battles were trivial in themselves, they were necessary to give us identity, to reject the ideas that we existed to be sweetly dressed up and that we were correspondingly feeble-minded, not to be taken seriously. I think that it is a great shame, therefore, that the current generation of little girls has taken what to me seems to be the retrograde step of favouring the types of apparel that my mother’s generation was all too keen on thrusting upon its daughters.
In case you are wondering, this post is not shaping up to be a feminist piece, however. What I should like to focus on is what is apparently a prevalent ambition amongst today’s little girls: to become a princess.
I have no illusions about my ancestors. I am quite certain that every one of them toiled at some menial occupation. Their very names suggest that they were shepherds, hewers of wood and farm labourers. The ones that I know about were domestic servants and small shopkeepers. I know that their womenfolk led drab work-filled lives which were unfairly skewed towards the service of their men: my paternal grandmother had four brothers and each Saturday night was made to polish the shoes and press the suits of them all, so that they would look smart for church on Sunday. Yet at least it is unlikely that any of my female ancestors suffered the worst possible of fates: I’m pretty certain that none of them was a princess.
I’ve been prompted to think about this by reading history books for most of the weekend. Princesses were powerless pawns, to be manipulated by their powerful fathers and brothers. Brought up to believe that the men in their families were infallible and that therefore all the wars that they engaged in were just, they were then obliged to perform complete about-turns as these same men married them off to sworn enemies for dynastic advantage or to fulfil the terms of a treaty. Henry VIII repeatedly betrothed his daughter Mary to various crowned heads of Europe during her childhood, then changed his mind as he fell out with them and finally rendered her prospects hopeless when she was of marriageable age by repudiating her mother and denouncing her as a bastard.
Girls whose betrothals culminated in marriage were sent far away from home. Many never saw their families again. They arrived in a strange, hostile country, often unable to speak the language, usually able to keep their accompanying entourage only for a short time, sometimes to be married to a man three times their age, or, conversely, to a boy ten years their junior. Death in childbirth was common and likelier for a royal wife than for a peasant woman, subject as she was to the barbaric quackeries of doctors of any period before the mid-nineteenth century. It was a very exceptional royal husband who was faithful to his wife. He was likely to regard her as a baby-producing machine and reserve his affections for his mistresses. The wife would suffer even greater ignominy if she failed to produce an heir. If she had no children, or all her children were daughters, it was always her fault. Although her father and her brothers may have taken elaborate steps to hedge about her dowry with conditions, captive as she was in a foreign country, she had no wealth that she could call her own and faced destitution if she displeased her husband or he died (like Henry VIII’s elder brother Arthur) and her father-in-law was dubious about her continued usefulness. Discarded or disgraced princesses could hope, at best, to be exiled to a nunnery; more commonly they were executed or died in mysterious circumstances.
Curiously, although widows were often regarded as a nuisance and marginalised, some royal widows managed to become extremely powerful. Isabella of France, Edward II’s wife, was one of these. She almost certainly engineered her own widowhood by arranging to have her royal husband killed and then ruled in his place during her son’s minority. Posterity has denounced her as a wicked murderess, unmindful of the fact that killing was the business of kings. Her son, Edward III, eventually murdered her lover, but he spared his mother and allowed her to continue maintain the lifestyle of a great lady after he took control of his throne.
But Isabellas were few and far between. Most princesses were faceless, downtrodden and decorative: if not dressed in pink (as far as I know never considered to be a regal colour), their other purpose, besides child-bearing, was to look the part.
And that is why I think it is sad that little girls aspire to this ‘ideal’. They want to look the part. They have yet to understand that this particular look, if they don’t grow out of it, may condemn them to life in a gilded cage. As for many footballers’ wives, their idyll may end in divorce – which is a risky way of gaining independence – or it may eventually goad them into committing a crime that removes their freedom forever. Isabella was a fairytale princess who got away with murder. But she lived in the fourteenth century. It is a harder feat to accomplish today.