On each trip to Ascot, the royal procession set out from the mansion in five open-topped landaus, led by “Her Majesty’s bay and grey horses sent from the Royal mews at Windsor.”6 Flanked by outriders and postilions in livery, they proceeded down the drive and through Windsor Forest, as all the estate looked on at the excitement. The sight of their return in the afternoon would be no less thrilling: the ladies in frilled, feathered, and flowered bonnets and veils, Princess Alexandra’s unmistakable curls, the Prince of Wales with his hat and triangular beard, looking fat and bored. Later in the evening, the party might be seen walking along Francis Barry’s grounds, trailing bustled skirts and shadows. The carriages would come and go throughout this week, and later, on other occasions too. St. Leonard’s Hill had done the trick for Barry, drawing him firmly into the prince’s circle. The royals and their retinue would be back for further dinners, shooting parties, and races. The sounds of merrymaking—music and laughter—would blow down from the mansion to the coachman’s cottage nearby; the cottage where John and Annie’s children slumbered in their own bedrooms, the cottage with a sitting room, the cottage that had brought constancy and what should have been contentment. This might have been Annie’s story in its entirety; it might have ended in quiet, middle-class comfort on a gentleman’s estate. When it came time for John to retire, their saved-up pennies might have bought them a little house in Windsor. Their girls, whose schooling they could pay for, might have grown up to marry middle-class men, perhaps a shopkeeper, a clerk, or even a local lawyer. The courses of all of their lives may have ended quite differently had Annie Chapman not been an alcoholic.
Demon Drink
In 1889, a letter from a confirmed teetotaler and committed Christian appeared in the Pall Mall Gazette.1 Throughout the nineteenth century, newspapers were accustomed to receiving this type of correspondence from the many adherents of the temperance movement, who sought to restrict the sale and consumption of alcohol. However, this letter differed from those offering the usual condemnation and biblical quotes. It was written by a parishioner in Knightsbridge by the name of Miriam Smith.
“Just before I was six years old, my father cut his throat, leaving my mother with five children, three girls older, and one [child] younger than myself,” the missive began. Miriam Smith then went on to provide details of how she and her sisters came to sign the abstinence pledge, promising to forgo the use of “fermented spirits.” All but the eldest sister had committed herself to this path. “We tried to persuade the one given to drink to give it up. She was married and in a good position. Over and over again she signed the pledge and tried to keep it. Over and over again she was tempted and fell.”
Annie’s struggle had been lifelong. Miriam suggested that her sister had inherited “the curse” of alcoholism from their father, and that her problem began “when she was quite young.” How young, precisely, she did not say, but it is likely that Annie’s discovery of the pacifying effects of the bottle may have corresponded with the loss of her siblings and her placement in service shortly thereafter. As London’s water was largely contaminated, in its place, low-alcohol beer was usually provided to laborers. In fact, alcohol was ubiquitous, and almost unavoidable, in daily life. Any middle-class house, aside from those that had adopted abstinence, would have brandy, sherry, sweet wine, or some form of spirit on hand to imbibe as a “tonic” for anything from a headache to a cold, a fever, a toothache, or to rub on the gums of teething children. Spirits and medicine were considered almost interchangeable; a hot brandy and water was taken to aid sleep, ward off the chill, and dispel malaise. The principal ingredient in most shop-bought curatives for coughs, rheumatism, and nearly any complaint was alcohol. The “dose” and the “dram” might even taste and smell identical; medicines differed only in the addition of substances such as laudanum or cocaine, which could also be addictive.
Like many whose drinking becomes an issue, Annie, in the early years of her disease, when she was still working as a servant, may not have perceived that her alcohol consumption was becoming a problem. During the mid-nineteenth century, working-class amusements still revolved around the convivial drink and camaraderie to be found in the local pub, where servants often congregated during a spare hour or on their day off. Habitual drunkenness became an issue only when it impinged on an employee’s ability to perform work. By the 1870s, however, addiction had been identified as a problem with moral implications. Drunkenness, especially in public, came to be seen as a marker of a person’s degenerate character, “intemperate” nature, poor judgment, moral weakness, and idleness. Invariably, conspicuous inebriation became associated with the poor and the most uncouth of the working classes. Those among them who aspired to a middle-class identity, as Annie did, would attempt to conceal or deny any growing dependency. This was easily accomplished when one had a stock of medicinal brandy, cordials, or whiskey on hand in a cabinet, or a headache was an excuse for a trip to the pharmacy for a little bottle of spirit laced with laudanum. In a pinch, the baby’s gripe water might be drunk, with no one being any the wiser. For a time, Annie would have been able to hide her addiction within the confines of her home, but her family would have known of it.
Annie’s tendency to drink may have been precipitated by loneliness. One commentator remarked that this problem was especially noticeable “in young wives whose husbands are away all day.” This was the paradox of upward mobility: a wife who doesn’t have to work, who can afford a maid, and whose children are at school has to find some way of distracting herself. As a coachman, John might work very early and exceptionally late hours, leaving little time for sociability at home, if indeed he returned home. His work ferrying his master or mistress about likely took him on lengthy excursions, leaving Annie quite isolated, especially after the Chapmans moved to St. Leonard’s Hill. It was suggested that middle-class women in such circumstances often acquired the habit of ‘nipping,’ ” in order to ward off their melancholy spirits. By the last quarter of the nineteenth century, the appearance of “ladies saloon bars” meant that having a “wee nip” in public might also be veiled with respectability. Moralists complained that it was “now the regular thing for women to go in and have a drink when shopping,” and it was not unusual to see a well-dressed woman joining her husband or son for a tipple. As London boasted of twenty thousand pubs by 1870, there would have been no shortage of opportunities for Annie to have taken “refreshment” either inside or outside her home.
It was perhaps Annie’s drinking and a desire to remove her from the temptations of city life that played a role in John’s decision to accept Francis Tress Barry’s offer of a position at St. Leonard’s Hill. However, so long as his wife desired drink, it would never be entirely beyond her reach. Far from her mother and sisters, Annie was likely to have felt a greater sense of isolation and boredom, which would have only increased her itch to self-medicate with alcohol. The public houses of Windsor were easily accessible during an excursion to the shops, as were the drinking establishments of the villages of Clewer and Dedworth, only a short stroll from home.
Keeping Annie away from drink was but one of the challenges the couple faced. Miriam Smith’s letter to the newspaper revealed that over the course of her sister’s marriage, she gave birth to eight children, though “six of these have been victims to the curse [of alcohol].” Annie’s first child, Emily, appeared to be healthy as an infant, but by the time she was eight, she was suffering from epileptic seizures. Emily’s illness may not at the time have been associated with her mother’s addiction, but later such disorders were discovered to be linked to maternal drinking during pregnancy. On March 5, 1872, Annie gave birth to a second daughter, Ellen Georgina, who lived no longer than a day. The following year, Annie Georgina was born with what is now recognized as fetal alcohol syndrome. Its physical characteristics include small, wide-set eyes, a thin upper lip, and a smooth ridge that runs below the nose to the top lip; these features are clearly distinguishable in Annie Georgina’s childhood
photograph. Annie’s two little girls were briefly joined by another, Georgina, born on April 25, 1876, who lived only until May 5. Shortly before the Chapmans left London, Annie gave birth to George William Harry, in November 1877.2 The infant was born sickly and died eleven weeks later. Annie was soon pregnant again and delivered Miriam Lily on the St. Leonard’s Hill estate on July 16, 1879. This daughter survived a week less than her brother and died in October. On November 21, 1880, John Alfred arrived. This boy, the last of the Chapmans’ children, suffered from paralysis.* As Miriam’s letter suggested, it was obvious to Annie’s family, and perhaps to Annie too, what lay at the heart of these tragedies.
Late-nineteenth-century science had already begun to uncover the links between maternal alcohol consumption and its danger to children. As early as 1878, one medical journal asserted that substantial evidence had been gathered to prove that “drunkenness in the parent before and after birth has more effect on infant mortality than all other causes.”3 The realization that her drinking was likely to have been behind the suffering of her children may have pushed Annie deeper into despair at her perceived inability to control her impulses. By 1881, her difficulties in remaining sober while caring for an infant with a disability may be the reason for her prolonged visit to her mother when John Alfred was about four months old. It is believed that while in London, Annie sought to place her son in an appropriate hospital for children.
By the time of Annie’s visit to 29 Montpelier Place in early spring, her sisters, Emily Latitia and Miriam, had set up shop as dressmakers in their own home at 128 Walton Street, which ran to the rear of the recently expanded Harrods department store. According to Miriam’s account, she and her sisters had not only become Presbyterians but had also embraced teetotalism after “hearing a sermon on Christians and Total Abstinence.” The complete rejection of alcohol resonated with those who found themselves balanced precariously on the edge of middle-class life. By eschewing drink, a hardworking man or woman could save money and build a better life for themself and their family. Annie’s sisters not only adhered to this creed but prospered by it financially.
This determination to live in sobriety went hand-in-hand with the popular philosophy of “self-help.” Its proponents held that a person’s own choices and behavior were the cause of poverty and problems such as alcoholism; tough-mindedness and grit could overcome them. Signing the “abstinence pledge,” in the presence of family or a member of the clergy, was viewed as a solemn promise to adhere to the principles of teetotalism. It included a commitment to restrict one’s impulses, to moderate one’s desires, and to make a conscious effort at moral improvement. Unfortunately, sincere effort did not always make for a successful outcome. In Miriam’s letter she made it clear that Annie desperately did want to give up drink, but found it almost impossible. Her sisters had convinced her to commit several times to the pledge; they had prayed for her and with her in her difficulties, but could not get her to adhere to it permanently. During her visit in 1881, they likely witnessed how desperately she struggled, and the degree to which the disease had taken hold.
In the following year, Annie’s battle with addiction came to a head. Toward the end of that November, her eldest daughter, twelve-year-old Emily Ruth, began to sicken. When the child’s high temperature gave way to a spreading red rash, Annie would have recalled the signs and symptoms of scarlet fever, the disease that had devastated her family when she was a girl. The doctors came and went, and eventually informed Emily’s mother that her child was afflicted with meningitis, which bore similar traits and was no less life threatening. Annie did not contend well with her daughter’s raging illness and the painful memories that certainly accompanied it. As the days passed and Emily’s condition worsened, Annie drew support from her usual source, the bottle and the stultifying haze its contents threw across her distress. When Emily died on November 26, her mother was not present at her bedside. Instead, Caroline Elsbury, the wife of a local farm laborer, who may also have charred for the Chapman family, tended to the girl in her dying moments.*
At some point prior to that autumn, Annie had begun to acquire a reputation among the local police and the Windsor magistrate for public drunkenness. She had been found wandering between the villages and along the roads from the St. Leonard’s Hill estate. From all accounts, the coachman’s wife did not make for an ugly drunk, but rather a sad, sullen, quiet one, weighed down by heartache. That final week of November her pain would have been unbearable.
It is unknown for how long Annie had absented herself or where she was eventually found; ensconced in a public house or swaying down the road in Clewer in search of respite. Whatever the circumstances, her behavior was enough to raise serious alarm among her family. On November 30, the day that the Chapmans buried their daughter, Annie’s sisters, Emily and Miriam, paid an urgent visit to the Spelthorne Sanatorium, on the outskirts of London.
In 1879, growing public concern about the societal impact of alcoholism gave rise to the Habitual Drunkards Act. The law, which sought to offer rehabilitation for alcoholics instead of punishment in prison, was responsible for the establishment of asylums, or sanatoriums, for the treatment of those “who by a means of habitual intemperate drinking of intoxicating liquor is dangerous to . . . herself, or to others, or incapable of managing . . . herself, and . . . her affairs.” Patients were admitted to these “retreats” either voluntarily or “upon the application of their friends” and were required to spend at least a month, but no more than two years, in treatment. Spelthorne Sanatorium in Feltham was one such institution, designed especially for the treatment of women, predominantly of the middle class.
An entry of December 9, 1882, in the Spelthorne Sanatorium logbook reads, “Mrs. Chapman arrived—brought by her sister from Windsor.” As Miriam’s account asserted, Annie agreed to enter this “home for the intemperate . . . of her own accord.” This process involved writing a formal letter of application to the head of Spelthorne, which was then witnessed by a justice of the peace. As Francis Tress Barry, her own landlord, held that title in Berkshire, it is possible that he may also have had a hand in her admission for treatment.
It is likely that the Misses Smith had been told of Spelthorne before their sister was in urgent need of its support. Its founders, the Antrobus family, lived in Knightsbridge and drew their charitable cause to the attention of local clergy, who spread the word among parishioners.* As alcohol dependency was viewed in part as a weakness of the will, the rehabilitation offered at the sanatorium was largely spiritual in nature. However, in addition to daily attendance at chapel, the program also sought to correct the habits of mind and body. Spelthorne’s setting, on four acres surrounded by yew trees and country lanes, was considered the sort of clean, uplifting, and health-promoting environment that also improved the spirit. Its facilities and dormitories, situated within “a fine old country house,” were decorated with “gaily-striped counterpanes, suitable pictures and texts,” and “plain yet shining furniture” intended to draw “the mind away from thoughts of debasing self-indulgence.”4 The institution’s “patients” (used in place of the typical institutional term “inmates” so as not to “wound the pride”) were encouraged to walk and amuse themselves on the grounds when not cultivating the two kitchen gardens or working in the laundry—washing, drying, and ironing their own and their fellow patients’ clothes. Any form of idleness was discouraged, as it was thought to open the door to cravings. Instead, the women were allowed to read and encouraged to produce crochet and needlework, which was displayed during inspections by board members and donors. When women had demonstrated a suitable level of progress, they were reintroduced slowly to the outside world and its temptations. This usually involved escorted walks through the local area or even shopping excursions to nearby Hounslow. Inmates also received regular treats, such as “musical evenings” or group outings to London, presumably to stave off melancholy and despair, which married patients were especially prone to.
Annie committed herself to a yearlong program of treatment. According to the logbooks, her time at Spelthorne was relatively quiet. Her name isn’t recorded among the occasional troublemakers, the women who found giving up alcohol nearly impossible, who tore their clothing, destroyed furniture, or lashed out in violence. Annie was permitted visitors as well. On December 30, shortly after she arrived at the sanatorium, the logbook recorded that “Mrs Chapman’s husband called to see her.” John, who must have worried incessantly about his wife, had begged leave from his obligations to the Barrys during the height of the Christmas social calendar to ensure that she had settled in well. It was he who was paying the expense of her treatment, at a cost of twelve pence per week.
Shortly before she was discharged, in November 1883, it appears that Annie was permitted to make a short visit home, perhaps to assess her readiness to resume her old life. Evidently she passed this simple test sufficiently and returned to Spelthorne on November 14 to complete the final month of her program. She was officially released on December 20, in the company of one of the nursing sisters, Laura Squire, who, it is recorded, “took Mrs Chapman to Windsor to join her husband.”
That Christmas and the New Year period would have been a joyful (and dry) one among the Chapman family, now four in number. As Miriam wrote, her sister “came out a changed woman—a sober wife and mother, and things went on very happily.”
The story that Annie’s sister then goes on to relate sounds almost apocryphal: like a cautionary tale from a teetotaler’s handbook. Several months after Annie’s reunion with her family, John was stricken with “a severe cold.” As “his duty compelled him to go out,” he “took a glass of hot whiskey” to fortify himself against the poor weather. With a bottle under the roof of her own house, it was remarkable that Annie managed to resist temptation for as long as she had. John “had been careful enough not to have it in her presence.” But on this occasion he “drank it and came to kiss her before departing. In that kiss the fumes of alcohol were transmitted and all the cravings came back.”
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