Benson knew the reasons for Cory’s departure and obliquely hinted at them:
… with William Cory the qualities of both heart and head were over-developed. There resulted a want of balance, of moral force; he was impetuous where he should have been calm, impulsive where he should have been discreet.
Despite his own liberal views, Benson did not offer any anachronistic defence of Cory’s relationships with boys. But by linking his name with Cory’s poems, he did much to popularise them. This poetry provided inspiration to aficionados who themselves became Uranian poets, many of whom had been Eton boys themselves.
In his biography of the art critic Walter Pater, Benson considered the impact of classics education on the sexuality of young men:
… if we give boys Greek books to read and hold up the Greek spirit and the Greek life as a model, it is very difficult to slice out one portion, which was a perfectly normal part of Greek life, and to say that it is abominable etc etc. A strongly sensuous nature – such as Pater or [John Addington] Symonds – with a strong instinct for beauty, and brought up at an English public school, will almost certainly go wrong, in thought if not in act.
Tim Card, the historian of Eton College, wrote that Arthur Benson was ‘like all the members of his gifted family, a depressive and a homosexual … yet during his time at Eton he kept pederasty and depression at bay’. This was not without difficulty. In his diary Benson recounted that while doing his nightly rounds to speak to each of the boys, he stood unnoticed, watching as a maid tucked one of the students in. ‘The boy was prattling away with intense amusement and interest … I envied the boy’s maid,’ he wrote. Benson poignantly described this sensation as ‘heart-hunger’.
He knew himself to be longing for love but incapable of intimacy. His writing was a means of bridging this abyss. Through biography he could bring a life into the public domain and engage with his deceased subjects in a pseudocloseness, without the emotional risks of real life. Reading the Queen’s letters created a very particular sort of intimacy for him: a trespass-by-invitation; a private view of a life that was already publicly known; but necessarily a one-sided experience, and one hampered by his limited experience of women.
Four days before Victoria’s death in January 1901, Arthur Benson had joined a huge crowd outside the Mansion House to read the bulletins of her illness. Taking recourse to the language of chivalry, he wrote in his diary:
It is curious how personally affecting it is. The thought of my dear liege lying waiting for death is a background for all my thoughts – and it gives me the same sort of anxiety that I feel for a near and dear relation.
It is not surprising that Benson should allude to the feudal relationship of lord and servant, or that he should have felt the Queen’s decline so acutely. He had written words for hymns at her request; he had dined with her; his family had received condolences from her; and she had shown great kindness to his mother. Following Edward Benson’s death in 1896, Victoria had invited Mary to Windsor, offering her consolation and even accommodation. In 1899, on the occasion of the Queen’s birthday, some Eton boys had sung to her from a courtyard at Windsor Castle outside her breakfast room. Their program included a verse specially written by Benson and he was afterwards presented to the Queen, an experience he found surprisingly moving:
I appeared bowing and drew as near as I dared.
‘I must thank you for having written such a beautiful verse,’ she said. ‘It has been a great pleasure to me!’
I bowed and withdrew rather clumsily, as I had forgotten the backward walk and only remembered it after a moment – however I did not quite turn my back on the Queen I think … But what was an entire surprise to me & will remain with me as long as I live was her voice. It was so slow and sweet – some extraordinary simplicity about it – much higher than I imagined it & with nothing cracked or imperious or (as imitations misled me into thinking) wobbly. It was like the voice of a very young tranquil woman. The phrases sounded a little like a learnt lesson – but the tone was so beautiful – a peculiar genuineness about it; I felt as if I really had given pleasure … Tho’ if I had had the choice I would not have dared to go, I am now thankful to have seen her and had speech from her. And is it absurd to say that I would cut off my hand to please her.
Although this deep emotional connection remained with him as editor of Victoria’s letters, Benson was not enamoured with royalty per se. He could be scathingly critical of the people and practices of the Court, especially of King Edward VII. On attending a play at Windsor Castle, he commented:
The Windsor Uniforms are silly looking things. And the pussy cat manners of the men in-waiting [some of whom had been his Eton and Cambridge friends] all rather feeble … The royals came at length. The King with the ‘irresistible bonhomie’ look which I so particularly dislike. The Q. of Italy very disappointing – a coarsening Albanian! The King like a little dwarf. Our Queen very beautiful but a little haggard. My Duchess marched in, looking plumper and more matronly than ever; a crowd of nonentities, like Lorne [husband of Queen Victoria’s daughter, Louise]. (What a figure!)
Benson was thus not mindlessly in thrall to the royals. Nevertheless, a royal commission was a powerful thing.
Benson regularly had vivid dreams, which he carefully recorded in his diary. None was more remarkable than the one he described in August 1923, soon after accepting another royal commission, this time from King George V and Queen Mary:
I was to have lunch with the King and the Queen, but on coming into a large saloon where I was to meet them, they had gone into lunch. A huge hall with many people. The Q. waved her hand to me, and the K. beckoned me to a small side-table where he had turned down a chair. He said, ‘You see I have kept you a place. The Q. wanted to send up to you, but I said we wouldn’t disturb your writing.’ Then after a little he said, ‘Do you ever reflect that I am the only king who ever inherited all the virtues and none of the faults of his ancestors. I have the robustness of the Normans, the activity of the Plantagenets, the romance of the Stewarts and the common sense of the Guelphs.’ Then he said, ‘I want you to look at the roof of my mouth. That will show you. That is how you tell a well-bred spaniel.’ He turned to me, threw his head back and opened his mouth – but I could see nothing except that it was of enormous extent, cavernous and dark. I said I couldn’t see, and he called an attendant who brought on electric torch. Then I saw it was as black as jet. I thanked him and he said, ‘I particularly wish you to look at the roof of the Queen’s mouth – do so afterwards.’ I said I could hardly do that, but he said, ‘Tell her I wished you to do so.’ Events followed which I can’t recollect, but I was eventually in a small sitting-room with the Queen, who said, ‘Mind, it is only because the King desires it that I show you my mouth.’ She threw back her head, and it was an enormous cavity of a dark purple, as if enamelled. I said, ‘It’s very remarkable,’ and she said with a smile, ‘You are right. You are about the only person to whom we have ever shown our mouths!’ This did not appear strange or ludicrous – only a solemn privilege.
Dreams can have many interpretations. A literal interpretation of this one might be that the King was George V and the Queen was Mary, and the narrative a fantastic conflation of the many meetings Benson had recently had with them. It could also be, however, that the King represents Edward VII ordering Benson to ‘look inside’ Queen Victoria – which he did, metaphorically, by selecting Benson to read her letters. That Benson should dream of King Edward having an ‘unfathomable’ mouth and Victoria one that was royal purple yet ‘enamelled’ – and thus impermeable and unrevealing – might convey something of what he felt as editor.
The dream might also reflect Arthur’s paradoxical view of himself: he was socially eligible to be invited to dine with the King and Queen but was offered a side table, alone; he was recognised as a writer but was not important enough to be left undisturbed; he was intimate with monarchs, yet even with assistance he could perceive very little and produced no significan
t insights from the experience, merely a platitudinous remark.
Just prior to this dream, Benson had been commissioned by George V and Mary to write The Book of the Queen’s Doll’s House, explaining and promoting the elaborate creation (designed by the architect Edwin Lutyens and completed in 1924, this miniature house was furnished in immaculately realistic fashion by leading British craftsmen, complete with flushing toilets and electric lights). Arthur thought the whole scheme ‘ineradicably silly’, but it was his first royal commission for a long time and he did not refuse it. He recognised that in frequenting royal circles, he had been given rare opportunities. Similarly, in editing Queen Victoria’s letters, he was given a unique chance to gain an intimate view of royal life. He was anxious that he should produce something special, a work that would be hailed with more enthusiasm than that bland climax of his dream: ‘It’s very remarkable.’
Chapter 4
PREPARING THE GROUND
BOTH BENSON AND ESHER came to the project as published authors, but their ideas about how their work should proceed differed significantly.
Esher was familiar with some of the published and unpublished correspondence of the Queen from researching his books Footprints of Statesmen (1892) and The Yoke of Empire (1896). Meanwhile Benson’s experience as a biographer, and his conversations with other writers at the Athenaeum Club and at Cambridge, made him aware of the many challenges involved in archival work. When the eminent historian George Prothero told him that there were many letters from Victoria to Lord Panmure (a minister in the government of Lord Melbourne) in private hands, it occurred to him that the letters in the Royal Library at Windsor Castle might only be a small portion of the Queen’s words. Although there was a tradition that letters from the monarch should be returned upon the death of the recipient, many were retained as family treasures. Benson may even have remembered some held by his own family. He knew there must be many more throughout Britain, Europe and the Empire.
With this in mind, Benson suggested tentatively to Esher that perhaps some efforts should be made to locate and inspect such letters. Benson wanted to present as much of the Queen’s character and personality as possible, more so than Esher. Esher apparently rejected the suggestion, which provoked a spirited defence from Benson.
Eton
Sept 17, 1903
My dear Esher,
Many thanks for your letter. Of course it would be absolutely impossible for direct application to be made, as from the King, to the holders of the letters, thus risking a refusal. But I should have thought that a notice in the papers couched in general terms would have avoided that contingency, and at the same time given the possessors of interesting and valuable letters the chance of putting them at the disposal of the Editors. The notice I mean might run as from you or even myself and say that the Editors would be much obliged if anyone possessing letters or papers bearing directly upon the period would communicate with &c …
It would be a great pity if people who were willing to lend interesting documents – and there must be many in existence – were not invited to do so. I do not myself see any strong objection to this course. It commits no one to anything, it is in no way undignified and it risks nothing while at the same time it gives possessors of valuable documents a chance of putting them at our disposal.
It also safeguards those who are responsible from the criticism of incompleteness which may be made if no opportunity is given to people, who would have been quite willing to do so, to send in such documents. But I say all this merely from the point of view of a biographer, who is anxious to let all possible material [be admitted] – and I would add that the national and historical importance of the book justifies even more care than usual in this respect.
But I need hardly say that I shall entirely acquiesce in the wisdom of whatever the King decided.
Ever yours,
Arthur Benson
Benson’s diary entry concerning this incident moved from a tone of confession, to rage, then self-consolation:
I have made a small faux pas by suggesting that we should insert a notice to ask for letters. Of course it is the only thing to do if you want to get a good biography – but he [the King] won’t hear of it, says Esher … the idiotic pomposity of monarchs! I must not forget that Esher though very pleasant & a real friend to me, will not hesitate to sacrifice me & throw me over at any moment. He cannot play except for his own hand; & I may be quite sure that if there are any disagreeable responsibilities to take or any harsh things to say, I shall be represented as saying them – I don’t think I mind.
On the same day, he wrote again to Esher: ‘I quite understand. My suggestion was made simply from the point of view of a professional biographer, anxious to lay hands on all available material. But I quite realise that there are other considerations of counterbalancing importance.’ Despite such humiliations, Benson kept testing the boundaries, usually without success.
Benson expected the work to commence promptly, but Esher appeared to be in no hurry. The new school year had started at Eton and Benson felt his unemployment keenly. By October 1903, in order to move things along a little, Benson asked Esher to organise a visit to the Round Tower at Windsor Castle, where many of the papers were housed. From his first visit he was fascinated. Already it looked to be ‘an enormous collection’ but he was dismayed to see ‘a great deal of German’. He was instantly seduced by the sentimental and historical associations of the material – ‘Fancy all the love letters to the Prince Consort in one volume’ – and by the setting of the Round Tower. On this same visit he and Esher chose workrooms and furniture, and then Esher took Benson to see the Prince Consort’s bedroom – ‘all his things – uniforms, walking sticks, the bed he died in; which the Queen kept in a room next to her own, which no one else visited. A strange mausoleum … even the palms laid on his coffin, and casts of his hand and foot …’ Benson felt a new connection to the task following this visit: ‘I hope and pray that I may be allowed to do the work there and do it well … and that I may be serene and patient.’ His prayer for patience was needed – he was delayed from starting work for four more months, and he did not bear the interlude well.
During this time Benson was invited to several social events at Windsor Castle and was occasionally ‘summoned’ for meetings with Esher. Although he was pleased when Esher greeted him as ‘Dear Colleague’, he was sometimes incensed by Esher’s superior manner. After one such visit, he railed in his diary, ‘I am not, by the way, going to pose as the humble hack – only let me get my foot in …’ He then described his long wait for Esher. While he waited, in the company of the adolescent Maurice, Benson had taken the opportunity to discuss the book with the biographer Fritz Ponsonby (son of Sir Henry Ponsonby, Victoria’s longest serving private secretary; Fritz had lived most of his life in Windsor Castle) and Lord Knollys, the King’s secretary. Esher later cautioned Benson not to discuss the project with anybody without his permission. ‘I don’t quite understand the politics of this visit,’ Benson mused – but he was becoming aware of Esher’s propensity for power-play.
While he waited for the work to begin, Benson read widely on the nineteenth century and met with other scholars and writers. He also recruited staff to assist with the editing. He hired Miss Bertha Williams, whom he quaintly referred to as ‘the typewriter’, who could copy ‘from 6,000– 10,000 words a day’ and would ‘give us all her time for £100 for the year’. She was, he told Esher, ‘good at copying really difficult work and moreover is quite discreet’. This estimate of her speed, whether made by Benson or by Miss Williams herself, sounds optimistic, given she would have to decipher the handwriting and idiosyncratic expressions of multiple people, from letters held in tightly bound volumes.
Dr Eugene Oswald was hired as a researcher. After Benson’s first meeting with Oswald, he reported to Esher that although he found Oswald to be ‘discreet, cautious and competent … I think he is rather an old slow-coach. However, I will spur him on.’ A fortnight lat
er he wrote in his diary, ‘Dr O. is my bugbear just now. What I want is a rapid searcher who will frisk out a few salient extracts; but he goes fumbling along.’ Later, Benson found he needed more particular assistance: for German and French translations he consulted two experts, Mr C.C. Perry and Mr G. Hua, and to check all the ‘historical statements’ he chose a ‘shining light of Modern History at Cambridge’, J.W. Headlam. Each of these appointments had ultimately to be authorised by the King.
In February 1904, Benson visited Esher in London, hoping to get the work underway. They decided the thing to do was ‘simply to attack the papers and find out what they are’. The next day, Benson was taken to Windsor and given a key to the ‘strong room’. Work was finally to begin. Neither Benson nor Esher, however, recorded any firm decisions concerning topics to be included or excluded.
Over the first days, Benson’s spirit dipped and soared. He began to regret accepting the job, lamenting that he was now ‘more tied down than ever’. Benson was given to hypochondria and disliked uncertainty and lack of routine. In anticipation of hard work, he had taken a holiday in Cambridge after Christmas before coming to Windsor; when he found he was unable to begin, he was downcast. ‘I am (not unnaturally) rather depressed & miserable just now … I want to get settled into regular ways … I seem to have no end of small ailments.’ Three days later his enthusiasm was restored. He went to the castle and found that his room had been prepared for him. He was captivated by the ‘quaint’ interior of the Tower:
Censoring Queen Victoria Page 5
