Commonplace 73 George & Mrs Annie Coward PART ONE
Sex pleasure in woman is a kind of magic spell; it demands complete abandon; if words or movements oppose the magic of caresses, the spell is broken. Simone de Beauvoir
One of the great disappointments in a woman's life is the realisation men are all, at heart, sexual predators. What separates the rapist from the chevalier, and the continent from the adulterer is opportunity - some of us might say. We know George was no different. Though he might have dressed up his motives much as a wolf dons sheep's clothing, he was clear on the subject of his sexual needs and how he could go about satisfying them.
He was not looking for romance. He took his chances wherever he could, preying on less than socially confident and worldly women. The three wives he got through in his short life are testament to a man who lacked sincerity and grace where women were concerned, who relied on the insecurities and precarious position in society those women occupied, all of them much weaker than himself and likely to be unable to withstand his domineering persistence. He lacked HG Wells' brio and playful charm (or was that playful smarm haha?) with the ladies; you can't imagine George flirting (given his dire performance in the letters to Gabrielle) in a convincing, stirring fashion, can you?
In the last year of their time together, George was forced into the position of being his first wife Marianne's carer, which he resented. Let's face it, he was never cut out for that sort of role - in order to fulfil that remit, one has to have empathy and unselfish devotion to duty. Not George's strong suits, and neither was he motivated to develop them. Throughout his life, he ran from responsibility when it was up close and personal, preferring to deal with life's moral conundrums by throwing money at them. As long as he was paying for something, his job was done. Algernon, Marianne aka Nell, Walter, Edith, Alfred... George demonstrated his 'caring' ways by handing out cash. He never really got the concept of what people really want from their supporters - which is authentic concern plus time - but then he can never be accused of not helping out the easiest, cheapest way of all. As Henry Ryecroft, that weird mouthpiece George invented to speak his reactionary worst, said: With money I buy for cheerful use the hours which otherwise would not in any sense be mine; nay, which would make me their miserable bondsman. Paying for someone else to do the caring for his disabled wife had the dual benefits of appearing to care whilst ensuring maximum time for him to indulge his love of reading. The misery of having no time to read a thousand glorious books. Never listen to anyone who claims George wanted time to write - if you add up all the hours that took up over his lifetime, you wouldn't amass much. He hated writing, and saw it as a means to an end - the 'end' being time to read.
Biographers claim Marianne was a drunk and this was what eventually came between them - poor George was unable to keep her off the bottle. Utter claptrap, of course, but it was a convenient lie that George told Miss Collet when he needed her help to ditch Edith. And everyone else ever after sees it as truth. It's clear from the Letters, Marianne was not suffering from any effects of alcohol-related illness. For a start, hospitals for the poor would not entertain to admit anyone with drink-related problems - because these were not seen as medical diseases, but as self-inflicted side effects of a dissolute lifestyle. Poor people did not have access to the kind of care that supported this - unless it was in a designated hospital for inebriates. As Marianne was never taken into one of these (and there was one in the area of north London where they mostly lived together), we can assume what she required in terms of in-patient care for was not alcohol-related. Such services as were provided for anyone with an alcohol-related problem was usually paid for by Christian-based charities, all of whom held temperance in high esteem. George never mentions she spent time in any hospital for alcohol-related problems - any talk of Marianne being a heavy drinker starts with the policeman who called on George and offered to spy on Marianne so George could obtain a divorce. This was in 1883. As this self-serving policeman didn't unearth any evidence in the form of witnesses to her drunken behaviour, we can assume there wasn't any drunken behaviour to witness. Much later, when George, was manipulating Miss Collet with all the skill he had to muster (which, in terms of manipulative behaviour, was considerable!) when he was desperate to attract that (shamefully un-British) drug of sympathy he constantly craved, was when he framed Marianne as a drunkard. This is the only reference George makes to the subject of her being a drunk, but biographers have clung to it resolutely - whilst refusing to see the evidence for his syphilis haha. Still, there's none as blind as those...
Throughout 1882, George and Marianne lived at 15, Gower Place, 29, Dorchester Place, and at 17, Oakley Crescent. It is clear from his letters to Algernon, going as far back as the beginning of the year, George was tired of Marianne. Her health was beyond poor, and no doubt it was becoming apparent to medically savvy George that she was not going to get better. In 1881, Marianne was 24 but the ravages of her disease must have already begun affecting her appearance, her personality and her state of mind. She had some years before developed epilepsy, for which there was no effective treatment, and that seemed to have become more profoundly disabling; her scrofula was becoming systemic and so was making itself known in various parts of her body, as it insidiously destroyed her vital organs. There was no cure, and no way of estimating the prognosis: it might be two or twenty years before it consumed her. At times, she required what is termed in the nursing trade as 'all nursing care' and required hospitalization; there was a raft of ailments connected to her scrofula, some of which required surgery, and all of which would be recurring, growing ever more disabling. With no NHS to draw on, George was caught between being too rich to qualify for what financial help there was available, and too poor to be able to afford the very best of treatment for Marianne.
The couple moved into Oakley Crescent, Chelsea (now 33 Oakley Gardens) in September, 1882. The landlady was Mrs Annie Coward. Her husband, a commercial travelling salesman (travelling in ladies' underwear, as the old music hall joke used to say??), was often away from home. This was not a flop house - Mrs Coward employed two servants - as George boasted to Algernon. And, in a letter of November 26th to his sister Madge, George wrote:
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| The Temptation of Christ by Ary Scheffer 1854 |
One of the great disappointments in a woman's life is the realisation men are all, at heart, sexual predators. What separates the rapist from the chevalier, and the continent from the adulterer is opportunity - some of us might say. We know George was no different. Though he might have dressed up his motives much as a wolf dons sheep's clothing, he was clear on the subject of his sexual needs and how he could go about satisfying them.
In the last year of their time together, George was forced into the position of being his first wife Marianne's carer, which he resented. Let's face it, he was never cut out for that sort of role - in order to fulfil that remit, one has to have empathy and unselfish devotion to duty. Not George's strong suits, and neither was he motivated to develop them. Throughout his life, he ran from responsibility when it was up close and personal, preferring to deal with life's moral conundrums by throwing money at them. As long as he was paying for something, his job was done. Algernon, Marianne aka Nell, Walter, Edith, Alfred... George demonstrated his 'caring' ways by handing out cash. He never really got the concept of what people really want from their supporters - which is authentic concern plus time - but then he can never be accused of not helping out the easiest, cheapest way of all. As Henry Ryecroft, that weird mouthpiece George invented to speak his reactionary worst, said: With money I buy for cheerful use the hours which otherwise would not in any sense be mine; nay, which would make me their miserable bondsman. Paying for someone else to do the caring for his disabled wife had the dual benefits of appearing to care whilst ensuring maximum time for him to indulge his love of reading. The misery of having no time to read a thousand glorious books. Never listen to anyone who claims George wanted time to write - if you add up all the hours that took up over his lifetime, you wouldn't amass much. He hated writing, and saw it as a means to an end - the 'end' being time to read.
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| One of The Family by Frederick George Cotman 1880 |
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| Satan from Milton's Paradise Lost by William Blake 1808 |
In May, 1879, he had sent her to stay with his brother, William, and that had been hugely beneficial to her health. But, by 1882, William was gone, and George's solution was to farm out her nursing support to various landladies who posed as carers. This might seem unkind, but there was a roaring trade in private health care - even George's old friend, Dr Henry Hick, did it (for HG Wells and George, himself). In order to understand this type of arrangement, it is important to remember the nursing profession was unregulated, and anyone with a spare room could set themselves up as a private home for convalescents. This had been the case with psychiatric patients, until the XXX introduced legislation to monitor the way residents were treated within the confines of private asylums and small, often single-patient, residences. Again, and it seems logical but is often overlooked, Marianne was sent to live with little old ladies and single women - who would not have tolerated a drunk under their care. She was never thrown out of these places, but always left when she felt well enough to return to her real life - with its freedom and independence. She had every legal right to cohabit with George and it does not seem at all a selfish and thoughtless thing for a wife to want to live with her husband - well, not to me! In September 1882, George boasts to Algernon that Marianne will have a servant in the new 'place of abode' that he had found for her - like that would appeal to the likes of Marianne, who was used to being George's servant.
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| The Discobolus of/by Myron 460-450 CE click for link to British Museum video |
I am glad to say I am very well off in these present lodgings, have every attention, & get good cooking. The landlady relieves me of all trouble as to meals, & gives me for dinner at night just whatever she likes. It matters little what it is, as long as one's hunger is satisfied. It sounds like Mrs Coward was very accommodating.
George has begun to refer to Marianne as 'Helen'; the old familiar 'Nell' is no more. Was this rampant snobbishness or a sign he was desperate to see her as not on familiar terms?). On November 2nd 1882, he writes to Algernon:
A step has at last been taken. They have consented to receive Helen into Westminster Hospital, where in all probability they will operate upon her arm. She goes on Tuesday (that was 7th). This is not a day too soon. For more than a week I have scarcely slept more than half an hour at a time through the night, & the results are most appreciable. I have, in the meantime, got Mrs (Frederic) Harrison's help in searching for a permanent home. This will be made use of when she leaves Hospital. As he made use of anyone with excess 'sympathy', George had dragooned in Mrs Fred Harrison to help. Shameless. George has begun to refer to Marianne as 'Helen'; the old familiar 'Nell' is no more. Was this rampant snobbishness or a sign he was desperate to see her as not on familiar terms?). On November 2nd 1882, he writes to Algernon:
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| Mrs Frederic Harrison by William Blake Richmond 1882 |
George was going through a Gilbert and Sullivan phase (but you can't hold that against him haha). Algernon was staying in London (though, tellingly, and despite an invite, not at Oakley Crescent), and the two were out 'on the town' together. Whilst the cat's away, the mice will play - as they say. On December 11th, George went to visit Marianne in Westminster Hospital. On December 14th, he wrote to Algernon:
I hear that there is to be a return from the Hospital tomorrow. This, of course, alters all prospective arrangements, & I don't exactly know the next step. Presumably, Marianne returned home as predicted, on December 15th, and George and Algernon would have to curtail their bachelor ways for a while.
On Christmas Day, George took his dinner at a cafe in Oxford Street and did not have it at home. On December 27th, Marianne moved out of Oakley Crescent and took half the furniture with her. She went to live with 'some people' in Brixton. This was a decisive step for Marianne, coming so close on the tail of a stay in hospital, and in the midst of the necessary convalescence period. What had happened to bring on this rupture? Had she come across something George might not have wanted her to discover? Mrs Annie Coward, perhaps, stepping up and filling in for her whilst she was in hospital? Husband away - George lonely and incompetently struggling at looking after himself? Long winter nights... sympathy given and received? Maybe Marianne stumbled upon some sort of liaison dangereuse and decided to call it a day on her less than ideal husband.
George's plan was to find a small rented room of his own somewhere cheap - but Mrs Coward would have none of it; she
...stepped in as my saviour by proposing that I should have a little back room of their own, & so save all the fearful trouble of removal, &c. ... My rent will be 7/- weekly, including all attendance! My wife receives £1 weekly; so that my expenses are still heavy enough. Good old Mrs Coward - such a good egg. Her much older husband would have been proud of her. 'All attendance' covered a multitude of sins, no doubt. And, how selfless of her, to make it possible for George stay under her roof...
Something was changing - George decided to drop the 'R' from his authorial signature; Positivism was losing its allure. And Mrs Coward was demonstrating her sympathy. What a trouper she was! But, by March 1883, George was ailing, and he was complaining of his room being cold. Was clever Mrs Coward keeping his room freezing so he would seek out warmth like some feral alley cat... and find it along her back passage - I mean, in her parlour*? George, peacock-like, begins to use hoity-toity phrases - 'what the deuce!' slips into his letters to Algernon. He says this: By the way, is not Carlyle sadly gone off? I met him the other day, & he did nothing but blaspheme, & pour out a torrent of bad language against blackguards, fools & devils, that was appalling to listen to. I kid you not. Was he channelling Samuel Johnson, prithee, haha. And, then the man flu is rampant - he can't work for the sake of fretting over his publishers's lack of communication. Later, a nasty bout of lumbago means he can't turn his head - which is odd, as lumbago is a generic term for lower back pain. What has George been up to that has damaged his lower back right up to his neck??? Hmmm...
By April, he has to decamp down to Hastings because of 'general seediness'. Whatever that is - I have my suspicions the emphasis should be on the 'seed' part of that!
Then, developments. A curious entry on July 18th 1883, to Algernon:
My holidays have begun rather unpromisingly, with headache and inability to work, due to various strange complications & bedevilments in which no one has any interest but myself. (Then why mention it??) Is Mrs Coward exercising too much sympathy?? He adds:
Have I told you yet that I have changed my quarters in the house here? At the proposal of the Cowards I have quitted my downstairs room, which was after all damp & unwholesome, & am fixed in the back parlour (*what did I tell you??), - the room, you remember, where we used to have tea. It really is very comfortable, quite dry, & - joy of joys - the chimney does not smoke even when the door is closed! I am convinced this saves me many a quinsy next winter.
By July 21st, he is talking about going to a party with the Cowards. A party?? And, by jingo! He HAS been channelling Sam Johnson, for he is reading Boswell and Mrs Piozzi. But, there is a swelling in the veins of one leg he has to contend with.
My own position at present is not a little deplorable. For a week I have been laid up a somewhat serious malady, - a varicose (ie swollen) vein in one leg. It is very likely that I may have to give up any thought of leaving the house for some weeks to come. Of course the situation makes me feel generally out of sorts. It is to be hoped that I shall be in a safe state before the Harrisons come back ... What was the origin of this business is hard to say.
Now, whatever could be wrong with our man? A simple case of varicose veins?? Nah. He attributes the problem to too much walking - which is unlikely to cause it; rather, it would help prevent it. No-one is ever totally housebound by varicose veins - when walking is the recommended first line of relief - and few people have the psychic gift that can predict for how long they will last in a troublesome state. Here I sit or lie all day long, more or less head-achy, & as yet, incapable of getting on with my work. Luckily, Eduard Bertz is back from his American sojourn, extolling the virtues of communes and Walt Whitman, and he helps nurse George by doing any little things abroad for me that I may need. What might these be? What 'little things' might he prefer a man friend to do, and not a landlady?? What might cause such an ailment, about 90 days after initial infection with a bacterium?? Hastings, like all seaside towns, had landladies with needs... and women desperate for love and money.
In George's day - and probably even now because there's nowt as thick as folk, and ignorance and superstition worldwide is a heavy burden for the human race - there was a mistaken belief you couldn't catch syphilis twice - that a primary infection gave you immunity. As syphilis is a bacterium and not a virus, you can catch it as many times as you like - if experience doesn't teach you anything useful. But, what was a person to do, when desire needed to be fulfilled? George knew the consequences of risking his sexual health indiscriminately, but he had needs - heavens, he had needs!!
It is to be hoped that I shall be in a safe state before the Harrisons come back ...
I hear that there is to be a return from the Hospital tomorrow. This, of course, alters all prospective arrangements, & I don't exactly know the next step. Presumably, Marianne returned home as predicted, on December 15th, and George and Algernon would have to curtail their bachelor ways for a while.
On Christmas Day, George took his dinner at a cafe in Oxford Street and did not have it at home. On December 27th, Marianne moved out of Oakley Crescent and took half the furniture with her. She went to live with 'some people' in Brixton. This was a decisive step for Marianne, coming so close on the tail of a stay in hospital, and in the midst of the necessary convalescence period. What had happened to bring on this rupture? Had she come across something George might not have wanted her to discover? Mrs Annie Coward, perhaps, stepping up and filling in for her whilst she was in hospital? Husband away - George lonely and incompetently struggling at looking after himself? Long winter nights... sympathy given and received? Maybe Marianne stumbled upon some sort of liaison dangereuse and decided to call it a day on her less than ideal husband.
George's plan was to find a small rented room of his own somewhere cheap - but Mrs Coward would have none of it; she
...stepped in as my saviour by proposing that I should have a little back room of their own, & so save all the fearful trouble of removal, &c. ... My rent will be 7/- weekly, including all attendance! My wife receives £1 weekly; so that my expenses are still heavy enough. Good old Mrs Coward - such a good egg. Her much older husband would have been proud of her. 'All attendance' covered a multitude of sins, no doubt. And, how selfless of her, to make it possible for George stay under her roof...
By April, he has to decamp down to Hastings because of 'general seediness'. Whatever that is - I have my suspicions the emphasis should be on the 'seed' part of that!
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| The Woman, The Man And The Serpent by John Liston Byam Shaw 1911 |
My holidays have begun rather unpromisingly, with headache and inability to work, due to various strange complications & bedevilments in which no one has any interest but myself. (Then why mention it??) Is Mrs Coward exercising too much sympathy?? He adds:
Have I told you yet that I have changed my quarters in the house here? At the proposal of the Cowards I have quitted my downstairs room, which was after all damp & unwholesome, & am fixed in the back parlour (*what did I tell you??), - the room, you remember, where we used to have tea. It really is very comfortable, quite dry, & - joy of joys - the chimney does not smoke even when the door is closed! I am convinced this saves me many a quinsy next winter.
By July 21st, he is talking about going to a party with the Cowards. A party?? And, by jingo! He HAS been channelling Sam Johnson, for he is reading Boswell and Mrs Piozzi. But, there is a swelling in the veins of one leg he has to contend with.
My own position at present is not a little deplorable. For a week I have been laid up a somewhat serious malady, - a varicose (ie swollen) vein in one leg. It is very likely that I may have to give up any thought of leaving the house for some weeks to come. Of course the situation makes me feel generally out of sorts. It is to be hoped that I shall be in a safe state before the Harrisons come back ... What was the origin of this business is hard to say.
Now, whatever could be wrong with our man? A simple case of varicose veins?? Nah. He attributes the problem to too much walking - which is unlikely to cause it; rather, it would help prevent it. No-one is ever totally housebound by varicose veins - when walking is the recommended first line of relief - and few people have the psychic gift that can predict for how long they will last in a troublesome state. Here I sit or lie all day long, more or less head-achy, & as yet, incapable of getting on with my work. Luckily, Eduard Bertz is back from his American sojourn, extolling the virtues of communes and Walt Whitman, and he helps nurse George by doing any little things abroad for me that I may need. What might these be? What 'little things' might he prefer a man friend to do, and not a landlady?? What might cause such an ailment, about 90 days after initial infection with a bacterium?? Hastings, like all seaside towns, had landladies with needs... and women desperate for love and money.
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| Satan As A Fallen Angel (detail) by Sir Thomas Lawrence 1797 |
JOIN ME IN COMMONPLACE 74 TO FIND WHERE ALL THIS BUSINESS WITH ANNIE COWARD LEADS OUR MAN.
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