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Pix & Notes: Beards

I got all tangled up in the beards of my red herrings while writing my last book, which was exactly as messy and confusing as it sounds. You can’t just pick beards out of a hat, you know; not if you’re writing historical fiction. If you’re a woman, you can’t experiment with your own chin and then go look in the mirror either.

Men have restrictions on how much they want to alter their features for experimental purposes too, of course. Try asking a guy with a long-established beard to shave it off so you can watch it grow back and take notes! Better to get out there and do your homework.

Prehistoric beards

These are poorly documented. Cave painters didn’t do self-portraits. The Short History of Beards stone_knivesmakes this rather disingenuous claim: “Prehistoric men grew beards for warmth, intimidation and protection. Facial hair kept prehistoric men warm and it also protected their mouths from sand, dirt, the sun and many other different elements. A beard on a man’s face creates the look of a stronger looking jaw line; this exaggeration helped them appear more intimidating.”

Hm. Perhaps. I’m curious about those “many other different elements.” Lips, perhaps? It also may have had something do with the discomfort experienced after shaving with a stone knife. Obsidian rash can be so uncomfortable.

Ancient beards

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You’d expect Egyptian royalty to be extreme in all matters of fashion and King Tut does not disappoint. Of course this is a false beard made of metal and tied on with ribbons, but it’s still very manly!
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Assyrians were serious about their beards. They used curling irons and oils to achieve architectural effects.
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Bust of Epicurus, the Greek philosopher (341–270 BC.) For a guy who advocated peace and happiness, he sure looks cranky.
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Roman emperor Augustus, beardless and, unrelatedly, noseless. Sophisticated Romans who were not philosophers preferred a clean chin.

A Potpourri of Beards

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A Chinese emperor with a mighty bristle! Might be Qin Shi Huang, the first emperor of China. Bound to be a stressful job. Those beads dangling from his hat-platform would drive me batty. Maybe that’s why he looks so cross.
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Here’s an assortment of chin styles from 1315. Miniature from Rashid-al-Din Hamadani’s Jami al-Tawarikh, c. 1315, illustrating the story of Muhammad’s role in re-setting the Black Stone in 605.
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Three images of Charles I, sporting a van dyck beard, by Anthony Van Dyck, presumably wearing a matching beard whilst painting, in 1635-36.

 

Elizabethan beards

My problem was that the beard was a clue to my murderer’s identity. I wanted a notable style, therefore; something fashionable. I started out thinking about a sharply pointed beard like Sir Walter Raleigh’s in the dishy miniature shown below, but I doubeted they were stylish yet in 1589. It’s mainly a 90’s style, or so I thought, at least until the Earl of Essex returned victorious from the Battle of Cadiz with a long, square-cut beard.

I had to observe the rules about beards and other elements of fashion at Gray’s Inn. According to Wilfred Prest in his indispensable The Inns of Court under Elizabeth I and the Early Stuarts (1972, Longman), gentlemen in residence were expected to shave, at least on a semi-monthly basis. “That none of the said companies, under the degree of a knight, being in commons, do wear any beard above three weeks growing, upon pain of xl s. and so double for every week after monition.”

That’s a fine of 40 shillings, which seems incredibly steep. I must have mis-read and mis-typed that note. You only had to pay 3 shillings and 3 pence for wearing “breeches of any light color nor coifs of English lawn, velvet caps, scarfs, or wings on their study gowns,” double cuffs on your shirt, or feathers or ribbons in your caps. Of course, you also had to forfeit your finery and could be expelled for a second offense.

But these rules come from the 1570s. I also have a note saying that long hair and beards became increasingly fashionable in the 1590s. Maybe the governors of Gray’s Inn just finally gave up? To be on the safe side, I gave both Francis Bacon and his sidekick, Thomas Clarady, a nice brushy rill of two-week’s growth. You wouldn’t want the constant itch of a brand new beard, nor would you want to visit the barber every day, although I’ll bet there were several barbers in Holborn who specialized in the Inns of Court regulation style, whatever it was at the time. (And now I’m thinking about a barber shop scene…. why haven’t I done that?)

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Bacon in 1617. He’s Lord Chancellor now; he can grow whatever he likes on his chin. And although he looks stiff and uncomfortable, I’m pretty sure that’s personality, not costume. Ruffs are not unpleasant to wear, even with a super-stylish pointed beard.
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The Earl of Essex, by Marcus Gheeraerts the Younger ca. 1596, with his trend-setting long square beard.
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Sir Walter Raleigh, miniature by Nicholas Hilliard ca. 1585. Hey, so those pointed beards were in style for my 1589 book! I know I looked at this portrait, but I clearly failed to note the date. That’s the kind of tangle I was in. And look — he has flowers in his hair. You have to be very secure in your masculinity to deck yourself out like this.
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Unknown Man Clasping A Hand From A Cloud, Nicholas Hilliard, 1588 © Victoria and Albert Museum, London. This guy looks a lot like Tom, but his beard is clearly more than 3 weeks’ long. Love the hat!

Pix & notes: Hall Place

Hall Place is a manor house in Bexley, southeast of London, neatly divided between the Tudor portion and the seventeenth century addition. The photograph here, showing the division, comesHallPlace1 from Wikipedia. It drizzled all day when I visited in November 2011. In fact, it was so dismal a day, that everyone else stayed home and the house-minders clung to their teacups in the office. I love the English drizzle myself, it being a rare phenomenon in Texas.

You can reach Bexley on the train with your Oyster card (I think.) It’s a pretty village in which I spent no time at all, heading directly off on the route described in Andrew Duncan’s Favourite London Walks. I’ve done several of Duncan’s walks now, though I prefer to copy the pages I want and leave the heavy glossy-paper book at home. (Must’ve gotten this book there, because they don’t have it at Amazon. They do have a similar one.)

The history of the house

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From St. Mary’s churchyard. If I were Sir John, this is where I’d want to spend eternity.

Sir John Champneys, a wealthy merchant, built this fine house in 1537. He was a member of the Worshipful Company of Skinners, who traded in skins and furs. I wonder if he traded furs from Russia and Scandinavia. He was active in City affairs, serving as Sheriff in 1522 and Lord Mayor in 1534. As I suspected, that’s when he was knighted.

That seems to be all we know: he was mayor, he built a house which still stands. But those were turbulent times. Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries in 1536, but Sir John was evidently unaffected by those political coils and tumults. He died of plague, they say, and was buried at St. Mary Virgin, through whose churchyard I walked on Duncan’s route.

Another wealthy merchant, Sir Robert Austen, bought the house in 1649 and added that strikingly unmatched second wing of red bricks. What was he thinking? He was created the 1st Baronet Austen on 10 July 1649, on the eve of the English Civil War. Charles I was beheaded in January… so how was this creation accomplished? Cromwell didn’t make baronets. Sir Robert must have been a cavalier or, more likely, a supplier of money to the king in exile. Handy to have a house not far from the mouth of the Thames.

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Denise Orme and Robert Evett in The Merveilleuses, 1906

I didn’t know these things when I visited. Even the booklet from the Heritage House merely noted that the family prospered. I choose to believe they prospered through those tumultuous years by giving money to both sides. Well, if you don’t want to be slandered by novelists in four hundred years, leave a decent biography!

In the late eighteenth century, Francis Dashwood inherited the estate. The Dashwoods came in through the last Sir Robert Austen’s wife. Francis Dashwood leased the place to Reverend Richard Jeffreys, who turned it into a school for young gentlemen. 80 boys lived there in its hey-day, judging by the number of beds sold when the school moved out.

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US Army Signal Corps at work

 

After some remodeling, the house went through a period of short-term rentals to “the aristocratic and the fashionable,” including musical hall actress Denise Orme and her husband, Lord Churston. Aha! That means this house is suitable for a Professor & Mrs. Moriarty story. Somewhere down the line, I’ll do a good old-fashioned country house murder.

Lady Limerick’s son-in-law bought the house in 1926, on her behalf, it would seem, because on her death in 1943 the Bexley Council took possession. In January, 1944, the US Army Signal Corps took over the house for an intercept station code-named Santa Fe. Cryptographers and Morse code operators lived there, passing messages on to the more famous Bletchley Park.

The interior

They left me entirely alone in here. Apparently, I do not look like a vandal. The rooms were mostly empty, except for very bright halogen lights. The great hall had an assortment of ordinary folding tables and chairs. They must use this nice big room for meetings. I always imagine meetings along the lines of those in The Vicar of Dibley.

The best part was the children’s area, near the old chapel. No kids and no minders, so I got to play with everything. They have little drawers you can open to smell lavender and rosemary, boxes with holes you can put your hands in to feel lambswool, displays of toys and a typical meal on a ship (not appealing) and pictures to give you the flavor of life in Tudor times. Great fun, if a little elementary. They should make such displays for novelists, with real pistols and recipes for contraceptives and political conundrums; you know, grown up stuff.

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The parlor. This is where all the oak paneling I use in headers and backgrounds comes from.

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The great hall. Minstrels can play in the gallery upstairs.
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Great hall windows.

 

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The exterior

Oh, it was a dark and drizzly day! Not too cold with a wool sweater and a rain coat. Thank Photoshop for brightening these up enough to show a bit of color. 

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Brick side

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The dark squares are flint, the light ones clunch, a sort of fine limestone. Stones were salvaged from Dissolved churches.

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The Great Green Teddy-Bear Garden

These are supposed to be heraldic animals, like dragons. Ha! They are fat, grinning teddy bears made of shrubbery. I love topiaries, the more fanciful, the better. Further proof that creativity knows no limits. Enjoy!

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