Attracting enormous crowds, by the late 1800s, the Longchamp Racecourse in the Bois de Boulogne in Paris had become one of the most fashionable public venues in France.
Spectating at the races was an immensely popular and socially prestigious pastime.
A place to see and be seen, Longchamp was like a giant stage to vaunt one’s social position.
Attended by Emperor Napoleon III and his wife Eugénie, who sailed down the Seine River on their private yacht to catch the third race, Longchamp Racecourse opened to the public on Sunday, April 27, 1857.
And it wouldn’t only be French Royalty who loved Longchamps—King Edward VII of Great Britain attended too.
Enclosures were reserved for aristocrats and the well-connected and ladies were required to be escorted by a gentleman in order to enter.
But grabbing the spotlight was a new class of celebrity: the demimonde.
Supported by wealthy lovers, these were women on the fringes of respectable society.
Arriving alone, demimondaine were forbidden access to the enclosures but were as much of a spectacle as the races themselves.
Mixing with society women, they often shared the same couturier but appeared a little more chic.
Attending the Longchamp races as the mistress of wealthy textile heir Étienne Balsan was a young Gabrielle “Coco” Chanel.
Although she didn’t quite fit the mold of a typical demimondaine, Gabrielle appeared in the loose, simple dress that would later influence an entire generation of “flappers” during the Roaring Twenties.
Paris had become the fashion capital of the world and it wasn’t long before designers realized that Longchamp was a goldmine.
Fashion houses outfitted models with their finest clothes, sending them to the races to show off the latest styles.
Join us as we travel back in time to the Longchamp Races from 1907 to 1935—a time of elegance and flamboyance that may never be repeated.
Kensington and Chelsea Libraries in London, England, uncovered a series of images suggesting that the Edwardians might have been the world’s first photobloggers.
Amateur photographer Edward Linley Sambourne (1844 – 1910) was the chief cartoonist for the British satirical magazine “Punch” which was first published in 1841.
He captured a slice of Edwardian life in these amazing candid photographs.
Read more …
Young women walking to work in London; ladies and families strolling the boulevards of Paris; couples crossing the English Channel on steamships; friends enjoying the beaches of Kent and Ostende; and housemaids hard at work cleaning the steps to plush city townhomes.
Continuing the long, elegant lines of the late Victorian period, the Edwardian era was a time of transition in women’s fashion.
It would be the last time women would wear corsets in everyday life.
And as these images show, women were enjoying a new level of freedom from the rigid conventions of heavy ankle-length Victorian gowns and bustles.
Embracing leisure sports, the upper-classes drove rapid developments in more mobile, flexible clothing styles made of lightweight fabrics for more active lifestyles.
Women’s fashion would never look back.
As Oxford University historian Arthur Marwick (1936 – 2006) noted, “for, however far politicians were to put the clocks back in other steeples in the years after the war, no one ever put the lost inches back on the hems of women’s skirts.”
Sambourne’s hobby gave us glimpses into a past that looks oddly familiar.
It was 1905.
What is this woman thinking as she walks to work?
She had similar worries to most of us today—a to-do list as long as your arm, what to make for dinner, helping her little sister with her homework, whether to accept the advances of a work colleague who seemed like a true gentleman …
Apart from her hat, the practicality and style of her clothing wouldn’t change much for decades to come.
Think the Internet generation was the first to truly embrace mobile multi-tasking? Glued to a book on the walk to work in London, this woman reminds us of how much we rely on mobile devices today.
No need to look where we’re going—other people will simply adapt and move around us. As long as we don’t walk into a lamppost, we’re good to go.
Big hats with giant bows and cycling may not go together well today, but Edwardians made it work. Cycling was in vogue as the way to get around, but to be without one’s hat was sacrilegious.
Sambourne used a concealed camera to capture candid moments. But it looks like this woman has an inkling that something is going on.
Few things in the Edwardian era were worse than being out-hatted. One had to keep a close eye on the competition.
Edwardians too had to suffer the inescapable feeling of incredulity at the various scandals of politicians and celebrities.
Imagine this woman is checking her iPhone. The little dog doesn’t seem too impressed.
More freedom of movement in Edwardian clothing allowed these women to put their best foot forward.
Be careful! Having a good sense of balance was important for wearing an Edwardian hat.
Whistle while you walk to school with Mother. A charming picture of a happy moment in time, captured forever.
Confidence. Perhaps for the first time in history, Edwardian women were free to project confidence and begin determining their own future.
We move to Paris, France. Higher hemlines were a feature of Edwardian skirts that afforded women greater freedom of movement, but at least one of these ladies prefers to lift her skirt to clear the puddles just in case.
Arm-in-arm. What could be more perfect than an afternoon stroll around the Tuileries Garden in Paris?
Black mourning dress worn for months or years was a convention carried over from the Victorian era and still widely practiced.
Notice the wheels on the horse-drawn cab. Inspired by the wheels of bicycles? These were interesting times—a transition from horses to automobiles was underway.
Time to see and be seen at the Place du Louvres.
A brisk breeze, sea air, and steam power.
This lady is aboard a steamer—a ship propelled by steam—crossing the English Channel to visit Ostende in Belgium.
Invented by Victorians, the steamship enabled the upper classes to see the world and as prices fell, the middle class were able to enjoy the occasional weekend getaway.
Looks like this woman found a nice spot on the ship that was sheltered from the wind.
Hitting the beach in Edwardian times was a very formal affair.
Getting a tan was still many decades away from becoming a fashionable or even desirous thing.
Hidden from gazing eyes, this woman enters a Victorian bathing machine to change out of her modesty.
Hats and coats against the wind.
No weather could prevent one wearing one’s hat.
Hold onto your hats, ladies!
How do we get rid of that pesky photographer, Mr Sambourne?
How about we ask him to fetch a bucket of water and a brush and help us clean the steps!
And he’s off …
Thought that would do the trick.
Bye bye Mr Sambourne, and thank you for this incredible journey into the Edwardian era.
The year was 1847 and Queen Victoria was pregnant with her 6th child, Princess Louise.
Hearing about a new type of baby carriage with three wheels which was pushed from behind, she couldn’t wait to see one.
“Albert!” she hollered, “come along, we’re off to the city to buy a pram”. “A pram?” inquired Albert. “Yes, yes, it’s a new type of carriage for our babies—you’ll love it!” “Love it? repeated Albert. “Yes, of course!” exclaimed the queen. “You know how you love inventions—well, this is one where the babies sit and you push”. “I see”, said Albert, realizing what was coming …
Prams or perambulators date back to around 1733 when the Duke of Devonshire asked English architect and furniture designer William Kent to make a carriage for his children to keep them amused while they played in the grounds of Chatsworth House.
Equipped with a harness for a goat or small pony, Kent’s shell-shaped basket-on-wheels even had springs so that children could ride in comfort.
Riding in goat-powered carts wasn’t new—children had been enjoying that since the early 17th century.
And it was still fashionable by 1890, as the grandchildren of the 23rd President of the United States, Benjamin Harrison, would attest.
But what Kent’s design did was to inspire an entire industry of baby carriage manufacture during the Victorian era.
Starting out as three-wheeled versions that were typically pulled along by a Nanny, a later innovation allowed prams to be pushed, making it easier to keep an eye on the baby’s welfare.
Arriving from France, the wickerwork “Bassinet” style of pram allowed the infant to lie flat within a basket on a wheeled frame.
Royal patronage helped launch a fashionable craze among the well-heeled all over Europe and the United States.
So popular were prams in London by 1855 that the Rev. Benjamin Armstrong from rural Norfolk noted in his diary:
The streets are full of perambulators, a baby carriage quite new to me, whereby children are propelled by the nurse pushing instead of pulling the carriage.
Built of wood or wicker and held together with expensive brass joints, baby carriages were sometimes heavily ornamented works of art.
Patents for new innovations were registered on both sides of the Atlantic.
In 1899, African American William H. Richardson patented a design for a reversible baby carriage, allowing the baby to face either forward or toward the person pushing the carriage.
By the late Victorian era, many more people could afford a baby carriage and new coach-built luxury models came onto the market named after royalty—Princess and Duchess being popular names, as well as Balmoral and Windsor.
The Edwardians made perambulator design a fine art with elaborate decoration, improved maneuverability, rubber tyres, and protection from the elements.
And of course, babies were the big beneficiaries of all this innovation. Peekaboo!
It was definitely a baby’s world—even royal babies loved their pram rides to the park.
With a commanding position to see all the sites and a comfortable ride with someone else doing all the work, what’s not to love?
Waiting on them hand and foot, some siblings would go to great lengths to ensure the baby was as comfortable as possible.
For the wealthier families, it was the Nanny’s responsibility to look after the children while the parents attended the many parties and functions on their busy social calendars.
Mothers who couldn’t afford or didn’t want a nanny could spend some quality time with their baby dressing them for an enjoyable pram outing.
Admiring glances and polite conversation from passers-by would be all part of the fun of owning a perambulator.
Top down, wind in the hair. Nothing quite like it.
Even fathers started to take an interest, but generally only those working in zoos.
With the arrival of the 1920s, new technology provided a way of helping to keep babies quiet—namely Radio.
And for the first time, babies in prams became movie stars.
Along came the 1930s and prams took on some design cues from automobiles, with shiny fenders, sports wheels, and even windows.
We’re only human and so you never know when we’ll be at war again. Best to be prepared with a gas-proof pram.
Fasten your seatbelts for the 1950s!
New lightweight convertible sports and luxury models entered the market.
“Mom, I think we left them for dust.”
Companies like A & F Saward and Silver Cross started building custom-made prams in the 1950s that were—and still are—the choice of British royalty.
At the end of World War I, the world desperately needed a scapegoat to help come to terms with four long years of human carnage.
And the widely disliked Kaiser Wilhelm II, Emperor of Germany and King of Prussia, was the man in the firing line.
As the eldest grandchild of Queen Victoria, Wilhelm was a first cousin of the British Empire’s King George V, who called him “the greatest criminal in history”.
British Prime Minister David Lloyd George proposed that the Kaiser be hanged.
After all, he had been responsible for the invasion of neutral Belgium and was instrumental in starting a war that killed tens of millions.
But since 1916—halfway through the war—Germany had become a military dictatorship under the control of Field Marshal Paul von Hindenburg and his deputy General Erich Ludendorff.
Look at those faces. You didn’t want to mess with these guys.
Wilhelm’s role had been effectively relegated to awards ceremonies and honorific duties for the last two years of the war.
Deserted by his own military High Command, Wilhelm abdicated in 1918 and fled to the Netherlands, ending 400 years of the Hohenzollern dynasty.
Thanking the Dutch government for granting him asylum in the Netherlands, Wilhelm sent this telegram to Queen Wilhemina of the Netherlands on November 11, 1918:
The events have forced me to enter your country as a private person and put myself under the protection of your government. The hope, that you would take my difficult situation into account, has not disappointed me, and I offer to you and your Government my sincere thanks for so kindly offering me hospitality. Best regards to you and yours.Wilhelm
Although article 227 of the Treaty of Versailles called for the prosecution of Wilhelm “for a supreme offense against international morality and the sanctity of treaties”, the Dutch government refused to extradite him, despite appeals from the Allies.
Settling initially in the 17th-century Amerongen Castle in the little village of Amerongen in the central Netherlands, Wilhelm called this home for two years before moving to nearby Doorn village.
And there it was. One day in 1920, while Wilhelm was househunting in Doorn, he spied the place he would call home for the rest of his life.
Owned by Dutch aristocrat Ella van Heemstra—mother of actress Audrey Hepburn—Wilhelm paid 1.35 million guilders for Doorn House.
Originally a moated 14th-century castle, Doorn House had been converted into an elegant country house in the 1790s.
The rear side view shows how deceptively large Doorn House actually is.
Covering 35 hectares with English-style landscaped gardens, the house was filled with antique furniture, paintings, silver, and porcelain from Wilhelm’s palaces in Berlin and Potsdam—30,000 pieces in all, requiring 59 train wagons to transport to Doorn.
Modest by what Wilhelm had become accustomed to, Doorn House was, nevertheless, deceptively large—this imposing building was just the entrance gatehouse that Wilhelm added to the property.
Once through the gatehouse, visitors would pass through more gates to cross a little bridge across a real moat.
The grounds even had an Orangerie used to protect tropical plants during the cold winter months.
The tasteful dining room once hosted an uneasy dinner with the powerful Nazi Party figure, Hermann Göring.
Now a museum, the rooms have been left unchanged since the time the Kaiser lived here.
Doorn House is frozen in time.
Wilhelm even had the saddle that he sat on while working in Berlin shipped to Doorn.
The Doorn House collection includes snuffboxes and watches that belonged to Frederick the Great.
Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands bought this lamp as a gift for the exiled Kaiser and his wife.
A real water closet—a flush toilet inside of an armoire.
Wilhelm liked to surround himself with reminders of Prussia’s military hegemony.
From bombastic Emperor to elderly statesman in exile.
Aging mellows most of us, but was this the case with Wilhelm?
Shortly after moving into Dorn House, Wilhelm learned that his youngest son, Prince Joachim of Prussia, had committed suicide by gunshot.
Believed to be directly related to Wilhelm’s abdication, 29-year-old Joachim could not accept his new status as a commoner and fell into a deep depression.
Affectionately known as “Dona”, Wilhelm’s first wife, who had been his companion for 40 years, died in the spring the following year.
When Wilhelm received a birthday greeting in January of 1922 from the son of a recently widowed German Princess, he invited the boy and his mother to Doorn House.
Finding much in common with Princess Hermine, and both being recently widowed, Wilhelm proposed and the two were married in November, 1922.
Hermine remained a constant companion to the aging emperor until his death in 1941
It would appear that Wilhelm mellowed in later years and settled for a simple life.
He spent much of his time walking the grounds, chopping wood, and feeding the ducks.
There were some great things he had done for Germany.
He promoted art, science, public education, and social welfare.
He sponsored scientific research, helped modernize secondary education, and tried to position Germany at the forefront of modern medical practices.
But historians believe he lacked the personal qualities of a good leader at such a critical juncture in history.
Bluster, rhetoric, and martial swagger cloaked a profound emptiness, for ignorance and self-indulgence were his primary characteristics.Lamar Cecil.
superficial, hasty, restless, unable to relax, without any deeper level of seriousness, without any desire for hard work or drive to see things through to the end, without any sense of sobriety, for balance and boundaries, or even for reality and real problems, uncontrollable and scarcely capable of learning from experience, desperate for applause and successThomas Nipperdey.
Deeply antisemitic and paranoid about a British-led conspiracy to destroy Germany, he did, however, recognize the evils of Nazism:
Of Germany, which was a nation of poets and musicians, of artists and soldiers, Hitler has made a nation of hysterics and hermits, engulfed in a mob and led by a thousand liars or fanatics.Wilhelm on Hitler, December 1938.
Declining an offer of asylum from Winston Churchill when Hitler invaded the Netherlands in May of 1940, Wilhelm must have known the winter of his life was drawing to a close.
He died of pulmonary embolus on 4th June 1941, aged 82, just weeks before the Axis invasion of the Soviet Union.
What a time he had lived through.
A time when Emperors toyed with millions of lives like they were little more than model soldiers in a game of war.
Wilhelm’s dream of returning to Germany as monarch died with him in Doorn, where he is buried in a mausoleum in the gardens.
A man so various that he seemed to be,
Not one, but all of mankind’s epitome
Fixed in opinion, ever in the wrong
Was all by fits and starts, and nothing long. English poet Alexander Pope (1688 - 1744)
Skagen is a village in the northernmost part of Denmark.
From the late 1870s until the turn of the century, a group of Scandinavian artists descended on Skagen every summer.
It was the light that drew them.
A translucent light that merged the sea and the sky—especially during the evening “blue hour”.
Influenced by the “en plein air” techniques of French Impressionist painters like Claude Monet, they broke away from traditions taught at the academies and developed their own unique styles.
The long beaches stretched for miles and miles …
Listen to Claude Debussy’s haunting Clair de Lune as we travel back in time to late 19th-century Skagen through the eyes of the Skagen Painters.
Nor moon nor stars were out.
They did not dare to tread so soon about,
Though trembling, in the footsteps of the sun.
The light was neither night’s nor day’s, but one
Which, life-like, had a beauty in its doubt;
And Silence’s impassioned breathings round
Seemed wandering into sound. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, A Sea-Side Walk
I have loved hours at sea, gray cities,
The fragile secret of a flower,
Music, the making of a poem
That gave me heaven for an hour Sara Teasdale, I Have Loved Hours At Sea
Rendering light with paint in such a way that it makes you feel you are there and you need to squint at the sun’s reflections on the water.
One of the shared interests of the Skagen painters was to paint scenes of their own social gatherings—eating together, celebrating, or playing cards.
As if you could reach out and touch them, Krøyer’s characters are full of movement, full of life.
The group gathered together regularly at the Brøndums Inn in Skagen, which still operates as a hotel today.
Filled with the paintings the artists donated to cover the cost of board and lodging, the Brøndums’ dining-room became the center of their social life.
Can you feel the excitement in the air and hear the clinking of glasses?
Deep in concentration, an after-dinner game of cards continues into the small hours.
Many of the Skagen painters are depicted here enjoying Midsummer Eve celebrations on Skagen beach around a bonfire, traditionally lit to ward off evil spirits believed to roam freely when the sun turned southward again.
The painting includes Peder Severin Krøyer’s daughter Vibeke, mayor Otto Schwartz and his wife Alba Schwartz, Michael Ancher, Degn Brøndum, Anna Ancher, Holger Drachmann and his 3rd wife Soffi, the Swedish composer Hugo Alfvén and Marie Krøyer.
Anna Ancher was the only one of the Skagen Painters to be born and grow up in Skagen.
Her father owned the Brøndums Hotel where the artists stayed during the summer months and she married Michael Ancher, one of the first members of the Skagen colony of artists.
Expressing a more truthful depiction of reality and everyday life, she was a pioneer in observing the interplay of color and natural light.
They love the sea,
Men who ride on it
And know they will die
Under the salt of it Carl Sandburg, Young Sea
Combining realism and classical composition, Michael Ancher painted heroic fishermen and their experiences at sea.
Becoming known as monumental figurative art, his strict training at the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts was tempered by his wife Anna’s more naturalistic approach.
Painted in 1885, Michael Ancher’s ‘Will He Round the Point?” (below) earned him and the Skagen colony particular attention since it was sold to King Christian IX of Denmark.
Perhaps I should not have been a fisherman, he thought. But that was the thing that I was born for.Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea
Life was hard.
A fisherman’s life was not an easy one.
Better to die surrounded by people who would give their life for you.
That’s what close-knit communities were made of.
Now is no time to think of what you do not have. Think of what you can do with that there is Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea
The Skagen artists also painted each other and their children going about everyday aspects of life—collecting flowers, walking the dog, reading in the shade of the garden or inside the house, meal times with the children, and saying prayers before bed.
This is the tragic story of how 146 immigrant workers—mostly young women—lost their lives in one of the worst industrial disasters in US history.
Popular in the Edwardian Era—the period of Downton Abbey and Titanic—the shirtwaist was a woman’s tailored garment with design details copied from men’s shirts.
Constructed of shirting fabric, sometimes with turnover collar and cuffs and a buttoned front, shirtwaists could be highly ornamented with embroidery and lace.
One of the best-known factories making shirtwaists was the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory in New York City.
Housed in the beautiful neo-Renaissance 10-story Asch Building, the iron-and-steel structure was said to be “fireproof” and attracted many other garment makers.
Russian immigrants Max Blanck and Isaac Harris set up shop on the top three floors of the Asch Building and hired 500 workers—mostly female Jewish and Italian immigrants, about half of whom were not yet twenty years old.
Working 52-hour weeks, workers earned between $7 and $12 per week, the rough equivalent of between $170 and $300 a week today.
But they were docked pay both for errors and the needles and thread they consumed, which was sometimes more than they were paid.
Overcrowded, with few working bathrooms and no ventilation, conditions ranged from sweltering in summer to freezing in winter.
Packed with inflammable objects, including clothing hanging from lines above workers heads and cuttings littering the floors, unsurprisingly, the Asch Building did not comply with several safety regulations.
With an improperly installed water hose, no sprinklers, a fire escape unable to withstand the weight of many people and dangerously dark stairwells, the Asch Building was a disaster waiting to happen.
In June of 1909, a fire prevention specialist sent a letter to the owners to discuss ways to improve safety in the factory.
It was ignored.
In addition, there was no limit set for how many workers could occupy each floor, leading to very cramped conditions.
Only one bathroom break was allowed in a 14 hour day, forcing many to find ways to relieve themselves on the factory floor, only exacerbating the already unsanitary conditions.
It seemed that nobody noticed and nobody cared about their plight.
Strike!
So the brave young ladies went on strike. They rose up to fight for change.
Supported by the National Women’s Trade Union League of America (NWTUL), the strike began in November 1909.
I have listened to all the speakers, and I have no further patience for talk. I am a working girl, one of those striking against intolerable conditions. I am tired of listening to speakers who talk in generalities. What we are here for is to decide whether or not to strike. I make a motion that we go out in a general strike.Clara Limlich
20,000 workers walked off the job in an industry-wide strike that was the largest single work stoppage in the US up to that time.
Money talks, as they say …
Ann Morgan, daughter of the wealthy financier JP Morgan (who would later bail out the banks in the Wall St Crash of 1929), took up the cause of the garment workers.
Joined by Alva Vanderbilt Belmont, the multi-millionaire American socialite and a major figure in the women’s suffrage movement, most small factory owners gave in to worker demands fairly quickly.
But not Blanck and Harris of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory.
They hunkered down to play hardball.
Hiring prostitutes and ex-prizefighters to pick fights with the picketers, the police were bribed to arrest any who fought back and dragged them off to court bruised and bloodied.
Even judges were bribed to find picketers guilty.
But the women stood defiant.
By February of 1910, the union settled with the factory owners, gaining improved wages, working conditions, and hours.
The workers at Triangle failed to win union representation, making it very difficult to organize future protests.
Fire!
It was near the end of the working day on Saturday, March 25, 1911.
In a scrap waste bin under one of the cutter’s tables on the 8th floor, smoke started to rise, which quickly flared into a fire at about 4:40 pm.
Five minutes later, a passerby saw smoke coming from the 8th-floor windows and raised the alarm.
Meanwhile, a bookkeeper on the 8th floor telephoned upstairs to the 10th floor to warn employees, but there was no audible alarm bell and no way to contact workers on the 9th floor.
Several exits, two freight elevators, a fire escape, and a stairway down to street level were all blocked by flames.
Another stairway down to Washington Place was the trapped workers’ only chance, but it was locked.
Managers made a habit of locking doors so they could check the women’s purses before they left each night.
It also made it easier for the foreman to control the workers’ break times. But where was the foreman? He had the key—and with it, their escape to safety.
He’d long since escaped by another route to his own safety.
Dozens took a stairway to the roof, but within minutes it collapsed under the heat and overload. Twenty people spiraled 100 ft to their deaths on the concrete sidewalk beneath.
I learned a new sound that day, a sound more horrible than description can picture—the thud of a speeding living body on a stone sidewalkWilliam Gunn Shepard, reporter
Operators of the elevator, Joseph Zito and Gaspar Mortillalo were the only heroes to be found and they made three return journeys up to the 9th floor risking their own lives to save others.
They had to be quick since the elevator rails started to buckle under the heat.
Some women desperately pried open the elevator doors and jumped into the shaft trying to slide down the cables. But their bodies fell, lifeless, onto the elevator car and made it impossible to make another return trip.
Suddenly, the reassuring sound of the firefighters rang out in the smokey air.
But their ladders were only long enough to reach the seventh floor and the workers were trapped on the ninth.
Workers had no choice but to jump or burn to death.
Many jumped.
Crowds gathered, watching in horror as bodies came hurtling down to certain death.
Louis Waldman, a New York Socialite was sitting reading in the nearby Astor library,
I was deeply engrossed in my book when I became aware of fire engines racing past the building. I ran out to see what was happening … When we arrived at the scene, the police had thrown up a cordon around the area. Horrified and helpless, the crowds — I among them — looked up at the burning building, saw girl after girl appear at the reddened windows, pause for a terrified moment, and then leap to the pavement below, to land as mangled, bloody pulp. Occasionally a girl who had hesitated too long was licked by pursuing flames and, screaming with clothing and hair ablaze, plunged like a living torch to the street.
146 souls died that day as a result of the fire. 123 women and 23 men. Burns, asphyxiation, blunt impact injuries, or all three.
Justice
Did 146 people needlessly die in the Triangle Shirtwaist fire?
Some say it was a discarded cigarette butt that started the fire. Others that it was the engines running the sewing machines.
Owners Blanck and Harris had fled to the roof for safety when the fire began. They were initially charged with first- and second-degree manslaughter. But a good defense lawyer can find holes in any case.
Max Steuer cemented his career reputation by successfully defending Blanck and Harris. He argued that witnesses were told what to say and that the owners didn’t know the exit doors were locked.
Commuted to wrongful death, plaintiffs were awarded $75 per victim in a civil suit. That was the going rate for the life of an immigrant factory worker in 1911.
Tragedy bleeds some and benefits others. The insurance company paid Blanck and Harris about $60,000 more than the reported losses, or about $400 per casualty.
Two years later, Blanck was arrested for locking the exit doors. He was fined $20.
Wealthy noble suitors professed their love, proposed, and showered you with the finest gifts.
These were halcyon days enjoyed by the few. The best of times.
The Worst of Times
Being poor in 19th-century Europe was not something to be recommended.
To be a peasant in Russia was about as harsh as it could get.
But life was a game of chance and if you were that unfortunate, you were not alone.
Ninety-Five percent of Russians were poor peasants who owned no land.
They paid high rents to landlords who just happened to be members of the ruling aristocracy.
Living in little more than mud huts in villages cut off from the world, the illiterate peasants worked the land to scrape a living to survive and pay their rent.
When the Industrial Revolution came to Russia, poverty followed the people from the countryside to the cities.
Factories were dark, dirty, and dangerous.
Low wages and long hours kept the former peasants in their place and they were drawn to speeches by men with ideas on changing the world and the promise of a better life.
Against this backdrop were born two sisters—Princess Elisabeth, born 1864, and Princess Alix, born 1872.
They were part of a large noble German family of seven children.
But there was something connecting Elisabeth and Alix in particular.
It was as though they were marked by the hand of fate.
Princess Elisabeth of Hesse and by Rhine
Known as “Ella” within her family, Princess Elisabeth was named after St Elizabeth of Hungary, a princess herself and greatly venerated Catholic saint and patroness of the Third Order of St. Francis.
St Elizabeth, who was married at 14 and widowed at 20, built a hospital to serve the sick and became a symbol of Christian charity after her death just 4 years later.
The story of St Elizabeth would strangely touch the life of Princess Ella.
Growing up, she lived a modest life by royal standards, even though her father was from one of the oldest and noblest houses in Germany and her mother was Queen Victoria’s daughter.
She swept floors, cleaned her own room, and even accompanied her mother to care for soldiers at a nearby hospital when war broke out between Austria and Prussia.
Ella was charming and kind and considered to be one of the most beautiful of all the princesses in Europe.
Frequently visiting his Hessian relatives and not failing to notice Ella’s beauty was her elder cousin, the young man who would later become the German Kaiser Willhelm II.
Writing and sending her numerous love poems, he fell in love with her and proposed in 1878.
One cannot help wondering how her life would have been different had she accepted.
Ella’s heart was eventually won by Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich of Russia—a choice her grandmother Queen Victoria did not approve of.
We must always listen to our grandmothers because they know things that we do not.
But such is young love.
Everyone fell in love with her from the moment she came to Russia from her beloved Darmstadtone of Sergei's cousins.
They were married in June 1884 and at the wedding, fate also struck her little sister when she met 16-year-old Nicholas, the future Tsar Nicholas II.
Residing in one of the Kremlin palaces and a summer home outside of Moscow, they lived happily, hosting frequent parties.
Ella encouraged the young Nicholas to pursue her sister Alix, again much to the dismay of Queen Victoria, who somehow had a sixth sense for what was coming.
Grandmothers know.
Then on a cold February morning of 1905, Ella’s husband Sergei was assassinated inside the Kremlin by a Socialist-Revolutionary.
Sergei had previously rounded up 20,000 Jews and evicted them from their homes for no reason and without warning.
Devoutly religious, Ella herself prophesized that “God will punish us severely”.
It was just the beginning.
Consumed with sadness and guilt, Elisabeth became a devout nun.
Selling her possessions in 1909, she worked tirelessly for several years, helping the poor and sick in Moscow, often in the worst slums.
In 1916, Ella saw her sister for the last time.
The Murder of Elisabeth
It was July, 1918 when Lenin ordered the arrest of Elisabeth.
She spent a few days with other prisoners from Russian noble families before they were all carted to a small village with an abandoned mineshaft 66 ft deep.
Elisabeth was first.
She was beaten and hurled down the shaft.
Then the others followed and a hand grenade was thrown down to kill them, but only one man died.
According to one of the murderers, Elisabeth and the others survived the fall and after the grenade was tossed down, he heard Elisabeth and others singing a hymn.
Down went a second grenade and finally, brushwood shoved into the entrance and set alight.
After the revolution, her convent erected a statue of Elisabeth in the garden. It read simply:
To the Grand Duchess Elizabeth Feodorovna: With Repentance.
Princess Alix of Hesse and by Rhine
Sixth child among seven and the fourth daughter, Alix was nicknamed “Sunny” by her mother and “Alicky” by her British relatives so as to distinguish her from her aunt, Princess Alexandra of Denmark who would become Queen of England as the wife of Edward VII.
Blossoming into a beautiful young woman with sparkling blue eyes and red gold hair, she was Queen Victoria’s favorite granddaughter.
The Queen had her in mind to marry Edward Prince of Wales’s eldest son, Prince Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence and Avondale, thus securing her a future position as Queen of England.
What is it about grandmothers just knowing what is best for us?
A very different course of events awaited Alix as she was destined to marry Nicholas, the last Tsar of Russia.
Alix fell in love with Nicholas in 1889 and Nicholas wrote in his diary:
It is my dream to one day marry Alix H. I have loved her for a long time, but more deeply and strongly since 1889 when she spent six weeks in Petersburg. For a long time, I have resisted my feeling that my dearest dream will come true.
Nicholas had to propose twice because at first Alix did not want to convert to Russian Orthodoxy but was assured by her sister Elisabeth that it was very similar to her German Lutheranism.
After their engagement, Alix returned to England and was joined by Nicholas where they became godparents of the boy who would become the first British monarch to voluntarily abdicate the throne—King Edward VIII.
When Tsar Alexander III died in 1894, he left Nicholas as the new Emperor of Russia.
It was a whirlwind for Alix—she became Empress on her wedding day.
Shy and nervous, she was disliked from the beginning by the Russian people who saw her as cold and curt.
It set in motion a serious of events that would profoundly change the course of history.
Despite producing five beautiful daughters, the Russian people frowned upon her distaste for Russian culture and her inability to produce a male heir to the throne until Alexei, her little ‘sunbeam” arrived in 1904.
By this time, she had isolated herself from the Russian court, doting on her son and becoming a recluse.
She believed in the divine right of kings that it was not necessary to seek the approval of the people.
In a letter to her grandmother, Queen Victoria, her aunt wrote of her:
Alix is very Imperious and will always insist on having her own way; she will never yield one iota of power she will imagine she wields…Alix's aunt, German Empress Frederick
It was this thinking and her unwillingness to embrace her people that sealed her fate and that of her entire family.
The Murder of Alix
Dangerously weakened by World War I, Imperial Russia’s government could not bear the financial burden.
Mass hunger became the norm for millions of Russians who refused to accept it any longer and turned on their monarchy.
The entire family became prisoners in their own palace.
The provisional government hoped their foreign relatives might take them in.
Nicholas’s first cousin, George V of Great Britain, refused to offer the family asylum because the public sentiment was turning against royalty.
France was reluctant to accept them because the war with Germany was still raging and Alix was seen as a German sympathizer.
Hope abandoned the Romanovs.
The Bolsheviks seized power and moved the family to a more remote location.
It was Tuesday, 16 July 1918, a date that passed by peacefully without incident.
Nicholas walked with his daughters at 4 o’clock in the small garden.
Alix and Nicholas played cards until 10:30 and then retired to bed.
In the morning, everything changed.
Nicholas was shot in the chest several times and a bullet entered the left side of Alix’s skull just above her ear, exiting from the right side.
Their children were executed in a similar manner.
And that was the end of that.
Elisabeth and Alix were no more.
Two sisters caught up in the winds of change.
Two beautiful princesses whose lives were cut short because ideas changed.
And so it goes.
Why?
It is the oldest question known to mankind.
The mysteries of this world are often unfathomable.
But one thing is for certain.
The same question will continue to be asked until we find ways to live together in peace.
Rising majestically above the trees, deep in the center of the Netherlands, the towers of Castle de Haar glisten in the morning sunlight.
This is no ordinary castle.
It is the largest in the Netherlands, and one of the most luxurious in Europe.
From Humble Beginnings
To go from this, in 1892 …
… to this, in 1912 …
… requiredbig money. Rothschild money.
In 1391, the family De Haar was granted rights to the original castle and surrounding lands that existed on the same site as the current castle.
Changing hands to the Van Zuylen family in 1440, then burned down and rebuilt in the early 1500s, the castle had fallen into ruins by the late 17th century.
Eventually, De Haar was inherited by Etienne Gustave Frédéric Baron van Zuylen van Nyevelt van de Haar.
Try saying that with a mouthful of Edam.
Etienne married Baroness Hélène de Rothschild in 1887—and the money connection was forged.
Restoration on a Grand Scale
20-years of restoration has created one of the world’s most beautiful and romantic castles.
Fully financed by Hélène’s family, the Rothschilds, the famous Dutch architect Pierre Cuypers set about building 200 rooms and 30 bathrooms.
Well, you never know when you’ve got to go, do you?
Installing all the mod-cons of the late Victorian and Edwardian Eras, the castle had electrical lighting running off its own generator and steam-based central heating.
A large collection of copper pots and pans adorns the kitchen that was very modern for its day, having a 20 ft-long furnace heated with either coal or peat.
Decorated with fine detail throughout, the kitchen tiles have the coat of arms of both the De Haar and Van Zuylen families.
Richly ornamented woodcarving reminiscent of a Roman Catholic church adorns the interior along with old Flemish tapestries and paintings.
Formal Gardens
Reminiscent of the French gardens of Versailles, the surrounding park contains many waterworks and 7000 trees.
Elf Fantasy Fair
Attracting some 22,500 visitors every year, the Elf Fantasy Fair held in April at Castle de Haar is the largest fantasy event in Europe.
Next to fantasy, there are also themes from science fiction, gothic, manga, cosplay and historical reenactment genres.
Click to show Google Street View of Castle de Haar
Flanked and backed by majestic fir trees, Peleș Castle, sits atop a rise in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains near Sinaia, Romania.
Never intended as a fortress, it is a lavishly furnished and decorated 170-room palace, with 30 bathrooms covering 34,000 sq ft.
Inspired by Schloss Neuschwanstein in Bavaria, Peleş Castle is a romantic blend of Neo-Renaissance and Gothic Revival styles.
Constructed between 1873 and 1883 at a cost of 16 million gold Romanian coins (~$120 million today), major improvements continued until 1914.
Housing one of the finest collections of art in Eastern and Central Europe, consisting of statues, paintings, furniture, arms and armor, gold, silver, stained glass, ivory, fine china, tapestries, and rugs, it spans over four centuries of history.
The collection of arms and armor has over 4,000 pieces, divided between Eastern and Western war pieces and ceremonial or hunting pieces.
Peleş Castle interior. Credit Diana Popescu
Commissioned by King Carol I of Romania, his towering statue by Raffaello Romanelli overlooks the main entrance of Peleş Castle.
When King Carol I was walking in the Carpathian Mountains of Sinaia in 1866, he came across the site of the future castle and fell in love with the scenery.
He commissioned a royal summer retreat and hunting preserve together with several other buildings and a power plant.
Peleș was the world’s first castle fully powered by locally produced electricity.
Peleș Castle was a truly European collaboration.
While Europe’s leaders eyed each other with suspicion and readied for war, ordinary workers from diversely different backgrounds worked together to build their palaces.
Elisabeth of Wied, the Queen of Romania, noted in her diary:
Statues by the Italian sculptor Romanelli, mostly of Carrara marble, adorn the seven Italian neo-Renaissance terrace gardens.
Guarding lions, fountains, urns, stairways, marble paths, and other decorative pieces grace the gardens.
Visiting in 1896, Emperor Franz Joseph I of Austria-Hungary wrote:
Accomplished as a writer under the nom de plume Carmen Sylva, Queen Elisabeth of Romania wrote poems, plays, novels, and short stories in German, Romanian, French and English.
Considered a dreamer and eccentric, she was once a favorite of Queen Victoria as a prospective bride for her son, the future Edward VII.
Said to be unmoved by her pictures, Edward chose Alexandra of Denmark instead.
Prince Carol of Romania first noticed Elisabeth in Berlin in 1861 and the two were married 8 years later in her hometown of Neuwied, in the German state of Rhineland-Palatinate.
They had one daughter who tragically died at age three. Elisabeth never got over it.
Failing to produce a male heir, the couple became estranged and King Carol adopted his nephew, and successor, Ferdinand.
Queen Elisabeth encouraged a love affair between Ferdinand and one of her ladies in waiting, Elena Văcărescu.
Doomed from the start, a marriage between Ferdinand and Elena would have been forbidden by the Romanian constitution.
Elisabeth and Elena were exiled while Ferdinand was introduced to a granddaughter of Queen Victoria, his distant cousin Princess Marie of Edinburgh.
Married in January 1893, and with the birth of their son at Peleş Castle in October of that same year, Ferdinand and Marie would give meaning to the phrase “cradle of the dynasty, cradle of the nation” that the king had bestowed upon the castle.
The infant Carol would later become King Carol II of Romania and grow up under the thumb of his domineering great-uncle King Carol I.
In the early 20th century, Romania had a famously relaxed “Latin” sexual morality and Princess Marie pursued a series of love affairs.
Shy and weak, Ferdinand was easily overshadowed by the charismatic Marie, but fiercely resented being cuckolded.
Feeling that Marie was unqualified to raise the young Prince Carol, the stern King took him under his wing and thoroughly spoiled him.
Regarding the king as a cold, overbearing tyrant, Marie worried that he would crush her son’s spirit.
But life wasn’t so bad for Ferdinand and Marie.
Commissioned by the King and built within the same complex as Peleş Castle, the Art Nouveau style Pelișor Castle became their new home.
An accomplished artist herself, Marie made many interior design decisions for Pelișor and considered Art Nouveau an antidote to sterile historicism.
Creating her own personal style, she combined Art Nouveau with elements from Byzantine and Celtic art.
As if foretelling the future, Queen Elisabeth held the private opinion that a Republican form of government was preferable to monarchy, writing in her journal:
But for these “little people”, Romania’s transition away from monarchy was neither rational nor romantic.
With the monarchy abolished in 1947, Romania fell under the iron grip of Communism and the castle complex became first a place of recreation for Romanian dignitaries, then a museum, and finally closed for most of dictator Nicolae Ceauşescu’s regime.
It wasn’t until 2006 that the legal ownership of the palace complex, including Pelișor, was returned to the heirs of the Romanian royal family.
At 95, King Michael I of Romania, the last surviving head of state from World War II, wishes Pelișor castle remain a home for his heirs.
William Merritt Chase was an American painter who thrived during America’s Gilded Age.
He is best known for his portraits and landscapes in the impressionist “en plein air” (painted outdoors) style.
He captured the domestic comforts of his own family and the blissful lifestyle of some of the wealthy.
While working in the family business, Chase showed an early talent for art, studying under local, self-taught artists in Indianapolis, who urged him to further his studies at the National Academy in New York.
Declining family fortunes cut short his training and he left New York to join his family in St Louis—working to help support them, but continuing his art.
Catching the eye of wealthy St Louis art collectors, Chase was sent on an expense-paid trip to Europe in exchange for some of his paintings and help in procuring others for their collections.
As one of the finest centers for art training in Europe, Chase joined the Academy of Fine Arts, Munich, where his figurative and impressionist loose brushwork began to shine.
Further travels in Italy rounded out his skills and he returned to the United States as one of a new wave of highly accomplished European-trained artists.
American statesman Samuel Greene Wheeler Benjamin once said of Chase’s style,
A noble sense of color is perceptible in all his works, whether in the subtle elusive tints of flesh, or in the powerful rendering of a mass of color. In the painting of a portrait he endeavors, sometimes very successfully, to seize character
Whether relaxing in the country, strolling in the park, playing with children at the beach, boating on a summer afternoon or simply contemplating life, his paintings show us a slice of American life at a beautiful time. A time tinted with gold. A Gilded Age.
Something wonderful happened to the world of fashion during the second half of the 19th century.
Beautiful gowns were no longer the exclusive privilege of the aristocracy …
… but were available to anyone with the wherewithal to display their finery on the boulevards, in the opera houses, and in café society.
It was a time to “see and be seen”.
And who was responsible for this change?
None other than the English entrepreneur Charles Frederick Worth, “the father of Haute Couture”.
Born in Lincolnshire, England, Charles Frederick Worth spent his early career working for department stores and textile merchants in London.
Besides learning all there was to know about fabrics and the dressmaking business, he would spend hours in the National Gallery studying historical portraits.
It was this time in London that would inspire his later works.
As the center of world fashion, Paris beckoned, and Worth found employment with the prominent textile firm Maison Gagelin, soon becoming a leading salesman, then dressmaker.
Establishing a reputation for himself and winning commendations at the expositions in Paris and London, news of Worth’s skills caught the attention of the Empress Eugénie, wife of Emperor Napoleon III of France.
Appointed court designer, Charles Frederick Worth’s success was all but guaranteed.
Soon after, he opened his own design house in Paris at 7 Rue de la Paix—first in partnership with Otto Bobergh and later as sole proprietor.
The House of Worth and Haute Couture were born.
Haute Couture is the fusion of fashion and costume.
It is wearable art.
And wealthy women of the 19th century would pay handsomely for it.
With seemingly endless social engagements, clients changed dress up to four times a day, some purchasing their entire wardrobes from Worth.
The House of Worth was known for showing several designs for each season on live models.
Clients would select their favorites and Worth would tailor-make gowns with elegant fabrics, detailed trimmings, and superb fit.
By the 1870s, Worth’s name frequently appeared in ordinary fashion magazines, spreading his fame to women well beyond courtly circles.
I told you it was a dress from Worth’s. I know the look.
Combining colors and textures using meticulously chosen textiles and trims, House of Worth produced works of art.
That so many examples have survived in such good condition is testament not only to the popularity of Worth among wealthy patrons but also the quality of textiles insisted upon by Charles Frederick Worth.
What better way to celebrate the extraordinary House of Worth than the dulcet tones of Claude Debussy.
This is one of Worth’s earlier designs when he was still in partnership with Otto Bobergh under the name Worth and Bobergh.
Skirts of the 1860s were wide, full, and bell-shaped, supported initially by multiple layers of petticoats and later by crinolines made from graduated hoops of cane or steel.
As the 1870s got underway, the shape of skirts changed, with flatter front and sides and the fullness pulled back and supported behind by a “bustle”.
As the 1880s came to a close, the lines of skirts transitioned away from the bustle to form a clearer shape, but the sleeves swelled to enormous proportions, earning them the nickname “elephant sleeves”.
House of Worth gowns were worn by the very wealthiest of clients. The dinner dress (below left) was worn by the wife of the great American banker J.P. Morgan, Jr.
At night, the stars in the evening dress (below right) would twinkle as the wearer moved and the light caught the different textures.
Charles Frederick Worth passed away in 1895 and The House of Worth remained in operation under his descendents but faced increasing competition from the 1920s onwards, eventually closing in 1956.
The House of Worth brand was revived in 1999 but failed to compete successfully in Haute Couture.
When a young painting conservator from New York University happened upon some Louis Vuitton trunks in a 15th-century Florentine villa, she could not believe what was inside.
Undisturbed for almost 90 years were the most beautiful dresses she had ever seen, each with the label “Callot Soeurs”.
This was no ordinary find. Not many Callot Soeurs dresses have survived in such pristine condition.
They belonged to Hortense Mitchell Acton, an heiress from Chicago, married to Arthur Acton, a successful Anglo-Italian art collector and dealer.
Mrs Acton had been a valued client of Callot Soeurs from the moment they opened their couture house in 1895.
The Callot sisters—Marie Gerber, Marthe Bertrand, Régine Tennyson-Chantrelle, and Joséphine Crimont—rose to become the premier dressmaking house of the Belle Époque.
After losing Joséphine to suicide in 1897, Marie, Marthe and Régine continued to run the business.
Vogue magazine called them the Three Fates, and declared they were “foremost among the powers that rule the destinies of a woman’s life and increase the income of France.”
Among the first of the design houses to reject the corset, Callot Soeurs knew what women wanted—more freedom of movement, fluid lines, and exquisite detail.
In a male dominated business, the sisters stood out by including the word “Soeurs” (French for sisters) in their label.
For Hortense Acton, Callot Soeurs’ gowns were perfect for throwing parties at La Pietra—the Acton’s Florentine villa. She entertained everyone from Gertrude Stein to Winston Churchill.
Just how the dresses survived is somewhat of a miracle.
When the Fascists took over Italy, most of Mrs. Acton’s expatriate friends upped and left.
But not her husband. He was determined to stay, ride out the storm and look after the house and art collection.
Poor Hortense Acton stayed with him, only to be arrested and imprisoned. The villa and art collection were confiscated.
As if from a scene out of the Sound of Music, both Actons eventually managed to escape through Switzerland.
Today, they form part of a collection at La Pietra which was bequeathed to New York University in 1994.
Several other Museums house a collection of Callot Soeurs gowns, including The Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, The Museum at the Fashion Institute of Technology, and the Museum of Decorative Arts, Paris.
In each case, the collections show the signature elements of the house of Callot Soeurs: antique lace trimming, Orientalist textiles, lavish embroidery, and bead- or ribbonwork.
Exemplifying the fashion aesthetic of the time, this 1914 gown uses multiple layers and textures to give the appearance of an unstructured and spontaneous design.
One of Callot Soeurs’s greatest supporters was American socialite Rita de Acosta Lydig, regarded as “the most picturesque woman in America.”
Ordering dozens of dresses at a time, she would design them herself and have them handmade by Callot Soeurs.
So exacting were her tastes that when she discovered her husband was having an affair with a poorly dressed woman, she sent the mistress to Callot Soeurs for new clothing.
She wore a silver Callot Soeurs dress for this 1911 Giovanni Boldini portrait.
In Marcel Proust’s second volume of “Remembrance of Things Past”, he asks his girlfriend, “Is there a vast difference between a Callot dress and one from any other shop?” To which she replied, “Why, an enormous difference. Only, alas! What you get for 300 francs in an ordinary shop will cost you two thousand there. But there can be no comparison; they look the same only to people who know nothing about it.”
Callot Soeurs often used delicate materials in their very feminine creations.
Renowned for their exquisite lacework, such as this black, imbricated leaf pattern overlaid on pale taffeta. Finely embellished with black and silver sequins and rhinestones, this dress was exemplary of fashions in La Belle Époque.
By the Roaring Twenties, Callot Soeurs had branches in Nice, Biarritz, Buenos Aires, and London.
Ladies’ Home Journal of 1922 wrote,
Callot probably has more rich clients than any other establishment in the world. They come from South America, from South Africa, and as far east as Japan.
One of the twentieth century’s greatest designers—Madeleine Vionnet—was Callot’s head of the workroom, or première, before venturing out on her own.
She considered her time at Callot invaluable later in her career.
Without the example of the Callot Soeurs, I would have continued to make Fords. It is because of them that I have been able to make Rolls RoycesMadeleine Vionnet
And she expressed great respect for the house’s head designer, Madame Gerber.
A true dressmaker and a great lady totally occupied with a profession that consists of adorning women . . . not constructing a costume.Madeleine Vionnet
Frances “Fannie” Benjamin Johnston, a pioneering female photographer from Grafton, West Virginia, was given her first camera by George Eastman, founder of Eastman Kodak Company.
After a period of training with Thomas Smillie, director of photography at the Smithsonian, she toured Europe, learning from other prominent photographers to further her craft.
Continue reading
In 1894, she opened her own studio in Washington D.C. and was commissioned by magazines to take celebrity portraits, including Mark Twain, Susan B. Anthony, Booker T. Washington and even Alice Roosevelt’s wedding.
Well connected among the elites of society, from the late 1800s through 1935, she photographed the gardens of the rich and famous.
To the wealthy and class-conscious, gardens signified status and refinement in an ever growing industrialized America.
Deemed “the finest existing on the subject”, many of her meticulously composed images were hand tinted and were meant to educate the masses on how to beautify their yards.
What must be the sensations of a visiting Martian, when after thrilling to the matchless beauty of the New York skyline… the squalor and sordidness of many of our city districts…? (1922).Francis Benjamin Johnston
Francis Benjamin Johnston played a significant role in defining American landscape design.
Here are 40 glorious gardens from the Gilded Age.
Continue with more beautiful images of Gardens of the Gilded Age
At the age of eight, Cléo de Mérode (1875 – 1966) was already showing the talent that would make her a world renowned dancer of the Belle Époque.
Born in Paris to a Viennese baroness, she entered the Paris Opera ballet school at seven and made her professional debut at age eleven.
But it would be her beauty that stirred the public’s imagination, for Cléo de Mérode was, perhaps, the first real celebrity icon.
Before long, her dancing skills took second stage to her glamour, as postcards and playing cards around the world started featuring her image.
She was the talk of the town. Her new hairstyle was eagerly awaited and quickly imitated. Famous artists of the Belle Époque, like Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Giovanni Boldini, and Félix Nadar queued to sculpt, paint, and photograph her.
Even royalty courted her. In 1896, King Léopold II, having watched her dance at the ballet, became infatuated with her, and rumor soon spread that she was his mistress. The king had fathered two children with a prostitute and her reputation suffered as a consequence.
But this was the Belle Époque, a time of unprecedented colonial expansion, the very dawn of modern celebrity culture. Such indiscretions were soon forgotten and Cléo de Mérode became an international star, giving performances across Europe and the United States.
Contains affiliate links
Her decision to dance at the risqué Folies Bergère cabaret only served to heighten her following. And when she met artist Gustav Klimt, whose specialty was female sexuality, a romance blossomed that inspired the 2006 movie Klimt.
Continuing to dance into her early fifties, Mérode eventually retired to the seaside resort of Biarritz in the French Pyrénées. In 1955, she published her autobiography, Le Ballet de ma vie (The Dance of My Life).
At the ripe old age of 91, the greatest celebrity of the Belle Époque was no more. Cléo de Mérode was interred in the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris. Her spirit still watches over her mother, interred in the same tomb.
During the early decades of the twentieth century, child labor reached a peak in the United States.
American children worked in large numbers in mines, glass factories, textiles, agriculture, canneries, home industries, and as newsboys, messengers, bootblacks, and peddlers.
Social activism and political reform were sweeping across the country, and many states enacted laws to improve the conditions under which people lived and worked.
At the urging of prominent social critics, child labor laws were strengthened, age limits raised, and the work-week shortened—restricting night work and requiring school attendance.
When asked how old, she hesitated, then said “I don’t remember.” Then confidentially, “I’m not old enough to work, but I do just the same.”
The National Child Labor Committee (NCLC) was formed in 1904 to promote “the rights, awareness, dignity, well-being and education of children and youth as they relate to work and working.”
But children were being exploited for cheap labor in secret, hidden from public view. So in 1908, the NCLC hired Lewis Hine as an “investigative photographer” to document working and living conditions of children across the United States.
Hine would gain access to factories under assumed identities—one day a bible salesman, another day a fire inspector, a postcard vendor, or even an industrial photographer saying he was making a record of machinery.
Undeterred by threats of violence and even death by factory police and foremen, if he couldn’t get inside a building, he would wait outside and photograph the children in groups as they entered or left.
His photographs were instrumental in changing the child labor laws in the US.
We can all relate to the plight of this little girl who stares longingly out of the window of a cotton mill, watching the childhood she should’ve had slip away.
Reminiscent of a scene from Stanley Kubrick’s film The Shining, the little girl below probably thinks she’s done something wrong and can’t understand why Lewis Hine is asking her to stand still while pointing the camera at her.
… after I took the photo, the overseer came up and said in an apologetic tone that was pathetic, “She just happened in.” Then a moment later he repeated the information. The mills appear to be full of youngsters that “just happened in,” or ” are helping sister.”
We can probably all remember our grandparents saying “kids today don’t know they’re born”—we’ll probably say the same thing because each generation thinks they had it tougher than the current one.
But the young lads below really did have it tough. They worked the night shift from 5 pm to 3 am along with thousands of other children in the dangerous glass making industry.
Exposed to the intense heat (3133 °F) needed to melt glass, the boys could suffer eye trouble, lung ailments, heat exhaustion, not to mention constant cuts and burns.
Paid by the piece, they had to work as fast as they could for hours without a break. Many factory owners preferred boys under 16 years of age.
Eight-year-old Leo worked in a cotton mill and picked up bobbins for 15c a day. Already feeling the responsibility of contributing like the grown-ups, he said he didn’t do it just to help his sister or mother, but for himself.
Breaker boys worked in the coal mining industry. Their job was to separate impurities from coal by hand. It was midday when this photo was taken, and already the lads are covered from head to toe in coal dust.
A couple of the lads below muster a smile, while others are probably just relieved to get a few minutes respite.
Three-quarters of all child laborers worked in agriculture. Many of them were children of sharecroppers or seasonal workers who didn’t own their own land.
Paid by how much they picked, the only way for families to survive was for everyone in the family to join in with the work.
Waking when it was still dark, families would pile into trucks headed for the fields where they would work until the sun went down, often without a break.
Fighting to stay awake, come rain or shine, the children would pick cotton until their hands bled.
Frequently, the children lost weeks of schooling before the picking season ended and it was too late for them to catch up.
Like agricultural work, cannery jobs were seasonal. Whole families would move on site for the season, living in squalid temporary quarters provided by the employers.
The day began at 3 am, with six- and seven-year-olds working alongside their parents. Payment was piecework and speed was everything.
Daisy helps at the capping machine, but is not able to “keep up.” She places caps on the cans at the rate of about 40 per minute working full time.
Shucking oysters at a seafood cannery, children might manage two four-pound pots per day while their parents filled eight or nine.
Piled up on the ground, the shells made it exhausting to keep a footing and their jagged edges cut into fingers.
The baby will shuck as soon as she can handle the knife.
Eighteen-hour working days were not uncommon and children using sharp knives were especially likely to hurt themselves toward the end of the day, when they were exhausted.
The salt gits in the cuts an’ they ache.
In vegetable and fruit canneries, produce had to be canned quickly before it wilted. Children would haul boxes to the weighing stations—some weighing between 30 and 60 pounds.
In comparison, selling newspapers was relatively easy work and a good education in the ways of business.
Children would buy as many newspapers as they thought they could sell. Their own salesmanship came into play, but so did the drama of the headlines and how kind the weather was.
Most “newsies” attended school all day and had decent homes to go to at night. They were the lucky ones.
The National Child Labor Committee’s work to end child labor was combined with efforts to provide free, compulsory education for all children, and culminated in the passage of the Fair Labor Standards Act in 1938, which set federal standards for child labor.
References Library of Congress Smithsonian Institution Wikipedia
The year was 1871. Wealthy financier and Member of Parliament Mitchell Henry (1826 – 1910) was standing with his wife on the shores of a lake in County Galway, Ireland, admiring their new fairytale castle.
It had taken one hundred men four years to complete. But gazing across the lake at the castle’s reflection in the still waters, the couple knew it was worth the wait.
The fairytale dream
Their dream had been forged 16 years earlier when they honeymooned at this exact spot. Renting Kylemore Lodge, the Henrys had fallen in love with the bewitching beauty of the landscape.
Inheriting a sizeable fortune from his father, a wealthy cotton merchant from Manchester, England, no expense had been spared. Covering 40,000 square feet, with seventy rooms and made from granite shipped in by sea from Dalkey and limestone from Ballinasloe, it had cost £18,000 to build (about $3 million today).
But Mitchell Henry’s dream was bigger than Kylemore Castle. He gave up his career as a medical doctor to take over the family business and entered politics as Member of Parliament for Galway County.
With much of Ireland still recovering from the Great Irish Famine of 1845-52, Henry wanted to help the local community by providing work, shelter and a school. He drained thousands of acres of waste marshland, turning it into the productive Kylemore Estate and providing material and social benefits to the entire region.
Victorian Walled Gardens
Included as part of the Kylemore Estate were large, walled Victorian Gardens, with 21 heated glass houses and a 60-foot banana house, growing exotic fruit and vegetables of all kinds.
Tragedy strikes
Just four short years later, Henry’s wife Margaret suddenly died from a fever contracted in Egypt.
Overwhelmed by grief, he built a beautiful memorial church on the shore of the lake about a mile from the castle, where Margaret was laid to rest and where he would eventually join her.
Built from Caen sandstone with internal columns of green Connemara marble, the church is a scaled-down replica of the neo-Gothic Bristol Cathedral.
The Duke and Duchess of Manchester
What does an English Duke do when he finally runs out of money and cannot repay his gambling debts? Why, he elopes with an American heiress and escapes to a castle on a lake in Ireland.
Such was the next chapter in the story of Kylemore.
In 1903, Mitchell Henry sold Kylemore to William Angus Drogo Montague, 9th Duke of Manchester. A notorious spendthrift, Manchester succeeded his father in the Dukedom at the age of fifteen.
His excessive spending and gambling drained the family fortune, but as luck would have it, he met Helena Zimmerman, daughter of Eugene Zimmerman, a railroad magnate and major stockholder in Standard Oil.
Much to the chagrin of the locals, the Duke and Duchess were far more concerned with lavishly entertaining guests than they were in managing the estate.
While the Duke was away in Europe and America, often as a paid guest of wealthy Americans like media mogul Randolph Hearst, the Duchess was seen speeding along country lanes in her Daimler motor car—quite the site in 1900s Connemara!
Some say the Duke lost Kylemore in a late night of gambling at the castle, but one thing for certain is that after Eugene Zimmerman died, the money to fund a life of partying dried up, and the Duke and Duchess were forced to sell.
A sanctuary from war-torn Europe
Kylemore Castle’s next owners were a group of Benedictine nuns from Belgium who had fled the horrors of World War One.
Before the war, the nun’s home town of Ypres, with its 20,000 inhabitants, engaged in nothing more than the peaceful pursuit of making Valenciennes lace.
Then the war arrived on their doorstep.
The ravages of the First World War turned one of Belgium’s most beautiful and historic cities into nothing more than a ghostly shell of its former glory.
Escaping the devastation of their beloved Ypres—their home base for three hundred and forty years—the nuns settled into Kylemore Castle in 1920 and converted it into the working Kylemore Abbey.
Restoring the Kylemore Abbey’s Victorian gardens and neo-gothic church have been major projects aided by donations and the work of local artisans.
Kylemore Abbey continues to be a self-sustaining working monastery and the Victorian gardens are open to the public.
Mitchell and Margaret Henry can rest at peace knowing their dream castle is in safe hands.
Charles Courtney Curran was an American artist best known for paintings of Victorian and Edwardian women in graceful flowing dresses set against expansive romantic landscapes.
Many American artists spent time in Paris in the 19th century, and Curran was no exception. Paris was the center of the art world. To experience Paris was considered essential to American artists with a dream—a dream to excel at what they loved to do.
His paintings are compared with fellow American Impressionists who also spent time in Paris—Mary Cassatt, Edmund Charles Tarbell, and Frank Weston Benson. And it’s not difficult to see the influence of French Impressionists like Monet—especially works like The Promenade, Woman with a Parasol (1875).
Key Facts about Charles Courtney Curran
1500 works in his career, mostly oil paintings, some watercolors and illustrations for magazines.
Born in Hartford, Kentucky in 1861 but grew up on the shores of Lake Erie, Ohio.
Trained at the Fine Arts Academy of Cincinnati, the National Academy in New York City, and Académie Julian in Paris.
Traveled extensively—living in Paris, frequently visiting Europe and even China.
Imagine you are there gazing at the magnificent views from the heights of the Shawangunk Mountains in New York state.