Official or main royal residences
Palace of Westminster – 1049-1530
Kensington Palace – 1698-1760
St James’s Palace – 1698-1837
Buckingham Palace – 1837-
The three suites, Hague Philharmonic, recorded in 1963, Nonesuch LP. He made another recording with the New York Philharmonic, I suppose while music director there from ’71 to ’77.
Handel composed the Water Music for George I, for performances on the Thames in 1715 (first suite or part of it) and 1717 (complete work).
George and companions boarded a royal barge at Whitehall Palace at 8 pm on Saturday 17 7 1717 for an excursion up the Thames towards Chelsea. The rising tide propelled it without rowing. Another barge, provided by the City of London, contained fifty musicians. Other Londoners took to the river to hear the concert. The king left his barge at Chelsea and returned to it at 11 pm for the return trip, when the music was repeated.
Handel had been employed by George in Germany while the future king was only Elector of Hanover. He wrote the Music for the Royal Fireworks for George II more than thirty years later.
The clips (here, here, here, here) that were shown before the works performed by the Cleveland Orchestra (now, for better or worse, under Franz Welser-Möst) at their concert for Boulez on January 15 show somebody very different from an arrogant iconoclast. The programme was his own Twelve Notations (for piano); Berg, Three Excerpts from Wozzeck; Debussy, Jeux; Boulez, Notations I, VII, IV, III, II (orchestral version).
An equivalent at the Barbican on April 23 with the LSO under Peter Eötvös will have Boulez’s Livre pour cordes and Rituel in memoriam Bruno Maderna and, between them, the seminal (but otherwise overrated?) The Rite of Spring.
Bob Shingleton on Rituel, and Boulez’s relationship with the BBC SO, whose chief conductor he was from 1971 to ’75. Their celebration at the Barbican, on March 21 under Thierry Fischer, had Pli selon pli and Notations.
Boulez’s lack of interest in Brahms, a composer, presumably, with plenty of “structure” and “necessity” (even if he came from the conservative side of the nineteenth century), is puzzling.
One would like to know Boulez’s views on some non-musical matters, or does he exist solely in music?
Rituel, performers not stated:
Sylvain Blassel and Atelier XXème du Chapelle du conservatoire de Rennes, concert donné aux Champs Libres à Rennes le 7 décembre 2011. You can also hear Boulez doing this with the Ensemble Intercontemporain. This is for six players. It is a short work from 1984, about six minutes: the rest here is a concert lecture. It is Boulez at his most accessible. Dérive II, for eleven instruments, 1988, 2002, 2006, really is this length: it began short, but is now longer.
BBC Radio 3’s Music Matters, which aired last Saturday, on Pierre Boulez, who is ninety today, is here and here for another twenty-odd days at least. It’s hosted by Petroc Trelawney, despised as a broadcaster by a giant of musical blogging, Bob Shingleton, but not, perhaps, quite as bad as all that all the time. With him are Paul Driver, music critic of the Sunday Times, and Morag Grant, a Fellow of the Käte Hamburger Kolleg in Bonn, who are another matter.
This is discussion, and a mining of the warm and inscrutable Boulez’s words on the BBC over five decades. Why is the z pronounced in Boulez? Doesn’t it suggest something Spanish?
I wish Paul Driver wrote more outside Murdoch-land. He has only published one book, an unclassifiable assemblage of his own meditations on Manchester called Manchester Pieces. He’s a Mancunian, like the late Michael Kennedy.
Boulez’s list, aired in early 2000 on a New York radio station, of the ten most important pieces of music in the twentieth century is engaging.
I used to assume that his works were all short, like Webern’s. They aren’t. Then I thought that they were merely intellectual. They are, of course, not.
Boulez does walk into concert halls. He does dress formally. He does bow. He does conduct. He does accept applause.
I was taken in by the hoax in 2006 about Boulez’s recording of Vaughan Williams 4 and 6 on DG. For days, before I realised, the word “wow” was floating around in my head. There was even a review, which made it sound rather like Karajan’s recordings of English music. I can’t remember where the joke started. Driver, at least, can be as engaged with the Britten whom Boulez so much despises as with Boulez.
The campaign to encourage Mandarin in Singapore was, of course, directed at the Chinese: it was not intended that it should replace English as a lingua franca. I have corrected a phrase in a recent post that suggested otherwise. Even so, has it placed the Chinese above other ethnic groups in a way that the humbler Hokkien and other vernaculars did not?
According to Singapore census figures quoted at Wikipedia, the battle is being won. During the 1990s the language most frequently spoken at home among the Chinese resident population ceased to be a vernacular and became Mandarin.
This is not about the UAE, but is Lee Kuan Yew in Singapore in 2009 talking about forgetting what it is like to be poor; it merely suggests interesting comparisons:
Lee Kuan Yew’s first language was English. He spoke it with a Singaporean accent. His vowels sounded roundly imperial.
He came from a family of merchants and businessmen, a Hakka family which had emigrated from Guangdong province in the 1860s. In Singapore they adopted English. Lee was educated at Raffles Institution in English.
Lee arrived in Cambridge (he married his wife secretly in England: his tutors would not have approved) before we had surrendered even India, and ten years before anything else happened.
He started learning Mandarin at the age of thirty-two and Hokkien at thirty-eight. Did he learn to read and write them or only speak?
At some stage he learned Malay, but never, as far as I know, Tamil.
He encouraged Chinese Singaporeans to learn Mandarin and launched a Speak Mandarin Campaign in 1979.
He believed in keeping ancestral languages, but also in having English as a lingua franca. Has the use of Mandarin placed the Chinese above other ethnic groups in a way that the humbler Hokkien did not?
I visited Singapore first in 1984. Much more of the old town was standing then. It was still colonial. New towers loomed over old shophouses. I remember meeting Tony Tan, the Minister of Finance, who is now president. We visited one office and found ourselves face to face with LKY’s stockbroker brother Freddy, in Singaporean shirtsleeves in an old building with real windows over a real street.
Singaporeans are informal and, unlike people in Hong Kong, not great dressers.
I have described meeting Lee Kuan Yew in Davos circa 1998 (not worth linking to). I haven’t checked how often he was there. I am not sure whether one would call him a stalwart.
I saw him in a small auditorium at a WEF meeting in Singapore in the early 2000s, where he talked and answered questions in his usual way: about the rise of China, the fragility of Singapore, the strengths and weaknesses of the West. I remember that he walked down the steps to the stage arm held up in greeting, palm forward. The gesture made an impression on me. This is how to enter a room where you are expected, but not known personally. It establishes authority, but is informal.
Remembering Lee Kuan Yew: Straits Times.
“The first time I came out of the Tube station at Trafalgar Square [probably 1946], I was very impressed. There was a bundle of newspapers for sale and a box. Nobody there. And you can take the newspaper and put your coins in or [take your] change. I said: ‘This is really a civilised society’.”
This was the way evening papers were sold in London until the early ’70s or later. I can remember it. I remember an Austrian remarking on it.
On the first main bulletin after Lee’s death, the 10 pm Radio 4 news yesterday: item number 3.
Twelve hours later, 10 am R4 headlines: Lee not mentioned AT ALL.
Here’s the punchline. On the “flagship” R4 lunchtime news programme on Monday, and a 45-minute affair supposedly of some prestige, The “World” at One: Lee not mentioned AT ALL again, even in the headlines. We once ruled the world. We should at least understand it.
This was the day, in Asia time, of Lee’s death, a man of historical importance, the first half of whose life was closely bound up with Britain. There was a lot on extremism, UKIP and sexual abuse and, when the editors had run out of that and didn’t have a welfare story, a long closing section about, not hawking this time, but what makes a gardener.
These discussions are riveting. Lee Kuan Yew met young journalists from the Straits Times at the Istana over the course of a year to answer their questions, in 2009 and 2010.
How to preserve Singapore:
A second, shorter clip is here, but won’t embed. On sexuality, his grandchildren and more.
A third, in which he speaks movingly about his wife, Kwa Geok Choo, who died on October 2 2010, soon after this was filmed:
A book and DVD, Hard Truths to Keep Singapore Going, came out in 2011, published by the Straits Times Press. Amazon blurb:
“Why is Lee so hard on his political opponents? Could the PAP ever lose its grip on power? Are the younger leaders up to the mark? Will growing religiosity change Singapore for the better of worse? How will rising giants China and India affect Singapore’s fortunes? Why is rich Singapore so parsimonious when spending on the poor and disadvantaged? Why the drive to attract immigrants despite Singaporeans’ discomfiture? Lee, fielding these and many other questions in the book and on DVD, is combative, thought-provoking and controversial. Lee has stayed in the public eye for 60 years – as the revolutionary leader who steered Singapore to independence, as the Prime Minister who transformed the Republic into a First World country, and as Minister Mentor, the elder statesman. Based on 32 hours of interviews, this book and DVD pick up where his memoirs of 1999 and 2000 left off. His views are articulated forcefully, with forays into history to buttress his point. To him, Singapore is a miracle that could disappear if not for exceptional leadership and safeguards. Here is Lee at 87, an unrepentant believer in strong government, in genes, and in the view that economics trumps freedoms.
This book presents the politically incorrect Lee, often impatient and dismissive of those who criticise his worldview. He is not one for regrets. He does not recant. But there are moments when he looks back and thinks he could have done things differently or been more accommodating. Readers will gain insight into Lee’s mind as he ruminates, argues, thinks aloud and rebuts.”
The best version of Walton’s Richard III prelude on YouTube – part of his music for Laurence Olivier’s film – is Brazilian.
Richard’s remains are being moved from the University of Leicester to Leicester Cathedral today via local villages, taking in the site of the Battle of Bosworth. The cortège was on its way at the time of posting. He will be buried in the cathedral on Thursday.
The Orquestra Filarmonia of the Theatro São Pedro in São Paulo under Paulo Maron, April 2002, isn’t the best orchestra (like Schoenberg’s music, it is perhaps better than it sounds), but it doesn’t matter, because it does the piece with such verve. The collapse into the big tune at 1:12 is just right. The way to keep Waltonian bombast at bay is to keep the music moving.
The prelude was arranged from the film score by the conductor of the soundtrack Muir Mathieson.
Mathieson also arranged a Richard III suite, but the prelude is not part of it. On YouTube with Walton conducting the Philharmonia. There is no funeral music here. There is in Walton’s Hamlet.
Christopher Palmer’s arrangement, Richard III, A Shakespeare Scenario, has music with words and lasts 45 minutes. On YouTube with Neville Marriner, Academy of St Martin-in-the-Fields and John Gielgud.
Renato Rocha on why Richard III speaks to Brazilians, Guardian, April 23 2012.
Walton’s Shakespeare films:
As You Like It (1936)
Henry V (1944)
Richard III (1955)
Paul Czinner directed and Laurence Olivier starred in As You Like It. Olivier directed and starred in the other three.
Tony Palmer’s film about Walton At the Haunted End of the Day used the fanfare which opens the Richard prelude to accompany shots of the Ischia-dwelling Walton arriving at Heathrow for his eightieth birthday celebrations in 1982 and being driven into town in a Rolls Royce. That’s how a grand old composer should arrive.
There are two nineteenth-century orchestral pieces about Richard III, a symphonic poem (1857-58) by Smetana and an overture (1870s?) by Robert Volkmann. Both solid pieces of orchestral furniture. Smetana also wrote some fanfares for Richard (1867) for brass and timpani, presumably for a production of the play. Volkmann quotes, half way through, The Campbells are Coming, in allusion to Richard’s war with Scotland.
Smetana, Czech Philharmonic, Rafael Kubelik:
And the Smetana fanfares, Fanfary k Richardovi III, BBC Philharmonic, Gianandrea Noseda:
Volkmann, Radio Symphony Orchestra Stuttgart, Carl Schuricht, Stuttgart, September 12 1952:
Until recently there was no opera. But now we have one, by Giorgio Battistelli.
Here is the whole 1955 film:
“Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth’d his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barded steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish’d, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up,
About a prophecy, which says that ‘G’
Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here
Nought shall make us rue (recent post).
The Achaemenian Rāj in South-Western Asia was no more seriously shaken by the disastrous failure of the Persian invasion of European Greece in 480-479 B.C. than the British Rāj in India was by the even more disastrous failure of the British invasion of Afghanistan in A.D. 1838-42.
A Study of History, Vol VI, OUP, 1939 (footnote)
The Treaty of Bucharest of 1913, at the end of the Balkan Wars, divided the Macedonian region between Greece, Serbia and Bulgaria, with Greece getting the lion’s share; a small section went to Albania. The Serbian part ended (from 1946) as a separate constituent republic of Yugoslavia and is now an independent country.
In Macedonia, where the social peripeteia accompanying a transfer of sovereignty from the Ottoman Empire to the Kingdom of Greece had taken place ninety-one years later than in Laconia [with which he has just been concerned], the writer once had the good fortune to obtain a vivid sidelight on it from a living beneficiary. Waiting for an omnibus at Sorovich on the 4th September, 1921, he fell into conversation with a bystander who turned out to be a Slovene, born in Klagenfurt, Carinthia, who had emigrated as a boy to the United States, had come to Macedonia as a chauffeur for the American Red Cross, and was now driving a tractor in the service of three Greek brothers who were joint owners of a large estate in the neighbourhood of Sorovich, besides owning a whole block of houses just across the road from the railway station. Like the property itself, the present owners’ up-to-date Western method of farming was a legacy from their father, who had died only four months since. In answer to a question about his enterprising deceased employer’s antecedents, the Slovene mechanic volunteered: “Well, he hadn’t owned this property for very long. Before ‘the war’ [meaning the Balkan Wars of A.D. 1912-13] [Toynbee’s bracket], when the Turks owned the land, he was just one of those ‘Christians’ – what is the English word for them? … O, now I remember it: ‘brigands’ – up in the mountains. But, when the Greek Army marched in, the Turks cleared out and the brigands came down from the mountains and seized the land. So that is how my employer got his property, and how I got my job.”
There was a tradition in ancient anti-Christian polemic of referring to Christ himself as a brigand.
A Study of History, Vol X, OUP, 1954 (footnote)
Lee Kuan Yew is the last great living twentieth-century nation builder, if he is alive.
Who were the others? What defines them? They have to have created a nation where none before existed – and yet one can’t leave out Mandela.
They must have done it through a personal struggle. They must have a certain stature. Their achievement must be solid. One can’t leave out Herzl, although he died forty-four years before the birth of Israel.
At one level, Lee was a reluctant builder. He did not, at least as it appears, wish to leave the Malaysian Federation in 1965.
Norway, Finland, Iceland, the Baltic states, Poland, Belarus, Moldova, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Kosovo, Macedonia, Albania, Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan, the central Asian “stans”, Mongolia were, before the twentieth century, merged or submerged nations, but when they became independent did not have famous fathers, unless you count Piłsudski. They already, in a sense, existed, especially Poland. But, then, so did the Czech nation. (One can’t exactly call Haakon VII a nation-builder, even if he was a father-figure.)
Ukraine is a half-formed nation. Why am I implying less formed than the other Ruthenia, Belarus? At any rate, no builders.
Hungary achieved nationhood in the nineteenth century. Masaryk was a nation-builder even though the nation he founded was later divided into two.
The Philippines’ founders did their work before, not after, American colonisation. Aung San died before Burmese independence, and his legacy is unclear. So are Ho Chi Minh’s and Sihanouk’s. Burma, Vietnam and Cambodia had once contained powerful states. Burma is the most ethnically fragmented. Thailand was never colonised, so the question of nation-building does not arise.
The Republic of China was declared in 1912, but Taiwan became its last stronghold long after Sun’s death. Sun was the father of a nation that, as a geographical entity, doesn’t even recognise itself, and as a wider entity is China – not a new nation.
So I include him uneasily – or do we believe in the permanence of Taiwan? I can’t leave out Sukarno even if I want to.
Not everyone who led a colony into independence qualifies. In fact, not a single leader from the main years of decolonisation is in my list. I can’t bring myself to include Bourguiba, for example. Or, in a short list, Nkrumah or Kenyatta or Nyerere or Kaunda. Is that because black African countries are, or were, not nations, but tribal or ethnic hegemonies and coalitions? But so are others. So is Burma. So was nineteenth-century Hungary.
Mahathir is a smaller figure than Lee. He did not become prime minister until 1981.
In theory Singapore is a coalition of three ethnic groups, like its one-time role-model Switzerland.
Here is my list, in chronological order of the nation’s birth or the builder’s accession to power if later:
Sun Yat-sen 1912
Ibn Saud 1932
Mahatma Gandhi 1947
Muhammad Ali Jinnah 1947
Theodor Herzl 1948
Lee Kuan Yew 1965
Nelson Mandela 1994
Lee’s funeral or public memorial will be as big as Mandela’s and deservedly. [Postscript: I was wrong on that.] You don’t need to have loved someone to feel grief.
The Blairs will be there, collecting cards.
1946, Fitzwilliam College, Cambridge
In A.D. 1790 the French National Assembly was warned by the prophetic voice of Mirabeau that a representative parliamentary body was likely to prove more bellicose than a monarch.
[Footnote: “Je vous demande à vous-mêmes: sera-t-on mieux assuré de n’avoir que des guerres justes, équitables, si l’on délègue exclusivement à une assemblée de 700 personnes l’exercice du droit de faire la guerre? Avez-vous prévu jusqu’où les mouvemens [sic] passionnés, jusqu’où l’exaltation du courage et d’une fausse dignité pourroient porter et justifier l’imprudence …? Pendant qu’un des membres proposera de délibérer, on demandera la guerre à grands cris; vous verrez autour de vous une armée de citoyens. Vous ne serez pas trompés par des ministres; ne le serez-vous jamais par vous-mêmes? … Voyez les peuples libres, c’est par des guerres plus ambitieuses, plus barbares qu’ils se sont toujours distingués. Voyez les assemblées politiques; c’est toujours sous le charme de la passion qu’elles ont décrété la guerre” (Mirabeau in the French National Assembly on the 20th May, 1790).
In this matter the statesman Mirabeau showed a clearer vision than the philosopher Volney, whose eighteenth-century complacency on the subject of War was apparently still unshaken in 1791 [he woke up later], to judge by the following passage of Les Ruines, which was published in that year:
“Si les guerres sont devenues plus vastes dans leurs masses, elles ont été moins meurtrières dans leurs details; si les peuples y ont porté moins de personnalité, moins d’énergie, leur lutte a été moins sanguinaire, moins acharnée. Ils ont été moins libres, mais moins turbulents, plus amollis, mais plus pacifiques.” […]]
A Study of History, Vol IV, OUP, 1939
Julia Langdon on how the blood has been sucked out of the House of Commons since 1970, when – it is hardly credible now – thirty-five MPs were former miners. With Betty Boothroyd and others. BBC Radio 4.
Louise Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun, Self-portrait in a straw hat, 1782, normally in the National Gallery, now in the Rubens exhibition at the Royal Academy (which is only 25% Rubens); she died in Paris in 1842; here are her memoirs
John Singer Sargent, Dr Pozzi at home, 1881, normally at the Armand Hammer Museum, Los Angeles, now in the Sargent exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery; Dr Pozzi was considered the father of French gynaecology; he was shot dead in Paris by a male patient in 1918; see doctorpozzi.com
The end of Stravinsky’s Apollon musagète. Leningrad Philharmonic Orchestra, Yevgeny Mravinsky.
I heard a rumour that the capital was moving when I was in Cairo in January. Now it’s announced.
My reaction then, and when I read the story yesterday, was one of anger. It’s easy to build a totally unEgyptian sub-clone of Dubai on a greenfield site, instead of taking responsibility for a city and dealing with the problems which are staring you in the face; instead of planting trees and parks, recycling rubbish, building a subway system and schools, restoring some charm to the banks of the Nile.
Tahrir Square has been a building site for decades because a corrupt state-owned contractor has not paid a corrupt official or vice versa. The traffic was worse in early 2015 than I have ever known it before.
If you ask the Egyptian middle class what it would like for a city, most will, I am afraid, say Dubai. That is how little imagination is in play here. They are embarrassed by Cairo. Let us not draw attention to it by improving it. Let us walk away from the messy place where people died in 2011.
The lower-class inhabitants of Cairo know that the city is not what it was. The narrative here is one which one is heard in other parts of the middle east and is often delivered in spiritual rather than planning terms. “You can’t imagine. This city was a paradise. People lived with each other. Christians and Jews and Muslims. They helped each other. You don’t understand what it was like. Now people are only interested in money.” A Dubai clone will intensify the holocaust of the human soul.
Sisi likes easy-to-understand announcements. The widening of the Suez canal is at least in an Egyptian tradition of grands projets (pyramids, Aswan dam). And this will be the first new Egyptian capital since the Shiite Fatimids built Cairo in the tenth century.
What will it be called? It will be near Cairo, but there is already a New Cairo. There are, in fact, many new Cairos with a small n, depending on your starting date: Zamalek, Downtown, Maadi, Garden City, Heliopolis, Dokki, Mohandessin, Nasr City, 6th of October City. New Cairo with a big n, east of the city, is adjacent to, or contains, a new business area called the 5th Settlement or 5th District, which takes over an hour to reach. It not so much sub-Dubai as like Delhi’s Gurgaon. And full of fourth-rate regional headquarters with tinted glass.
The city will be in this area. Perhaps it will be no more than an extension of the 5th Settlement and not really a new capital at all, with the rest hype. It will, of course, be “sustainable” (although two hours’ drive from the Smart Village, which is on the Alexandria Desert Road).
How will Cairenes react to the plan? With a feeling of bewilderment, of having been abandoned? Or will a popular élan which collapsed in 1967 return? Why would it? What will this new city have to do with ordinary people?
Then I started to reconsider. Perhaps old Cairo really is beyond repair. Perhaps it is too late, and nobody would invest there. This and the Suez project will at least generate employment. Perhaps having the capital adjacent to Cairo will allow some of its synthetic prosperity to trickle into the old city. What is wrong with turning over a new leaf, which Egypt urgently needs to do anyway? Perhaps this is less inhuman than abandoning Cairo altogether.
I write about Cairo because I have been there recently. I write less about east Asian cities because I no longer visit them often.
Having realized Russia’s need to acquire a seaboard, Peter began, in A.D. 1695-6, with the relatively easy conquest of Azov from the Turks. It is significant that, after his return from the Western tour of A.D. 1697-8, he addressed himself to the far more formidable task of conquering the Baltic Provinces from the Swedes, and persevered in this arduous enterprise for twenty years (A.D. 1700-21) until he finally achieved his aim. He had come to the conclusion that a seaboard on the Baltic was worth acquiring at any price because it would open the door for direct intercourse between Russia and the West. […] On the other hand, the conquest of Azov was not worth following up, because the further passage from this port to the open sea was blocked by the Ottoman Government’s control of the Straits of Kertch and of the Bosphorus and of the Dardanelles. And even if the Russian ships had been able to run the gauntlet of these three successive “Symplegades”, they would have merely found themselves at large in the Eastern Mediterranean – a sea which, in Peter’s day, before the opening of the short-cut from the Atlantic to the Indian Ocean, was a sluggish backwater, remote from the principal ocean-highways of the World.
Towards the end of the fifteenth century, Moscow (Ivan III) overcame the Golden Horde, and the Crimean khans (1449-1783), minor successors of the Horde, came under Ottoman protection. Russia did not conquer the Crimean Khanate (“Little Tartary”) until the Russo-Turkish War of 1768-74.
A Study of History, Vol III, OUP, 1934 (footnote)
The image links to the full Indiana Jones episode of which I showed a clip here.
Background and context are in the old post. Toynbee’s big scene starts at 5:00. His other main appearances are at 26:00 and 33:00. Later the scene shifts to Princeton.
Mistakes and unconvincing portrayals aside (Lawrence is the worst, Gertrude Bell a close second), it doesn’t do such a bad job of bringing history to life. Vignettes of Arabs, Vietnamese, Germans. Woodrow Wilson is shown as comically out of his depth. Indiana is touching, trying to be nice to the Germans.
Toynbee is rather convincing. He never said that those who forget the lessons of history are condemned to repeat it, but he had a sharper political mind when he was young than when he was old.
Historian of the Great Rebellion.
[I have corrected the recent post called Turkey and Poland.]
Onno van Rijen’s longstanding page on the composers of the USSR. The work lists are fascinating. Everyone is covered, from Gliere to the now fashionable Weinberg and from Khachaturian to Shchedrin.
Alexander Mosolov, Soldiers’ Songs, c 1958? Marching song – Song of the native land – The song of the young horseman. Conductor Vitaly Gnutov, orchestra not stated.
The balance between piano and orchestra at the opening is certainly problematic in many performances.
The New York Review of Books, March 9 (a few weeks before the 175th anniversary of Tchaikovsky’s birth), with four audio samples.
This summary is taken mainly from Gerstein’s piece and from wiki.tchaikovsky-research.net. Links are mine.
At the end of 1874, Tchaikovsky showed a final draft of the first version of the concerto to Nikolai Rubinstein. He wanted advice on the playability and effectiveness of the piano writing. Rubinstein was scathing about both. Tchaikovsky described this occasion in a letter to Nadezhda von Meck (date?). At the end of the meeting, Tchaikovsky wrote, Rubinstein said
that if within a limited time I reworked the concerto according to his demands, then he would do me the honour of playing my piece at his concert. “I shall not alter a single note,” I answered, “I shall publish the work exactly as it is!” This I did.
Tchaikovsky completed this version in February 1875 and dedicated the concerto to Hans von Bülow, who premiered it in Boston that October. “There is such unsurpassed originality, such nobility, such strength, and there are so many arresting moments throughout this unique conception; there is such a maturity of form, such style – its design and execution, with such consonant harmonies, that I could weary you by listing all the memorable moments which caused me to thank the author – not to mention the pleasure from performing it all. In a word, this true gem shall earn you the gratitude of all pianists.”
The nineteen-year old Sergey Taneyev gave the first performance in Moscow in December, with a now less doubtful Rubinstein on the podium.
Pyotr Jurgenson published an arrangement for two pianos in May 1875, the orchestral parts in October 1875, and the full score not until August 1879, when it included revisions by Tchaikovsky to the piano part in the first movement.
From then on, it was the 1879 version that Tchaikovsky conducted, up to and including a performance in St Petersburg on October 28 1893, days before his death.
A new edition “reviewed and corrected by the author” was published in late 1889 or early 1890 by Daniel Rahter in Leipzig. A further version was published in 1894 by Jurgenson in Moscow. I assume it was based on Rahter.
This is what we hear now. It is impossible to know for certain who is responsible for the changes in this posthumous version, but the name of Alexander Siloti, a student of Tchaikovsky’s, is often mentioned.
Buy Gerstein’s premiere recording of the 1879 version here. Is it possible now to play the 1875 version, ie the score before Tchaikovsky abandoned his decision not to alter a single note?
Turkey in 1914 is sailing in those shoal waters in which Poland foundered in 1795, and if she wishes to avoid Poland’s shipwreck, she must promptly lighten her draught by throwing overboard all superfluous cargo. We shall have eased her course considerably by relieving her of that solid bullion, the Territory of the Straits; but she must reconcile herself to making jetsam of less cherished but bulkier properties as well, if she is finally to clear the reefs and make the open sea.
Four years and some months later, at Versailles, Toynbee and Harold Nicolson argued against the proposal to place Constantinople and the Black Sea straits under international control. Memorandum of April 15 1919, quoted in McNeill:
“We question whether peace would not in the end be served by some less elaborate, if more drastic idea, that is, by cleaving Europe from Asia, and by giving Greece Constantinople and the European shores of the Straits and the Sea of Marmara, and by leaving Turkey in Anatolia and on the southern and eastern side of the water.”
Their proposals were ignored, but the Treaty of Sèvres’ terms for Constantinople were undone by the Treaty of Lausanne in 1923. Eastern Thrace (and Smyrna, both occupied 1919-22) passed from Greek, and Constantinople and the Straits from British, French and Italian, hands back into Turkish.
I’ll write a comprehensive summary of plans for the partitioning of Turkey, and of Allied interventions there, in another post.
Nationality and the War, Dent, 1915
William McNeill, Arnold J. Toynbee, A Life, New York, OUP, 1989
Mail service running the 1,840 miles from St Joseph, Missouri, across the Great Plains, and over the Rocky Mountains and the Sierra Nevada to Sacramento, California, by horseback, using relay stations. At Sacramento, messages were placed on a steamer and sent down the Sacramento River to San Francisco.
Missouri, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, Nevada, California. Lake Tahoe is shared between the last two.
During its eighteen months of operation, April 3 1860 to October 24 1861, it reduced the time taken for messages to travel between the Atlantic and Pacific coasts to about ten days. It was a precursor to the First Transcontinental Railroad, constructed 1863-69, and ceased to operate when the Civil War broke out.
Map by William Henry Jackson, reproduction issued by the Union Pacific Railroad Company in 1960 to commemorate the 100th anniversary; Denver is 200 miles south of Fort Laramie, Wyoming, and not on the route; Library of Congress and Wikipedia
When […] you are travelling by air from Salt Lake City [Utah, west of the Rockies] to Denver [Colorado, east of the range], the nearest view of the Rockies is not the best one. While you are actually over the mountains, you see nothing but a maze of peaks, ridges, gullies, and crags. It is not until you have left the mountains behind you and are looking back at them as you fly over the plains that they rise up before you in their magnificent order, range behind range. It is only then that you have a vision of the Rockies themselves.
Civilization on Trial, OUP, 1948
[Postscript: this is being taken off YouTube as fast as it is put on, but I’ll take its presence there, if and when it lasts, as endorsed by the BBC. It can be seen, by UK viewers, on BBC iPlayer.]
Leslee Udwin’s film, shown on BBC television yesterday and banned in India.
William Dalrymple in the Guardian. Foretaste of his forthcoming The Anarchy: How a Corporation Replaced the Mughal Empire, 1756-1803.
A phrase that needs wider currency. There are only six appearances online.
Winston Churchill at his retirement, April 1955: “And I drink to the wise and kindly way of life of which Your Majesty is the young and gleaming champion”.
First post on this. Second. Will open in separate windows. In the second, I linked to Toilers in London; or, Inquiries concerning Female Labour in the Metropolis, By the “British Weekly” Commissioners, Hodder and Stoughton, 1889.
The British Weekly was founded in 1886 to encourage Christian virtue in the lower classes. I don’t know when it closed. Toilers in London was the second volume of two called Tempted London. The first (called what?) addressed young men. No Archive edition, but something less reliable here. Chapters:
Coming up from the Country to London
Life in Business Houses
The Life of City Clerks
A Bird’s-Eye View of London Gambling
Gambling and the Law: An Indictment of the Police
The Variety Theatres of London
The Evils of Theatres
What the Churches are Doing
What the Churches are Doing (continued)
“The Life of City Clerks”. As examined by George Gissing and others up to EM Forster in Howards End.
The first chapter of the volume on female labour is called Flower-Girls.
“The flower-girl is such a familiar sight to Londoners, that few of us realise what the streets of the metropolis would miss if she were banished.
“‘The world would be a sorry place if it had no flowers in it,’ an old man said to one of our Commissioners, while he was buying some primroses from a girl at the corner of Oxford Street. It was Primrose Day [below], and the old man was fastening a small bunch of primroses in his coat when our Commissioner stopped beside the flower-girl’s basket.
“Fifteen years ago no flower-girls enlivened London thoroughfares. If people wanted flowers they were obliged to find a nursery garden, or to visit a market. At these places flowers were then very expensive; for the people had not at that time learnt to appreciate simple flowers like primroses and daffodils; they only cared for costly exotics.
“Now any one can during the spring season buy enough flowers in the streets to deck a room for sixpence, and a small bunch of violets or a button-hole for one penny. Nothing comes amiss to the flower-girl’s basket […].”
“Fifteen years ago.” That’s 1874. There were flower-girls then. As McConkey told us, Gustave Doré depicted them, huddled like beggars, in his London: A Pilgrimage of 1872.
But we can assume that the phenomenon grew in the 1870s. The article doesn’t account for it, but we have looked at the role of the railways.
The swirl in Trafalgar Square must have provided a hunting ground for sexual exploiters, who were protected by English sexual hypocrisy and by the deference engendered by a class system.
Perhaps obvious street poverty had started to decline by 1913, when Pygmalion had its first performance.
One-Nation conservatism. Urban renewal. A radical Liberal, Joseph Chamberlain, boasted that his three years, 1873-76, as Mayor of Birmingham, had left the city “parked, paved, assized, marketed, gas-and- watered and improved”. Hygiene. Trade unions. Peabody Trust. Forster’s Education Act. Employers and Workmen Act. End of Long Depression of 1873-79. Old-Age Pensions Act. Labour Exchanges Act. National Insurance Act.
Clausen’s girl’s flowers have the unmistakeable yellow of primroses, but there was no “Primrose Day” in 1879.
That day was the anniversary of the death of Disraeli on April 19 1881. The primrose had been his favourite flower. Queen Victoria gave him bunches of them, picked at Windsor and Osborne House, and sent a wreath of primroses to his funeral. Had they started to be a symbol of conservatism while he was alive?
Disraeli invented modern Conservatism and revived the previously-moribund monarchy. Primrose Day was associated with the Primrose League, formed in 1883 to take Conservative principles to the masses. Its membership peak was in the 1890s, but it survived until 2004. When did yellow become a Liberal colour? (A Liberal prime minister in the 1890s, the 5th Earl of Rosebery, happened to have the family name of Primrose.)
Frank Bramley, Primrose Day, 1885, Tate Britain; awkward portrait, but with nods to Japan-influenced aestheticism in the arrangement and in the stalks, and with the straw hat looking like something between a mushroom and an umbrella or fan; Disraeli is on the wall:
Pathé News, Primrose Day, Parliament Square, 1916; a crowd in front of Mario Raggi’s bronze statue of Disraeli:
Further clip of the statue at about the same time. Half the country once had a Jewish hero, if a rather distant and disembodied one. Pathé has clips of Primrose Day pilgrimages to Disraeli’s grave at Hughenden for 1921, 1923, 1926, 1928.
Alfred George Webster of Lincoln (1852-1916), mentioned in the last post, aged 30. My great-grandmother’s brother, by his brother-in-law aged 30.
Yesterday’s post was supposed to be a few lines about a minor but interesting Victorian painting, and turned into a classroom exercise: “What is going on in this picture, and what has changed between then and now?”
The answer kept growing and is in the comments. Now I’ve checked what Kenneth McConkey says in his book on Clausen.
McConkey tells us that the flower girl theme was “frequently addressed in sentimental potboilers by Augustus E Mulready”. He doesn’t show us any sentimental Mulreadys, but here is one, Little Flower Sellers, from 1887:
It was, I suspect, a fashion all over Europe. Not much gritty social realism in Clausen’s picture either, you might say, but it was on the way. (Though it was not to be his permanent manner.) And there is an objective and deadpan quality in the Clausen which was consciously modern. McConkey doesn’t comment on the newspaper shown in The Flower Seller, but I think he’d agree that it is a telling detail.
Trafalgar Square was the very “hub of creation”: McConkey cites AR Hope Moncrieff, London, A&C Black, 1910. Here’s the full passage in Moncrieff (1916 edition):
“Parthians and Medes and Elamites may at every hour of the day be found in Trafalgar Square, along with the pig-tailed Chinaman, the negro, unheeded even by street-boys, the Red Indian stolidly dissembling his amazement, the mild Hindoo jostling sahibs with a new-found strut, the almond-eyed Japanese Jack on shore knocking up against a burly Russian tar, the Egyptian wondering at monuments where no one pesters him for bakshish, the Italian sighing for the sun of dolce far niente, the Alpine mountaineer lost in admiration of so many tall chimney-pots, the Parisian twirling a critical moustache, the German professor studiously conferring with his Baedeker, and, conspicuous among the throng, the frequent figure of Uncle Sam, one eye cocked in complacent comparison with his own sky-scraping Babels, the other moistened by sentiment for the old home of his race.
“Apart from its magnetic character, in Trafalgar Square more foreigners are likely to turn up than in other parts of London, since close at hand, about Soho and Leicester Square, is the headquarters of our Continental colony.”
One wishes artists had painted more of this and fewer flower girls. I commented on two possible tourists in The Flower Seller.
A reporter in The Graphic, McConkey tells us, thought that the proliferation of flower girls was (in McConkey’s words: the date of the piece isn’t clear in his notes, but perhaps June 22 1872) “a direct result of the development of the railways and the fact that fresh flowers could now be brought to the city centre cheaply – creating a new underclass of street sellers, and at the same time, a fashion for buttonholes and posies among city-clerks and shop-workers”.
Whence, I suppose, carnations worn at weddings and, until fairly recently, by shopworkers at Fortnum and Mason and pretentious Harley Street doctors.
He shows an illustration from The Graphic by Frank Holl. Surely this is also about the ambiguity of the flower girl’s profession in that part of London. She might be a prostitute.
I referred to Mayhew in the last post. One can mention also Toilers in London; or, Inquiries concerning Female Labour in the Metropolis, By the “British Weekly” Commissioners, Hodder and Stoughton, 1889.
McConkey doesn’t identify Clausen’s (lower?) middle-class model, used in a series of “street” paintings, saying only that she had “strayed from the leafy precincts of Hampstead and Regent’s Park”. Is that just a guess? Clausen was living at 4, The Mall, Haverstock Hill. McConkey compares her to Tissot’s Mrs Kathleen Newton.
He calls The Flower Seller experimental. It is anyway the first of the street paintings, which were a bridge between Clausen’s Dutch phase and his earliest English rural pictures:
The Flower Seller (1879), private collection (last post)
A Winter Afternoon (1880), private collection
In the Street (1880), private collection
Schoolgirls (1880), Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection
A Morning Walk (1881), private collection
A Spring Morning, Haverstock Hill (1881), Bury Art Museum, Manchester.
All oil, the last the largest and most ambitious. All but one, In the Street (which is practically a miniature), show stark class contrasts. In the last two, rural workers seem to have wandered into the city. At the end of 1881, Clausen moved to the country (Childwick Green, Hertfordshire).
McConkey mentions William Logsdail only in passing, as a Clausen contemporary. He was a few years younger than Clausen and died in 1944, a few weeks before him. But a few days ago I saw his St Martin-in-the-Fields (1888) at Tate Britain: another flower girl in Trafalgar Square, with the artist looking towards St Martin’s Place and St Martin’s Lane.
The Tate reminds us that Trafalgar Square had been the scene of Bloody Sunday the year before. Logsdail’s tour-de-force is popular, but he is a limited painter. The girl is Bastien-Lepagish if not Clausenish.
On June 1 1881 Clausen married, at King’s Lynn, Agnes Mary, the sister of a friend, Alfred George Webster, who, from his mid-twenties in 1877 until his death (not in the war) in 1916, was Principal of the School of Art in Lincoln. That is where Logsdail had studied – presumably under the slightly older Webster.
Logsdail, St Martin-in-the-Fields
Clausen, In the Street; she is carrying flowers
National Gallery, starting March 4: Inventing Impressionism: The man who sold a thousand Monets, an exhibition about Paul Durand-Ruel. I hope it is pleasanter to visit than their recent crowded, exploitative Rembrandt.
National Portrait Gallery, St Martin’s Place, on already: Sargent: Portraits of Artists and Friends.
Durand-Ruel had, from 1870, a gallery in London at 168 New Bond Street under the management of Charles Deschamps, of which Clausen wrote: “Our favourite was Deschamps’ in Bond Street. He was, I believe, the first to show the works of Millet, Degas, Manet and others of that time. There was always something good to be seen there, and we were cordially welcomed for he was really interested in art, and most encouraging to us students.” Autobiographical Notes, Artwork, no 25, Spring 1931.
Old Clausen post: A universal face.
Enjoyable (especially the plinth) early Clausen, painted when he was 26 or 27: The Flower Seller, private collection; the plinth supports an equestrian statue of Charles I by Hubert Le Sueur; they have been there since 1678; George Clausen’s memorial service would take place in 1944 in the church in the background, St Martin-in-the-Fields, James Gibbs, 1722-24
… or, A boy from Baghdad
Let us […] construct the intellectual history of a fictitious Baghdadi boy, who has been born since the arrival of the British at Baghdad in 1917 and whose father has determined to give him a thoroughly Western scientific education in order to fit him for making his way in the Westernized East of to-morrow. The father begins by giving the boy some direct insight into Western scientific methods by showing him Western scientists at work in his own country. He takes him to see the archaeological excavations at Ur. Let us assume that the boy is as intelligent as his father, and that this visit arouses in him a general interest in modern Western Archaeology, ranging over the whole field as far as it has been explored by Western scholars. Among other things, the life of the lake-dwellers in the Alps in the “Eneolithic Age” [which we would now call Early Bronze Age] is sure to appeal to the Baghdadi boy for the same reasons which invest the conditions of life on the North Arabian Steppe with a special interest for Western readers of the Book of Genesis. The boy’s interest in the lake-dwellers will broaden out into a study of all aspects of their life, including the manner in which they adapted themselves to the imperious conditions of the local terrain and climate in keeping their cattle. He will follow the ancient lacustrine herdsmen as they drive their cattle up from the lake-side to ever higher upland pastures with the advance of spring and then gradually down again from alp to alp to the water’s edge with the retreat of summer. This study will become his hobby; and when the time comes for him to visit Europe, he will make a bee-line first for Switzerland. There, herded by some tourist agency into Alpine hotels, he will observe, with astonishment and delight, that the pastoral life with which he is familiar from the books about the ancient lake-dwellers which his father gave him to read at home is being lived, apparently unchanged, by the Swiss herdsmen of to-day. With what extraordinary persistence social phenomena perpetuate themselves in this strange and romantic Western World! How different from ʿIraq, where the disinterred vestiges of Ur and Babylon and Nineveh proclaim to any Baghdadi who sets eyes on them that, in his country, Life is a flux and history a synonym for change. And now this Baghdadi has discovered “the Unchanging West”. What a tale to tell to his countrymen when he goes home again!
Of course our intelligent young man from Baghdad would not have rushed into this ludicrously erroneous generalization if the romance of the Alpine pastures had not absorbed his attention to the extent of preventing him from studying with equal thoroughness the histories of those sites on Western soil that are now occupied by the cities of Zurich and Lausanne – not to speak of Paris and London and Berlin and New York and Chicago. If he had studied these likewise, he could not conceivably have imagined that the West was “unchanging” by comparison with Iraq (immense though the changes in ʿIraq have been, on every plane of social life, over the span of five or six thousand years within which we happen to know something about the country’s history). He has been misled by a failure to realize that he has been making a generalization about half the World on the strength of local conditions in a small area with a peculiar character of its own. While the Alps impose upon all human beings in all ages who have the hardihood to be their inhabitants as rigid and as unvarying a way of life as is imposed by the North Arabian Steppe, it is likewise true that the Alps are as small a fraction of the Western World as the North Arabian Steppe is of the East. An extravaganza? Yet quid rides? For mutato nomine de te fabula narratur, [footnote: Horace: Satires, i (i), ll. 69-70.] you Western traveller, whoever you may have been, who first brought home to us the catchword of “the Unchanging East”.
Toynbee was saying this kind of thing before Edward Said, who presumably mocked the phrase. Was its inventor a Scottish Canadian writer named Robert Barr (founder of The Idler) in a book with that name published in 1900?
[Footnote: It may be objected that even an ingenuous and unobservant Oriental traveller who visited the Alps to-day with a picture in his mind of the local conditions of life in the “Eneolithic Age” could not really fail to notice, side by side with many points of correspondence, at least as many and as remarkable evidences of change. It can only be replied that Western travellers have contrived to ignore similar evidences on the North Arabian Steppe, where the conditions portrayed in the Book of Genesis have been changed profoundly, since that portrait was drawn, by at least two far-reaching innovations: the introduction of the horse and the introduction of fire-arms (not to speak of dry farming and motor-cars, which are both still too recent introductions to have had time to produce their full effects).]
The unchanging East (last post but one).
A Study of History, Vol I, OUP, 1934
Peter’s declaration of war upon the Byzantine social tradition was delivered in his celebrated gesture of shaving, with his own hand, the beards of the grandees who came to congratulate him on his return from the West in A.D. 1698. A ukase of the 4th January, 1700, made the wearing of Western dress compulsory by a certain date “for the glory and beauty of the State and the improvement of the Army”. This was confirmed in a second ukase of the 20th March, and detailed instructions were issued in 1701. Compare Mehmed ʿAli’s imposition of Western uniforms upon his troops, and Mustafā Kemāl’s imposition of Western dress upon the entire male civil population. [Entire?] (The compulsory change of dress which was carried through by Peter in Russia was confined to the upper class, and the obligation to shave might be bought off by the payment of a beard-tax.) Peter, however, was not content with imposing Western dress. He arranged for the compilation of elaborate manuals of Western fine manners; and in the houses of the nobility in the new capital, Petersburg, “receptions” à la française were organized by the Police.
Were bourgeois manners and behaviour in Tsarist Russia harder than in western Europe to distinguish from aristocratic?
A Study of History, Vol III, OUP, 1934 (footnote)