Isabella arrived for a long visit to Shibden Hall in mid-January of 1824. She never expects to be well of this complaint & it inconveniences her very much. [...] Poor Tib. I will, at any time, make up for it all I can by double attention & kindness. If she knew the truth, what would she think?19 This redoubled attention towards Isabella showed itself in Anne getting up at 5:30 to see to the horses in the stable. From seven to nine, she studied Greek and French, from nine to ten overseeing work on the estate. Isabella joined her at ten for breakfast. Between eleven and two, Anne kept an eye on the workers again, and then went for a walk with Isabella. They sat down to dinner with Anne’s aunt and uncle at half-past four. After that, Anne took care of her correspondence before they all met up again for coffee at eight. At ten o’clock, Anne was the first to retire, writing her journal before going to bed. How heartily I wish she was gone. I already begin to count the days, Anne wrote after five weeks. Isabella was drinking too much again and poisons me with her snuff. I can hardly bear being in the room.20 They argued over banal matters – whether six horses had ever been driven by three postilions in England – and about Anne’s arrogance. Never knew anyone have so much pride. She could not bear it. She was not fit to be here. Would not soon get herself into the scrape again.21
After Isabella had left on 24 March 1824, Anne reviewed the situation in her diary. Her feelings were never finely acute. Now they are blunted a good deal. [...] Her memory is worse. She tells her stories much oftener over than she used to do, forgetting that she has told us the same again & again. She is growing gradually larger, for which Anne blamed the alcohol and the ten hours a day spent in bed. How I could have loved her. Yes, how adored her, had she had that temper & conduct which temperance & good sense might easily have secured. But, alas, it has not been so. As in Mariana’s case, Anne placed the blame for not being able to love her as she would have wanted squarely on Isabella’s shoulders. Had Isabel been half she might have been, my affections never could have strayed to M– or to any other. But no more. God bless thee Tib. Our interests are separated forever, but still, when I forget myself, I almost love thee. No, I do not love thee but love thy happiness.22
The summer after their tour of Wales in 1822, Anne and her aunt travelled around the Yorkshire Dales. At the end of July 1824, Anne drove her aunt in the gig to the Lake District, where they enjoyed the views and the food in good inns such as at Bowness on Lake Windermere: Soup (with vegetables in it, very good), a most excellent & beautifully dressed (boiled, and then a little fried or crisped) pike. A roasted fore-quarter of lamb, potatoes and peas, 2 little sweet puddings, a tart & jellies. All most excellent. We never enjoyed a dinner more.23 The food at Shibden Hall was much more basic, on Uncle James’ instructions – all the more reason for the two Annes to treat themselves once a year.
Aunt Anne was increasingly suffering from rheumatism, but Anne junior wanted to take her walks in the Lake District. Out in the gig and passing the start of a footpath across the hills Anne had heard of, she decided spontaneously – against the advice of their local guide – to go on a two-day excursion. In the next village, Rosthwaite, she hired a cobbler as a guide and arranged to meet her aunt the next day in Scale Hill in Loweswater, with their servant George Playforth taking her comfortably by road in the gig. They parted ways at twenty to four. Anne intended to walk across the northern half of what is now the national park in one late afternoon. The ascent proved steeper and harder than Snowdon in Wales; the path was barely secured, with loose stones costing her strength. After fourteen miles they reached a farm, where they could have asked for accommodation for the night. As the sun was still up, though low in the sky, Anne preferred to continue to Calder Bridge, another six miles away. But they lost their bearings on the way down. They did not reach Gosforth, further south than Calder Bridge, until late at night. They had walked over twenty miles without pause and Anne was absolutely exhausted. She had turned down bread, cheese and water along the way; as when climbing Mount Snowdon, she had not wanted to eat or drink because of the great physical effort. At the Lamb & Lion in Gosforth, Anne was parched to death with thirst, but was so suspicious she drank only a little boiled water with gin. Her feeble, dehydrated body could not keep down the simple fare available that late at night, and she had to lie down in her sweat-soaked clothes, having brought no change of clothing with her. This spontaneous excursion might easily have ended in disaster. Anne blamed her guide. If left to myself I should not have so lost myself. I said repeatedly we must be wrong, but that my guide must know better than I did.24
The next day, she walked along the valley to Calder Bridge, rented a horse there and rode sixteen miles along the country road to the meeting place with her aunt. For the remaining days of their trip, she concentrated on food.
By this point, Anne had been suffering from the venereal disease she had contracted from Mariana and passed on to Isabella for three years. Having consulted first Stephen Belcombe and then Dr Duffin, she had later gone to the doctor in Malton. She tried the painful and futile remedy of leeches on her back. In the end, Anne felt forced to tell her aunt and uncle. Aunt Anne had often asked concerned questions and had been shown Anne’s discharge-soaked sheets by the maid. My aunt took it all quite well. Luckily, thinks the complaint easily taken by going to the necessary, drinking out of the same glass, etc. She and Uncle James gave Anne money for an examination in Manchester by Mr Simmons, a plain-appearing, plain-mannered man. Anne told him she was anxious to know that the complaint did not go beyond the vagina. He hoped not. Asked if I had had many children. From the impulse of the moment I said, ‘Lord bless you, no. I was never married.’ She could not allow herself to care what the doctor thought of her. He then proposed an examination. I said I should not think it right to refuse to submit. The handling hurt me & I felt it quarter or half-hour afterwards but otherwise I did not mind it much. These things are chiefly in idea for, strictly speaking, there is no real indelicacy in submitting to a thing of this kind when so necessary.25
Yet Mr Simmons was unable to cure Anne. Weakened by her complaints, she wrapped herself in blankets in the cold, damp, draughty Shibden Hall even at the height of summer, wearing leather knee-warmers made specially for her; she feared I should be rheumatic, like my aunt.26 In the end, Anne had the courage to hint to Aunt Anne that the grapes & pears of Paris did me more good than anything. Her aunt sympathised. She is really very good & anxious about me.27 Although Uncle James had pointed out how poor we are & always have been; our ideas above our means,28 he gave her £125 for three months in Paris.
Maria
1824–1825
On 24 August 1824, Anne Lister left Shibden Hall with her maid, Elizabeth Wilkes Cordingley, in the finest weather. She took the mail coach again and reached London in a day and a half, with pauses only to change horses. To keep Cordingley amused, uncertain of how enthusiastic she was about the journey, Anne showed her the sights in the metropolis of the world. Anne wanted to see a house of correction on this visit, where the inmates had to keep a treadmill moving over ten hours of monotonous motion. She presented herself to the authorities to get permission to view Coldbath Fields Prison, prompting surprise at the singularity of the application, and the no less unique manner of the applicant. But she would not let them fob her off. Surely in a metropolitan prison there is nothing indelicate or offensive – nothing, I presume, which a female might not, with the strictest regard to propriety or decorum, inspect. When she was eventually let into the prison, where three hundred and fifty men, women and children performed penal labour, she tried out the treadmill for herself. I got upon it for two or three minutes, and have nothing to say against it – cannot imagine how it can do any harm.1
In Paris, Anne lodged in Mme de Boyve’s pension at 24, place Vendôme on the corner of rue de la Paix. Anne’s room was comfortable, but 123 steps from the ground – yet there is a story [sic] above me – the situation excellent, but, like every part of Paris, noisy beyond description. Ill-hung rattling carriag
es perpetually rolling over a rough pavement, make a din more easily imagined than expressed – the whole house vibrates like the needle of a mariner’s compass.2 The mainly English guests were curious about Anne, seeing as The Times – and other newspapers as a result – had reported on her visit to the treadmill. It seems I have got the reputation of being ‘a character’.3 Anne let her inquisitive, curious look 4 wander over the other guests, settling on the nice little figure of Mrs Maria Barlow, or more precisely directed to her bosom.5 Mrs Barlow was almost thirty-eight, four and a half years older than Anne, came from Guernsey and had been not unhappily married to a Lieutenant Colonel Barlow, who had fallen at the Battle of Salamanca in 1812. Her thirteen-year-old daughter Jane was attending school in Paris, and so the two had been living at the pension for the past year. Mrs Barlow and I are become very good friends. We always walk out together, and I find her very pleasant.6
Maria Barlow took Anne along to art exhibitions, showed her the Louvre’s Egyptian collection, and after Louis XVIII died on 16 September they watched his funeral procession together as well as the coronation festivities for the new king, Charles X, from the windows of their pension. Mrs Barlow also found her a French teacher, Countess Galvani, who had to give lessons since her husband had vanished into thin air, along with a sum of public monies, and Napoleon had confiscated her assets as a result. During the lessons, Anne subjected this well-read lady to her usual examinations. The cool and collected Mme de Galvani commented on every classical or modern work Anne brought into conversation that it was a little free but so were all the poets [...] and all historians. Perhaps it was not fit for quite young girls to read but women come to years of discretion might read anything of the kind.7 While Anne soon liked her exceedingly,8 Mme de Galvani was not quite certain whom she was dealing with; she thought I was a man, whereas Mrs Barlow herself had thought at first I wished to imitate the manners of a gentleman.9
So as to speak French outside of her lessons with Mme de Galvani, Anne conversed with her landlady, especially as Mme de Boyve is very handsome – she has very good French manners; and I admire her.10 She began flirting with her and believed I could make my way if I could speak better.11 At the same time, Maria Barlow was trying to become closer friends with Anne. Her eyes sparkled when she saw me & she was evidently afraid lest anyone else was coming. She surely wished to have me tête-à-tête. She rather flatters me on my talents & agreeableness & I gently flatter her on being ladylike & pretty. She asked me if I had any male correspondents. I said one, between seventy and eighty, mentioning Mr Duffin, & said I was no believer in platonic attachments. Preferred ladies’ company to gentlemen’s. Did many things ladies in general could not do, but did them quietly, and emphasised I should not marry. Routinely and not knowing quite why herself, I begin to rather flirt with her but I think she has no consciousness of it, or why she begins to like me.12
Ten days later, however, Anne considered Mrs Barlow sillily vain13 and was glad to welcome a newly arrived guest: the twenty-five-year-old Mademoiselle de Sans, French but born in England, who speaks both languages equally well. Out of health. Pale and rather interesting in appearance.14 Anne was soon engaged in arrant flirting. Mrs Barlow was offended, as she considered herself Anne’s best friend in Paris and would better like to have all my attentions herself. She rallies me about being inconstant, yet pays me great compliments every now & then.15 In the presence of two attractive women, Anne was in fine fettle. In the evening rattled away so & flirted with Mrs Barlow. That did not go uncommented by Mlle de Sans. ‘I see you talk to her as you do to me.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘I am not the same to any two persons.’ She seemed satisfied. Fancies me serious with herself and flirting, perhaps, with Mrs Barlow. They are all jealous of my attentions.16 Anne enjoyed stoking the two women’s competition and went a step further the next evening. Felt pulses, mistaking Mlle de Sans’ several times – deliberately. ‘Indeed,’ said she, ‘if you were a man I know not what would be the end of all this. I think Mme de Boyve would be right. I should be married before the year’s end.’ She certainly likes me. Mrs Barlow, too, has made up to me, particularly today. Has said several times she was jealous. Sat with hold of my hand tonight & looked as if she could like me. [...] Joked and called me her beau. To say goodbye, Mlle de Sans first shook hands with Anne, then saluted me in the French manner, with air kisses next to Anne’s cheeks, & then in the English manner, in other words a real kiss. Anne did not let such an opportunity go to waste. I immediately kissed her again, with a little more pressure of the lips, saying, ‘That is Yorkshire.’17
Following this small victory by Mlle de Sans, Mrs Barlow went on the offensive the next day and somehow she began talking of that one of the things of which Marie Antoinette was accused of was being too fond of women. I, with perfect mastery of countenance, said I had never heard of it before & could not understand or believe it. Did not see how such a thing could be – what good could it do. As with Francis Pickford, Anne put on a show of naivety. I said I would not believe such a thing existed – something Mrs Barlow, like Miss Pickford before her, found hard to believe. She knew she was not telling me anything I did not know before. […] I told her she had more sense than I had & could turn me round her finger & thumb if she liked. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it is Mlle de Sans.’ ‘No, no,’ said I, ‘you understand this sort of thing better than she does.’ […] We agreed it was a scandal invented by the men, who were bad enough for anything. She is a deepish hand &, I think, would not be sorry to gain me over, but I shall be on my guard. Mrs Barlow did not forget to mention that she was not so calm and cold as I supposed. That same day, Anne drove out with Mrs Barlow’s rival and made love to Mlle de Sans in the fiacre. Said I began to think I neither knew her nor myself. Knew not what was the matter with me, etc. She owned she had had many offers. Said she was just the sort of girl for it, she could attach anyone, etc. She was poorly & low but still coquetted very well. I cannot help fancying she, too, is a knowing one.18
The next day, Anne and Maria Barlow – who claimed ‘it’ was mentioned in the Bible – read the Apostle Paul’s Epistle to the Romans together. ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘the first chapter,’ & pointed to that verse about women forgetting the natural use, etc. ‘But,’ said I, ‘I do not believe it.’ ‘Oh,’ said she, ‘it might be taken in another way, with men,’ adding for safety’s sake, ‘as men do with men’. Thought I to myself, she is a deep one. She knows, at all rates, that men can use women in two ways. I said I had often wondered what was the crime of Ham. Said she, ‘Was it sodomy?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said I, then made her believe how innocent I was. As she had done with Francis Pickford, Anne claimed we were a cold-blooded family in this particular. Warm as I was in other things, this one passion was wanting. I went to the utmost extent of friendship but this was enough. Yet unlike with Frank, she whispered in Maria Barlow’s ear I should like to be instructed in the other (between two women) & would learn when I could. To fire Anne’s imagination, Maria Barlow lent her a book, Voyage à Plombières, pointing her in the direction of page 126 where is the story of one woman intriguing with another. That evening, Mrs Barlow sat down next to Anne in the pension’s drawing room & every now & then I felt her near me, touching me. My knees, my toes or something. Anne payed [sic] what attention I could to Mlle de Sans but Mrs Barlow evidently wished to engross me. We came up to bed together. Asked her to come into my room & she would but for fear of increasing her cold. She certainly makes absolute love to me. Tells me I don’t know her – she can love deeply, etc. [...] I really must be on my guard. What can she mean? Is she really amoureuse? This from a widow & mother like her is more than I could have thought of. I am safer with Mlle de Sans.19
The younger woman, however, fell seriously ill and had to take to her bed. Anne and Mrs Barlow visited her together. While with Mlle de Sans, she let me have my hand up her petticoats almost to her knee. At last, she whispered, ‘Do not yet.’ Chatting in Anne’s room that same day, she afterwards let me do it nearly a
s high. In the end, Anne held her hand and would not let her go. ‘If,’ said she, ‘you do in this way, you will prevent my coming again.’ Of course, I desisted.20 Anne defended herself: it would be Mrs Barlow’s fault if I behaved foolishly again, and dwelt on the folly of encouraging what could not be returned.21
Barely had Maria Barlow encouraged Anne Lister to take action, when she withdrew. Anne suspected she was afraid of gossip at the pension, and suggested they go on a short trip that we must be five or six nights on the road & must share our room & bed. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘would you not relax?’ She had then said she hoped not.22 Anne began to think Mrs Barlow was hesitant because she was dealing with a woman. ‘You have been married – you must make comparisons,’ she said to her, and thought, if I had a penis, tho’ of but small length, I should surely break the ice some of these times. To confirm her suspicion, I pointed out two phalli23 as they were viewing a collection of classical art together, but Maria Barlow would not be drawn out by them, either. Eventually, Anne dropped the mask that Maria had always recognized as such and told her about Eliza Raine. Said how it was all nature. […] I had thought much, studied anatomy, etc. Could not find it out. Could not understand myself. It was all the effect of the mind. No exterior formation accounted for it. Her ‘natural’, i.e. ‘toyless’ kind of love, Anne said, was not to be confused with Saffic [sic] regard. I said there was artifice in it. It was very different from mine & would be no pleasure to me. I liked to have those I loved near me as possible, etc. Asked if she understood. She said no. I told her I knew by her ways she did & she did not deny it, therefore I know she understands all about the use of a –. Even in this encrypted passage, Anne Lister left the key word out of her journal. To prevent Mrs Barlow from possibly becoming interested in ‘Saffic regard’, I mentioned the girl at a school in Dublin that had been obliged to have surgical aid to extract the thing.24
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