On Friday, July 8, we spent the day at Hampton Court. While I was disappointed not to have been able to buy tickets to the annual Hampton Court Flower Show, we discovered that there was so much to explore at Hampton Court itself that there would have been no time. (Money saved!)
HC has been at the top of my wish list to visit ever since I saw it in A Man for All Seasons as a teen. The huge gold and iron gates over which the great unicorn and lion loom, the rose brick original palace with its hundreds of chimneys, the path to the great arched entrance guarded by statues, not quite gargoyles, of mythical beasts. Within the large “Base” courtyard, the entrances to the great kitchens and the royal residence. Beyond the first courtyard, a second courtyard topped by Henry’s astrological clock; he and Thomas More used to meet on the rooftop to discuss the stars back when they were friends.
HC was originally the home (never so humble) of Cardinal Wolsey, who later gave it (without ever moving out) to Henry and Katherine of Aragon. Later, when Wolsey failed to obtain a divorce for Henry from Katherine, Henry threw Wolsey out of HC and gave it instead to Anne Boleyn. (An ironic twist of the knife, since Wolsey had earlier prevented Anne from marrying the man she really loved, Percy of Northumberland. I can only imagine how much longer Anne might have lived as Lady Percy.) Jane Seymour, Wife #3, had the long-awaited son, Edward, in this palace, and died of complications ten days later. After an incredibly brief marriage, Henry divorced Anne of Cleves here; it was also here that Katherine Howard, the giddy teenage Wife #5 with a promiscuous past, was arrested for adultery and ran screaming down the gallery hall trying to reach Henry in his private chapel before the soldiers dragged her away.
The scenario which we entered on our visit was the wedding day of Henry to Wife #6, Katherine Parr (what was she thinking?). Equipped with our audio guides, we visited the kitchens and the richly tapestried and stained glassed Great Hall, where we searched, successfully, for the one carved H/A which was somehow missed when Henry ordered that all of the badges commemorating his marriage to Anne Boleyn be destroyed after her execution. We saw the Watching Chamber behind the Great Hall, where the intimate groups of cushions and chairs invited courtiers to sit in small groups and play games; I could easily picture scenes from The Other Boleyn Girl. In the Privy Council chamber, we sat in the circle of chairs around the empty throne and listened to the deliberations of the four Privy Councilors; each one, presented separately via videotape in each of the four “corners” of the circle, engaged his fellows on questions of religion, the succession, the new marriage, etc. We were surrounded by a sense of intrigue and of danger – there were clearly opinions which one broached at the risk of one’s neck; even a logical discussion of who would succeed Henry bordered on treason – and as a result, the gentlemen did not seem able to resolve any of the questions they had on their agenda. Walking down the Gallery to the Chapel, I imagined the terrified Katherine Howard trying to outrun the soldiers, seeking, futilely, the protection of the husband who had given the order for her arrest.
The chapel was beautiful beyond words, small, with a magnificent vaulted ceiling in brilliant blue and gold and elegantly simple wood paneling, the choir benches lit with lamps, the royal “pew” actually a room of its own in the upstairs gallery. I will need to let the guidebook speak; there were no pictures allowed, and I’m a bit overwhelmed by the challenge of describing so much lovely detail.
Part of our day included participating in reenactments which demonstrated, even more tangibly than the Privy Council meeting, the tension of living with and near Henry. The magic of dramatic compression transported us from the wedding day to Henry’s later suspicion that Katherine Parr, an educated and articulate lady, was too much a supporter of “Protestant” religious reform and would therefore attempt to persuade her husband in that direction. (Henry was very Catholic, actually; it was only the “Roman” part of Catholic that was troublesome.) He asked his Lord Chancellor, Thomas Wriothesley, to investigate (AKA search the queen’s apartments) for signs of heresy and subsequently to draw up an arrest warrant. Meanwhile, Henry “invited” Katherine to the Tudor garden to discuss her religious opinions. Katherine, fortunately, knew what was at stake, and very humbly insisted that she could never presume to tell her husband the king what to believe, and that she had engaged in debate with him only that she learn from his superior wisdom and, by the way, help to distract him from his painful leg. He, of course, wanted to believe her; they both cried and embraced, at which unfortunate moment Wriothesley appeared with the arrest warrant and was both physically and verbally attacked by Henry for offending against the queen. Since it would have been imprudent for poor Wriothesley to remind the king that he had acted on the king’s own orders, he had to wait an agonizing few hours until a later reenactment in which, after groveling at Katherine’s feet, he was forgiven by the queen and, ultimately and more to the point, by Henry as well. Excellent acting throughout, especially from Katherine – I could read clearly the intelligence and the fearful strategizing behind the subservience.
Although Hampton Court has another half, the Baroque portion begun by architect Christopher Wren for William and Mary in the late seventeenth century, we chose to forgo that tour for the glories of the gardens. As you know, I am a garden fanatic, and I promise to bore dreadfully those who are not like-minded with pictures of gardens and flowers. You have been warned.
I have had a lovely picture of a Hampton Court garden, with paths surrounding a center pond and fountain, as a computer screen saver for months. Locating the Privy Garden on the map, we stepped out into a glorious expanse that seemed the correct shape, but much too large and too seventeenth-century to be the garden I had fallen in love with. I photographed its beauties at length, but I was, despite my response when Al asked, disappointed.
Later, we turned along a side path, and there, in a row of gated garden rooms, was the garden of my memory: Henry’s Pond Garden, still geometric, but incredibly more intimate, rioting with summer color, and inhabited by statuary cherubs and four boxwood topiary birds. I could clearly picture Henry wooing the soon-to-be-next-wife in this space. It was a truly glorious fulfillment of a dream. For those of you who know the Seder service: “It would have been enough.”
I then asked directions to the Rose Garden and Maze. The dear lady who answered my question apologized for the state of the Rose Garden since, in July, it was rather past its best. I pray to have even an “at its best” rose garden of my own that looks like this garden “past its best.” Yes, in many cases the bushes had bloomed once and were just in bud for a second round, but here were all of the David Austen English roses I have longed to plant despite the fact that I am told they do not survive well in our Baltimore climate: the dark crimson William Shakespeare, the bright red Sophy’s rose, the yellow whorled Teasing Georgia, the paler cupped Jude the Obscure. Etc. Etc. I experienced a wicked glee in seeing that these roses, too, battle black spot. There is hope for my two climbing Don Juans and the hybrid Firefighter Rose.
By the time we reached the Maze, Al was tired and chose to wait for me. Of course I could not leave without making the attempt. It was not raining, so there were no bobbing umbrellas to guide my way. I did get a sense from the map that any move toward what seemed the center was a mistake, so I kept to what I hoped was the outer limits and ultimately reached the center, whereupon I took pictures, found an exit gate for wheelchairs and baby buggies through which I cheated, discovered Al stretched out on a bench for what he thought would be a much longer nap, and together we ran for the train home.
Waterloo Station, by the way, although much more clearly marked, was an even more tangled maze in its own way.
That evening we dined with Ariel and Peter at The Grazing Goat (pub across the street). We have discovered Courgette, which is, amazingly, the actual golden flower of the zucchini plant (I had four of them blooming at home when I left). Stuffed with goat cheese, battered, and fried with additional zucchini slices. Incredible! Added to my list of recipes to try.
I am, as you see, a few days behind. Have been at Oxford since yesterday noon, but that is at least one entry of its own. I should be finishing Cacciato. It is an excellently written novel, but as many of you know, I am not a reader who enjoys violent action and suspense, and so I look for reasons to procrastinate. As you see, I have succeeded with this entry. I will pay later! Meanwhile, I meet my professor and class in a few hours, so I will return to Paul Berlin’s Vietnam escape fantasy. With a piece of 70% dark chocolate to assist the endeavor.
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