It’s too real to be a dream. I wish now that it was. I go to sleep and, next thing, I find myself standing in Kensington Road, London, near Holland Park. The year is 1871 and my days there are consecutive.
I am there and yet not there in the sense that I can make not the slightest change to 1871. Its paint dried long ago. I am an observer only. I remain solid enough to myself and remain subject to all the usual physical restraints but I have no existence as far as others are concerned though they are solid to me. Even dogs and horses, both supposedly attuned to the unseen, are completely unaware of my presence. It is a situation that has taken some time to get used to. To be living in two disparate worlds is confusing to say the least.
But the ideal situation for a voyeur you might think, a fly on the wall, and I admit that I have been tempted at times but, so far, I have resisted the temptation. It is not something that a gentleman would do. The most that I do is to eavesdrop but that is from necessity.
There is not quite the freedom that one might imagine. In a sense, I am helpless. I can do nothing to alter the flow of events. If someone doesn’t open that particular door at that particular moment in 1871, I cannot enter. I am frequently balked and must admit that I am not the most patient of men. I am a stranger to the city and to the age who is unable to ask for even the simplest directions or advice. Crowds must be avoided. I cannot share space. People coming up behind unobserved can knock me aside, at times to my injury, while they themselves walk on entirely unaware and undeflected from their course.
But the opportunity to see the Victorian Age at first hand has made these problems of less account. For British stock, these are our years of greatness. We have the greatest empire in the history of the world. Far greater than the Greeks. Greater than the Romans. We rule over millions, lesser breeds, by God’s mandate. We believe in ourselves and in our destiny.
Once somewhat settled, I had my priorities. For this steam-starved railway buff, that could
FRUSTRATION. Page 2 SOSIAN only mean trains, the principle railway stations. And what a thrill it was to see locomotives known previously only from photographs, Precedent 2-4-0s, Patrick Sterling’s new bogie 8 foot singles, Daniel Gooch’s now-venerable singles on the broad gauge at Paddington, and a number of others, and all in revenue service.
Apart from that, I was happy just to wander around and soak up the ambience. I had expected London to be as Dickens depicted it, as it was perhaps forty years ago–he died last year by the way–but it has been undergoing rapid change. Countless numbers of fine old houses are being torn down to make way for the suburban railway lines. Unexpected was the telegraph wires that one sees in many streets. This though I knew that the electric telegraph had recently spanned the American continent.
Along from my starting point, work has just finished on the Albert Hall. Naturally, I have made my own private tour. It’s impressive, the organ too. Some men from the organ builder, Henry Willis, were making final adjustments to the voicing of the reed stops.
One spot of luck! I was in The Mall when our Queen, Victoria, passed in her carriage. Her Majesty is at last coming out more. She refused to open parliament last year but has made several public appearances this year. And not before time. Although it is now ten years since Albert died, I heard someone say that his bed is still made daily and hot shaving water taken in. There was a woman with the Queen, Alix, Princess of Wales, I rather think, which might explain why John Brown was not on the box for once. His relationship with the Queen has caused much adverse comment. Innuendo is calling her MRS Brown. Our Queen is a stubborn and foolish woman and far from popular at the moment.
I was also, just a day later, within touching distance of Lord Beaconsfield who is at present in opposition. He is one person that you cannot mistake.
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But, though I tried, I didn’t quite get to see that clown Napoleon III. We have given him asylum at Chislehurst now that Bismark’s Prussians have knocked over his house of cards. I heard two draymen, one from Chislehurst, talking about him and, on whim, decided to ride out to Chislehurst in the dray on its return. I could have walked faster, I should have walked. Chislehurst at the present time….Sorry! 1871 that is. Chislehurst is hardly more than a village and still beyond London’s boundaries. To my annoyance, I was called back to the present when we were just reaching the outskirts. This is a constant problem. I am a light sleeper and each time after waking and falling asleep again, I find myself reset to the same spot in Kensington Road but now a day later.
In the end, like any tourist, I made myself a list of must-sees. I still had some control at that stage. It consisted mainly of things that no longer exist such as the Crystal Palace, the churches destroyed in the blitz, particularly the Wren churches, and London Bridge as it was before that Yank bought it. There was also a hope-to-see. A Merryweather on its dash to a fire. From the list, I have managed to explore only St Mary-le-Bow and St Giles at Cripplegate. And that must be it! Now I have only one must-see. Her name is Charlotte Walmsley.
I was passing along Park Lane–in 1871 it is still filled with private mansions on the side opposite the park–when a carriage stopped right beside me. I watched with interest as the coachman climbed down, helped two women to alight, and carried their packages to the door. The older of the two was severely dressed and looked something of a dragon. But it was the younger one who took my eye and, I must confess, my heart. On the spot. How I do not know.
She had auburn hair worn high and an oval face with delicate features and just a hint of
FRUSTRATION. Page 4 SOSIAN olive in the complexion. She was of medium height and there was a pleasing grace in her movements. That could describe a million women so what made this one so different? Her dress was simple, a plain white linen with a full skirt and she had a perky little hat that was brimless and sloped down at the front. I think they call it a toque. It is a popular style just now.
I stood anchored to the pavement and stared at the house for the rest of that day and for several days thereafter just living for her brief appearances. The two go away into the city most mornings.
I am not proud of what I started doing next but you will understand that I was desperate. Lady Clementine, the dragon lady, is home to visitors from two to five each weekday afternoon and I have been slipping into the house with these visitors and remaining after they leave. Until my wake-up call. I have been most particular though not to enter the private areas of the house.
The house is the town house of Lord Haklenfield and Lady Clementine is his wife. Charlotte is Lady Clementine’s niece the daughter of her only brother. It appears the Charlotte’s mother died when Charlotte was young, a riding accident I understand, and Lady Clementine is extremely critical of the way in which her brother has raised his daughter. Charlotte does not meet her definition of a properly brought up young lady. She has taken the matter in hand.
The reason for the morning forays has become clear. The London season is fast approaching with its balls, its entertainments, its frantic matchmaking, and Charlotte is to come out. Hence the visits to the better shops, the milliners, to the dressmakers for fittings. Lady Clementine took a step up with her marriage, the Walmsleys are among the minor
FRUSTRATION. Page 5 SOSIAN gentry, and it has now become her life’s work to snare a title for Charlotte as well. The idea of marrying for love seems to be an alien concept here, somehow not British, and I am sure that Lady Clementine, for one, would have it rigorously suppressed.
Many of the young ladies who call with Mama are also getting ready for the shoot. Their displays of affection do not quite conceal their underlying rivalry but they do recognise the right of other members of their group to take the field. But! A common topic of conversation and general indignation has been those dastardly poachers, the American heiresses, who in recent years have come over with their mothers to hunt big game. What particularly damns them is that they have been all too successful. They have, however, been the salvation of a number of noble but impoverished families.
Lady Clementine and Charlotte’s fair young visitors have been trained for just one end, marriage. They can play the piano, they sing passably, they paint in water colours, and write uninspired verse. They know how to simper, how to flatter. Perhaps they can even manage a household. I do not know. What I do know is that they are, every one of them, shallow. Everything is for show. They cannot approach my Charlotte for real worth.
And there I’ve said it, ‘my Charlotte.’ But she isn’t. She can never be mine. To touch her would be taking a liberty. And anyway, she cannot feel my touch. I must stand by and see her marry someone else. Far better, I think, that I had never seen her. She fills my thoughts asleep and awake. My work suffers. Although physically in my office, as far from London as one can get in this world, my mind is there, there with her. I am deaf to the traffic below, blind to to the busy movement on the Auckland waterfront and to the harbour traffic.
Could any case be more hopeless? To put it simply, I have no existence in my love’s time. But even if I could be there in the flesh, I would stand no chance. I have no fortune and, more
FRUSTRATION. Page 6 SOSIAN importantly, no noble title. I wouldn’t get near Charlotte. The old dragon would see to that. So why even consider it. I CANNOT BE THERE!
Distance may mean nothing these days, whether to London or to the moon, but a single second leaves a gulf impossible to cross.