The Victorian House: Domestic Life from Childbirth to Deathbed

While the fashionable (and wealthy) still colonized parts of central London, some inner neighbourhoods were becoming less desirable, and it was important for the prospective resident to take care in choosing a location. In Trollope’s The Small House at Allington, published in 1864, a couple settled in Westbourne Grove, Bayswater:

The house was quite new, and … it was acknowledged to be a quite correct locality … We know how vile is the sound of Baker Street, and how absolutely foul to the polite ear is the name of Fitzroy Square. The houses, however, in those purlieus are substantial, warm, and of good size. The house in Princess Royal Crescent was certainly not substantial, for in these days substantially-built houses do not pay. It could hardly have been warm, for, to speak the truth, it was even yet not finished throughout; and as for size, though the drawing room was a noble apartment, consisting of a section of the whole house, with a corner cut out for the staircase, it was very much cramped in its other parts, and was made like a cherub, in this respect, that it had no rear belonging to it. ‘But if you have no private fortune of your own, you cannot have everything,’ as the countess observed when Crosbie objected to the house because a closet under the kitchen stairs was to be assigned to him as his own dressing-room.59

If the family’s status was on display in the choice of the house, then it followed that location and public rooms were more important than comfort and convenience, and certainly more important than the private, family, spaces.

Surrounding London, the choice of suburbs was endless. Because of the railway going into the City, Camberwell and Peckham (that ‘Arcadian vale’, as W. S. Gilbert called it in Trial by Jury in 1875) were home to clerks – Camberwell was home to one in every eight clerks in London by the end of the century;’60 Hammersmith, Balham and Leyton, too, were all lower middle class. Penge and Ealing, with no direct railway, were middle class; Hampstead was upper middle. These were not arbitrary designations made after the event. Contemporary guidebooks allocated St John’s Wood to authors, journalists and publishers; Tyburnia (Marble Arch) and Bayswater, Haverstock Hill, Brixton and Clapham, Kennington and Stockwell to ‘City men’ – stockbrokers, merchants and commercial agents. Denmark Hill, where Ruskin had grown up, was ‘the Belgravia of South London’. Sydenham, Highgate, Barnes and Richmond were, simply, for the rich.*61

Arthur Munby, an upper-middle-class civil servant, in his journal in 1860 noted the class distinctions of each district as naturally as we note street signs:

Walked to S. Paul’s Churchyard, and took an omnibus to Brentford … In Fleet St. and the Strand, small tradesmen strolling with wives and children, servant maids with their sweethearts, clerks in gorgeous pairs: westward, ‘genteel’ people, gentry, ‘swells’ & ladies, till the tide of fashionable strollers breaks on Hyde Park Corner: then, beyond Knights-bridge and all the way to Brentford, middle-class men & women staring idly over the blinds of their suburban windows, and slinking back when you look that way: lower class ditto ditto standing & staring at their doors, equally idle, but much more frank and at their ease; staring openly & boldly, having purchased rest and tobacco by a good week’s work.62

Trollope was one of the finest arbiters of what made one suburb work and another a failure, although he admired, against the trend, the lawyer who was ‘one of those old-fashioned people who think a spacious substantial house in Bloomsbury Square, at a rent of a hundred and twenty pounds a year, is better worth having than a narrow, lath-and-plaster, ill-built tenement at nearly double the price out westward of the parks’.63

All of these suburbs, however remote, had one focus: the city they surrounded. However segregated, secluded and private, every morning the suburbs emptied as the workers headed off to the city, here watched by the journalist G. A. Sala:

Nine o’clock … If the morning be fine, the pavement of the Strand and Fleet Street looks quite radiant with the spruce clerks walking down to their offices governmental, financial, and commercial …

… the omnibuses meet at the Bank and disgorge the clerks by hundreds; repeating this operation scores of times between nine and ten o’clock. But you are not to delude yourself, that either by wheeled vehicle or by the humbler conveyances known as ‘Shank’s mare’, and the ‘Marrowbone stage’ – in more refined language, walking – have all those who have business in the city reached their destination. No; the Silent Highway has been their travelling route. On the … bosom of Father Thames, they have been borne in swift, grimy little steamboats, crowded with living freights from Chelsea, and Pimlico, and Vauxhall piers, from Hungerford, Waterloo, Temple, Blackfriars, and Southwark – to the Old Shades Pier, hard by London Bridge. Then for an instant, Thames Street Upper and Lower, is invaded by an ant-hill swarm of spruce clerks, who mingle strangely with the fish-women and the dock-porters. But the insatiable counting-houses* soon swallow them up …64

The segregation and classification that came so naturally to Munby and Sala permeated every aspect of Victorian life. Suburbs were ranked to keep the classes separate; neighbourhoods without shops or services kept functions – home versus work – apart. Once inside the house, the need to classify and divide did not end: houses were designed to keep the function of any one group of inhabitants from impinging on any other. Home was a private space, guarded watchfully from contamination by the life of the world; but within the home, too, each separate space had its own privacy, and each enclosed a smaller privacy within it, like a series of ever smaller Russian dolls: every room, every piece of furniture, every object, in theory, had its own function, which it alone could perform: nothing else would serve, and to make do with a multipurpose substitute was not quite respectable. Privacy and segregation of function, especially as the latter defined social status, were the keynotes to the terraced house. Robert Kerr, an architect, wrote in his book on The Gentleman’s House that privacy was ‘our primary classification’ for the ideal house – he put it ahead of a dozen other desirable characteristics such as ‘comfort’, ‘convenience’ and ‘cheerfulness’.65

Nothing was to be allowed to escape from its own particular container. Kerr’s most obvious concern was that servants and their masters should remain separate: ‘the Family Rooms shall be essentially private, and as much as possible the Family Thoroughfares. It becomes the foremost of all maxims, therefore, however small the establishment, that the Servants’ Department shall be separated from the Main House, so that what passes on either side of the boundary shall be both invisible and inaudible on the other.’ Some of the examples of these boundaries being breached were servants overhearing their masters; or coal or scullery noises penetrating outside the coal-hole or scullery; or, worse, smells wafting through the house; ‘or when a Kitchen doorway in the Vestibule or Staircase exposes to the view of every one the dresser or the cooking range’.*66 When a glimpse of inappropriate furniture through a doorway is disturbing, it seems important to examine how household life was structured, what its concerns and obligations were in daily life.

The standard plan of the terraced house was quickly arrived at. The town houses of the gentry were taller, wider and deeper, but that was the sole distinction: the layouts of the houses of both rich and poor were eerily similar. The middle classes wanted the houses that the upper classes lived in; the poorer classes were content to live in cut-down versions of the middle-class house. The great landowners encouraged this type of housing on their estates, as something familiar to them: the earlier town houses that were their own London homes had conformed to this model. Thus, as cities were rapidly generated on their land, they forced the builders into repeating the older patterns. In turn, when speculative builders bought parcels of land to make investments of their own, they copied the more prestigious estates built by the upper classes.

Architects at the time (and ever since) called the houses inconvenient and impractical, but if the demand had not been there, neither would the houses have been: these estates were built to meet a need, and if the population had shown a desire for something else, something else would have appeared.

Party walls were rigidly controlled: they were the line of demarcation between houses, and ground landlords allowed no breach of them to occur. They were also the main means of fire prevention, and for this reason it was usual to require them to continue upwards at least 15 inches higher than the roof. But those who wrote about building practices noted that all the walls were too flimsy (half a brick, or 41/2 inches, thick rather than the one brick, at 9 inches, that was necessary to keep water out), that foundations were not built, and that damp-courses were not laid.67 It was not coincidental that the word ‘jerry-built’ was first recorded in the nineteenth century. Some bricks were so rotten that, when fires were lit, smoke came out through the sides of the chimneys. In her diary Beatrix Potter noted other practices that were even more unsavoury:

Builders are in the habit of digging out the gravel on which they ought to found their houses, and selling it. The holes must be filled. The refuse of London is bad to get rid of though the greater part is put to various uses. The builders buy, not the cinders and ashes, but decaying animal and vegetable matters etc. to fill the gravel parts. It is not safe to build on at first, so is spread on the ground to rot, covered with a layer of earth … After a while the bad smells soak through the earth and floors and cause fevers. This delightful substance is called ‘dry core’.68

The result of all this was houses that were no sooner finished than they needed repair. The Transactions of the Sanitary Institute of Great Britain despaired over both the lack of good building practices and the preference for display before solidity:

Here is a house, empty, which was completed and occupied two years ago. Notice how the inside is finished, to take the eye: good mantel-pieces, showy grates, and attractive papers. Now look at the floors. Not one of them is level; they are at all sorts of angles, owing to the sinking of the walls … Notice how the damp has risen, even to the second-floor rooms, and in all the water has come through the roof, not in one, but in many places. The bath room, & c., is conspicuous, but only to the practised eye, by reason of the scamped plumbing and forbidding fittings used. Look at the exterior … Observe how the roof sags, owing to the scantlings of the rafters being insufficient …69

Fresh from Boston, the diarist Alice James, invalid sister of the novelist Henry James and the philosopher and psychologist William James, was shocked at the ‘dumb patience’ of the English, which allowed these practices:

the generality of middle class houses … rock and quake when one walks across the floor, and you hear the voices of your next door neighbours … plainly … The Ashburnes, after a nine years’ search, took a large and good house and had it thoroughly ‘done up’, and then for weeks vainly tried to warm the drawing-room sufficiently to sit in it; then they were told by the people who had the house before them, that the room could never be used in cold weather: George was then inspired to climb up on a ladder and look at the top of the windows, which had all been examined by the British workmen, who had carefully left in the setting of them, several inches of ventilation into the open street.

The immensity of London is so overpowering that a superficial impression of solidity goes with it, and it makes one rather heartsick to learn by degrees that it is simply miles of cardboard houses …*70

Instead of solidity of structure, what the inhabitants were looking for, and seemed to love for its own sake, was regularity of form. The upper middle classes even built isolated terraced rows set in the middle of parkland, when on the same piece of land each householder could have had a separate house surrounded by a generous parcel of land.71 The eighteenth century had bequeathed the ‘building line’, the most basic regulation, which ensured that the facades of the houses were kept to a straight line, with nothing protruding – not door frames, not lintels, not even widow frames. By the middle of the nineteenth century, although the concept of the terrace had been internalized, ornamental ironwork and other architectural details were breaking up the starker Georgian rows, and other regulations, mostly based on hygienic concerns, took over: in the 1850s local municipal acts laid down that all new streets had to be 36 feet wide, and at the rear each house had to have 150 square feet of open space.

Other elements of control were imposed by the landlord, or by the residents themselves, who equated regularity and conformity with respectability: gates were to open only in one direction; fences had to be a certain height.72

Sara Duncan, an American visitor towards the end of the century, got to the heart of the matter. Her cousin’s house, in Half-Moon Street, a fashionable address off Piccadilly, was

very tall, and very plain, and very narrow, and quite expressionless, except that it wore a sort of dirty brown frown. Like its neighbours, it had a well in front of it, and steps leading down in to the well, and an iron fence round the steps, and a brass bell-handle lettered ‘Tradesmen’. Like its neighbours, too, it wore boxes of spotty black greenery on the window-sills – in fact, it was very like its neighbours … Half-Moon Street, to me, looked like a family of houses – a family differing in heights and complexions and the colour of its hair, but sharing all the characteristics of a family – of an old family.73

These houses were indeed all of a family; and the pattern-book house was simple. It could not be more than four times as deep as it was wide, or it would be too dark. Schematically laid out, the generic house looked like this:

Top floor: servants’ and children’s bedrooms (usually two) Half-landing: bathroom (often) Second floor:* master bedroom, dressing room (in larger houses), second bedroom First floor: drawing room Ground floor: dining room, morning room Basement: kitchen, scullery, possibly a breakfast room

Smaller houses might have only three floors: basement, ground and first. This meant a six-room house, consisting of kitchen and scullery in the basement, two reception rooms on the ground floor, two bedrooms upstairs. All houses, of whatever size and number of rooms, were built on a vertical axis, with the stairs at the centre of household life. As a woman in H. G. Wells’s Kipps noted, ‘Some poor girl’s got to go up and down, up and down, and be tired out, just because they haven’t the sense to give their steps a proper rise … It’s ‘ouses like this wears girls out. It’s ‘aving ‘ouses built by men, I believe, makes all the work and trouble.’74

Not everyone thought the same. Nathaniel Hawthorne, in his years in England, learned to love the regularity and system. In Leamington Spa he approved of

a nice little circle of pretty, moderate-sized, two-story houses, all on precisely the same plan, so that on coming out of any one door, and taking a turn, one can hardly tell which house is his own. There is a green space of grass and shrubbery in the centre of the Circus, and a little grass plot, with flowers, shrubbery, and well-kept hedges, before every house, and it is really delightful … so cleanly, so set out with shade-trees, so regular in its streets, so neatly paved, its houses so prettily contrived, and nicely stuccoed, that it does not look like a portion of the work-a-day world. ‘Genteel’ is the word for it … The tasteful shop-fronts on the principal streets; the Bath-chairs; the public garden; the servants whom one meets … the ladies sweeping through the avenues; the nursery maids and children; all make up a picture of somewhat unreal finery … I do not know a spot where I would rather reside than in this new village of midmost Old England.75

These were houses for the middle-classes, and they are what will be discussed in the coming pages. The houses of the working classes and the poor had their own problems, and the houses of the upper classes varied too much to be comprehended in one book. But middle-class houses – from the four-to-six-room house of the lower middle class to the twelve rooms or so of the upper middle class – all conformed to a pattern. All, as Sara Duncan noted, shared a family likeness.

* Appendix 2, p. 382ff., is a quick guide to the authors and books I have made use of.

* George Augustus Sala (1828–96), journalist. Dickens sent him to report on the Crimea at the end of the war there, and he made his name as a special correspondent covering the Civil War in America for the Daily Telegraph, He wrote a column called Echoes of the Week’ for the Illustrated London News from 1860 to 1886, and he reported for the Sunday Times from 1886 to 1894.

* This is only one of many elements I have been unable to encompass and still have a book of a manageable length: domestic life is protean, and any reader will, with no effort at all, be able to come up with a dozen fields of equal importance that I have not touched on. The bibliography will lead interested readers to books on many more subjects.

* A tiny indication of the large importance of conformity: ‘pattern’ was the word used to describe something or someone who was approved of – Esther Summerson in Bleak House is commended by Mr George as ‘a pattern young lady’.34

* For precise timekeeping, see pp. 231–2, 361n.

* Jane Ellen Panton (1848–1923), a journalist and early exponent of the new concept of ‘interior decoration’, was the daughter of the immensely successful genre painter William Powell Frith. Her obituary in The Times said she was a ‘witty and outspoken conversationalist with the courage of her opinions, and under a naturally impatient temperament there lay a fund of real kindness’. This, for an obituary in the 1920s, was shatteringly outspoken, and well described the startlingly rude woman of From Kitchen to Garret, her most successful book (by 1897 it had been through eleven editions). At various points she commented on ‘some friends of mine who had a [dinner] service with a whole flight of red storks on, flying over each plate, and anything more ugly and incongruous it is difficult to think of’, and suggested that women should write down what they wanted for Christmas and birthdays, ‘then one is sure of receiving something one requires, and not the endless rubbish that accumulates when well-meaning friends send gifts qua gifts to be rid themselves of an obligation’.44

* Blacks were a common nineteenth-century nuisance. They were flakes of soot, black specks that floated on the air, marking everything they touched. Ralph Waldo Emerson was told when he visited England that no one there wore white because it was impossible to keep it clean.53

† Sir Walter Besant (1836–1901) was the author of several popular novels written together with James Rice, including Ready-Money Mortiboy (1872) and The Chaplain of the Fleet (1881). He also wrote biographies, works on London and on literary life, and an autobiography, as well as reforming works on the appalling living conditions of the poor. In 1884 he founded the Society of Authors.

* This feeling was strong enough that in Kensington Square in the 1890s a local shopkeeper’s van had written on it ‘Van to and from London, daily.’56

* Chelsea, now a prime district for the rich, does not appear on this list – it was, and remained until after the Second World War, an area inhabited by the lower middle and working classes. Only with the building of the Chelsea Embankment in 1874, which stopped the Thames from regularly flooding the area, and, in the mid-twentieth century, with the disappearance of servants, did these houses, small by mid-Victorian standards, became the ideal size for the newly applianced rich.

* Counting houses were not simply banks, but anywhere that accounts were kept – offices, in other words. The word ‘office’ itself was more commonly used to describe a governmental or diplomatic position – ‘holding office’. At home, the offices were the working parts of the house: the kitchen, scullery, pantry and, especially, the privy or lavatory.

* This is a theme that permeates the era; some examples can be found on pp. 114–15, 175–6; 191, 255, 297.

* In retrospective fairness to the jerry-builders, it is worth noting that most of these ‘cardboard houses’ still survive some 150 years later.

* Divided as we are by a common language, American readers should note that the British system gives the ground floor no number – it is ‘0’; the next floor up is the first, equivalent to the American second storey. The British style is used throughout this book.

1

THE BEDROOM

IN THE SEGREGATION that permeated the Victorian house, the reception rooms were always considered the main rooms – they presented the public face of the family, defining it, clarifying its status. Bedrooms, to perform their function properly, were expected to separate servants from employers, adults from children, boys from girls, older children from babies. Initially, smaller houses had had only two bedrooms, one for parents and young children, one for the remaining children, with servants sleeping in the kitchen or basement. To accommodate the increasing demands for separation, houses throughout the period grew ever taller.

In addition, the older fashion of the bedrooms serving as quasi-sitting rooms was, in theory at least, disappearing. The Architect said that using a bedroom for a function other than sleeping was ‘unwholesome, immoral, and contrary to the well-understood principle that every important function of life required a separate room’.1 In actual fact, bedroom function was regulated rather less rigidly than the theory of the times advocated. Throughout the period, as well as being rooms for sleeping, for illness, for sex,* for childbirth, bedrooms served more than one category of family member. Alfred Bennett, growing up in the 1850s in Islington, slept on a small bed beside his parents’ bed.* So did Edmund Gosse, until his mother developed breast cancer when he was seven; after she died, he slept in his father’s room until he was eleven. In small houses this was to be expected. Thomas and Jane Carlyle’s procession of servants slept in the back kitchen, or scullery, from 1834 (when the Carlyles moved into their Cheyne Row house) until 1865 (when an additional bedroom was incorporated in the attic). The house was fairly small, but they had no children, and for many years only one servant. Even in large houses with numerous servants it was not uncommon to expect them to sleep where they worked. As late as 1891 Alice James reported that a friend, house-hunting, had seen ‘a largish house in Palace Gardens Terrace [in the new part of Kensington: this was not an old house] with four reception rooms and “eight masters’ bedrooms”; when she asked the “lady-housekeeper” where the servants’ rooms were, she said: “downstairs next the kitchen” – “How many?” “One” – at [her] exclamation of horror, she replied: “It is large enough for three” – maids: of course there was the pantry and scullery for the butler and footman.’2

Like the Carlyles, it is probable that these unknown employers themselves had separate bedrooms. Even couples who shared a room often found it desirable for the husband to have a separate dressing room for himself – this was genteel: that is, what the upper middle and upper classes did, even if the shifts many had to go through to carve out this extra space often reduced the genteel to the ludicrous. (See Adolphus Crosbie’s dressing room on page xlv.) Linley and Marion Sambourne, an upper-middle-class couple living in a fairly large house in Kensington, shared a bedroom, with a separate dressing room next door for Linley.* Their two children, a boy and a girl, slept in one room on the top floor, next to the parlourmaid, while the cook and the housemaid slept in the back kitchen.3 When the children grew too old for it to be considered proper for them to share a room, Linley’s dressing room became his son’s room, and their daughter remained in her childhood bedroom: this was all fairly standard.