Victorian for a day

You’ve probably experienced a power outage before, or even temporarily having your water shut off and the enormous inconvenience that goes along with it. However, if you had been born in the Victorian era and grown up in a home with neither electricity or running water, it would seem completely normal to you.

Our lives are so easy. If you disagree, give this experiment a try sometime.

A while back I decided to live like a Victorian woman for a day, knowing in advance that I wouldn’t be able to go that long simply owing to the fact that I am not properly equipped. I have neither a well, a traditional coal stove, corset and period dress nor the right furniture, gas lamps or any other number of nifty things they used back then.

So instead I opted to go about my day making mental notes on all the comforts I could not do without but which I knew would not have been available to my Victorian self, and willingly renouncing those which I could find period-appropriate alternatives to.

The biggest hurdle of all was, by far, the running water fiasco. I don’t think many of us realise just how dependant we are on this simple luxury until we attempt to do without it.
Let’s pretend I do have access to a well and I’ll walk you through my theoretical 19th century day.

As the mobile phone is an obvious no-no, I do not rely on my alarm to get me up, but instead my own inner clock, perhaps the rooster crowing outside or, if I’m really lazy and dare to sleep in until 7, the trusty church bells which diligently remind one and all that every decent person should be up and about by now.

“Warm water” and “shower” are foreign concepts to me so I walk over to the table, upon which rests a basin of cold water, and wash my hands, face, under my arms and perhaps my feet as well before getting dressed. Here comes the next challenge—what to wear? I’m not allowed anything with zippers or any synthetic fabrics. My woolly winter clothes with buttons and hooks are my best bet, as I don’t have a corset or Victorian dress.

I grab a handful of hair pins and do my best to replicate a typical, everyday hairstyle. I never wear my hair up, so it takes a few tries before I’m satisfied. It’s nice having my hair out of the way, especially considering shampoo hasn’t been invented yet and my next bath is a week away.

It is quiet in the house because there is no TV, radio or music playing from my computer.
I stumble to the kitchen, already feeling a bit hot in my clothes, and my hand stops midair as I catch myself about to open the refrigerator door. Silly Anna.

Normally I’d bike to the supermarket to pick up a few provisions for the day but then I realise that a.) while my bike is technically allowed in the experiment, it is actually too modern in its design and b.) the supermarket is also off limits. I change my plans and head out on foot to the nearest bakery, making a stop at the fruit and veg dealer (the closest thing my neighbourhood has to a farmer’s market). It feels strange going out without my mp3 player but it’s alright.

If I were made of tougher stuff, I’d pee in an old crockery pot kept beside the bed and replace all the toilet paper with old newspaper, but instead I take mental note of how endlessly grateful I am to have a flush toilet and Charmin in my house, unlike my poor Victorian counterpart.
Apart from bread, butter and cheese I am limited to raw food because I can’t use my microwave or my stove/oven as they’re electric. Besides, washing up would be quite an ordeal since I’m not allowed to use the sink.

To pass the time I can read (though only books published before 1901 using traditional methods and materials) or write (though only with my fountain pen and ink!). I can, of course, grab my violin and practice. It’s just as well I enjoy classical music.

A warm dinner would be lovely but no pre-packaged or instant foods are allowed and I cannot cook, so bread and butter it is. How I’ll clean the knife afterwards is something I’d rather not think about.

I abort the experiment for a moment by brushing my teeth before bed, turning on the tap for the first time that day. I know I shouldn’t (most Victorians didn’t and anyway my toothbrush can’t be used in this experiment) but enough is enough.

I’m not really looking forward to bedtime because I’ve never slept sitting up and am not sure I’ll be able to. Ultimately I failed, but only because it was so strange for me. Anyway, my bed is far too big and comfy – not tiny and hard like Victorian beds. I comfort myself by concluding that I would have been able to if I’d been taught from childhood onward that only the dead lie flat out in bed.

Pieces

Anna und Karl Maria junior.

This week the "K" family revealed several more of its secrets to me. Their story is truly the stuff of great fiction, only it is fact. Tales of love, hate, laughter and drama. Accounts of miscarriages, still births, suicide and eating disorders; of longing, growth, strife and obligation. Betrayal, loyalty, strength of character and human weakness. It's all there, from birth to death.
It is a story that deserves to be told. I'm working on it...

Rudi, Karl and their grandmother Maria

Each member of this family could have a separate volume written about them. The smiling old matriarch in the photograph above, for instance, was the oldest surviving member of the family at the time. She was born and raised in the Victorian Era, lived through both World Wars and witnessed social and economic changes which none of us could possibly imagine.
She met her husband while working as a waitress. He was nearly 20 years her senior but that was rather common in those days. She gave birth to four children, only one of whom survived to adulthood. I know nothing of her family, or her siblings--if she had any. She is something of a mystery to me. In my mind I see her as a cheerful, loving mother whose life revolves around her family. She was an obedient wife, but according to accounts she was also a dominant woman. She enjoyed music and took her son along to concerts from the time he was very young. The war years brought numerous worries into her life. She lost her husband during this time and must have feared for her son’s life every day while he was out fighting.

Maria & Michael

When peace finally came it brought hard times with it, but she must have felt endlessly blessed and relieved to have her boy back home. By this time she also had a little grandson, Gustl, to dote upon. They all lived together, which can’t have been easy for them. Three generations sharing a house. If those walls could talk, the stories they could tell. The joy and suffering they must have witnessed in their day.

I wonder how it was for Anna, having to live with her mother in-law all those years. I wonder when the fights began and what they sounded like. I wonder when they stopped loving each other and how much she really knew about the other women in her husband’s life. What was motherhood like for her? What was fatherhood like for him? There must have been good times, of that I am certain.

There were also times of hardship and conflict. Anna had a daughter, whom they named Anna Maria. She died when she was very young. There were two other pregnancies which ended in miscarriage. When August found out Anna was pregnant with their second son, Rudi, he wanted her to have an abortion. But Anna put her foot down. She, too, was a dominant woman and she said she wanted to keep the baby. Karl, their youngest, followed two years later.

Karl & Mathilde's wedding, 1948

All three of the boys were bright, talented and handsome. All were musical, like their parents and they were as far as families go, I have never witnessed evidence of one which was closer.

Despite their differences, the brothers had a fantastic relationship. There was always rivalry between their wives but that was to be expected, given the difference of their situations. When Karl married, their father did not attend the wedding because it would have been unbearable for their mother. He had fallen in love with another woman during the war and left his wife after more than thirty years of marriage because of her. The two younger sons accepted their father's decision, while the eldest one publically labelled her a whore and cut off all contact with his father. Ironically, he would leave his wife for another woman as well, much to the ‘whore’’s merriment. Augustin inherited his mother’s temperament, it seems. He resembled her in many ways. Rudi was the diplomat of the family. He would have made a fantastic luthier or goldsmith but became a teacher instead. Today, at 86, he is still a much respected and loved member of the community. He never left his parents’ house. When he married and started his own family, his mother moved up to the attic, just like her mother in-law before her had done.

Of all the sons, Karl was the one who resembeled his father the most. In most of the pictures I’ve seen of him he seemed like the kind of guy who enjoyed life. Unfortunately, he inherited his father's diabetes. He and his wife were walking in the mountains one spring when he suddenly dropped dead. He was only 69—one year older than his father had been when he died. Both of their sons died before they were 60, leaving Mathilde all alone. She still writes letters to all three of them. It's comforting to know I'm not the only one who corresponds with the dead now and again.