Being half term, there has been little Time Uninterrupted to sit at the computer and even less time for Proper Thinking. But I did wander into our local museum yesterday, having palmed the children off on an unsuspecting husband given to believing my excuses of "work" (though not for much longer now, I should imagine). Our museum is a lovely quiet little place full of mind-inspiring gems, but manages to look quite dull on the first impression. Hence, it's usually empty.
Yesterday, there was a room dedicated to Women of Runnymede. Such exhibitions always attract me. I like to read of women past who have achieved far more than I have, as I find it (fleetingly) inspirational. But one lady, Anna Maria Hall, a novelist and writer and a Victorian of ever extending charitable might, it seems, especially struck me. In the midst of 19th century Surrey, she put her heart and soul into setting up a home for "Decayed Gentlewomen" in Engelfield Green.
Decayed Gentlewomen. What and who were they then? I have no real idea what it entailed to be a Decayed Gentlewoman, although I imagine I might have made a good one, the way I feel much of the time.
I am fairly sure Forster makes a reference to this section of female society in Room With A View, (a book vastly improved by a mental image of a young Rupert Graves). But who were they? Were they widows fallen from grace and power, thanks to inheritance law or newer-younger wife-replacements? Or were they morally decayed and thus shunned? And if so, by whose standards?
A quick six second surf round the net shows that decayed women of the 19th centuries were not just factors of British society, but were also bustling around America, with endless organisations over there being set up to assist. I'm sure the reality was every bit as bitter and desperate as it sounds; to have no form of financial support and be thrown upon the mercies of charitable trusts, especially if you had previously known a Respectable Life must have felt like the height of degradation. I found one reference to an "old story", which spoke of a decayed gentlewoman forced to cry "muffins" for mere survival, but always, always hoping she wouldn't be heard. Even if this is purely allegorical, I still think it is heartbreaking, and utterly.
But in the light of today's terminology, a Home For Decayed Gentlewomen sounds as though it might have been rather interesting. When I am poor and spent, and my husband has found a newer, less cynical model, I shall wrap myself up in black taffeta and set up my own hangout precisely for the purpose of becoming Decayed in all sorts of ways. And I will invite any of my like-minded friends to join me. After all, as non-Victorians, us women have the comparable luxury of knowing that should our husbands ever decide to discard us onto the streets, they will then have to pay for us when we are there.
It is unlikely to happen, of course. But as a passing nod to these poor women who had no benefit of the legal safeguards that we now (yes, quite rightly) enjoy, I think it's all worth digesting, just for a second.
