Mr. Quimby, father of the delightful Ramona Quimby, once remarked that “a diary was sure to be more interesting than faucet washers” and yes, this was.
Enjoyed the diary part, even though I knew how it would end for the first English Queen Anne, this was well imagined and jives with what little i know of these finest-of-propagandists, the Tudors. The premise, that young Queen Elizabeth #1 is gifted her mother’s secret diary by an ancient servant of the latter. It serves to let E1 know her own happiness and success would lay in never marrying, (why voluntarily give one’s power away?), men could not be trusted, and that her Mum, now headless, loved her.
Mum Anne’s power, her imagined bit of autonomy - albeit always the one hunted - was in being unavailable. Once married, she loses all worth, and is further weakened by her small peptides - the insanity that takes over when one becomes a mother.
Unfortunately, the few pages devoted to Elizabeth are irritatingly full of descriptions doubting the veracity of Prince William’s recent declaration that the Royal Fam is “very much not racist”...they just really, deeply prefer that part of the egg:
Between the pages of 2-25 (the Elizabeth parts) we find these sadly melanin and iron-deficient descriptions of Lizzy:
“her long white fingers”
“her pearl white...breasts”
“face as pale as a Yorkshire rose”
“thin alabaster skin, adding potency to her claim to the English throne”
“incandescently pale girl”
“her ivory fingers”
“the Queen’s pale face”
Liz again from 66-78:
“fair”
“the pale-faced woman”
“white-fingered”
And between 91-100, about Liz, we learn:
“whalebone white hand”
“her pale, luminescent beauty”
“pale golden girl”
Then more of Anne’s diary until we are assured (God Save the Queen!) on 260 of Elizabeth’s “pale, tender skin”. It’s good that she powdered her face ghostly white as she aged, you know, just in case.
Thankfully, the majority of the pages are Anne's diary, which was quite engaging. As Anne begins to see the authentic monster, her eventual baby daddy, during his pursuit of her:
Henry - clearly obsessed with the Anne he cannot “have” - doesn’t seem to care a whit for the thousands dying in an epidemic of sweating sickness in 1528:
Anne notes: “I...feel some bitterness with his cheerful mood...How he thinks of this [his divorce from Katherine] I do not know, when such woeful pestilence rules our souls. I do sometimes fear the King is bloodless, strange and cold.”
Years later, when Henry is reportedly impotent on his long awaited first try with Anne, she notes:
“.. I believe in that black moment of failing, a monstrous thing was born within the King that no future potent joining ...can erase”
Clearly women, fantasized, are never found quite so in Real Life.
Anne is harshly, sadly in my opinion, self-abrogating after the unforgivable sin of birthing a daughter. Too bad it took so many years to show that the sperm donor is the one who decides the gender of any conception in humans. Anne “arrogantly” wants to live with her baby girl, Henry rages NO! and she begs, whimpers, kneels for forgiveness:
“I am ashamed to be brought so low, but I will not endanger Elizabeth with my arrogance.”
Brought low by...Ah, Motherhood...I am brought to mind of parasites that take over our brains, or livers, settling in with comfort - to feed, grow and completely take over; our previous wishes, strengths and hard fought ecological wisdom. That is all made squash-rot by the small peptides “motherhood” floods us with.
“A child is born of your body and you are helpless to do other than love it whether it be male or female, docile or a shrieking horror, beautiful or monstrously deformed….Anne, it seemed to Elizabeth, had...grovelled more pitifully...than any mother was wont to do for a daughter.”
And we all know that groveling pitifully is love.
Anne reflecting on her own cruel father, who was happy to benefit from her, and just as happy to discard her to the grave when it was to his gain. He was furious that she chose to:
“...bestride the reckless stallion that was her own life, (to) ride headlong into glory and disaster.”
I hear the Horse metaphor loudly:
How many years do we, daughters, spend attempting to “break” ourselves, to saddle up our reckless stallion? Trying to convince ourselves that what we are told we want, is really what we want?
The great freedom fighter and martyred prophet Stephan Biko taught us: “The most powerful weapon in the hands of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed.” How convenient that we enslave ourselves. “Break” ourselves. Insert our own mouth bits and smilingly hand over the reins.
“For men love what they cannot have, and hate that which they cannot control.”
In the last pages of the diary Anne tells Elizabeth: “Let no man be your master...hold apart from all men a piece of your spirit.”
Fine advice.