The Spanking Writers

In 1914′s “The adventures of Kathlyn” by Harold MacGrath, our heroine is the daughter of a great hunter, Colonel Hare. She sails to Calcutta to visit him, and becomes embroiled in a complex plot in which she is required to marry some local ruler, but refuses his advances. She is “led to a cell in the palace prison, whose walls she had but a little while ago viewed in passing, and thrust inside”.

By amazing coincidence, she finds that her father is also in prison – in the very same cell!

Meanwhile, her local suitor appeared before his council of ministers, who agreed to have her flogged. But he…

… went about the matter leisurely. He ate his supper, changed his clothes and dallied in the zenana for an hour. The rascal had made a thorough study of the word “suspense”; he knew the exquisite torture of making one’s victim wait

For the time being his passion for Kathlyn had subsided. He desired above all things just than revenge for the humiliating experience in the ceil; he wanted to put pain and terror into her heart. Ah, she would be on her knees, begging, begging, and her father would struggle in vain at his shackles. Spurned; so be it. She should have a taste of his hate…

Two should hold her by the arms while the professional flogger seared the white soft back of her. She would soon come to him begging. He had been too kind. The lash of the zenana, it should bite into her soft flesh. He would break her spirit and her body together and fling her into his own zenana to let her gnaw her heart out in suspense.

Accompanied by torch bearers, servants and the professional flogger, he led the way to the cell and flung open the door triumphantly. For a moment he could not believe his eyes. She was gone, and through yonder window!

Thank goodness for the valiant officer of the raj who had rescued our damsel in distress, dear readers, for I know we would all have hated to have to read the description of her actual punishment…

Project Gutenberg, the wonderful online store of out-of-copyright books, includes a rather odd autobiographical tale, “Seven wives and seven prisons”, published by a doctor called L.A. Abbott in New York in 1870.

Wife number three on the author’s list was one Sarah Scheimer and it’s his description of her seduction that drew the book to my attention:

Now just across the Delaware river, nine miles above Easton, Penn., lived a wealthy Dutch farmer, named Scheimer… The youngest daughter, Sarah, eighteen years old, was an accomplished and beautiful girl…

I had not been in the Scheimer family three months before I fell in love with the daughter Sarah and she returned my passion. She promised to marry me, but said there was no use in saying anything to her parents about it; they would never consent on account of the disparity in our ages, for I was then forty years old; but she would marry me nevertheless, if we had to run away together.

They conspired to elope, arranging to meet by the local river:

The next day, at the appointed time, I was at the ferry–Sarah, as I learned afterwards, left the house at a much earlier hour to “take a walk” and while she was, foolishly I think, making a circuitous route to reach the ferry, her father, who suspected that she intended to run away, went to the ferryman and told him his suspicions, directing him if Sarah came there by no means to permit her to cross the river. Consequently when Sarah met me at the ferry, the ferryman flatly refused to let either of us go over…

While we were pressing the ferryman to favor us, down came one of Sarah’s brothers with a dozen neighbors, and told her she must return home or he would carry her back by force.

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A document I was reviewing for work discussed how to make cleaning staff more efficient. The idea? Rather than give them a basket of sprays and cloths, the essential items could be worn around their waist in a specially-designed belt.

So, how did they phrase this?

“We believe there are benefits in introducing the ‘belt’ to all our clients.”

Yep, I tend to agree. Although I did nearly fall of my chair when I read the sentence, and rather struggled to keep a straight face for the remainder of the meeting.

A party of girls on a trip to another school, requiring a night away. A big sports match, a tournament of some description, perhaps?

A group of the young ladies – four, five of them? – are caught misbehaving by their hosts. They’re called before the master who’s supervising the trip.

He expresses his disappointment in them, and takes out the cane. Two strokes each, on the hand, bringing tears to their eyes and heartfelt apologies.

And then the last girl stands before him. A girl he likes – one he tutors, is ever-so-close to, without ever crossing lines that shouldn’t be crossed between a master and a pupil. A girl who is rather – maybe rather too – fond of him.

But he can’t cane her. “The rules are clear. Only the Headmaster may cane prefects. I’ll have to report you to him on our return tomorrow.”

And she pleads, and he eventually relents. “I understand that the prefects receive six of the best, on the bare?”

“Yes, sir.”

And so he makes her bend over. And explains that, as he only has a junior cane and the Headmaster uses the senior rattan on the prefects, he’s going to double the number of strokes…

Afterwards, she cries. Apologises. Thanks him for not sending her to the Headmaster. Standing close to him, leans her face against his chest, dampening his shirt with her tears.   And feels safe in his tight, re-assuring hug.

I’m puzzled.

Let me explain. I had this rather lovely scene idea a while back: one girl (a maid in a big country house) with two gentlemen: the lord of the manor and his butler.

The ‘house rules’ determine that maids are spanked by the housekeeper for minor infringements and caned by me, as butler, for more serious misdemeanours. For the gravest offences, the girl in question is sent to be birched by his lordship. This only happens rarely – but earlier in the day, I’d had cause to send my favourite maid for such a flogging.

She’d returned to the servants’ quarters some half-hour later: quiet, tear-stained, contrite. And, out of politeness, I’d apologised to his lordship when I’d next seen him next for the inconvenience he’d been caused.

He’d looked puzzled – understandably so, since “I haven’t seen any of your girls today.”

We’d call her forth, of course. She’d confess that she’d hidden away, evading punishment; that her tears had been pretend.

And here lies the dilemma. A caning from me for her dishonesty would clearly be called for, in addition to the birching already due from his lordship. But which way around – cane her then birch her, or vice versa?

Thoughts welcome. And any votes for “let her go and play with the fluffy bunny rabbits in the garden instead” will be disregarded…

Needless to say, Wolf Hall‘s 600+ pages about life in the Tudor Court inspired a fair few fantasies.

There are gatherings of the great and the good at country houses across the land, with His Majesty as guest of honour. One imagines each of the noblemen bringing him a gift for the weekend – the fairest maiden from their estate. The girls would be lined up for the king’s inspection. He’d choose a favourite, and she’d protest: “Do not touch me, sir.” The royal order would follow a firm slap across her face: “Take her to my chamber, tie her over the end of my bed, and lay out a whip so I may punish her   – and teach her some respect and compliance.”

The book tells tale of the Duke of Suffolk with his ever-so-young new bride. Is it too much to imagine how the girl might have had to be taught obedience to her new husband in his stately home – especially if she’d tried to resist his advance?

And the novel dwells at length on issues of   oaths. My courtiers would have taken a rather more robust stance than Henry’s to attaining compliance: “You are to swear the oath on behalf of your entire family, sir. And if you do not, then they will all be whipped. So will you swear your allegiance? No? Which of these girls is your eldest daughter? Officers: seize her, take her to the whipping post in the marketplace and bring her back here once you’ve flogged her soundly.” (So much more effective than a mere ‘Off with his head’, methinks).

It’s still a good (nay, great) book, despite the missing scenes. But I hope that the inevitable TV or movie adaptation will fill in the gaps.

I’ve just devoured ‘Wolf Hall’, Hilary Mantel’s remarkable Booker Prize-winning novel. I’d hazard a guess that it’s the first winner of that illustrious prize to feature a detailed discussion of the manufacture of floggers:

He [Thomas More] beats himself with a small scourge, of the type used by some religious orders. What lodges in his mind, Thomas Cromwell’s, is that somebody makes these instruments of daily torture. Someone combs the horsehair into coarse tufts, knots them and chops the blunt ends…

Is it monks who make them, knotting and snipping in a fury of righteousness, chuckling at the thought of the pain they will cause to persons unknown? Are simple villagers paid – how, by the dozen? – for making flails with waxed knots? When the money for their honest labour is put into their hands, do the makers think of the hands that will pick up the product?

Quite aside from such fascinating stuff, the book really does live up to the hype (despite, IMHO, taking a fair few pages to find its distinctive voice and get into its stride). Highly recommended!

… hand my mobile phone to my mother-in-law a couple of days ago, to show her a photo of Haron cutting her 30th birthday cake… forgetting that all of the girls in the background were wearing school uniform?

Fortunately, she already thinks that all westerners are weird, so I got away with it! But I wonder whether anyone else has inadvertently nearly outed themselves like that?!

On other matters… we were wondering which of us is more corrupt: me, for telling my wife at a family gathering that I fancied her brother’s ex, or my darling wife for then informing her brother’s ex of said fact?

And finally… it may be childish of me, but I took great delighted in seeing Ukrainian TV adverts for fruit juice known as ‘Sok’. Only, in the Cyrillic alphabet, that’s spelt ‘Cok’. As in: ‘Drink cok’; ‘Cok is good for you’; ‘Cok, fives times a day’…

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PS I got back to the UK yesterday; Haron’s still going to be in Kiev for a few weeks yet. Thanks to so many of you for your kind and touching comments over the past, difficult week. We’re both so thankful to have such wonderful friends.

“Aladdin of London”, a 1907 volume by Sir Max Pemberton, is an interesting little tale. At the centre of the plot is a young woman whose fate is the subject of much debate:

First up, there’s a small matter of alleged fraud and blackmail by our heroine’s family; the authorities decide that she might spill the beans as to what’s gone on:

A smile hovered upon the Count’s face in spite of himself. “In a week,” he was saying to himself, “Lois Boriskoff shall be flogged in the Schusselburg.” In truth, the whip was the weapon he liked best—when women were to be schooled.

He’s persuaded to spare her: a scheme is hatched to uncover the truth, but goes wrong:

Why could he not have telegraphed to the Chief of the Police to arrest the girl as soon as might be and to flog her into a confession. The whip would have purchased her secret readily enough, then the others could have been arrested… Sergius blamed himself very much that he had permitted a finer chivalry to guide his acts.

Matters soon take a turn for the worse, when we learn that “The Count has been assassinated—we believe by a woman.” Lois is implicated, arrested and flung into prison. Her friend visits the chief of police to try to secure her release:

“I am asking you these questions because I wish that justice shall be done. If you can do nothing to clear Lois Boriskoff, I am afraid that we shall have to flog her.”

“That would be a cowardly thing to do. It would also be very foolish. She has many friends both here and in England. I don’t think they will forget her.”

“Wild talk, Mr. Kennedy, very wild talk. I see that you will not help me. We must let the Governor know as much and he will decide. I warn you at the same time that it will go very hard with you if the Count should die—and as for this woman, we will try other measures. She must certainly be flogged.”

Zaniloff did not like the turn affairs had taken. He determined to see the Governor-General without a moment’s loss of time. Meanwhile there could be no earthly reason why the girl should not be flogged. Whatever happened the Minister would approve that.

The policeman agreed to contact the authorities in England:

“The telegram shall be dispatched immediately. While we are waiting for an answer I will command them to bring you some breakfast to my own private room. Meanwhile, as I say, the girl must be flogged.”

Waiting to see Lois, her friend then witnessed a flogging “as he stood at the window above, too fascinated by the horror of the spectacle to move away and not unwilling to know the truth”:

Many police assisted at this—driving their victims before them to a rude bench in the centre of the yard. There was neither strap nor triangle. They threw their man down and held him across the plank, gripping his   wrists and ankles and one forcing his head to the floor.

The whip of a single lash, wired to cut and leaded everywhere, fell across the naked flesh with a sound of a cane upon a board. Great welts were left at the very first blow… the most stolid were broken to shrieks and screams despite their resolutions. The laugh upon defiant lips became instantly a terrible cry… As they did to these poor wretches so would they do to Lois…

Fortunately, the girl ended up being released unharmed, no doubt entirely unaware of her many close escapes from the lash. And we do all love a happy ending, don’t we, readers?

Barbara Ewing’s “The Fraud”, set amidst the artistic world of eighteenth-century London, made for a mildly entertaining read on a recent journey.

Just as I was willing the ever-so-deserving heroine towards a thrashing (which sadly never came), she bumped into a girl she’d known in her childhood, now reduced to begging and stealing on the streets.

“I tried to better meself but I never found one place where I wasn’t treated bad,” friend Poppy explained, noting that she ‘had ended up in Newgate Prison once when caught in her thieving’.

“I seen things there made me sure I ain’t going to get caught again, they whip women in Newgate, Grace.”

I read on, eager for the details, but none came. Still, I thought, with over 200 pages to go, young Poppy was sure to be imprisoned again – but this time to be ‘privately whipped’. Sadly, the author missed her opportunity, so we’ll just have to picture it for ourselves…

The girl taken from the cell, the chains cold against her wrists. The stumbling barefoot walk along the stone floor. The punishment cell – dark, bare, save for the whipping post. The expert hands of the gaolers, stripping her and tying her tightly in position. Her pleas – ignored, of course. A prayer before punishment, perhaps? The harsh cut of the cat o’ nine tails, striping her back. Yep, I reckon my version would be a decided improvement on the original book.