The Poets' Daughters by Katie Waldegrave: A tale of two women obscured by their fathers

Sara Coleridge and Dora Wordsworth are finally emerging from their fathers' shadows in this insightful and compassionate book.

Dora Wordsworth, circa 1825. Image: Getty
 
About halfway through The Poets’ Daughters, the book takes a step back from its gripping narrative to recount the historical and literary significance of 1834 and 1835. It was a time of momentous endings and beginnings: the end of the Georgian era and the emergence of the Victorian age; the demise of the Romantic period in art; the death of Samuel Taylor Coleridge; the burning down of the Houses of Parliament on 16 October 1834 – a night whose “apocalyptic splendour” was caught on canvas by Turner. It was also, Katie Waldegrave suggests, the moment when two lifelong friends, Dora Wordsworth and Sara Coleridge, began to step out of the shadows cast by their fathers.
 
The young Dora had frequently fallen short of the mark. When she was eight, she returned from boarding school to her home in Grasmere to discover that her three-yearold sister, Cate, had died. After that, Aunt Dorothy made unfavourable comparisons between Dora and her angelic younger sister, and Wordsworth wrote for Cate what Waldegrave suggests is one of his finest poems, “Surprised by Joy”.
 
Four years later, in 1816, Dora found herself the subject of a very different poem. The 55-line “To Dora” begins with a quotation from the opening of Milton’s Samson Agonistes: “A little onward lend thy guiding hand/To these dark steps, a little further on!” Wordsworth suffered from eye infections for much of his adult life and at times they left him temporarily blind. The reference to Milton carries uncomfortable connotations: he famously depended on his own daughters to complete his work after his own eyesight failed, and at some point Dora obligingly decided that her duty lay in helping her father in his work.
 
Sara Coleridge, two years Dora’s senior, grew up in Greta Hall, the home of her aunt and uncle Edith and Robert Southey in Keswick. Her mother also lived at Greta but her father, Samuel, was largely absent. When Sara was ten, Samuel returned home after more than a year’s absence and was suitably amazed by his daughter’s proficiency in Latin and Italian. Sara had hoped that her achievements would be enough to persuade him to stay. But after only six weeks at home, he left without warning. Sara did not see him again for another ten years.
 
Given the troubled childhood both girls had, it is not surprising that, as adults, they experienced persistent illness. Sara suffered with her nerves. In order to cope, she took opium – and, like her father, she bore the consequences: sleeplessness, constipation, lack of appetite, exhaustion . . . Meanwhile, Dora, who as a girl had been “stout and tall”, was worryingly underweight in her adult years. Waldegrave convincingly proposes that she was suffering from anorexia. Certainly, letters she received from her husband support this theory. “I, long, long ago, perceived that you were destroying your health by that pernicious system of starvation,” he wrote: “but you were always so wilful on the subject . . .”
 
Beyond the schoolroom, Sara continued to prove an exceptional scholar. She published her first book anonymously at the age of 20 – a translation from the Latin of Martin Dobrizhoffer’s Account of the Abipones – and although it was hardly a runaway success it did at least turn a profit. She used the money to visit her father, who was then living with friends in London. During the visit a cousin, Henry Nelson Coleridge, came to call on Sara and a fuse was lit. She had travelled up from the Lakes in search of a father; she returned home having gained a fiancé.
 
The path to Dora’s engagement to Edward Quillinan was altogether more tortuous. When she finally found the courage to write to her father to tell him about her feelings, she and Edward had been in love for 14 years. Wordsworth strongly objected to the match and an infuriated Edward told Dora that she was “the best poetry he ever produced: a bright spark out of two flints”. Dora was 37 when her father at last withdrew his opposition to the marriage; by that time she was so emaciated that Wordsworth feared for her well-being.
 
It is distressing to realise that it was only after her father had died that Sara managed to forge a connection with him. Negative articles began to appear after his death, and for the rest of her life Sara battled to defend his reputation. When she was 45, her comprehensive Biographia Literaria (an annotated edition of her father’s account of his literary life) was published to indifferent reviews. However, in recent years her reputation has grown among Coleridge scholars.
 
Dora’s death in 1847 caused Sara deep grief: “at night, in my sleepless hours, I am ever with her, or dwelling on my own future deathbed”, she wrote. She did not have to wait long. Three years later she discovered a lump in her breast and, after a brief reprieve, she died in 1852, aged 49.
 
Towards the end of Dora’s life, Sara discovered that her friend was publishing a journal of a trip abroad that she had recently taken. On hearing the news, Sara wrote to a mutual acquaintance that it was “a great proof of sterling merit in her, that she shines with a light of her own & is more than a mere portion of parental radiance”. That assertion might very well serve as a testament to both women. Like Daisy Hay’s Young Romantics and Claire Tomalin’s The Invisible Woman, this insightful and compassionate book by Katie Waldegrave is a powerful addition to the recent literature that has enlarged our understanding of women whose lives – until now – have remained obscured by those of the dominant male writers of their time.
 
Julia Copus is a poet and children’s writer. Her book for children “Harry & Lil” will be published next year by Faber & Faber

This article first appeared in the 09 September 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Britain alone

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"By now, there was no way back for me": the strange story of Bogdan Stashinsky

Serhii Plokhy’s The Man with the Poison Gun is a gripping, remarkable Cold War spy story.

On the morning of 12 August 1961, a few hours before the supreme leader of East Germany, Walter Ulbricht, announced the sealing of the border between East and West Berlin, a funeral took place for a four-month-old boy at the Rohrbeck Evangelical Cemetery in Dallgow. Numerous KGB agents and officers of the East German ministry of security were in attendance, but the boy’s parents were missing. Instead, Bogdan Stashinsky and Inge Pohl were preparing their imminent escape from Soviet-occupied territory and into the West. They had intended to flee the following day, but the funeral provided a moment of opportunity when their surveillance was relaxed. If they wanted to go, they had to go now.

“The KGB operatives present at the child’s funeral were puzzled by the parents’ absence,” a Soviet intelligence officer later wrote. “By the end of the day on 13 August 1961, it was clear that the Stashinskys had gone to the West. Everyone who knew what tasks the agent had carried out in Munich in 1957 and 1959, and what could happen if Stashinsky were to talk, was in shock.”

Those “tasks” were the state-sponsored assassinations of Lev Rebet and Stepan Bandera, two exiled leaders of the Ukrainian anti-communist movement who had been living in Munich. Stashinsky, one of the KGB’s top hitmen, and the focus of Serhii Plokhy’s gripping book, had been given the task of tracking and killing them with a custom-built gun that sprayed a lethal, yet undetectable poison. It was only after Stashinsky’s defection to the Central Intelligence Agency, and then to the West German security services, that the cause of Rebet and Bandera’s deaths was finally known.

For decades, the KGB denied any involvement in the assassinations, and the CIA has never been entirely sure about Stashinsky’s motives. Was he telling the truth when he confessed to being the assassin, or was he, as some still claim, a loyal agent, sent to spread disinformation and protect the true killer? Plokhy has now put to rest the many theories and speculations. With great clarity and compassion, and drawing from a trove of recently declassified files from CIA, KGB and Polish security archives, as well as interviews conducted with former heads of the South African police force, he chronicles one of the most curious espionage stories of the Cold War.

Stashinsky’s tale is worthy of John le Carré or Ian Fleming. Plokhy even reminds us that The Man With the Golden Gun, in which James Bond tries to assassinate his boss with a cyanide pistol after being brainwashed by the Soviets, was inspired by the Stashinsky story. But if spy novels zero in on a secret world – tradecraft, double agents, defections, and the moral fallout that comes from working in the shadows – Plokhy places this tale in the wider context of the Cold War and the relentless ideological battle between East and West.

The story of Stashinsky’s career as a triggerman for the KGB plays out against the backdrop of the fight for Ukrainian independence after the Second World War. He was a member of the underground resistance against the Soviet occupation, but was forced to become an informer for the secret police after his family was threatened. After he betrayed a resistance cell led by Ivan Laba, which had assassinated the communist author Yaroslav Halan, Stashinsky was ostracised by his family and was offered the choice of continuing his higher education, which he could no longer afford, or joining the secret police.

“It was [only] a proposal,” he said later, “but I had no alternative to accepting it and continuing to work for the NKVD. By now, there was no way back for me.” He received advanced training in Kyiv and Moscow for clandestine work in the West and became one of Moscow’s most prized assets. In 1957, after assassinating Rebet, he was awarded the
Order of the Red Banner, one of the oldest military decorations in the Soviet Union.

Plokhy’s book is about more than the dramas of undercover work; it is also an imaginative approach to the history of Cold War international relations. It is above all an affective tale about the relationship between individual autonomy and state power, and the crushing impact the police state had on populations living behind the Iron Curtain. Stashinsky isn’t someone of whom we should necessarily approve: he betrayed his comrades in the Ukrainian resistance, lied to his family about who he was and killed for a living. Yet we sympathise with him the more he, like so many others, turns into a defenceless pawn of the Communist Party high command, especially after he falls in love with his future wife, Inge.

One of the most insightful sections of Plokhy’s book converges on Stashinsky’s trial in West Germany in 1962 over the killings of Rebet and Bandera, and how he was given a reduced sentence because it was deemed that he had been an instrument of the Soviet state. The decision was influenced by German memories of collective brainwashing under the Third Reich. As one of the judges put it: “The accused was at the time in question a poor devil who acted automatically under pressure of commands and was misled and confused ideologically.”

What makes Plokhy’s book so alarmingly resonant today is how Russia still uses extrajudicial murder as a tool of foreign policy. In 2004 Viktor Yushchenko, the pro-Western future president of Ukraine, was poisoned with dioxin; two years later Aleksandr Litvinenko, the Russian secret service defector, unknowingly drank radioactive polonium at a hotel in London. The Russian journalist Anna Politkovskaya survived a poisoning in 2004 after drinking tea given to her by an Aeroflot flight attendant (she was murdered two years later). The collapse of the Soviet Union did not bring the end of the Russian threat (Putin, remember, is ex-KGB). As le Carré noted in a speech in the summer of 1990, “The Russian Bear is sick, the Bear is bankrupt, the Bear is frightened of his past, his present and his future. But the Bear is still armed to the teeth and very, very proud.”

The Man with the Poison Gun: a Cold War Spy Story by Serhii Plokhy is published by Oneworld (365pp, £18.99)

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge