BY KEREN HAMMERSCHLAG
For the purpose of this article, the story of Eliza
Macloghlin starts with the death of her husband in 1904. We know very little
about Dr Edward Percy Macloghlin, aside from that he was the son of a surgeon
and that he passed through University College, Liverpool, winning the Bligh
gold medal in anatomy in 1882 and afterwards settling in Wigan. According to
his obituary in the Wigan Observer,
‘For some time he had been out of health, and his death at the comparatively
early age of 45 is sincerely regretted. Dr. Macloghlin leaves a widow, a
daughter of Mr. Millard, of Wigan’.1
For most Victorian and Edwardian women of the middle and upper
classes ‘widowhood was a final destiny, an involuntary commitment to a form of
social exile’.2 For Eliza Macloghlin (1863–1928), however, the death of her
husband inspired a burst of creative energy. She wrote an unpublished
collection of poems, Sir, What are these?,
as her husband was dying, and commissioned a sculpture, Mors janua vitae (Fig.28), as a monument to their relationship. The
first page of the collection includes the phrase that would later be used for
the title of the sculpture:
O insatiable death . . . ‘Shoo!’ . . . O
Insatiable . . . ‘Aroo! Mors janua vitae! Mass me!3
Despite Edward Macloghlin’s unexceptional career, his widow was
determined to preserve his memory – and her own – at one of the most
illustrious medical institutions in the world: the Royal College of Surgeons of
England in London. During his lifetime Edward Macloghlin had only a limited
relationship with the College: he became a member in 1884, but was never made a
fellow. (The College did not produce an obituary for him, an honour reserved
for fellows.) Nonetheless, following his death Eliza founded several
scholarships in her late husband’s name to assist young men seeking to qualify
as members of the College. She also solicited one of the most eminent contemporary
sculptors, Alfred Gilbert (1854–1934), to create a monument, which she gave to
the College. It was while working on Mors
janua vitae that Macloghlin and Gilbert conducted a passionate affair; when
it turned sour, the sculpture was left unfinished. This article presents new
information from the archives of the Royal College of Surgeons and the Royal
Academy of Arts concerning one of Gilbert’s most significant yet perplexing
works.
Mors janua vitae
(translated as ‘Death, the Gateway of Life’ or ‘Death, the Gateway of Eternal
Life’) started as a plaster model that was exhibited at the Summer Exhibition
of the Royal Academy in 1907 (Fig.29). According to the artist, the work was
intended to be exhibited ‘without identity’, ‘merely as a subject illustration
in portraiture’. Macloghlin, however, divulged the identity of the sitters to a
mutual friend, the art critic Marion Harry Spielmann, prompting Gilbert to
write to Spielmann pleading that he not make the information public.4 The
plaster model was given by Eliza, at Gilbert’s original suggestion, to the
Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool, and a reproduction in bronze was presented, also
by Eliza, but this time without Gilbert’s permission, to the Royal College of
Surgeons. That different versions of Mors
janua vitae are on display in an art gallery and a medical institution
illustrates the way in which this sculpture sits at a strange intersection
between medicine and art. Moreover, the presence of Mors janua vitae in the inner hall of the Royal College of Surgeons
was the result of Eliza’s strategic patronage, which goes some way to explain
the incongruity of the work among the painted and sculpted portraits of eminent
surgeons on display there.
Both versions of Mors
janua vitae feature life-size half-length portraits of Edward and Eliza
Macloghlin, arm-in-arm, cradling a small casket. The figures rest on top of a
pedestal comprising a horizontal frieze, three vertical panels and four
columns. In the bronze version of the sculpture, which was produced for Eliza by
the sculptor Albert Toft, the figures surmount a rectangular red marble base,
upon a green marble pedestal and cornice; four green marble columns connect the
pedestal and cornice, each with a bronze capital and base.5 In contrast to the
classical marble busts of famous past surgeons on display at the College, Mors janua vitae is distinctive in its
bronze decorative detailing and ‘fantastic medieval or Renaissance costume’.6
Stepping out of the panel on the right is Eros, depicted by Gilbert as a female
nude wearing an elaborate headdress; while Anteros, the god of requited love or
a symbol of pure ennobling love, steps back into the panel on the left.
(Anteros is also the subject of Gilbert’s most visible and controversial
sculpture, that in Piccadilly Circus, London, popularly referred to as ‘Eros’.)
In the pedestal’s central panel there is an earth-bound angel, possibly a
younger version of Gilbert’s Mourning
angel (1877; Tate, London), while two faces kiss at the angel’s feet. The central
angel’s ankles are bound with what appears to be barbed wire, suggesting an
aggressive, even violent intertwining – a visual reference, perhaps, to
Gilbert’s and Macloghlin’s painful entanglement.
Eliza Macloghlin professed that Edward ‘was an atheist: and so
am I – an atheist’.7 It is therefore possible that Eliza commissioned Mors janua vitae in order to preserve
the couple’s likeness in a professional medical institution rather than on
consecrated ground. The architectural historian Joseph Sharples has noted that
the phrase ‘Mors janua vitae’ became
popular at the beginning of the twentieth century because it invoked both
Christian descriptions of the afterlife and Roman paganism without quoting any
specific text.8 The phrase had been used by Joseph Noël Paton for the title of
his 1866 painting of a Christian knight being welcomed into the light of
paradise by an angel (private collection), as well as by Harry Bates for his
statue of the winged angel of death ushering a female nude into the underworld,
exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1899 (Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool).
Mors janua vitae
incorporates no overt religious symbolism but is replete with winged entities
that oscillate between angels and insects. Two embracing angels lie on top of
the casket, from which two cherub heads emerge. Eliza wears a cap-like bonnet with
folded wings, which unfurled might look like Perseus’ winged helmet in
Gilbert’s sculpture Perseus arming (1881–83; Tate, London). Her ‘insect-like
appearance’ is further suggested by two small lumps on her bonnet in the place
of antennae and recalls that of the helmet of St George in Gilbert’s scheme for
the tomb of the Duke of Clarence and Avondale in the Albert Memorial Chapel at
Windsor Castle (1891–96).9 Below Eliza and Edward, putti dance across the
frieze, transforming into insects as they process. These angels-turned-insects
reflect a tension that is expressed throughout the work between immortality and
decay, heaven and earth, a divine, eternal love and a murkier, earthbound one.
In her will Eliza left the College very specific
instructions about Mors janua vitae.10
She directed:
My body is not to be clad in any
ordinary shroud but is to be completely veiled with the white silk crepe veil
which I have for the purpose and which will be found in the Casket which I keep
by me for the purpose of holding my ashes after the cremation of my body.11
Her ashes were to be ‘conveyed to the Royal College of
Surgeons’, where they would be ‘allowed to mingle’ with those of her late
husband ‘contained in the Bronze casket of “Mors
janua vitae”, the work of Alfred Gilbert’. The casket at the heart of Mors janua vitae, Eliza instructed, was
to be opened with one of two keys: one kept with her will and testament; the
other kept by the secretary of the College. After her ashes were added to those
of her husband, the urn was to be secured and the lid locked for ‘all future
time’. The two keys were then to be destroyed, and Eliza’s name and date of
death engraved on the pedestal of the sculpture. According to records in the
College archives, her instructions were carried out, and this is confirmed by
the fact that her name and the date of her death are engraved on the right side
of the sculpture’s pedestal. Hence, Mors
janua vitae is both a work of art and a cinerarium.12
Like the ‘white silk crepe veil’ in which Eliza was
cremated, the casket containing the comingled ashes of husband and wife makes a
macabre association between marital union, wedlock, reproduction and death.
Eliza and Edward cradle the casket as though it were a child, leading Rudolf
Dircks to speculate in the Art-Journal
at the time of the sculpture’s first exhibition that ‘the two embracing figures
holding the casket suggest – and the idea is a beautiful one – that they have
become united by a common affliction, by possibly the death of their
children’.13 Just below the couple’s interlocking hands, the sleeves of their robes
form a womb-like cavity in which strange, indecipherable shapes produce a
primordial foetus. This aspect of the sculpture recalls Gilbert’s slightly
earlier Charity (Fig.30), with its two
children arranged as though they are ensconced within a fabric womb. Even the
sculpture’s title invokes the circularity of birth, death and rebirth.
Mors janua vitae
also recalls paintings by Ford Madox Brown that address the themes of family
unity and disunity, reproduction and death. ‘Take your son, sir’ (Fig.31) is an unfinished picture of a mother
presenting her child to a man whose reflection is seen in the mirror behind
her. Marcia Pointon has observed that the cradle to the woman’s left resembles
a shroud, and the crumpled clothing surrounding the child, a uterus. These
visual allusions, Pointon argues, are in keeping with the frequency of imagery
in art and literature which ‘juxtaposes or conflates urns and wombs, death and
birth’.14 By contrast, Brown’s The last
of England (1852–55; Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery) is a migration
scene with a close-knit family group depicted prominently in the painting’s
foreground. Brown binds together the husband, wife and small child as they
leave England in much the same way that Gilbert binds Eliza to her deceased husband
in Mors janua vitae, both works
serving to reaffirm family unity in the face of different forms of
leave-taking.
One can only imagine the complexities involved for Gilbert in
sculpting a memorial to the dead husband of his lover. Macloghlin first met
Gilbert in 1905, when she commissioned Mors janua vitae. The following year
Gilbert modelled a portrait bust of her, of which six copies were made (Fig.33).15
According to Richard Dorment, Gilbert and Eliza grew close thanks to Gilbert
having been legally separated from his wife in 1904. Their relationship
inspired Spielmann to compose a poem titled ‘E.M. – A.G. 1905–1908’.16 It
starts by describing Eliza as a beguiling femme
fatale, ‘Enchantress of a genius!’, but then goes on to thank her for
inspiring Gilbert the ‘genius’ through her love of art:
Mark how a sweet-willed woman,
passionate for Art – A passion exquisite and deep – a love sublime – Called
forth responding passion on the artist’s part Lifting him back to heights he
would no longer climb.
Spielmann describes Eliza as Gilbert’s ‘friend to help, to
serve his magic hand’. And yet the references to Eliza’s passion for art, her
‘love sublime’, double as references to Eliza and Gilbert’s passion for each
other. Gilbert reportedly planned to include a box in Eliza’s sculpted head for
his own ashes.17 When the affair between Eliza and Gilbert ended in 1908, the
sculpture was not quite finished. Eliza wrote to the President and Council of the
College: ‘His regard for me created a masterpiece’ and ‘our sculpture is
unfinished for a symbol, because I could get Alfred Gilbert no further’.18 She
is reported to have thrown stones at Gilbert’s studio windows to make him
release the sculpture when he refused to relinquish it.19
There is indeed a sense of incompleteness about the work, an
observation corroborated by the artist’s complaint in a letter to the Royal
College of Surgeons that the sculpture was ‘made from an unfinished model’.20
In the plaster version in Liverpool, bodies – or, rather, body parts – emerge
out of and disappear into rough surfaces, which are made to resemble the
original clay. It is painted black and white, producing a striking visual contrast
between the darkness of the figures’ clothes and the lightness of their faces
and hands. At the points at which the bodies meet, the sculpture becomes messy,
especially in the case of the strange clay-like mass between the heads of the
husband and wife, and where the wife’s left hand disappears into her husband’s
robe on the reverse of the sculpture. Although it was common for Gilbert to
retain a sense of the unfinished about his works, especially during the second
half of his career, here it may also denote the souring of Gilbert’s and
Eliza’s relationship.
Eliza’s persona, as conveyed through the prism of her
relationship with Gilbert, oscillates between devoted widow and beguiling
madwoman – two gendered Victorian stereotypes. In biographies of Gilbert, Eliza
is described as ‘breathtakingly beautiful’, ‘mad’ and ‘a highly emotional and
sensitive woman’.21 The historian Pat Jalland explains that widows were
expected to endure their grief with quiet religious resignation: ‘Women were
trained from an early age to sublimate feelings like anger through the channel
of religion, and during widowhood they had abundant time to work through such
responses in prayer and religious contemplation’.22 Indeed, in a sense Eliza
represents the archetypal Victorian widow: like Queen Victoria, she was devoted
to her husband to the last. In a photograph of 1904, she appears in full
mourning, resting her hand on her heart (Fig.32). At the bottom of the
photograph she has written ‘Faithfully, Eliza Macloghlin, 1904’.
This perfect Victorian image of devotion, however, belies a more
complex and difficult reality. Having spent much of her later life in mental
institutions, Eliza committed suicide on 1st May 1928 in Ticehurst Asylum,
Sussex. Her suicide note reads: ‘Dear Dr. Mc. Dowell, I am putting an end to my
sufferings on earth – and the cost of living in an Asylum’.23 Gilbert Miles of
the East Sussex Constabulary reported that Eliza Macloghlin, ‘(Widow aged 66)’,
had been received at Ticehurst on 20th April 1928, having previously been a
patient there from July 1926 to June 1927. ‘The history sheet of this woman’,
stated the constable, ‘shows she has been in numerous mental homes at different
times’.24 The coroner’s report found Eliza’s death to have been ‘Suicide by
poisoning by taking carbolic acid whilst of unsound mind’.25
It is tempting to dismiss Eliza as a madwoman pacing around in
the back-story of a well-known male artist. However, Mors janua vitae also presents fascinating evidence as to the
complexities of Victorian widowhood as it was experienced by the woman who
commissioned the work. To ensure that the sculpture would remain in situ at the Royal College of
Surgeons, Eliza offered to finance the installation of Piastraccia marble floors
in the College at a cost of £650 on the condition that Mors janua vitae ‘shall remain undisturbed for ever in the place where
the President Sir Henry Morris and Council allowed it should stand’.26 When the
College secretary, Forrest Cowell, suggested the impossibility of ensuring that
future councils would never move the sculpture, Eliza insisted that her
signature be inscribed on one of the marble slabs on the floor beneath it,
thereby ensuring that the sculpture would remain there forever.27 As reported in
the Annals of the Royal College of
Surgeons of England, she requested that ‘in the corner to the right of “Mors janua vitae” might be engraved “in
letters as small as possible” – “This marble floor to the Royal College of Surgeons
from Eliza Macloghlin, 1911”’.28
The sculptural and artistic programmes of professional
institutions are often dismissed as staid. The prominent position of Mors janua vitae in a hallowed medical
institution was, however, the result of the manoeuvres of a widow who committed
suicide in a mental asylum. She is currently the only woman represented in the
vestibule of the Royal College of Surgeons. Her presence – as a portrait bust,
literal bodily remains and a hidden signature inscribed in the marble floor –
has left an indelible mark on the College and vividly inserts in the
institution’s history the messy human elements of love, passion and death.
1 ‘Death of Dr. E.P.P. Macloghlin’, Wigan Observer (23rd April 1904), p.5f.
2 P. Jalland: Death in
the Victorian Family, Oxford 1996, p.231.
3 E. Macloghlin: ‘Sir, What are these?’ (unpublished poem),
1905–1928, Royal College of Surgeons of England, London, MS0126/1.
4 Letter from Alfred Gilbert to Marion Harry Spielmann, 11th
June 1907, Royal Academy of Arts, London, SP/7/64.
5 Detailed descriptions of the work can be found in: R.
Dorment: ‘The Loved One: Alfred Gilbert’s “Mors janua vitae”’, in A. Staley,
ed.: exh. cat. Victorian High
Renaissance: George Frederick Watts 1817–1904, Frederic Leighton 1830–96,
Albert Moore 1841–93, Alfred Gilbert 1854–1934, Manchester (City Art
Gallery), Minneapolis (Institute of Arts) and New York (Brooklyn Museum)
1978–79, pp.43–44; R. Dorment: Alfred
Gilbert, New Haven and London 1985, pp.249–58; and C. Corbeau-Parsons in M.
Droth, J. Edwards and M. Hatt.: exh. cat. Sculpture
Victorious: Art in the Age of Invention, 1837–1901, New Haven (Yale Center
for British Art) and London (Tate Britain) 2014, pp.404–07, nos.128 and 149.
6 Dorment 1978–79, op.
cit. (note 5), p.43.
7 Letter from Eliza Macloghlin to the Royal College of
Surgeons, 8th June 1904, Royal College of Surgeons, London, RCS-SEC/70.
8 J. Sharples: ‘Harry Bates’s “Mors janua vitae”’, the
burlington magazine 149 (2007), pp.836–43, esp. p.838.
9 J. Edwards: Alfred
Gilbert’s Aestheticism: Gilbert amongst Whistler, Wilde, Leighton, Pater and
Burne-Jones, Aldershot and Burlington 2006, p.183.
10 Will and testament of Eliza Macloghlin, codicil dated
28th May 1913, Royal College of Surgeons, London.
11 Cremation was legalised in England in 1885 but remained a
contentious practice in Britain well into the twentieth century, see J.S. Curl:
The Victorian Celebration of Death,
Newton Abbot 1972, rev. ed. Stroud 2000, pp.176–93; K.R. Hammerschlag: ‘The
Gentleman Artist-Surgeon in Late Victorian Group Portraiture’, Visual Culture in Britain 14 (2013),
p.166; and N.R. Marshall: ‘“A Fully Consummated Sacrifice upon Her Altar”’, Victorian Studies 56 (2014), pp.458–69.
12 It is described as both ‘a grave’ and ‘a precious Work of
Art’ in ‘“Observables” at the Royal College of Surgeons 10: “Mors Janua Vitæ”’,
Annals of the Royal College of Surgeons
of England 3 (October 1948), p.221.
13 R. Dircks: ‘The Royal Academy Exhibition, 1907’, Art-Journal (July 1907), p.207.
14 M. Pointon: ‘Interior portraits: women, physiology and
the male artist’, Feminist Review 22
(Spring 1986), p.18.
15 Eliza presented one copy to the Tate Gallery, London, and
another to the National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa. The National Gallery of
Ireland, Dublin, and the National Gallery of Victoria in Melbourne each has a
cast. One went missing from the Musée du Louvre, Paris, during the Second World
War, see R. Dorment, ed: exh. cat. Alfred
Gilbert: Sculptor and Goldsmith, London (Royal Academy of Arts) 1986,
p.188; and Corbeau-Parsons, op. cit.
(note 5), p.407, note 13.
16 M.H. Spielmann: ‘E.M. – A.G. 1905–1908’ (unpublished
poem), Royal Academy of Arts, London, SP/17/33.
17 Dorment 1978–79, op.
cit. (note 5), p.46.
18 Eliza Macloghlin to the President of the Royal College of
Surgeons, 23rd April 1909, Royal College of Surgeons, London, RCS-SEC/39.
19 Dorment 1978–79, op.
cit. (note 5), p.189.
20 Alfred Gilbert to the Secretary of the Royal College of
Surgeons, 26th July 1909, Royal College of Surgeons, London, RCS-SEC/39 (22).
21 Dorment 1985, op.
cit. (note 5), pp.249 and 254.
22 Jalland, op. cit.
(note 2), p.242.
23 Coroner’s inquest papers for Eliza Macloghlin, 3rd May 1928,
East Sussex Records Office, The Keep, Brighton, SHE 2-7-346-07.
24 Ibid., SHE
2-7-346-12.
25 Ibid., SHE
2-7-346-11.
26 Letter from Eliza Macloghlin to the President and Council
of the College, 8th May 1911, Royal College of Surgeons, London,
RCS-SEC/70.
27 Letter from Eliza Macloghlin to Forrest Cowell, 14th May
1911, Royal College of Surgeons, London, RCS-SEC/70. In 2017 the inscription
was temporarily revealed during building work.
28 ‘Observables’, op.
cit. (note 12), p.222.