Renovated Royalty

The finicky art of the restorer--a combination of science, skill and luck--has just had a strenuous workout on some early rulers of England.

In medieval times, royal funerals were too lengthy for the current embalming methods. Sometimes, according to the records of Westminster Abbey, "the smell was most offensive in spite of clouds of incense." So the English took to making effigies of their deceased royalty and using them as funereal stand-ins.

A plaster death mask was taken soon after the royal person died. Sometimes the mask was painted in lifelike colors; sometimes carvers made a faithful wooden copy. A rough body of straw or wood clothed in robes of state was added.

Ragged Regiment. Because hardly anything symbolic of British royalty is ever thrown away, the effigies of king after king and queen after queen accumulated for centuries in Westminster Abbey. Their paint flaked; their plaster cracked; worms burrowed through their woodwork; the disrespectful boys of nearby Westminster School named them "the ragged regiment." About 50 years ago they got so unroyally grubby that abbey authorities would not permit even antiquarians to see them.

Low point for the effigies came during World War II, when the basement undercroft where they lay was flooded during an air raid. Until 1949 they rotted quietly in this man-made bog. When the undercroft was finally drained, the effigies were a jumble of decomposing rubbish. Henry VII had lost his nose. A hole in Edward III's skull showed grey underplaster. The abbey custodians had half a mind to burn the whole mess.

Then stepped forward Robert Howgrave-Graham, 72, a retired engineer and physicist and Assistant Keeper of Muniments of Westminster Abbey. Restoring ancient figures is Howgrave-Graham's hobby. Since his apprenticeship in the '20s, when a clock jack (a clock-striking figure) in Southwold Church hit him on the head with its hammer, he has developed great skill. Yes, said Howgrave-Graham, he could refurbish the figures.

Tenderly he disentangled the rotting kings & queens and went to work. He washed faces, removed maggots from straw, drilled thousands of tiny holes and injected shellac with a hypodermic needle into their crumbling substance. Cherishing every flake of paint, he faithfully copied its color.

The worst problem was Henry VII, whose nose was gone for good. Howgrave-Graham modeled a new one after a bust in the Victoria and Albert Museum and made Henry VII look like a king again. He patched the top of Edward Ill's head. He sat up all night with Catherine of Valois (queen of Henry V), massaging her for eleven hours with a cellulose solution. "I'm sure she'll be all right now," says Howgrave-Graham. "It would be terribly ungrateful of her if she weren't."

During these attentions, which took two years, Howgrave-Graham watched for royal specimens to send to appropriate laboratories. Samples of hair teased out of the plaster went to Scotland Yard, which certified all except one as human.

They may be the monarch's own hair; their colors agree with historical records. The single exception: the eyebrows of Edward III, which are dog hair.

Royal Stroke. When the painted faces were properly cleaned, they proved to be meticulously accurate. Anne of Denmark (queen of James I) has blue veins and a pimple on her cheek. Edward III (d. 1377) is an original death mask and possibly the oldest European example, since the well-known death mask of Dante (d. 1321) may be a fake. When Edward III was in his last illness, his mistress, Alice Ferrers, ran off with the rings from his fingers. The shock of this betrayal brought on the stroke that finished him off. Neurologists consulted by Howgrave-Graham agreed that his mask shows telltale signs of facial paralysis.

Some of the effigies, including the solemn James I (of the King James Version), are too far gone for restoration. The rest are now in presentable, even beautiful shape. Lying side by side in a double glass case are Edward III and Catherine of Valois. She was not his queen, but Howgrave-Graham rather approves their effigied intimacy. Nearby is Elizabeth of York, who has recently acquired a red-gold wig and a bodice trimmed with imitation ermine. One of the canons of Westminster Abbey says that he has fallen in love with her.

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