A Garden for the Soul: Love, Loss and the Ghosts of Hever Castle

In this evocative and lyrical essay, Emre Aracı takes us on an atmospheric journey to Hever Castle in Kent, where history, music, literature, and landscape converge in a tapestry of reflection. From the Tudor melancholy of Anne Boleyn’s childhood home to the romantic serenity of its Italian gardens, he traces the lingering echoes of a royal tragedy as they resurface in Donizetti’s "Anna Bolena", conceived centuries later on the shores of Lake Como. With his signature sensitivity to atmosphere and cultural resonance, Aracı connects the operatic world of Giuditta Pasta and Ottoman-era performances at the Naum Theatre to the quiet glow of a Kentish fireplace. Along the way, he invokes the spirit of Duparc and Baudelaire, Elizabeth von Arnim, and Proust—reminding us that the deepest happiness is often found not in history’s grand designs, but in the fleeting beauty of gardens, music, and memory.

It was a rainy autumn day. As the taxi carried me from Edenbridge Station through the mist-veiled countryside of Kent to Hever Castle, where I was to stay that evening, it was impossible not to feel as though I were a guest at one of Lord Astor’s famed weekend house parties. The castle soon emerged from the drizzle—a storybook vision with its flag fluttering above moss-clad towers, ivy rusting in the season’s bronze, and a moat encircling it like a silver-grey ribbon. The first sight of this miniature medieval fortress, standing silent and solitary, was accompanied in my mind by a music only Henri Duparc could have composed—his L’Invitation au voyage, no less. After all, I too had been summoned as a traveller, and Duparc’s setting of Baudelaire’s poem seemed to echo the spirit of the moment: “Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté, Luxe, calme et volupté”—“There all is order, beauty, luxury, calm, and delight”.

"Hever Castle soon emerged from the drizzle" (photo © Emre Aracı) 

In “the misty suns of those clouded skies”, as Baudelaire might have phrased it, there was a strange enchantment. No sooner had I settled into my room than a rainbow appeared at my window—its delicate hues reflected in the rain-dappled glass—as if nature herself had conspired to complete the castle’s poetic aesthetic. It was not merely an incidental charm, but rather a quiet proclamation of harmony between architecture and the elements, a gentle whisper of the sublime.

True happiness, of course, lies not outside but within. Yet moments such as these reach inward, drawing the world’s beauty into the soul, where it settles as a profound tranquillity. Order and beauty were not abstract ideals here; they were part of the very fabric of Hever Castle itself.

Elizabeth von Arnim’s The Enchanted April

If the music of that day was, for me, Duparc’s L’Invitation au voyage, sung by Benjamin Bernheim in those silken, melancholic tones that seem to hover between dream and remembrance, then its literary counterpart could only have been Elizabeth von Arnim’s The Enchanted April. Though the settings and seasons differ, her romantic tale, beginning in a rain-soaked London of the 1920s and unfolding in the sun-drenched hills of Portofino, speaks of the soul’s quiet metamorphosis amidst wisteria-laced walls and Mediterranean light. And in my imagination, that enchanted Italian castle might just as well have been Hever.

Indeed, as I wandered through Hever’s Italian Garden—resplendent with classical statuary and a profusion of flora—and made my way towards the loggia that overlooks the ornamental lake, a structure inspired by Rome’s Trevi Fountain, I felt as though I were tracing, step by step, the gentle path into The Enchanted April itself. My silent autumn stroll through this sculpted arcadia recalled to mind a line I once encountered in a biography of von Arnim, describing her estate at Nassenheide (now Rzędziny in modern-day Poland, but then a corner of Prussia), where she had inscribed above the entrance: “Venus, Eros, the Graces and Muses, Dionysus and Apollo have promised to dwell here together”.

And in that moment, it seemed entirely plausible that they had also chosen to dwell—if only for a time—beneath the Kentish skies of Hever.

Hever’s magical gardens (photo © Emre Aracı) 

It was none other than the immensely wealthy American businessman and philanthropist William Waldorf Astor (1848–1919) who added that Italian garden to Hever Castle. In 1903, he acquired the then-dilapidated estate and set about restoring it with characteristic zeal and discernment. Having relocated to England in 1891 with his entire fortune, Astor subsequently became a British subject and, in 1916, entered the House of Lords as Baron Astor. Today, his name still resonates in New York through the Waldorf Astoria Hotel—where we had the good fortune to stay many times in the days before its transformation, when it remained within the reach of the discerning yet not extravagant traveller—but it is here at Hever that his imaginative vision found one of its most charming expressions. In addition to the formal gardens, he commissioned a series of picturesque cottages in the Tudor style, designed to resemble an idealised English village, thus transforming Hever into a gracious retreat for weekend guests.

William Waldorf Astor by Hubert von Erkomer, 1898

The tradition of hospitality which endures at Hever to this day, then, owes much to Astor’s cultivated efforts—just as the Italian garden does to his taste for classical refinement. Yet Hever is more than the genteel European home of a family seemingly lifted from the pages of a Henry James novel. It occupies a poignant chapter in England’s own history, for it was here that Anne Boleyn—the ill-fated second wife of Henry VIII and the mother of Queen Elizabeth I—passed her childhood years. Behind all the elegance, serenity, and cultivated beauty that now characterise Hever, there lies a narrative as tragic as it is regal—a silent echo of the past, still resonant within its storied walls.

Constructed in 1270 during the reign of King Edward I by William de Hever, the castle—complete with its drawbridge and heavy iron portcullis—would, over the centuries, pass into the hands of the Boleyn family. It was in 1505 that Thomas Boleyn, father of Anne, took up residence within its moated walls. When Henry VIII first made Anne’s acquaintance, he was still married to Catherine of Aragon, yet he would visit Hever from time to time, occasionally staying within its chambers. One of the very locks he is said to have brought with him for his own personal security still survives to this day, affixed to one of the castle doors—a silent, tangible relic of Tudor history that offers every visitor a lesson in the intimacy of the past.

Anne Boleyn

Henry’s eventual marriage to Anne Boleyn would trigger nothing less than a seismic religious transformation in England. When Pope Clement VII refused to grant him an annulment from Catherine, Henry chose to sever ties with the Roman Catholic Church, establishing instead the Church of England—an act that would mark the beginning of the English Reformation. Though his secret wedding to Anne took place in 1532, it was not until 25 January 1533 that their union was solemnised in a formal ceremony in London. In this context, Hever Castle assumed yet greater historical significance, becoming closely associated with the political and religious upheavals of the time.

Yet Anne’s queenship would prove tragically short-lived. After only three years, Henry—already intent on marrying Jane Seymour—accused Anne of treason in order to clear the path for a third union. She was executed on 19 May 1536. In a final twist of fate, following the death of Thomas Boleyn, who died childless a few years later, Henry seized Hever Castle for the Crown. He would later bestow it upon Anne of Cleves—his fourth wife and, eventually, another divorcee—as part of her annulment settlement.

Nearly three centuries after Anne Boleyn’s tragic end, her story would be set to music far from the moated walls of Hever Castle—in the serene lakeside village of Blevio on the shores of Lake Como. It was there, in 1830, that the thirty-three-year-old composer Gaetano Donizetti gave voice to her fate in Anna Bolena, the opera that would secure his international acclaim. At the time, Donizetti was staying as a guest at the villa of the celebrated soprano Giuditta Pasta (1797–1865), a house which today has been transformed into a luxurious five-star hotel. It was within those elegant rooms, nestled beside the still waters of the lake, that the opera was conceived. And when Anna Bolena received its world premiere on 26 December 1830 at Milan’s Teatro Carcano, it was Pasta herself who took the title role.

Gaetano Donizetti

The success was nothing short of resounding. Donizetti’s former teacher, Johann Simon Mayr, so moved by the triumph, began addressing his erstwhile pupil simply as “Maestro”. Donizetti, too, was overwhelmed. Writing to his wife Virginia Vaselli in the wake of the premiere, he confessed: “Everyone who attended says they cannot recall ever witnessing such a dazzling success. I am so happy I feel I could weep”. 

Remarkably, Donizetti completed what was his twenty-ninth opera in less than a month. Anna Bolena, with a libretto by the eminent poet and librettist Felice Romani (1788–1865), came to be regarded not only as a personal milestone for the composer, but also as a defining work in the evolution of Romantic opera in Italy.

Anna Bolena was first performed in London a year after its Italian premiere, taking to the stage at the King’s Theatre on 8 July 1831. In a curious twist of historical continuity—one that binds Anne Boleyn, Hever Castle, and the Astor family across time and geography—the opera’s New York premiere would take place on 7 January 1850 at the Astor Opera House, named for John Jacob Astor (1763–1848), great-grandfather of William Waldorf Astor, the future restorer of Hever.

Anna Bolena also found its way to Constantinople, where it was mounted at the Naum Theatre in March 1853. One is tempted to imagine the composer’s brother, Giuseppe Donizetti—then serving as Master of Music to the Ottoman court—sitting among the audience. To picture the courtly intrigues of King Henry VIII transposed to the heart of Pera, with all the décor and costume of Tudor England transported intact, seems almost surreal as I write these lines.

Constantinople's Naum Theatre, L'Illustration, April 19, 1862 (image © Emre Aracı) 

According to Georges Noguès, writing in the Journal de Constantinople on 24 March 1853, the production spared no expense when it came to costume. The attire of Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour, adorned with silk, velvet, gold embroidery and ermine, was particularly splendid, while the figure of King Henry was said to be rendered with striking realism. Noguès, however, was surprised that such a tearful and mournful opera should have been staged during Lent, surmising that the management had deemed Anna Bolena especially fitting for the season of penitence.

As for the leading role, soprano Anna Caradori, Noguès found her portrayal of Anne Boleyn almost too tragic. In his view, the tragic atmosphere should have suffused the entire opera as a backdrop, rather than being concentrated in a single performance. Caradori, born in Pest in 1822 and sometimes billed under the name “Annetta”, would go on to perform in Paris and London after her appearances in Constantinople, eventually extending her career as far as New York. When she first appeared as Agathe in Der Freischütz at Drury Lane on 22 August 1853, The Times praised her the next morning, noting her triumphs as a prima donna in Italy, Germany, and even in the capital of the Ottoman Empire. The Illustrated London News, in its 13 May 1854 issue, published an engraved portrait of her, making explicit reference to her Constantinople engagements. Records indicate that during this London period, Anna Caradori resided at 57 Gower Street (Kurt Gänzl, Victorian Vocalists, Taylor & Francis, 2017, p. 128).

The Royal Coat of Arms of Henry VIII at Hever Castle (photo © Emre Aracı) 

Gazing upon those solemn Tudor portraits and coats of arms that adorn the walls and windows of Hever—faces stern, sorrowful, and immobile with history—I found myself stepping once more into the tranquillity of the Italian Garden. For a fleeting moment, I mused that true happiness must lie not in ambition or acclaim, but rather in nature, in flowers, in art and literature. Donizetti’s impassioned score, with all its operatic grandeur, seemed suddenly to dissolve, giving way once again to the gentle murmur of Duparc’s L’Invitation au voyage:

“The rarest flowers,
Their scents entwined
With the vague fragrance of amber;
The rich ceilings,
The deep mirrors,
The splendour of the East—
All would speak
To the soul in secret
Its sweet native tongue”.

Elizabeth von Arnim’s enchanted garden, I thought, must have been just such a place.

Dusk at Hever Castle (photo © Emre Aracı)

My day at Hever drew to a close a short distance away, at another historic manor—Penshurst Place—where, in the medieval square of the village, I took refuge by the crackling hearth of The Leicester Arms. And as the firelight danced across the stone, I was reminded of something Marcel Proust once wrote: “Let us be grateful to the people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom”. Whether a beloved writer, a composer, a long-lost friend, or a chance acquaintance, those who awaken joy in us plant flowers in the quiet gardens of our spirit. And to set these reflections down in words is, perhaps, to cultivate a garden that shall never fade...

Emre Aracı’s article was originally published in Turkish under the title ‘Hever Kalesi’nde Anna Bolena’ in the January 2023 issue (No. 195) of Andante.

Link to the original article in Turkish

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