When I planned my Highgate Cemetery visit, I’d imagined a quiet, contemplative stroll, stopping now and then to read an inscription on a grave. At the gate of the East Cemetery, it was clear this would be an unfulfilled dream. Thanks to the train delays, I had too much ground to cover and no time. Despite the information sheet and a map of the famous graves, the chance of finding more than one or two seemed slim. All I could do was wander in the general direction of the most famous grave, that of Karl Marx, and enjoy whatever I stumbled upon along the way.
As I set off along the main path, the first thing to pique my interest was an impressive mausoleum of pink marble with double copper doors — at least the verdigris colour suggested that they were copper. The grave belonged to Davison Alexander Dalziel, journalist, businessman, and Conservative MP between 1910 and 1927. He died in 1928, aged 75, a year after becoming 1st Baron Dalziel of Wooler. His 140-word will was surprisingly concise for a journalist, but the sum he left to his wife Harriet, over two and a quarter million pounds, made up for his reticence.
A little further along the path, another hint of verdigris caught my eye. The figure, bathed in bright sunlight, was a sculpture of a weeping woman. This was the grave of the sculptor, Anna Mahler. The five times married daughter of composer Gustav Mahler. Anna was born in Vienna, studied art in Berlin, Rome and Paris and sculpting in Vienna under Fritz Wotruba. In 1937, she was awarded the Grand Prix in Paris. In 1938, she came to England to escape the Nazis. The weeping woman sculpture is a copy of ‘Vision‘, one of Anna’s figures.
I wandered along the main path heading towards Karl Marx’s grave, stopping now and again to admire a sculpture here and an ornate stone there. I soon abandoned the map. Too many famous graves vied for my time and attention, so I let my eyes pick out those I found interesting instead.
Side paths tempted me with their dappled shade, gnarled trees, and unusual monuments, but I forced myself to stay on the main path, at least until I found Marx. All the while, I was mindful of the time. The cemetery closed at five o’clock, and it was already after four. Still, stopping now and then to capture some of the greenery along the beautiful tree-lined paths was irresistible.
Marx’s grave, topped by a bust of The Father of Communism, was easy enough to spot, but I had to waste precious time waiting for a family to take a series of photographs. They arranged themselves in different poses before the grave as if it was a theatrical prop. When they’d finished, they stood around nattering and examining the photos on their phones rather than moving away. On a day when I had so little time, this was frustrating. By the time they finally left, there was quite a queue behind me, so I took a very quick photograph and made myself scarce.
I couldn’t help wondering what Marx would have made of all the fuss? Born in 1818 into a Prussian Jewish family, he studied law at Bonn University but took up journalism rather than law. His political and philosophical ideas were not well received in Germany, and he was chased out of France and exiled from Belgium. He moved to London in 1849 and spent the rest of his life there in relative obscurity. He died of cancer, aged 64, stateless, and by no means wealthy. His funeral was attended by twelve or thirteen friends and family members. Perhaps it would amuse him to see these queues of strangers leaving flowers at his grave, especially as this is not where he was originally buried. My next mission was to find his first grave. The map told me where to look, but whether or not I’d spot it remained to be seen.
I did discover the unusual gravestone of publisher Simon Gavron. His wife, writer Martha Pichey, may have been responsible for the eye-catching wording on his tombstone. It reads — SIMON GAVRON born April 23rd 1958 blue eyes dark curls proud loving father to Rafi Benji Moses loving never boring husband to Martha warm persuasive strong support to family and friends son brother (in law) grandson uncle SILO nephew cousin advisor pleasure-seeker promoter fact-lover no watch skiing mischievous the barn summer soccer coach shelter island sailing SIMON always had time for people handsome opinionated charistmatic jojo the dolphin some like it hot bright smile writer southbury perfect host salsa dancer impatient manhattan rugby club eton villas rude no fish tennis broadlands road SISI publisher irreverent dark chocolate informal crane beach galleon beach generous marx (brothers) compassionate insightful reflective involved vital presence died March 31st 2005 SI knew how to seize the day.
The path was so narrow I had to duck my head in places to avoid overhanging branches. Still, after my earlier hot, shadeless slog up Swain’s Lane, the canopy of a thousand greens was welcome. Was it the right path, though? The further I went, hemmed in on both sides by gravestones and trees, the less sure I became.
The map told me the grave was near the next intersection, but it was hard to tell exactly how far ahead this was, so I kept my eyes peeled, walked slowly, and scanned the graves to either side of me. Many of the gravestones were illegible, but I did discover a tenacious snail and some beautiful blossom.
It might have helped if I’d known what I was looking for. I’d seen plenty of photographs of Marx’s second grave but none of his first. I’d like to say my eagle eyes or some innate sense drew me to the right spot. The truth is, I walked right past the broken stone slab with the barely visible letters, even though I’d spotted the bunches of wildflowers placed on it. When I reached the intersection, I realised I must have missed it and turned back.
In fact, this humble stone seemed more fitting for Karl Marx than the new tomb. His theories about socialism, communism, and a classless, stateless society governed by the proletariat, seem to be at odds with fancy tombs and huge bronze busts. The new tomb was unveiled in 1956, two years after his body was disinterred and reburied. It was designed by Laurence Bradshaw and funded by the Communist Party of Great Britain, who didn’t seem to spot the irony, either.
By this time, it was twenty-past-four, and I knew I had to get my skates on if I wanted to see anything on the west side of the cemetery. Much as I’d have liked to dawdle and read gravestones, I needed to head back towards the gate. Perhaps, if I was lucky, I’d spot a famous grave or two on the way . . .
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