Do you ever have a project that’s just... a mistake? Not in the sense that you made a lot errors while making it or it turned out poorly, but just that it was a bad idea in the first place?
Yeah, I may have a penchant for those types of projects, and this pair of stockings is one of them. You see, I’ve been working on my historically inspired Dream Fairy costume, and I wanted a nice set of stockings to go with the chemise. Rather than buy a modern pattern simply based on Victorian styles, I decided to go straight to the source with an 1884 book titled Knitting: How to Knit and What to Knit. If you’ve got any interest in historical knitting whatsoever, I highly recommend giving this book a read. Its instructions are pretty detailed, and they’ll get you used to the antiquated terminology that has lapsed out of knitting vernacular in the ensuing 140 years.
I wanted to use a stocking pattern from the Victorian era because I love all the little details that speak to the period. I’ve never seen a “seam stitch” in modern sock knitting, and we don’t use the purl 2 together decrease on the right side of the stockinette nearly as often as the Victorians did (at least, judging from this book), but they all make subtle changes to the way the finished product looks, and I was determined to make it look good!
But, like I said, this project was a mistake, and its nature first became apparent when I had to buy yarn. The book doesn’t specify what weight yarn to use (at least, not in a way that I understood) but just judging by the stitches I had to cast on for the leg, it had to be lace weight. It should have struck me then that if I was going to be making thigh-length stockings in lace weight yarn, that this was going to be a long-haul of a project. Did I want to knit that much stockinette?
The answer doesn’t matter, because I didn’t ask myself that question. I bought two skeins of lace in a lovely charcoal gray and set to work.
The second hurdle came after I was actually smart for once and knitted/blocked a proper gauge swatch. I knew that the cast-on edge would have to fit around my lower thigh, minus a bit of negative ease. But with the gauge I was getting, even on my smallest needles, the sock as written would be waaaaaaaaaaay too big. Like, “I could probably fit both my legs into the sock” too big. But I had already bought the yarn, and I didn’t want to buy size 000000 needles for this project, so I did some math to adjust stitch counts. It meant I would have to record everything meticulously if I wanted the socks to match, but that was fine, right? Tentatively, I cast on and began the first stocking’s lace edging, making sure to check the fit periodically.
The book I used had an option for a plain edged stocking, but come on. We all know I was going to go for the lace. I chose the No. 24 edging and happily plugged away at it. While there weren’t any charts, the written instructions were thorough and not too different from what I’d see in a modern pattern, so they were fairly easy to follow. I was having fun! And then... then came the stockinette.
When I finished my lace sweater a while back, I encouraged you all to choose patterns that would be fun to knit, and avoid anything you’d find boring (even if you liked the finished look). Well, I did not take my own advice on this one, friends. Plain stockinette is my knitting kryptonite. And because I was trying to cover my legs from mid-thigh down, that meant a lot of stockinette! I kid you not, there were 100 rows (with 112 stitches per row) to knit before I even started the calf decreases! Here, look at my notes if you want proof.
(Meticulous notes are meticulous. But if socks (or sleeves, or mittens) are going to match, I want them to match exactly, and that means marking out every row)
The silver lining to knitting 18 inches of leg is that once you get to the ankle, you’re already in the home stretch. The book offers a number of different options for the heel, and I went with the first because it’s by far the most familiar. Anyone who’s knit their fair share of socks would recognize the technique immediately: yes it’s the good ol’ heel flap!
As far as I can tell, this method of heel knitting hasn’t actually changed much since the 1880’s, so it was a relative breeze. Then it was back to the dreaded stockinette, but only for a few inches before reaching the toe. Again, there were a few options for this section, and I chose No. 14 just because I liked it. It seems that the Victorians preferred to work their toes in a spiral decrease pattern, rather than on either side of the foot like we usually do today. Another interesting historical detail to ponder as I admired my beautiful finished stocking. I was finally done!
...Oh, right. The other stocking. Back to work I guess!
In all seriousness, I am glad that I took detailed notes while making the first stocking. It saved me the headache of wondering whether or not these two socks would even look like a matched set in the end. And knowing exactly how much more I had to knit staved off the dreaded second sock syndrome.
Like I said at the start, the reason these stockings were a mistake wasn’t because they turned out poorly. I really love the way they came out, and aside from the costume I’m definitely going to be wearing them in the wintertime with my taller boots. No, they were a mistake because they took two dedicated months of knitting, and it wasn’t knitting that I particularly enjoyed. They felt more like a chore to me than something I was doing out of passion, and that’s no good when you’re a hobbyist. I’m glad these are done with, and I think I’m taking a break from knitting for a little while to recover. Fortunately, the rest of the Dream Fairy ensemble still needs making, and there’s plenty of sewing and tatting to spend my time on. Perhaps next it’s time to tackle the chemise...
Stay safe, my friends. Until next time!
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