Posts tagged Maria
Project Proposal — The History of Beauty and the Beast: A Biography

My novel, The History of Beauty and the Beast: A Biography, is a retelling of Madame de Villeneuve’s The Story of Beauty and the Beast (published in 1740). Villeneuve and her “original”—about whether Beauty will consent to have sex with the Beast—have been forgotten by history. My novel aims to recover the life story of author-salonnière Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve and to restore to her tale her 18th-Century proto-feminist philosophy. My PhD dissertation situates itself between serious literature and mass-market fairy-tale romance, between the folkloric historiography of Aarne-Thompson-Uther type 425C and the bestselling genre of historical fiction, between novel and biography and the intersection of these in the mimetic-parodic literary tradition of fictional biographies, such as Virginia Woolf’s Orlando: A Biography (1928) and Thomas Mann’s Doctor Faustus: The Life of the German Composer Adrian Leverkühn, Told by a Friend (1947).

In the Author’s Preface to The History of Beauty and the Beast: A Biography, “I” am my novel’s first 1st-person narrator, and I ask if we really need another retelling of Beauty and the Beast. I quote fairy tale scholar Maria Tatar, who claims: “That every culture seems to tell ‘Beauty and the Beast’ in one fashion or another suggests it is part of our DNA. We make the story new so we can think more and think harder about the stakes in partnerships and marriages.”[1] I also refer to critic Jerry Griswold, who believes its “popularity over time suggests its importance. The oldest version [… is Apuleius’s] ‘Cupid and Psyche,’” which appeared around 150 A.D. but drew on Greek versions derived from India’s “The Woman Who Married a Snake,” which “existed in oral form before its appearance in print in 500 A.D.” The story’s “endurance” for “more than two millennia,” Griswold contends, is one reason for its “significance and power” — as well as its “geographical distribution” the world over and its appeal to mainstream and marginalized child and adult audiences.[2]

In the next section, the Introduction, I go on to explain that the goal of my retelling is to re-narrativize our commonly held belief about the historical rise of the novel. I aim to reach Creative Writing, English, Folklore, and Literary History professors who might teach my book. Chapter by chapter, I will chronologically mimic and integrate the traditions of the 18th-Century novel; the 19th-Century’s Gothic, social realist, and Decadent novels; 20th-Century Modernist novels; 21st-Century Postmodernist novels. My retelling of Beauty and the Beast will provide professors, students, book clubs, and casual readers with a step-by-step model that traces the development of the Western novel from the 18th Century to today. From this new context I provide, I hope English majors in particular can further appreciate the objectives of their required “Survey of English Literature” courses. I hope they will enjoy reading my novel, but also that they will discuss and debate the literary, historical, creative, and artistic issues it raises.

In my Prologue, I reveal a new 1st-person narrator (Villeneuve’s biographer) and an editor who points out that Samuel Richardson’s Pamela (also about a young beauty imprisoned in a country estate by a beastly “Mr. B”) was also published in 1740. This footnote propels my novel’s first sub-narrative, about Pamela’s spinoff products, “critiques, parodies, translations, plays […], and several sequels.”[3] Our editor will further compare the production of Pamela-inspired ephemera to Beauty and the Beast’s transmedial phenomena. Villeneuve, however, in her Eighteenth-Century Paris salon — our biographer interjects — could not have known the extent to which her story would endure. My Prologue becomes the opening frame of my novel proper, with Villeneuve in her salon the night she begins telling “La Belle et la Bête.”

In chapter one, Villeneuve becomes our third 1st-person narrator (fourth, if we count our editor). She opens with the misfortunes of Beauty’s father, a merchant whose ships have been pillaged by pirates, and tells how he and his children are forced to relocate from a city “not far from here” to their country house that “might well be considered the saddest abode in the world.” Our editor tells us this is significant because Villeneuve’s tale is set neither “far away” nor “long ago,” making it the first of its kind to place its characters in the author’s own space and time. This may reflect Villeneuve’s awareness of her audience’s receptivity, as she satirizes the merchant’s friends who were “so cruel as to attribute [his] misfortunes to his own bad conduct.”[4] Her jab at victim-blamers mirrors Henry Fielding’s contemporaneous notes/manifesto toward the new novel, in which he states the satirist might punch up but never down.

In The Inward Turn of Narrative, Erich Kahler states that in the 18th century, “the ego engaged in monologue and dialogue became the vehicle of the new narrative.”[5] Villeneuve, then, a historical figure recast as character-who-narrates in my own novel, employs the same playful monologuing as Fielding, and, in dialoguing with her salon-audience, she digresses like Laurence Sterne — which our editor identifies as the main reason Villeneuve’s version never stuck (and why Disney adapted instead Madame de Beaumont’s much-abridged 1756 version). Reveling in Cervantes’ and Fielding’s subplots, and Sterne’s anti-plot shenanigans, Villeneuve in my retelling joins the ranks of these men who famously inaugurated the rise of the novel.[6]

In chapter two, when Beauty’s father receives his death sentence, my novel turns Gothic. I will draw from Mary Wollstonecraft’s Maria; or, The Wrongs of Woman so that my editor-character can investigate Diane Long Hoeveler’s claim that Wollstonecraft’s “devices—hyperbole, dramatic self-stagings, repeated presentation of heroines as victims, [… are] very similar to [those] employed by later female Gothic novelists.” I wish to examine the father’s emasculation as well as this chapter’s potential to highlight “the Gothic’s role in reforming class attitudes, in defining appropriate behavior for both sexes, and in codifying literature’s role as an ideological system that operates to shape and enforce what we now call values in society.” [7]

In chapter three, the Gothic turns Romantic when Beast sends his white horse to bring Beauty to the castle, where she is greeted with fireworks, gardens filled with unseasonably fruiting trees, costumed monkeys pantomiming Renaissance dramas (hidden parrots beneath wigs performing the voices), and his library that houses every book ever written and every book yet to be written. In this epistolary chapter, Beauty’s letters are laments about how she has only her imagination for company. Terrorized by Beast’s request to let him sleep with her, she nightly answers, “No,” which prompts our editor to remind us of Beaumont’s revision, “Will you marry me?” I cannot overstate the importance of restoring Villeneuve’s original. Her boar-headed, lion-tailed, lizard-scaled Beast understands the meaning of consent—unlike Richardson’s refined Mr. B., whose repeated attempts to rape Pamela will go neither unmentioned nor unpunished in my dissertation.

Chapter four, in which Beast insists that Beauty go home, is written as 19th-Century social realism with a dash of decadence. The chapter begins with a nod to Madame Bovary, briefly utilizing the 1st-person plural of Beauty’s five sisters who sabotage her return to the castle. Their point of view — their disinterested Des Essientes-style cataloging of the fine clothes and jewels they wear (thanks to Beast’s generosity, owed to Beauty’s self-sacrifice), their lavish living arrangements, their petty amusements and desires for suitors with titles — transforms into a Bleak House-inspired 3rd-person narrator whose judgments are harsh and unfailingly unforgiving, drawing attention to social norms, mores, hierarchies not usually observed.

Chapter five — my modernist episode — is told from Beast’s close 3rd-“person” point of view. Like Gregor Samsa, he wakes in his monstrous form. His stream-of-consciousness is as fragmented as his body: transported into a memory of overtaking and ripping open the throat of a doe, he smells the sweat and fear of prey the way Marcel tastes tea; he speaks, when he speaks, like Gertrude Stein, stuttering interrogatives to determine whether Beauty is satisfied with his castle’s objects, rooms, and food; he thinks like Beckett’s Unnameable, in the ever-present, consumed by his inability to communicate, to comprehend his body; he desires obsessively like Humbert Humbert; yet he observes, always, like the narrator of Jealousy, from the outside looking in; and, finally, like Gregor, he “[hangs] on until […] his last feeble breath,” and dies.[8]

In chapter six, my postmodernist episode, Beauty is in the library — reading every version of her own story she can find. She has perhaps just arrived at the castle, and, having discovered Beast’s library, begun poking around only to encounter a novel, and then another and another, that uncannily features a young heroine resembling herself. Perhaps we too have been reading an assemblage of different texts written in different times. The many Beauties born over the past two millennia are all gathered in my final chapter; and certainly they must differ from one another in ways I imagine will be fun to reshape and recontextualize as I cut and paste from as many variants of the animal bridegroom tale as I can find. For in my own retelling, I wish to defer to these and to the other texts mentioned here. In so doing, I will produce a novel that is itself in a constant state of transformation, a demonstration of my desire to obliterate boundaries between literary time periods, forms, and genres; and a challenge to myself at this point in my career to strive toward a stylistic range I have never dreamed of undertaking—a manuscript indebted to my PhD education at the University of Utah and to those most enduring novels that have so magically and beautifully inspired me while here.


[1] Maria Tatar, Beauty and the Beast: Classic Tales about Animal Brides and Grooms from Around the World, Penguin Books, 2017, p. ix.

[2] Jerry Griswold, The Meanings of “Beauty and the Beast”: A Handbook, Broadview Press, 2004, p. 15.

[3] James Grantham Turner, “Richardson and His Circle,” The Columbia History of the British Novel, edited by John J. Richetti, Columbia UP, 1994, p. 76.

[4] Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve, The Story of Beauty and the Beast, translated by Ernest Christopher Dowson, John Lane Company, 1740, pp. 1, 2-3, 5.

[5] Erich Kahler, The Inward Turn of Narrative, Northwestern UP, 1973, p. 148.

[6] Ian Watt, The Rise of the Novel: Studies in Defoe, Richardson, and Fielding. Chatto & Windus, 1957.

[7] Diane Long Hoeveler, “Teaching the Early Female Canon,” Approaches to Teaching Gothic Fiction: The British and American Traditions, edited by Diane Long Hoeveler and Tamar Heller, MLA, 2003, p. 105.

[8] Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis and Other Stories, B&N, 2003, p. 48.

Ruined by Reading (Romance Novels)

The first time I read Madame Bovary, a few summers ago, my reaction was basically: Oh! It's readable. (Meaning: it's not written in the archaic language I'd been expecting.) And I liked it. Which is about all I remember now of the experience. 

Earlier this summer, I reread it and felt some sort of sisterly affection for Emma. I sympathized with her. But I read her existence mostly as one of three Madame Bovarys, and I thought a lot about "fate" and how, for Emma, there weren't a whole lot of options for what a Madame Bovary could be. Then I met with Rachel and Ed and listened to them talk about the bourgeoise and provincial life and the balcony-and-manure scene. I pretty much always fail to see the humor in anything, so the comic element in their conversation was for the most part lost on me. Alas. After that discussion, though, I went home and reread Madame Bovary and tried to read it as if I, too, thought Emma an empty-hearted, empty-minded joke of a character at whose expense Flaubert had made ironic fun. Even still, I thought more of Emma than that. She's complicated, I believed, really she is! She's a fully realized female character! I left it at that but skimmed one last time, just to mark the passages detailing (those evil) romance novels that ruin her life.

Ever since Don Quixote, my historical list has been a veritable whirlwind of characters ruined by reading: Pamela is accused of having stuffed her head full of romantic novel foolishness, which is the cause of her hysterics; Francesca and Paolo end up in hell for reading about Lancelot and Guinevere; Tristram never lets us forget we're reading his book; Rousseau confesses everything about everything he's ever read, ever; Maria's books are a sort of balm to soothe a hurt, but only because what else is there to do when your husband's thrown you into an insane asylum?; Frankenstein's ruined by his education just as Doctor Faustus was ruined by his; Lockwood reads Cathy's diary and shrieks when her ghost appears, then goes back to Thrushcross Grange and writes in his diary, which in turn ruins us (can you keep it all together by the end?), not to mention Anne Carson; Moby-Dick's infected by about 80+ texts and a sub-sub library before we even get to "Call me Ishmael"; Esther's full of fairy tales she retells on the way to Bleak House; the Underground Man just can't even with Chernyshevsky's crystal palace — because really, what is to be done?; Dorian goes down thanks to the "yellow book," within which Des Essientes goes wild about the Satyricon; the governess's screwy story on those pages turning in hands we never see again is super creepy; young Marcel involuntarily remembers a whole childhood of reading. . . .

And now, also, Anna (Karenina), who wastes no time finding a train after that fateful ball and desperately rushes home (with her red bag! Honestly, Tolstoy leaves no detail to whimsy; even the figurative pistol in I.VII literally goes off in IV.XVIII). And we're told: "At first she could not read" — because she was distracted by all the activity around her. But later:

Anna read, and understood what she read; but the reading, that is, the necessity of entering into the lives of other people, became intolerable to her. She had too keen a desire to live for herself.

At this point, we might be thinking: Ah, she's rejecting books! But no:

She read how the heroine of her story took care of the sick: she would have liked to go with noiseless steps into the sick-room. She read how an M.P. made a speech: she would have liked to make that speech. She read how Lady Mary rode horseback, and astonished everyone by her boldness: she would have liked to do the same. 

Which, basically, she does from that point forward (astonish everyone by her boldness). And now that I've finished Anna Karenina, I can't help but think that Emma Bovary really is empty-hearted and empty-minded. Anna's so full of life. She saves, she reasons, she plays, she flirts, she dances, she runs, she reads, she thinks, she mothers, she lies, she loves, she confesses, she leaves, she lives, she fears, she struggles, she dreams, she dies, etc. And all around her all the characters in all the locales all over the country are all full of life and fully realized, too. Like Bleak HouseAnna Karenina is a sweeping panoramic view of a nation in a revolutionary time, a kaleidoscopic, epic in scope, weaving of the stories of the many lives ruled by blood, marriage, society, government, history, and protest, and the subsequent unweaving and re-weaving of those many lives with necessary births and deaths along the way. Madame Bovary is not. "Manure!" I understand now. 

So what are we to make of all our reading about characters reading and being ruined by reading mostly romance novels? To be honest, I don't really know. I guess, at this point, I just keep thinking: Isn't every novel a romance novel? If not, why do we insist upon asking students: What do your characters want? Desire, longing, yearning, wanting, needing — these aren't limited to "romantic" content or even content period. They're the structural scaffolding on which we build and layer our stories. Our characters either get what they want (comedy), or they don't (tragedy). And everything until the end is romance (a twenty-year journey home, a dance, a game, a nightmare, a dream) filled with obstacles — which is (isn't it?) to say: plot. 

Maria, Jemima, Minerva, Madame Bovary (x3), Cleis (x2), and the Minyades

I. The Untold Stories of Women's Lives 

Mary Wollstonecraft prefaces Maria; or The Wrongs of Woman with the observation that in most novels “the hero is allowed to be mortal, and to become wise and virtuous as well as happy, by a train of events and circumstances. The heroines, on the contrary, are to be born immaculate; and to act like goddesses of wisdom, just come forth highly finished Minervas from the head of Jove” (67). 

When I read this, a light bulb went off at last! Seriously, I’ve been obsessed with what seemed an absurdly random detail in Madame Bovary: “As decoration for the room, there hung from a nail, in the middle of the wall whose green paint was flaking off under the saltpeter, a head of Minerva in black pencil, framed in gilt and bearing on the bottom, written in Gothic letters: ‘To my dear Papa’” (14).

Emma Rouault, home from the convent, head full of romance novels, has at this point in the novel already been introduced — as incompetent, but symbolically fertile and sexy. Attempting to sew bandages for her father’s broken leg, “she kept pricking her fingers, which she then raised to her mouth to suck” (33). Charles observes that “her gaze fell upon you openly, with a bold candor” (14). After setting Monsieur Rouault's leg, Charles is invited to stay and eat, and this is when the narrator describes the room and the gift to papa from Emma of Minerva’s severed head.

It's a strange gift, right? 

The very next paragraph glosses her and Charles’s conversation, detailing for the first time how unhappy she is; and ends with Emma's shivering and “revealing her full lips, which she had the habit of biting in her moments of silence” (14). (If she had been written by Richardson or Fielding instead of Flaubert, we would have been informed by now of what a “saucy baggage!” / "hussy!" / “slut!” she is.) Able to be pricked, and to bleed, suck, and stare boldly, Emma is also helpless, in need of warmth (although we might also read her shivering as a sign of her coldness), but, most noticeably and damningly, she is especially sexy when silent. 

In any case, my subsequent Internet search for anything about “Minerva and Emma Bovary” proved fruitless. So even though I couldn’t shake the thought that Minerva’s head is not just an odd gift but an important one, given its prominent placement in those first four paragraphs introducing us to Emma, I gave it up and moved on, thinking I might focus instead on her racy carriage ride, and the ripped up note tossed to the wind with the same hand we saw upon first meeting her. 

So it was a happy coincidence to discover Wollstonecraft’s use of Minerva as metaphor for fictional heroines, fully formed, who have no coming of age or adventure stories to tell. Full formed, Minerva springs forth from Jove’s forehead, which has been cleaved in two (like a vagina?). Minerva is such an interesting choice for both of these writers/texts! If she has any backstory at all, it resides in the story of her parentage. After Jove hears the prophecy that one of his own children will overthrow him, he devours her mother whole. We might read this as: powerful man obliterates existence of equally if not more powerful woman. Metis, however — Titaness mother of wisdom and cunning — does not just disappear into the annals of untold history but makes and outfits her daughter with weapons and armor. Her constant hammering gives Jove a headache, causing him to cleave his forehead open. Thus borne, fully formed, adult Minerva is not just heavily armed and battle-ready, but she has also inherited her mother’s wisdom.

But what really happened in there, in the darkness of Jove’s interior cavity, where Metis mothered Minerva all that time? God knows Homer didn’t tell the story. Neither did Ovid. This mother/daughter story has either been deemed not important enough to tell or ignored if ever it had been told. It's a perfect choice for Wollstonecraft, whose titular character, Maria, has been thrown into an asylum by her husband. As Susan C. Greenfield notes in Mothering Daughters: "though she gives birth to a girl, Maria, like virtually every other mother depicted in the novel, is prohibited from caring for her child. . . . [and] it becomes the subject of political interrogation. Denied property in every sense of the word — the right to own money or land, to have custody of their children or authority over themselves — all women are homeless; treated as prisoners and lunatics, they become motherless, daughterless slaves" (93). In prison, punished (a la Foucault), Maria shares the letter she wrote for her daughter, which outlines the systemic oppression of women who have no legal rights, personalizing Wollstonecraft's earlier philosophical Vindications. Here, it is impossibly difficult to not want to read this letter as if it had been addressed to Wollstonecraft’s own daughters — even written to all women everywhere, and to all daughters to come.

And it is difficult not to read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (the first exam text I wrote about on this blog), as furthering her mother’s proto-feminist call to action and reform — if we read it as a cautionary tale for all her symbolic sisters, embodied in the bodiless Mrs. Saville, the intended audience of the text, to liberate themselves from the home, and to be mindful not to emulate the models before them of power-hungry men like Frankenstein and Walton, and instead to make themselves into a new kind of being, but not like the creature either who, repulsive to men and occupying the wretched position of being such a new kind of being, clings to the past’s status quo, insisting that a marriageable partner is all he needs to be happy. Walton’s destruction of the female creature is a necessary act, in this reading, as women readers must be the ones who make themselves and bring a new generation of never-before-seen creatures into the world.


II. Maria AND JEMIMA; or The Wrongs of ALL Women

Wollstonecraft, thus outfitting all her daughters with the weapons of inborn wisdom and the right to education and property, etc., readies us for battle. And not just some of us, but all of us. In Maria she gives us an inclusive view of proto-feminist principles applicable not just to her upper middle-class Maria but also to her working-class Jemima, whose own abuses the also-abused Maria painfully acknowledges. Jemima’s backstory even comes before Maria’s in the narrative, which I like to think Wollstonecraft plotted deliberately. Jemima’s story, a dark dose of reality (contrasting the highly implausible happy ending of Pamela), brings to mind Moll Flanders's prostitution (and Moll, too, brings to mind the Wife of Bath). In any case, after Jemima’s backstory, Maria’s unfolds, not spoken but written, in that letter to her daughter. In it, we learn that she has long been sympathetic to the plight of working class women in her life. She even finally fell in love with her tyrant husband-to-be, after he gave her money to pass along to her friend in need (taking a much longer time, however, to do so than his relatives, and his delay nearly turning Maria against him).

In "Testimony, Trauma, and A Space for Victims," Colleen Fenno observes that, as "critics have noted, Maria's written testimony at the end of the novel challenges women's exclusion, based on property rights, from participation in the justice process and underscores the importance of granting individuals the right to be heard in a legal setting." Fenno extends these lines of inquiry by arguing, too, that "Wollstonecraft's novel also draws readers' attention to working-class women victims disenfranchised from the criminal justice system [...]. By means of Jemima's character, Wollstonecraft draws attention to the different threats, protections, and consequences of crime facing working class women victims. Further, she anticipates the restorative value that victim testimony may offer for both individual and community." 

Taking up a different line of inquiry about Jemima's presence in Maria, and providing me with another interpretation of Minerva, Greenfield examines the women's shared experience of being denied the ability to breastfeed their own daughters: "Maria and Jemima's longing for breastfeeding is symptomatic of the hunger that opens between mothers and daughters in a world where their separation abounds. [...] Above all, mother-daughter separation signals woman's loss of reproductive authority" (96). Greenfield thus reads Wollstonecraft's invocation of Minerva as speaking not only to "the problem of literary production but also to men's general appropriation of female generative power" (96).


III. Suicides 

Jemima, pregnant after being raped by the master of the house, is given poison. Thinking it will end her life, she ingests it. Instead, it terminates her pregnancy. Maria, too, takes laudanum and nearly dies. Mary Wollstonecraft herself attempted suicide by poison. Unsuccessful, the second time she jumped off a bridge. Both she and her semi-autobiographical Maria, however, are saved and decide to stay alive for their daughters. For her/them, motherhood is reason enough to live. But before she ever has a chance to complete Maria, Wollstonecraft dies after giving birth to Mary Shelley. In the ending we do get, scattershot with editorial notes, Jemima is able to reunite Maria with her daughter (who is not dead after all), some time after they have escaped from the asylum. All three will live together happily ever after, and quite subversively. (Wilkie Collins's Woman in White seems a clear descendant of Maria, especially with its non-normative happy family ending.) 

Unlike Maria and Jemima, Emma Bovary does die. Her suicide attempt is a success. And in stark departure from Wollstonecraft's women, Flaubert's Emma does not find motherhood a satisfactory reason to live. Too, her situation is not as dire as the others', as she is not raped by her husband or other men; her sexual agency is her own. Madame Bovary, while representing an unhappy woman in an unsatisfying marriage, presents us with a softer version, less violent, somewhat less oppressive, than the others' marriages. Indeed, there is about a fifty-year gap between Wollstonecraft's writing and Flaubert's. As well, the former intellectual and writer, along with her cohort of radicals, sought to emulate the French, inspired by the French Revolution. French Flaubert's Emma, half a century after the Revolution, reminds me a bit of young women today. We have freedoms women before us only dreamed of. We are largely uneducated about their efforts. We are still unhappy, or we are ignorant. But Emma has no alternate models for femininity, knows only those options presented in the romance novels that have infected her, and she has no other options than those available (e.g., her father decides to "give her" to Charles, and in the city the only women who enjoy the independence she herself has temporarily adopted are prostitutes who horrify her especially because she is one of them, or she would be if not for the protection her marriage offers). Even though she is not beaten, has not been turned out into the streets, has not been locked away in an asylum and robbed, Emma's story still recalls Wollstonecraft's call to arms. 

Out of options, which are limited anyway to the powers of various men in her life (Lover #1 won't give her money, Lover #2 won't steal for her, her husband is incapable of pretty much everything, and Creepy Guy says he'll give her money if she has sex with him, etc.), Emma can't imagine any possible way out of the trouble she's created for herself (trouble supported, of course, by a system working against her). What else is there to do but eat arsenic? 


IV. Some Jumbled Thoughts On Minerva

Today, we women writers are our own kind of Minervas, able and ready but with a huge dark gaping cavity in the history of our story. The history of literature and particularly novels for women has not served us well. But where there is an absence of women's histories and stories, an absence especially of those about powerful women and mothers and daughters, we must find a way to tell them now. If only Emma Bovary had read Maria; or The Wrongs of Woman instead of those other novels! Although her ignorance of Wollstonecraft, coupled with her sexual agency and especially her lack of maternal instinct, sets her apart from Vindications' visions. Importantly, motherhood is not reason enough for Emma to live unhappily as a wife. Necessarily, her story advances the cause. And yet, even today, how often do we hear: "I've decided to stay with him, for the kids." 

OK, so here's what we do know about Minerva, who appears in Ovid's Metamorphoses: Arachne challenges Minerva to a weave-off, Minerva disguises herself and warns Arachne to have more humility and honor the goddess, Arachne does not, and Minerva reveals herself and the battle begins. Minerva weaves the story of her victory over Neptune after they fought about who would name Athens (Minerva/Athena victory = woman’s right to land and property?), and frames these with stories of unhappy endings for mortals who challenged deities. Arachne rebuts with a tapestry depicting all the wrongs committed by the gods, against women particularly. Minerva then physically beats Arachne, and continues beating her until Arachne hangs herself to escape Minerva's beatings, after which Minerva takes pity on her and brings her back to life, transforming her into a spider and damning all her descendants to weave forever too.


All I can really take from this is: don’t piss off Minerva? Or she’ll make you perform women’s work for all of eternity?

She could have exercised a little humility herself, upon seeing Arachne’s images and siding with her against the power of the male deities especially. (In another post, I wrote a bit about how Athene in The Odyssey certainly has power, and by exercising it frees Odysseus and sees him safely home and safely through the battle against the suitors. She’s there for him through it all, pitying him for all his suffering and his desperate desire to get home, aiding him and making possible his successful passage home. She even makes him hotter than he actually is once he decides to reveal himself to Penelope! But even though she has all this power, she first has to ask her father for permission to intervene in Odysseus’s affairs, and then she spends most of the time guiding him and other men disguised as the old man Mentor.)

I suppose we could read Minerva’s anger as one that begins in entitlement, believing herself and all the goddesses to be equal to the gods. But when Arachne chooses suicide to escape Minerva’s wrath, and becomes like the other female victims of the gods, perhaps Minerva’s decision to bring her back to life is one of sisterly pity — the mere mortal cannot be better than her, but she shouldn’t die because of her. So let her ability to weave and present stories of injustice live on.


V. Women Weaving

OK, to be clear, it's wrongheaded of me and only exposes my unchecked privilege when I get righteous about weaving/women's work. Garment workers all over the world are largely women, and their daily lives, realities, and traumas are largely ignored. This needs to change.

My frustration is directed at The Odyssey, which is such an important and seminal text in the Western canon. A reflection of its era, the famous epic equates "power" with men and trivializes weaving as women's work (I.359). The comparison issues from the mouth of Telemachos, who banishes his mother to her room, saying: 

Go therefore back in the house, and take up your own work
the loom and the distaff, and see to it that your handmaidens
ply their work also; but the men must see to discussion,
all men, but I most of all. For mine is the power in this household. (I.356-59)

In Searching for Sappho, Philip Freeman provides us with historical context: "in Athens at least, it was customary to place a tuft of wool — a symbol of her future role in weaving — on the door of a household with a newborn baby girl" (4). He adds: 

The Greek historian Xenophon wrote a handbook for household management in which he argued that mothers were the primary teachers of girls and instructed them in what they most needed to learn — namely, wool working and self-control. The carding and weaving of wool was essential for making clothing for a family and always fell to the women of the home. A girl who didn't learn this vital skill was unlikely to find a husband. Many of the images of female children in the art of Sappho's time depict girls sitting at the feet of their mothers as they work a loom. There were even wool-working contests in ancient Greece for girls with the greatest skill. (11)

(The paragraph ends with a note about Spartan girls, who were the exception.) Freeman returns to the domestic importance of weaving much later in the book, when he turns his attention to mothers: "ancient Greek literature — even that by Sappho and other women — has very little to say about the life and work of mothers. Like childbirth, it was an area few male writers cared about and reflects a general disinterest by men in what they considered women's work" (76).

Lamenting the historical absence of information about ancient Greek mothers, he draws our attention to the image of "a harried mother holding a sleeping infant in her left arm while a little boy tugs at her robe" (76). This image appears on a 5th century oil vase, and on the opposite side "is a seated man talking with a woman holding a hand mirror. The images may be unconnected, but it's also possible that this is the husband and father conversing with a prostitute while his wife cares for their children" (76). As for the mother, at her "feet is a basket for wool, while hanging on the wall behind her is a storage sack. This picture shows a wife inside the women's quarters of her household in her two primary roles, as caretaker of children and weaver of clothing" (76).

Weaving — or, actually, not weaving — appears in Sappho's fragment 102. Here's Anne Carson's translation: 

sweet mother I cannot work the loom
I am broken with longing for a boy by slender Aphrodite

In Carson's end notes, she tells us that "slender" is not usually used to describe Aphrodite, and that some translators apply it to the boy. The only other commentary I can find about this fragment online is that some consider it to be proof that Sappho was writing poems while her mother was alive. Both Sappho's mother and daughter share the name Cleis. About the presence of a daughter in Sappho's poems, Freeman notes: "It's certainly possible that Sappho had other children and that she chose not to mention them in her poems or that such poems didn't survive, but all we can be sure of is that she had a daughter. If we dare speculate even further, Cleis seems to have been all the more precious to Sappho because she was her only child" (62). He contextualizes this for us, observing that in "ancient Greece, women prided themselves on the number of children, especially sons, that they bore and raised. For a woman to have a single child — and a girl at that — would have earned her scarcely less pity than if she were barren" (62). Despite this, he tells us, "Sappho does something quite unusual for an ancient Greek writer by celebrating her daughter, her own beloved Cleis, in some of her most beautiful poetry" (62).

Returning to fragment 102, it seems that heartbreak (and/or desire) is perhaps an acceptable excuse to neglect one's domestic work, or, at the least, it's a conversation starter for a daughter appealing to her mother. Sharing the latest heartbreak with your mother signifies closeness, at least to me. And although in this case the two women fail the Bechdel test (surprisingly?), the mother/daughter relationship is presented here as intimate, emotionally open, and reason enough to lay one's work aside for a time. 

I'm reminded of Book IV in Ovid's Metamorphoses, when:

a priest commands
the people celebrate a festival: 
all servant girls to be excused from work;
they and their mistresses to dress in hides,
unbind their hair, wreathe their heads in garlands,

and all "failure to comply" will be punished (IV.5-9). We are told:

Old wives and young comply: 
the piles of weaving, baskets full of wool, 
all the unfinished business of the day
is thrust aside; incense is burned, and Bacchus

is celebrated by all. All except Minyas's daughters (the Minyades), who continue:

spoiling the new god's feast with their untimely
spinning and weaving, the diurnal tasks
they and their servants are kept busy with. 
One sister, lightly drawing thread, observes, 
'Though other women cease their work and hasten
to his concocted rites, a superior
divinity has kept us in our places:
Pallas Athena! No reason why we shouldn't
lighten the useful labor of these hands
by taking our turns at telling stories: 
such give and take will pass the time more quickly
and be a kindness to those listening.' 

(Sounds a lot like the ladies in The Decameron, no? Self-imposing order in an environment that has none.) 


Story #1: Pyramus and Thisbe

The first story told is of Pyramus and Thisbe, which we would recognize today as one of the earlier sources that inspired Romeo and Juliet.

Story #2: Mars and Venus

Next up is Mars and Venus. The sun snitches on the two of them and sheds "light / on the very couch where two had sinned together!" (IV.238-9) Vulcan (Venus's husband) weaves, most intriguingly:

... a brilliant
trap for the guilty pair, a net of bronze links
so finely woven that it fooled the eye.
No thread of mortal weaving was as slender
as this one was: finer than the spider's,
and more responsive to the slightest touch. (IV.242-46)

In yet another of Ovid's loop-de-loops, this story incorporates the spider, invoking Arachne, but more interestingly we are presented with a male deity, the god of fire, performing women's work. Doing so, his actions might be read as support for a clear connection between weaving, revealing, exposing, trapping. Solidifying this connection is the fact that this story is embedded within a frame story specifically about women who value weaving and storytelling. Add to this the fact that Vulcan has set a trap before, making a throne for his mother Juno (who threw him off the top of Mount Olympus when he was a baby, because he was ugly). As soon as she sits in the throne, it wraps her up, binding her tightly for days. Finally, Jupiter proposes a trade: free Juno and he'll give Venus to Vulcan, and she will be his wife. (Ugh, more daughter-selling.) A skilled trap-maker, Vulcan could have made any kind of trap that he could think of. And he thinks of weaving?

Story #3: The Sun and Leucothoë

Next up is the story of Aphrodite getting revenge on the sun, making him fall in love with Leucothoë, whose father finds out about the two of them and orders her to be buried alive. The father found out because one of the sun's exes tells all. The sun grieves for the former and rejects the latter. Both women become flora. 

Story #4: The Fountain of Salmacis
(or Hermaphroditus and the Nymph)

Next up, the story of Hermes' and Aphrodite's child — Hermaphroditus. Born a boy, he goes for a swim one day and desperately defends himself from a horny water nymph who wraps herself all around him and declares they're never to be separated. Their bodies are enjoined, and Hermaphroditus asks his parents to curse every man who swims there with impotence.  

Women's Voices

This is as far as the sisters get. At this point, their handiwork bursts into ivy and grape vines, and the girls turn into bats. What their stories have in common seems to be unhappy endings and broken hearts all around. Which seems the theme of women's conversations around their looms. Why does unhappiness, heartbreak, ruin, so infiltrate and conquer women's domestic space? What might it matter that, at the very least, these women have been given voice and this is what they say? 


VI. Weaving and Storytelling

One thinks of Penelope, silenced by her son who orders her to return to her women's work. Penelope, pining for Odysseus’s return, while simultaneously weaving her own trap — unweaving by night to cunningly retain her rights to her husband (who but for his culturally accepted philandering) treats her well, and to their household, which she has protected in his absence.

One thinks of Scheherazade, weaving her own trap of stories that bear the pressure of saving her life, her sister's, and all the other young virgins', who will die if she fails.  

One thinks of Arachne, weaving images in her own battle of life or death, choosing to portray stories of deities' injustice against mortals, particularly women . . . in the face of one of their oppressors! What she weaves, the images she reveals, leads to her self-censorship as she silences herself by attempting suicide. 

One thinks of Pamela, writing desperate letters to her parents, her letters stolen, edited, and nonetheless woven together to create a picture of her endless fight to not be raped. One thinks, too, of all the traps Mr. B has set in place, and how Pamela persists in defending herself, ultimately escaping them all (and, perhaps, according to Shamela, trapping him instead in marriage). 

One thinks of Maria, locked away in an asylum, and Jemima, whose story is no less important. One thinks of their daring escape from the asylum, of Wollstonecraft's fairy tale flourish of Maria's daughter being found alive(!), and of the three women living their brave new lives. 

One thinks of patient Griselda, and the abuses she endures, the suffering she stomachs, and the importance of the placement of her story as the last in The Decameron. One thinks again about Griselda, retold, by the clerk in The Canterbury Tales. One thinks of her story having been told for the first time, as Boccaccio acknowledges, by Petrarch. Repeated again by Perrault. Not to mention the three operas that bear her name. Or the dramatic adaptations. Trollope's apparent retelling. The list goes on. 

One can't help but connect Maria to Griselda, their unhappy marriages to tyrants, the conclusions to their tales of sorrow including a joyous reunion with their long-lost daughters. The subtle implication that motherhood bestows upon women the ability to endure unhappy marriages.  

One thinks of Emma Rouault, who rejects such a notion. Who, motherless herself, gives her father that drawing of Minerva borne fully formed from her father. But unlike Minerva, Emma has had no help from her own absent mother. The absence of Madame Rouault is a glaring omission, highlighting the presence of the other Madame Bovary, Charles's mother. And his first wife, the next Madame Bovary. Theirs to claim as well, the novel's title does not only apply to Emma. Charles's mother, who, like Mary/Maria chose to live for and devote herself to her child, is one fate for a Madame Bovary. Charles's first wife, a widow, fragile, brittle, angry, demanding, and childless, is another. Emma's fate, perhaps a trap, is escapable only by death. Finding no fulfillment in marriage, multiple attempts to love, or motherhood, Emma learns one thing, and one thing only, if she learns anything at all: the romance novels she has read, the fairy tales she believed in, have set her up for misery. The fate of Madame Bovary, then, is to either live for Charles, like his mother, or die, like his first wife. Emma eats arsenic. 


Here, I'd like to revisit Pamela's subtitle: "Or Virtue Rewarded." Of course, her reward is marriage, but at least a happy one with a generous husband who seemingly adores her (not that this isn't a dangerous kind of propaganda!). But "virtue," it must be noted, does not just signify "virginity" or "purity."

In Romantic Outlaws, Charlotte Gordon tells us that Mary Wollstonecraft often noted "that the word 'virtue' came from the Latin word for 'strength'" (172). It is a word that shows up a lot in the historical texts on my list. Even in Sappho's time, as indicated above, it was up to mothers to educate their daughters on self-restraint. To control their own desires and yield not to the men around them. This particular observation, which I am so grateful to have encountered in my reading, is a necessary learned resignification of "virtue." When we read it as "strength" instead of "virginity," we make more implicit young women's struggles and their necessary education, passed down from mother to daughter, sister to sister, on self-control and self-defense. We give women more agency. We make implicit the accountability of men who take it by force, which has always been their right

From Romantic Outlaws: 

Women must learn to imagine themselves as more than the heroines of grand love affairs, [Wollstonecraft] argued. . . . To Mary, the greatest tragedy of all was that neither men nor women saw anything wrong with their culture's assumptions about femininity. Progress required a dramatic change in how both sexes imagined themselves and their relationships. Liberty, true liberty, blew down walls, tore open gates, and destroyed the fences of enclosure. Women needed to learn there was more to life than romance and men needed to aspire to more than sexual conquest, not just for their own sakes, but for the sake of a more just world. And in the same way that women should not surrender their rights to men, humankind should not sacrifice their rights to tyrants. 'A revolution in female manners,' cried Mary, gathering steam, '[would] reform the world.'


Works Cited

Fenno, Colleen. "Testimony, Trauma, and a Space for Victims: Mary Wollstonecraft's Maria: Or the Wrongs of Woman.Nineteenth-Century Gender Studies 8.2 (2012). Web. 

Freeman, Philip. Searching for Sappho. New York: WW Norton & Co., 2016. Print.

Gordon, Charlotte. Romantic Outlaws. New York: Random House, 2015. Print.

Greenfield, Susan C. Mothering Daughters. Detroit: Wayne State UP, 2002. Web.

Homer. The Odyssey of Homer. Trans. Richmond Lattimore. New York: Harper Perennial, 1956. Print.

Ovid. MetamorphosesTrans. Charles Martin. New York: WW Norton & Co., 2004. Print.

Sappho. If Not, Winter. Trans. Anne Carson. New York: Vintage Books, 2002. Print.