Posts tagged The Wife of Bath
Virtue, and the Doctor's Wife, Revisited

Ancient, Medieval, Renaissance, Enlightenment, Romantic, Gothic, Victorian, and Decadent readings behind me, I'm just now diving into the Modernists. Over the next few days, I'll be thinking about Death In Venice, Swann's Way, Ulysses, Orlando, As I Lay Dying, Nightwood, and Ficciones; but because these texts mark such a huge shift from the thousands of pages of (French/Russian) realism and (Gothic/Decadent) psychological realism I've been lost in recently, I want to sort of gather my thoughts here with a post on where I've been and where I think I might be going.

(Also, having copied and pasted this entire blog into a Word doc earlier today, for fear of losing my only record of exam "notes," I horrifiedly share that I've written about 38,000 words, close to 200 double-spaced pages. Yikes, right? I know. Anyway. . . )

One of the most obvious lines of inquiry to develop over the course of my historical reading, from The Odyssey to Anna Karenina, has dealt with representations in literature of wives, mistresses, and whores. Conveniently, these correlate respectively to liminal, marginal, and inferior subject positions of female characters; and common to all three is the significance of their so-called "virtue." Thanks to Mary Wollstonecraft, who often noted that "virtue" comes from the Latin word for "strength," I offer that wives, mistresses, and whores are equally virtuous — equally strong — women: 

Penelope (un)weaves. 

Job's wife stays. 

Sappho rewrites (Homer). 

Nelly Dean orates. 

The Wife of Bath divorces but the Princess of Cleves does not. 

Griselda endures.

Pamela resists but Shamela cons the system. 

Minerva represents us all, especially Maria, Jemima, all three Madame Bovarys, and the Minyades.

Anne Carson eulogizes and Gertrude Stein makes objects subjects.

Tristram's mother labors, Grete joins the labor force.

Emma believes, and Anna leaves.

Emily Brontë punches. 

And the doctor's wife takes charge. In my earlier post, I worried that I'd fooled myself, that she wasn't the strong female figure I'd always thought her to be. I wondered if more than anything else she had resigned herself to 24/7 mothering her husband and a band of strangers. While I am not abandoning those concerns, I acknowledge here that she is an incredible woman. Recognizing that I read Blindness way out of order, and that there are still several decades of history and writers and female characters and speakers ahead of me before she actually appears, I consider her now a tower of a character, a Minerva endowed with the wisdom and strength of all the women in literature who precede her. I've always loved her. I love her still. And not least of all because, in what I am sure is one of the most graphic and disturbing scenes in any of my exam texts, she takes sewing shears and stabs a serial rapist in the throat, while he is raping another woman, after he and his crew have systematically raped every other woman, healthy or infirm — every young woman, every single woman, every sister, every mother, every wife, every widow — in the building. 

A few days ago, I said, we can't look away from the characters we don't like or whom we fear, for instance, rapists and murderers, because they are in the world and we shouldn't ignore (or encourage) evil by turning a blind eye. We shouldn't gawk, curiously, either (like God in the Book of Job). If we need a model for how to proceed, we might look no further than Saramago's Blindness, in which the doctor's wife becomes more than a rape victim and more than a witness; the doctor's wife becomes jury, judge, and executioner. Yes, she becomes a murderer, and whether or not she is acting in self defense and/or to protect the helpless, are her actions justified? Should anyone, ever, under any circumstances, take the law into her own hands? Where do we draw the line for premeditated exceptions? And how does Saramago utilize the third-person narrator's distance to portray the event? Like a defense lawyer's, is his version of events intended to sway us? If yes, how? If no, is he objective and how and why would he have chosen to remain so for this? The ambiguity and the nuances are up to us, the readers, to consider.

And, as writers, if we have any interest in furthering the tradition of those great big sweeping epic social novels of the past, and if we wish to write them for our time, then like them we cannot look away. As Saramago's epigraph commands (from the Book of Exhortations): "If you can see, look. If you can look, observe." We must — we writers — like the doctor's wife who is graced and cursed with sight in a country of blindness, see, look, observe, acknowledge, assist, and, when necessary, with our words, avenge. We must attend. And we would do well to remember, too, what Annie Dillard once said: "Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?"  

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.

The Wife of Bath (Happily) and the Princesse de Cleves (Miserably), Ever After

"By verray force he rafte hire maydenheed”. . . . 

Ugh, of course he did. 

But get this! Citizens protest and much civil unrest ensues because: (1) obviously, we can assume the maiden was believed; and (2) in this particular tale, the people have power and even a knight from King Arthur's own table can — and will! — be tried. What's more, King Arthur actually sentences the “lusty bacheler” (rapist) to death (122)!

Which should be the end of the Wife of Bath’s tale — in Chaucer’s time, our own, or any time at all — but isn’t because King Arthur’s wife, the queen herself!, intervenes to say she’ll spare the rapist’s life, if, in one year’s time, he is able to report back what “thing it is that women most desyren” (122). 

A year later, though, it’s more bad news for the rapist. No one knows what women want in all the land! Until finally he meets a disgusting old woman — “A fouler wight ther may no man devyse” — who offers him a deal: the answer, in exchange for marriage (125). This is basically the worst thing ever for the poor, miserable rapist. He has no choice but to submit, and so she tells him the answer, and he tells the queen, and for this his life is spared:

Wommen desyren to have sovereyntee
As wel over hir housbond as hir love
And for to been in maistrie him above. (125)

To be clear: “hir love” is not her husband.

Which makes this one of the more interesting lines of the tale, of all the Tales in fact, because the Wife of Bath (and Chaucer, of course) takes for granted and deftly slips into her tale the equal right for women to have a legal spouse and a lover. (The fact that the queen accepts and supports this answer adds an extra layer to the Wife of Bath's tale, as she begins by saying, Back in King Arthur's day, etc., which assumes that we already know the queen is dead, having been sentenced to death for her affair with Lancelot.) The distinction between spouse and lover is clear in the Wife of Bath’s tale (as well as it is in history): marriage is one’s duty to family and society, as is sex and the production of children, but love and lovemaking have nothing to do with it, which is why they must be sought out elsewhere.

After their marriage, in fact, the old hag gives the rapist yet another choice — he may keep her as she is, “foul and old,” which guarantees that he’ll never become a “cokewold,” and she promises to “be to yow a trewe humble wyf / And nevere yow displease in al my lyf” . . . or he can have her “yong and fair” and run the risk of being cheated on either in his own home or “in som other place” (129-30).

Having learned what women want, the rapist defeatedly gives up, submits to her will, and says the decision is hers. For this act of submission, she rewards him and transforms into a young and beautiful maiden: “I wol be to yow bothe […] fair and good” and faithful as any wife the world has ever seen (130).

Well, isn’t that just wonderful? A perfect and happy ending for the rapist!  

(It bears mentioning that the Wife of Bath doesn’t end her tale just yet. With her final lines, she begs Jesus to punish by “pestilence” and early death any unworthy man who does not submit to his wife (130).)

In any case, the rapist ultimately gets what every man wants: a young, beautiful, and faithful wife. That this tale of one miserable man’s woe maintains that finding the rare trifecta of youth, beauty, and fidelity in a wife must be hard-earned, assumes that a young and beautiful wife cannot, or will not, ever, in any case, be faithful. For here is the exception. Here is the rarest of the rare. Here, in this "fayerye" tale, is that precious booty that even a knight of the round table didn't dare or hope to find after a long, hard, life-or-death yearlong quest (121).


For all the feminist and anti-feminist discussion “Alyson” the Wife of Bath’s tale may inspire, we must also consider it hand-in-hand, I think, with the Miller’s Tale — which presents us with a different “Alisoun," a young and beautiful, and (of course!) unfaithful, wife. The tale is funny, sure, and who doesn’t love a good fart joke, right? But while there’s much to be said about how its baseness problematically stereotypes millers, the tale — and the order in which we are forced to receive it — is a more interesting investigation.

If I were teaching The Canterbury Tales in, say, a Women of Western Lit seminar, I’d no doubt pay particular attention to how the first person to demand to be heard in the storytelling contest assumes that a story about a woman who makes a fool of her husband is so necessary, so entertaining and memorable, that he must be heard now.

The formal structure of the Tales has everything to do with order disordered. What begins in a logical fashion (he who has the most power has the right to speak first) quickly devolves as power struggles play out between the storytellers vying and vowing to one-up one another. (This ain't no democratic Decameron, folks. Whose formal structure, now that I think of it, is perhaps Canterbury's perfect opposite, in its desperate need to re-order disorder.) The Miller’s tale is uniquely positioned due to its insistence upon being heard now and, as a consequence, initiating the destruction of social order. And what is so important that it must be heard right now? The story of a cheating wife. Sigh. Oh, Alisoun! Why? Why must you be so "wilde and yong" (74)? Why!? Oh wait, that's right. It's not as if there’s any other kind of wife, right? 

At least, not until the other Alyson, the Wife of Bath — the first woman to have a chance to speak in the Tales — presents us with an alternative: a good woman who saves her man’s life, and — shocker! — is also miraculously that rarest of rarities that no man has ever seen before. 

Because she doesn’t actually exist.

She’s a magic fayerye or something? 

Sadly, even in this tale about equality, the best a good woman with magic powers in the land of fayerye can get . . . is a rapist who was once on death row.


In previous posts (about Job's wife and Sappho), I quoted from Marilyn Yalom’s A History of the Wife. I’m scheduled to teach comp again this year, and I’m revamping my syllabus. For the first paper, I’m thinking about assigning the research topic: “traditional marriage.” I’ll probably give them a chapter from Yalom’s book, but I’m also considering Stephanie Coontz’s Marriage, a History.

In Coontz’s first chapter, “The Radical Idea of Marrying for Love,” she notes:

(1) “In Europe, during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, adultery became idealized as the highest form of love among the aristocracy”;

(2) “As late as the sixteenth century the French essayist Montaigne wrote that any man who was in love with his wife was a man so dull that no one else could love him”;

and (3) “Courtly love probably loomed larger in literature than in real life. But for centuries, noblemen and kings fell in love with courtesans rather than the wives they married for political reasons. Queens and noblewomen had to be more discreet than their husbands, but they too looked beyond marriage for love and intimacy” (16-17).

Which is to say: traditional marriage doesn't, as too many among us tend to believe, begin in the 1950s with "traditional" families that God-fearingly maintained good old-fashioned family values. To be clear, I may be snarky but I'm not against marriage, or tradition. As my soon-to-be posted thoughts on the three Madame Bovarys and the doctor's wife in Blindness will hopefully make even clearer, my own feelings about love and partnership have become even more complicated than they already were. So any chance to teach and continue to research the history of love, and romance, desire, partnership, relationships, etc., is a welcome opportunity to become, I hope, someone who daily learns, lives, and loves more fully, truly, deeply.

OK, you should stop reading here if you just rolled your eyes, because now I'm going to yammer on a bit about a princess . . . whose major drama is that she's in love.


The issue of whether or not love (and sex/fidelity) should have any connection at all to marriage lies right at the heart of the princess's drama in The Princesse de Cleves, which, although published in the 17th century, takes place in the 1500s at the royal court of Henry II.

Terence Cave writes in his introduction to the Oxford edition that the major theme is “secrecy, […] a truth never fully confessed, a name suppressed,” and sure enough the name the princess withholds from her husband is her lover’s (viii). M. de Cleves soon figures it out on his own, though, and it drives him crazy and leads to his premature death. The catch is — the princess only has feelings for M. de Nemours. She never acts on them the way everyone else at court acts on their own (men and women alike). The drama of the novel is that she confesses to her husband that she has such feelings. As Cave points out:

It was in fact the confession scene in The Princesse de Cleves which caused the greatest furore. This was because it provided a test case for plausibility in the expanded nouvelle historique or fictional memoir. Extraordinary and exotic things can happen in romances, but the claim to be in some sense historical entailed for the seventeenth-century reader a submission to common experience and common opinion. The confession, while undoubtedly intriguing, was judged by the majority of readers […] wholly implausible. Wives just don’t say such things to heir husbands. (xiv)

Even after her husband dies, when she is perfectly able to pursue a relationship with the other man (her uncle, in fact, goes out of his way to help make this match happen, as he likes them both and wants to see them happy), Mme de Cleves still rebuffs M. de Nemours’s advances. So difficult is her act of denial, she will spend a good portion of the year locked up in a convent, ever-after! She just can’t trust herself around the guy, and she really wants to obey her mother’s dying wish that she should never become a fallen woman, and she really wants to live up to her husband’s dying wish that she should never pursue a relationship with M. de Nemours.

Although, ultimately, Mme de Cleves is the (almost-) perfect wife — young, beautiful, and faithful — she suffers as a result of struggling so much with the feelings she harbors for M. de Nemours. The novel lets us into her deepest thoughts, and, as a result, she is a fully developed and complicated, psychologically complex/anguished character, despite the fact, or because of it, that she remains loyal and true to the end.


Switching gears for a moment. . . . 

Generically, The Princesse de Cleves is particularly important because it is held to be the first novel, “the first work of prose fiction written in Europe” (viii). At the time, as Cave tells us, novels didn’t exist — but romances did. What makes the work extraordinary is that it is decidedly not a romance, not a tale “of heroes and heroic lovers” (ix). As Cave observes: “if this new work must initially be defined by saying what it is not, rather than what it is, there can be no ready-made category waiting to receive it” (ix).

He points out that prose narratives existed at the time, but were “regarded as a ‘low’ genre, designed mainly for consumption by women readers” (x). Another form that already existed, and was undergoing a revival at the time, was the nouvelle, and while the “romance is written according to the rules of decorum and in a poetic manner” the nouvelle is devoted “to representing things as we see them happen in ordinary life rather than as we imagine them to be” (x). And yet another genre that already existed was the memoir, which was a response to readers’ tastes, at the time, for a quasi-historical narrative describing “the private rather than the public aspect of historical events”; as well, memoirs of the time recorded “the intimate personal passions and intrigues that are glossed over by the official record” (xi).

Thus, The Princesse de Cleves is a hybrid of the various forms of the time:

In its opening pages, The Princesse de Cleves seems to promise the spectacle of a magnificent court and the story of illustrious love affairs: the novel begins, then, as a memoir. It becomes a novel at the point where the invented figures of Mme de Chartres and her daughter appear on the scene, inaugurating a ‘private’ story that no history or memoir could have told. [… And while] it takes its central couple from a family so illustrious in the seventeenth century that the publisher (acting perhaps as a mask for the author herself) felt obliged to defend the work in a prefatory note [… the] amorous intrigue itself is fictional and the figure of the ‘unrequited lover’ is invented. (xii)



Here we have a not-romance, a not-memoir, a not-quite nouvelle. 

How novel, one might say, this hybrid of rejected forms. 

In The Novel: An Alternative History, Steven Moore traces a lineage of the novel that begins long before The Princesse de Cleves ever came along. I'm sure I'll return to his alternative history again and again in future posts, but for now I'll just say that he offers a lineage of the novel that cautions us against too-easy claims of this text or that text being the first novel. It does seem useful, though, to also include his own clarification — that he discusses "the novel as a family classification" whereas distinctions like those I've highlighted from Cave's introduction (romance, memoir, and nouvelle) are classifications more along the lines of genus and species (5). 


In both Chaucer's and Lafayette's days, from the 14th-17th centuries, a husband with a mistress is accepted, even expected. A wife with a lover, however, is expected but not accepted. As such, marriage is not represented in these historical texts as anything other than the business transactions they were during these historical times. The royal marriages in The Princesse de Cleves make this explicitly and especially clear. Mistresses appear with regularity, and their presence at court is taken for granted as a matter of course. Wives, on the other hand, absolutely must be secretive about their own lovers and lovers’ identities.

Most interestingly, M. de Cleves loves his wife dearly — loves her as he would any wife but also loves her as he would a mistress — and the problem is that while she loves him as she would any husband she does not have for him those special loving feelings that she has for M. de Nemours. If the novel is an anti-romance, then the princess is its anti-heroine, even though she is the good wife and never acts upon her feelings; she is an anti-heroine because hers is a tragic love story and unrequited. And her husband, M. de Cleves, is the anti-romance’s tragic anti-hero. Or perhaps not. Perhaps because he gets the girl (for the most part), and because she remains faithful to him, he emerges as the anti-romance’s sort-of hero? M. de Nemours, then, may be the anti-romance’s more likely anti-hero. He is good-looking and rich, is more than willing to DTR, desperately loves the princess, ditches all his previous lovers and remains bizarrely faithful to her, and yet, this perfect Prince Charming never gets the girl. She kind of even ruins his life, as he holds onto his desperate hopes for a really long time. 

So here we have a clear anti-hero and anti-heroine — and a sort of sadsack husband/everyman between them. Welcome to the novel and the birth of the fictional, depressing, unhappily ending, cold-splash-of-water-of-reality prose narrative. Hooray?

Anyway, the very notion of such a thing as the romantic ideal of a marriage founded upon love and fidelity appears even more presciently in the Wife of Bath’s tale, as the rapist obtains, in one body, a wife who also delivers the pleasures usually provided by a mistress. The reason the rapist wins this rare prize is because he has come to understand that women desire sovereignty over their husbands and their lovers. He accepts as her equal right his wife’s ability to take a lover, or lovers, whether he likes it or not. And he is rewarded with a wife who chooses not to take any other lovers for the rest of their days. The message is clear — give a woman power in the relationship, give her the freedom to act as she will, and do not own her, abuse her, mistrust her, and she will of her own accord be loyal and true.


In this way, the tale suggests, all the way back in the 14th century, the notion and possibility of a marriage founded upon love and fidelity, a romantic ideal that won’t actually begin to appear in our real-life history of love and marriage for many, many, many hundreds of years, not even in the 17th century’s The Princesse de Cleves. 

Because, you know, progress takes time.

Traditionalists die hard. 


A quick and final word, to close, about the Wife of Bath’s prologue, in which, despite the fact that she embodies the worst of what wives were/are thought to be, she also embodies the wife as a mental and physical equal to her husband when she gets even with a few of hers, making one think she’s cheated on him upon discovering he cheated on her, and by physically abusing another husband after he abuses her.

Which is to say: I'm not certain the Wife of Bath's definition of "sovereignty" over one's husband necessarily indicates any woman's elevated position in a two-person hierarchy; instead, I think it indicates, simply, actual equality.

The expectation of a husband being the lord of his house and sovereign in his marriage (for how many hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of years?) has long been taken for granted.

As his equal, a wife may simply be regarded as the same — lady of her house and sovereign in her marriage. 

Or "relationship."

Or "friends-with-benefits thing."

Or whatever it is she decides she wants, or wants to call it, if she even wants or wants to call it anything at all. 

Because the decision to DTR — or not — is hers. 

Right, ladies? 


Works Cited

Chaucer, Geoffrey. The Canterbury Tales. Ed. V.A. Kolve. 2nd ed. New York: WW Norton & Co., 2005. Print. 

Coontz, Stephanie. Marriage, a History: How Love Conquered Marriage. New York: Penguin Books, 2005. Print.  

Lafayette, Madame de. The Princesse de Cleves. Trans. Terence Cave. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1992. Print. 

Moore, Steven. The Novel: An Alternate History. New York: Continuum, 2010. Print.