Y

YES

and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

– James Joyce, Ulysses (1922)

She asked for one more dance and I’m
Like yeah, how the hell am I supposed to leave? […]
Next thing I knew she was all up on me screaming:
Yeah, Yeah yeah, Yeah yeah, Yeaah
Yeah, Yeah yeah, Yeah yeah, Yeaah

– Usher, ‘Yeah’ (2004)

YES! Have finally managed a pretentious appropriation of pop culture as an epigram. Ludacris fill cups like double-Ds.

yes i will yes

Ahem. Yes is the last of our Old English words. It’s gise or gese, meaning ‘so be it’, perhaps from gea, ge (= ‘so’), plus si (=’be it!’), the third person imperative of beon (= ‘to be’). In this form, yes was stronger than its Germanic cognate, yea (much like today) and, apparently, was often used in Shakespeare as an answer to negative questions. We could do with one of them nowadays, no? How many times have you answered a question with yes when you mean no? (‘Doesn’t she….?’ ‘…Yes, she doesn’t’).

The penultimate word in our Alphabet, yes is frequently one of the first words we learn on earth; its meaning is clear and unequivocal, by turns disastrous, passionate, exhilarating, loaded and humdrum – but always positive in the full sense of that word. It is almost invariably repeated, as in Joyce (and Usher) – ‘yes I will, Yes’, the successive affirmations underlining and confirming the first – just like a signature under your printed name, if you listen to Derrida

Sure ‘Nuff n’ Yes I Do

James ‘Awesome Glasses‘ Joyce apparently made much of his novel ‘novel’ Ulysses ending on this, which he considered ‘the female word’. The final chapter, ‘Penelope’, often also referred to as ‘Molly Bloom’s soliloquy’, is 42 pages of just eight sentences, wherein Molly, wife of Leopold Bloom, muses to herself in bed.

For those who have better things to do than wrestle with a modernist doorstop, as the wife of the novel’s ‘Ulysses’, Molly is a counterpart to ‘Penelope‘, wife of Odysseus / Ulysses and conventional model of marital fidelity. The similarity expires fairly quickly, since Joyce’s Penelope is having an affair with ‘Blazes Boylan’, but nonetheless her chapter is often named after Ulysses’ wife. It begins and ends with this yes, and in a letter to Frank Budgen, Joyce explained that ‘Penelope’ rotates around what he considered the four cardinal points of the female  body – ‘breasts, arse, womb and cunt’ – expressed respectively by the words because, bottom, woman and yes. Some of the comparisons are clear – the womb has long been seen as synonymous with ‘woman’ (however reductively); bottom / arse – ok; because / breasts… um?; yes / cunt – hmm.

I suspect this last pairing has a lot to do with the affirmation of sex: interaction with this organ should be one preceded by yes and punctuated with repetitions of this confirmation (yes yes yes). (Why James Joyce, you filthy…). We see a similar thing in Usher (first time for everything): the repeated yeah, yeah, yeah is a sexual affirmation – ‘How the hell am I supposed to leave??‘. This is about a female seduction (‘she’s saying “come get me”!’), but one that we suspect will not end in when-i’m-sixty-four style knitting by the fire. For one thing, we learn that Usher already has a ‘girl‘, who happens to be ‘the best of homies’ with this club seductress; for another, Ludacris announces they will leave after a couple of drinks because they ‘want a lady in the street but a freak in the bed’. So actually, the art of being a lady lies in effectively concealing a consent that, in private, becomes loud, repeated and unstoppable.

Yes Indeed

Coming my way? The 'Easy Girlfriend' Poster, 1943-4

This is a well-trodden path, and all part of the old idea of how consent given too easily (yes yes yes) – or, in some cases, even given at all – is liable to get females into trouble. A less well-trodden example is Richardson’s Sir Charles Grandison (1753), which devotes several hundred of its thousand or so pages to what happens after the protagonist has proposed to his fiance: though she has accepted the proposal, she fears that to ‘name the day’ herself – or even to consent to a ‘day’ suggested to her – would be to show a forwardness disturbing in a woman. Disturbing perhaps, but probably a relief to the exhausted reader, for she manages to suspend her final consent to ‘thursday a month hence’ for an entire blushing, confused volume of this hefty tome.

We can go further back, of course: in Shakespeare-times, Juliet fears Romeo will think she is ‘too quickly won’. To correct this, she offers to ‘frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay‘ (no no yes), artificially constructing a well-won consent where positive affirmation already exists (history does not record whether or not Juliet was ‘a freak in the bed’). Many would-be Romeos have seized on such fears to assume (or convince themselves) that this is just what their ladies are doing when they give an unequivocal ‘no’, so seduction narratives are littered with lovers assuming their lovers really mean yes when they reply in the negative – examples have spanned Austen’s Mr Collins to modern day Mills & Boon. Apparently, in the latter case, one is supposed to find this irresistible.

Go No More A-Roving

We’re teetering around something rather insidious here, and one aspect of this finds its expression in a 1940s propaganda poster. The ‘Easy Girlfriend’ anti-VD advert placed the blame for the Second World War venereal epidemic squarely with the momento-mori type be-hatted skull (a sexually experienced re-appropriation of the medieval Death and the Maiden trope). ‘The “easy” girlfriend spreads syphilis and gonorrhea’, it blazed – she who says yes too easily is to be shunned by polite society, and will be – naturellement – riddled with disease. Of course, syphilis’ original spread throughout Europe had followed the path of the Grand Tour, but this must have been because Venetian prostitutes were taking expensive package holidays throughout France, Spain, Rome, Switzerland and Turkey, mustn’t it, Lord Byron?

So while you probably disagree with Joyce’s view that yes is an intrinsically female word, it’s certainly one whose utterance is littered with potential problems for women. Yes means yes.

NEXT WEEK: the Alphabet returns for its final installment – Z is for Zone

U

UTERUS

There are some letters in the dictionary that are more Latinate than others. In consequence, u, v and, to an extent, o are largely dominated by medical terminology (because doctors, bless ’em, love a bit of Caecilius est in horto).

In Utero

Sexy tudors. Henry VIII, after Holbein.

Uterus derives from a Latin homonym meaning ‘womb’ or ‘belly’, with reference to the proto-Indo European udero (= ‘abdomen’), and, possibly, a Slavic usage, vedro, meaning ‘bucket’. Much like the ‘bucket’ (and indeed the shape of the letter u with which the word commences), the first sense of uterus is as a vessel – ‘the organ in which the young are conceived, developed and protected till birth; the female organ of gestation; the womb’.

Much has been made of this ‘protective’ element – it has been frequently observed that the ‘fetal’ position babies adopt to fill the uterus endures into adulthood as a comforting or even instinctual reaction to anxiety, pain, distress or cold – a kind of retrospective communion with the mother’s body. This sort of thing, it seems, is not above a bit of marketing, and the uterus is often invoked as a place of calm, darkness and peace.

Opposed to this, we have the sort of ambiguity nowhere better demonstrated than through tanks. (yes, tanks). The Mark I tank, the world’s first combat tank, was renamed from ‘Big Willie’ to ‘Mother’ (…), and its successors were colloquially dubbed ‘Mother’ throughout both world wars. The reasons are obvious: the inside of a tank is small, hot and protective. Childlike, a crew could be forgiven for considering themselves invincible within it – yet once the fuel tank is hit, the men inside suffer a hideous, incestuous death, incinerated by their own machine. This sort of thing runs right the way through conceptions of the mother’s body, particularly in psychoanalysis, which is never tired of exposing the deeply conflictual nature of many mother-child relationships, and with mapping those onto the cisgendered female body – we might think particularly of Melanie Klein’s famous ‘good breast’ and ‘bad breast’. If we’re going there.

HOWEVER. BACK TO THE RENAISSANCE. In its early incarnations in English this ‘womb’ is rarely so clearly gendered (as you may remember, King Lear thinks he has one), and, true to its ambiguous etymology, early modern minds frequently considered the uterus to be a generic bodily pouch. Thus it was often conflated with the gender-neutral belly (ah, Isidore of Seville), and in this form it was thought to be proof of the body’s retentive faculties. So even when considered as a specifically reproductive organ, the thinking went, the uterus still resembles the digestive system in how long it takes to do its business, since it creates infants over a leisurely period of nine months. While I doubt it takes quite that long for your morning Alpen, digestion is certainly something of a gradual process – consider, if you will, the hangover.

Horn of Plenty

If you remember the Alphabet post on ovary (to which this is in many ways a companion), you may also remember that until the seventeenth century sex organs were considered to have analogues across the genders (penis = vagina, labia = foreskin and uterus = scrotum). Along with its reproductive and sack-like qualities – I am reminded of the beautifully named ‘Mermaid’s Purses‘ – in this model the uterus also matches the scrotum in its creative properties. After all, reproduction is six of one and half-a-dozen of the other.

But this was not just something tossed around in the Renaissance lab and subsequently ignored: the scrotum-uterus comparison actually spread into what we might consider a bizarre arena – fashion. I am, of course, talking about the codpiece, ‘a bagged appendage to the front of the breeches; often conspicuous’. This was a sartorial fave of Henry VIII (above, right), who clearly took his outfits very seriously – but I note that sexy Jonathan Rhys Meyers has avoided the sexy codpiece throughout the BBC’s Sexy Tudors. Too sexy?

Originally a modesty device to get round the, ahem, ‘shortcomings’ of the hose, this strange appendage quickly grew to a size that redefined it as a disturbing kind of hyper-masculine power-dressing. Yet the word derives from the Old English codd (+ piece), which came to mean ‘testicles’ in early Medieval times (quite possibly because of exactly this phenomenon) but originally meant simply ‘a bag, pouch or husk’. Indeed, the codpiece was frequently dubbed a belly, and, through fun with synonyms, the womb could become a cod: my good friend Thomas Laqueur highlights the Pardoner’s exclamation ‘O wombe! O bely! O stynkyng cod!’, in the Canterbury Tales, and also points out that the codpiece quickly started to resemble…(I like this bit)… ‘a finely embroidered and bejewelled horn of plenty’.

Horn.

So it seems that, while Henry VII might not thank you for it, we could observe that this most macho of garments is in fact drawing attention to the womb-like, generative, and retentive properties of what lurks within (which, of course, it also helped protect – gender-ambiguous Russian dolls, anyone?). Indeed, glancing at a couple of examples in portraiture, a lot of these men look rather like they have an artificially constructed uterus poised over their genitalia (love how he’s pointing, just in case we miss it). Less Blackadder, more… actually, I don’t know what that is.

Bag for Life

But, of course, eventually someone had to seize on anatomical differences to posit a definition of gender, and thus it that (around 1615) the uterus started to be considered something exclusively female – as regular readers will be aware, this was a chain that began with independent naming of the organ in question and eventually reached the pitches of hysteria in the nineteenth century. There is also a strange quasi-legal term, uterine, apparently first spotted in the seventeenth century but not dictionary-cited until 1816, meaning ‘related through the mother’. Thus, ‘the property devolves to his brothers or uterine uncles’, with the body of the mother here serving a dynastic link, since all these uncles can be proved to have shared a uterus. They could even be half-brothers, since an alternative meaning for uterine is ‘having the same mother, but not the same father’. Working on a similar premise, if you are particularly toolish, and your sister has a son, you would (in pre-paternity test times) have been best off leaving your money to your nephew: his link to you is purely uterine, unlike your link to your son, who could be anyone’s spawn.

As we draw near the end of the Alphabet series, threads begin to resolve themselves. Uterus has been the final word of three (hysteria and ovary were the other two) all of which address the issue of mapping the cisgendered female body. Following the three, we have seen a model of sex and gender that does not conform with what many experience as the current status quo. Conversely, the distinction between genders does not seem to have been primarily based on the body until the nineteenth century (or even later). Thus, we have seen women turning into men with comparatively little contemporary comment, the female orgasm (and in some cases her entire sexual appetite) vanish from the everyday realities of heterosexual sex, and now, and perhaps most bizarrely, an epidemic of hyper-masculine men apparently walking around with giant uteri affixed over their genitalia. (Yes, I did just say ‘uteri’). Perhaps this is worth thinking about…

NEXT WEEK: V is for Vitriol

TEA

Make tea, child, said my kind mamma. Sit by me, love, and make tea.

Samuel Richardson, Clarissa (1747)

Ah, the Joke Post comes upon us at last. T is for ‘t’… very droll. I lift a cup to that. But fie! Have we learned nothing on this lexical journey? First and foremost, tea was not always pronounced as we currently say it: when it first appeared in English in 1601 it was ‘taaaaay‘ and often written tay (like the modern French thé, a bit). It is not quite clear when and why the shift to ‘ti’ happened, but, then, few things are as easy to lose sight of as pronunciation (how many people remember that Keats was a Cockney?)

Shall I be mother? Catherine of Braganza, painted by Jacob Huysmans.

Tea, of course, has the additional complication that it is not an English word (although what is?) – it came from the Dutch thee, in turn from Malay and, eventually, Chinese Amoy dialect: t’e, or the Mandarin ch’a. Woven into the geographical etymology, then, is a legacy of import history: around the mid-seventeenth century we procured our tea from the Dutch, who imported it from Malaysia and, ultimately, China. What exactly were they importing? Why, tea‘s first definition, of course: ‘the leaves of the tea-plant, usually in a dried and prepared state for making the drink’. In this form, tea began with a queen, and quickly became every eighteenth-century Cosmo girl’s first route of seduction.

Brew and Thunder.

But first – the drink. ‘Made by infusing these leaves in boiling water, having a somewhat bitter and aromatic flavour, and acting as a moderate stimulant’ – in this sense, the word tea is first recorded around 1601, so some trendsetters must have been aware of it before the widespread importing of the later seventeenth century, when tea really came into its own: Samuel Pepys tried it in 1660, and a couple of years later it found a celebrity backer in the be-farthingaled shape of the Portuguese queen consort to Charles II, Catherine of Braganza (remember her?). So, in England at least, tea was from the beginning tending towards the female of the species.

Catherine’s tea-drinking was partly to do with Portugal’s colonial links with Asia, but also with her temperament: solemn and pious, she initially had trouble fitting into the Protestant English court and her preference for a ‘moderate stimulant’ over the ales and beers otherwise drunk marked one of many departures. But tea was quickly owning its stimulating qualities and being marketed as a ‘tonic’, a civilized alternative to alcohol capable of soothing aches’n’pains and spurring on mental capacities: a zeitgeist for the intellectual impetus of the early Enlightenment – as against Charles II’s well-known debauchery – and, in fact, a ‘panacea‘:

Hail, Queen of Plants, Pride of Elysian Bow’rs!
How shall we speak thy complicated Powr’s?
Thou wondrous Panacea, to asswage
The Calentures of Youth’s fermenting rage,
And animate the freezing veins of age.

Nahum Tate, from Panacea: A Poem Upon Tea (1700)

But what started out as a Portuguese import became a matter of English national identity, and by the next century London’s East India Company had established a monopoly on trade, controlling imports into Britain (and thus, prices), using its extensive trade links with Queen Catherine’s dowry –then-Bombay – and the East Indies, and Asia. It was thus that the English turned not into a nation of coffee drinkers, but to devotees of the ‘Queen of Plants’. And a queen she certainly was, and not entirely distinct from the maternal and oft-secluded Queen Anne, who dramatically reduced the size of the English court and inspired a new fashion for calm domesticity and politeness. Thus, the bustling male-dominated coffee-houses, but also a more feminine fix at home…

Five Leaves Left.

So in 1738 tea came to mean not just some withered leaf, but also an opportunity for socialising! Hurrah! To be precise, tea became ‘a meal or social entertainment at which tea is served; especially an ordinary afternoon or evening meal, at which the usual beverage is tea’. The fact that it could connote an ‘ordinary afternoon meal’ made tea a convenient beverage to offer casual social callers, although it was also, of course, a beverage that demanded a whole host of conspicuous purchases: a full tea-set and the crucial Other Element – sugar. Thus your tea-table represented Britain’s colonial interests off in China and India to the tea-side, and Africa and the East Indies to the sugar-side, with all the attendant horrors of the emergent slave trade conveniently swept under the (Persian) rug.

Tea. Photo par Hodge.

The conspicuous consumption tea represented was exacerbated by its price: before mass importation in the mid-century had driven costs down, the leaf itself was fixed at so extortionate a price (a bargain in 1680 was 30s a pound) as to necessitate the purchase of a lockable tea-chest, which would become the responsibility first of the lady of the house, and, when age-appropriate, of her daughter. The woman who held the key to the tea-chest was, naturally, also the woman who made the tea – thus ‘Shall I be mother?’, a phrase of uncertain origin. One theory I came across was that it is a Victorian idiom related to the phenomenon of women unable to breastfeed naturally using teapot spouts to convey milk to their infant instead. OH THE SYMBOLISM.

Whatever the phrase’s specific origins, it’s certainly true that from tea‘s domestic beginnings onwards whole family power structures could hang on which woman this ‘mother’ was. Alas, London’s major galleries forbid image reproduction (WAAH), but if you turn to your handouts,  you will see this in action. This is the Tyers family: that’s Mr Tyers on the left, and his son just down from one of the universities. His daughter, on the far right, is about to be married (she’s putting her gloves on to go out – out of the door and out of the family). Her role as tea-maker has, in consequence, passed onto her younger sister, who now sits as squarely in the middle of the family portrait as she does in the family sphere. Conversely, in Clarissa, when the heroine angers her parents they sack her from her tea-task and grotesquely divide it up among other family members (“My heart was up at my mouth. I did not know what to do with myself”, she recalls, distraught. I WANTED TO MAKE TEA!).

And she feeds you tea and oranges…

Of course, while assigning the tea-making to your daughter could be a loving gesture of trust, it also pimped her marriageability: it requires a cool head and calm demeanour to remember five-plus milk’n’sugar preferences, judge the strength of the tea and pour it, all the while making small-talk and remaining attentive to your guests. Add to this the weighty responsibility of locking the tea away from thieving servants and you have the management skills of housewifery in miniature. It also showed off physical charms: poise, posture, the elegant turn of a wrist, a beautifully framed bosom. To take this momentarily out of the salon, no respectable punter would get down in an eighteenth-century brothel without first taking tea with the girls: Fanny Hill spends at least as much time drinking tea as (That’s enough – Ed), and, of course, this kind of performative tea-ritual femininity is a mainstay in the professional life of the Japanese geisha.

So, along with its identity as a colonial mainstay in Britain’s trading life, tea in its origins is also something specifically feminine: a kind of Muse inspiring intellectual greatness, a Queen to be worshipped as a symbol of Britain’s health and power, and a key element in the women’s domestic lives. It could be stimulating, relaxing and seductive, but, as would become disastrously clear, it was always political.

NEXT WEEK: U is for Uterus

SHIP

Q: Why are ships refered to in the female gender?

A: – The only beautiful lines to match a ship would be that of a beautiful woman.
– When we crusty mariners go to sea we want a way to honor our loved ones left on shore.
– Unless the grew is different they name them after girls. Besides they all have issues & a mind of there own. And cost a fortune to keep going.
– Because they are always wet at the bottom!
– Because the are grace full and slander also very majestic. Just like my woman.
– Because we love our boats like our women.
– Because they need handling very very carefully!

Yahoo Answers

OK, you got me. My finely-honed research techniques generally begin with asking Google. Believe it or not, this timeless question: ‘why is a ship called “she”?’ seems to have eluded people for quite a while – along with this Yahoo Answers page, I also consulted this tea-towel in a Greenwich gift-shop and asked my old friend, the dictionary. Nary a satisfactory (read: academic) answer. But let this not stop us – onwards!

Saucy Nancy takes a bath - illustration by John Harwood

We know ship is probably Old English (scip) but its ultimate etymology is officially ‘uncertain’. The Online Etymology Dictionary (whence I have had frequent recourse since my alma mater saw fit to strip me of my free OED online access) considers it to be proto-Germanic (skipen), ultimately from ‘skei‘ = ‘to cut, split’ – now, now, let’s not get bawdy in our quest for gendering answers, it’s easily explained as ‘a tree cut out’: Literal, man. This gives us its first meaning, as ‘a large sea-going vessel’, as opposed to a smaller boat. In modern times, this means specifically ‘a vessel having a bowsprit and three masts, each of which consists of a lower top and topgallant mast’.

These may not be specifically gendered, but by the 1550s people were widely referring to an unsailed ship as a maiden and its initial outing as a maiden voyage (an adjectival form of the proto-Germanic magadinom = ‘young womanhood; sexually inexperienced female’). Of course, this was a trend appropriated in the sky-crazy 1960s to apply to aircraft and other heavy vehicles, and it is still widely used today – with many of its superstitions intact (and possibly justified… don’t know if anyone’s heard of RMS Titanic at all?) The word also has figurative uses and associations: ‘ship of the desert‘, meaning ‘a camel’; and a ghostly ‘Guinea ship‘, which is a sailor’s term for a floating medusa.

I always say it’s the uniform Shirley’s fallin’ for…

Ah, sailors. Perhaps I’m generalizing here, but they have not been widely celebrated for their feminist views. Their superstitions on the other hand – well, those are another matter. Along with Fear Of Maiden Voyages, these also include the belief that having a woman on board was unlucky (the sea would get Angry and Wreak Revenge) and that if a bare-footed female crossed your path on your way to sea you should not get on board (let the lads scoff, you weren’t planning on dying anytime soon). Daughters of Eve were to be kept away from maiden ships in particular at all costs: barren women were simply dying to jump over the keel in the name of fertility, with nary a care for the lives of the carpenters and captain they were endangering in the process.

It's for warding off danger, sir, honest... Image via Flickr user r3v || cls

In fact, the closest a woman should ever come to a ship in Days of Yore was in the form of a bare-breasted apparition (get your tits out, love): such visions would calm gales and rough seas – although this one does rather sound like it was made up by a singularly hopeful sailor down the club of a saturday night – and they possibly explain why so many figureheads seem to have mislaid their t-shirts. What’s that you say? Figureheads? These are carved decorations sitting astride the prow, most common on ships between the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries (eventually abandoned because they had grown to such a size that they impeded the vessel’s smooth progress). When they were not effigies of naked women, they generally had something to do with the name of the vessel in question, as with London’s replica of the Golden Hind (or indeed the Golden Behind, led by Captain Abdul and his pirate crew in another of my childhood favourites). Their function, then, could be to identify the ship, ward off supernatural danger or simply to look pretty, in a kind of early version of the pin-up page three – in most cases, they probably fulfilled a mixture of these services.

Their relationships with the sailors manning the vessel could vary: they were almost certainly endowed with some kind of spiritual protective power – we must not forget how perilous a sea voyage remained even into the twentieth century – but they were presumably also viewed with all the Manly Affection evidenced in respondents to Yahoo Answers. After all, there’s a reason a sailor has a girl in every port, and a comparative pendant might be that iconic pin-up image of Betty Grable marketed at American GIs in 1943 (or indeed the retro-appeal of Sexy Sailor underwear). The much-underrated XTC exploited this in their eighties-tastic music video for All You Pretty Girls (1984) (which contains the immortal line ‘in my dreams we are rocking in a similar motion’).

…He won’t look so la-di-dah in a suit of dungarees.

But an enjoyable analogue to this tradition is the tobacco-chewing, slang-spouting, landlubber-hating figurehead Saucy Nancy, friend to Worzel Gummidge in Barbara Euphan Todd’s Worzel Gummidge and Saucy Nancy (1947). She introduces herself to John and Susan saying ‘I’m half a lady because I ain’t got no lower half’ (Gummidge considers her a ‘sea-scarecrow’). True to her epithet (used here in saucy‘s first sense, ‘impertinent, rude’), she is also given to spouting vaguely inappropriate sea-shanties at inconvenient times, the most telling of which suggests a lot about the relationship between sailor and figurehead:

Nancy, Nancy, tickle me fancy,
Here we lift again –
Furling jib to a lifting sea
All together, and time by me
Or the girl in the stern my bride to be.

All this has been diversionary (and, mayhap diverting), but where did the ship go? Well, aside from the fact that the figurehead was in many cases working as a synecdoche for the ship itself, it also serves as an illustration of the relationship between the sailor crew and the vessel’s ‘human’ side (which is almost always gendered female).

Sail on, oh Ship of State

However, as of 1675, ship had a further meaning, in figurative ‘application to the state’, an idea that goes back to Plato and Horace as a model of good government. Plato reckoned that a ship, being a complicated technical beast, required a competent ‘philosopher king’ at the helm, to avoid in-fighting and silliness among the crew (which would, inevitably, end in naval disaster). The idea was picked up by Henry Longfellow (1807-1882), but appears elsewhere as a figurative commonplace.

It takes on a literal incarnation in modern times through flagship ocean liners, whose British incarnations are frequently feminized (Queen Mary 1 & 2, Queen Elizabeth 1 & 2). Here it is useful to compare the lexical-historical conception of queens and nannies – as the devoted will remember, the latter acquired a specifically feminine connotation with the fussy behaviour of a state.

So why is a ship gendered female? Well, aside from the sea-faring gender-assumptions (mermaids, bare-breasted apparitions, and perhaps even the traditional association of women and moisture), there is also the fact of seaborne sexual frustration and resultant kind of genial misogyny of what is arguably a proto-pinup tradition. Perhaps the reason I could find no conclusive answer to this question is that each ship is (traditionally) ‘manned’ by a consortium of sailors, all with different senses of humour.

NEXT WEEK: T is for Tea

RAKE

Men, some to Business, some to pleasure take;
But ev’ry Woman is at heart a Rake.

Alexander Pope, Epistle II: To a Lady, Of The Characters of Women (1743)

Why Do The Good Girls…

It is one of the principal views of this publication: to occasionally venture outside the female sphere and see what the chaps are doing. DASTARDLY DEEDS would seem to be the answer in many cases focused around the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, when the word rake first came into being.

A spot of rakish gardening: the 'Temple and Chamber of Venus', in the grounds of West Wycombe Park, Buckinghamshire. Photo par Hodge.

I am frequently asked, with a wry smile, ‘So, was your dissertation on garden implements?’, to which I invariably respond, with a smug one, ‘Well, yes.’ You see, rake as ‘a dissolute man of fashion’ derives first from rake as ‘an implement consisting of a pole with a crossbar toothed like a comb at the end’ for ‘drawing together hay etc. or smoothing loose soil or gravel’… you know, a ‘rake’. In this form, the word is (at least) Old English (raca) from the proto-Germanic rak- (‘to gather or heap up’), and rake in its many applications to people springs first and foremost from the compound term rakehell (c.1560). This, in turn, comes from the (apparently common) phrase ‘to rake out hell’ (first cited around 1542), meaning ‘to search’ or, perhaps more appropriately, ‘comb’ out the infernal regions. A rakehell, then (= ‘an immoral person’ or ‘a scoundrel’) is someone than whom there is no-one worse, even should you ‘comb through Hell’. Tut tut.

Oh, what an odious Creature is a Rake!

In this early incarnation, the rakehell is a broadly classless figure who basically spends most of his time making a nuisance of himself. By 1687, he had lost his suffix, and, in the form rake, became defined as ‘an aristocratic man of dissolute and promiscuous habits’. Historically, these ‘habits’ boil down to drinking, swearing, whoring, and causing public disturbances (‘rioting’). Ever a sensualist (and sworn enemy to marriage), his iniquities always involve sexual depravity, often grotesquely extreme: Shadwell’s Don Juan feels ‘forced to commit a rape to pass the time’. Dr Johnson was less than impressed with such goings-on, and he defined a rake in his 1755 Dictionary as ‘A loose, disorderly, vitious, wild, gay, thoughtless fellow; a man addicted to pleasure’. Nevertheless, the true rake is protected from proto-ASBO consequences by his pedigree, which is the only difference between him and a ‘common’ criminal / rakehell.

It is in this ‘hellish’ yet aristocratic form that the rake first becomes defined as that archetype hanging out in the gangs….sorry, ‘clubs’ that the ever-hysterical Victorians dubbed ‘Hellfire Clubs‘. These were either groups of aristocrats dressing up as monks and nuns to commit acts of bestial iniquity, or sedate philosophical and political discussion groups, depending on the fruitiness of the historian. The overlap is more overlapp-y than you might think, and it relates to rake‘s satellite term, and secondary meaning, ‘libertine’. As libértin, this word is all over c18th French literature, which has no real cognate for rake as a distinct term, and it is in this form that rake gives us the Libertines (Pete Doherty) and The Libertine (Swoony Depp). Relating, as you might think, to our word liberty via Latin’s liberta, libertine can mean anything from ‘free translation’ and ‘free thinking’ (the revolutionary ‘liberté, égalité, fraternité’ among other things) to the sexual excess and decadence (‘freedom’, or indeed ‘free love‘) associated with John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, and perhaps even Doherty himself (depending on whether or not you think celebrity is the twenty-first century’s aristocracy).

Never trust a man in a pastel pink two-piece. Robert Lovelace prepares to abduct Clarissa Harlowe, by Francis Hayman.

Set Me Free.

Given this libertine background, it is unsurprising that, in its second wave as ‘The Order of the Monks of Medmenham’, the rakish ‘Hellfire Club’ was associated not only with Sir Francis Dashwood (defined by Wikipedia as ‘an English rake and politician’, and responsible for the horticulture displayed above, left), but also with notables like William Hogarth, the liberty-obsessed Benjamin Franklin and even Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (a close friend of Mary Astell, the ‘first feminist’).

Perhaps, then, this sexual excess could be connected with burgeoning ideas about general freedom, and here we must ask the obvious question: female rake, yes or no? The dictionary says ‘yes’, but cites as proof Pope’s line that ‘every woman is at heart a rake’, closer to an eighteenth-century “‘cor, she’s askin’ for it'” than acknowledged sexual equality. So, institutionally at least, the female rake always risks sliding into the Other Category, as the harlot, which must be at least partially because women were less likely to espouse rakishness as part of a broader public life. The closest we seem to get to an actual love’em’-and-leave’em she-rake is the upper-middle-class lesbian: Anne Lister‘s diaries record her pursuit of local girls, her habit of dressing in male garb, and her nickname ‘Gentleman Jack’. And of course a particularly saucy woman is always free to wear her hat at a ‘rakish‘ angle (where rakish = ‘dashing, jaunty or slightly disreputable’) as modelled by the celebrity adulteress Georgiana ‘Keira Knightley’ Cavendish , Duchess of Devonshire (who was getting it on with THE Earl Grey: libertea, geddit?!!).

What Women Want.

Meanwhile, middle-class intellectuals were determined to shelter poor Woman from such degenerates. They had to: for even the most virtuous young ladies are dangerously susceptible to rakish charm! What is more, they always believe (poor souls) that their chaste beauty and noble virtue can save a rake from himself! (…Katy Perry, anyone?) Samuel Richardson in particular seems to have lived in perpetual horror of just such folly, endlessly repeating his fear of the ‘dangerous but too commonly received notion that a reformed rake makes the best husband‘ and crying ‘But MADAM!’ to those young ladies who wrote to him describing the seductive appeal of his own rake, Clarissa‘s Robert Lovelace. To this, Mary Wollstonecraft:

It seems a little absurd to expect women to be more reasonable than men in their LIKINGS, and still to deny them the uncontroled use of reason. When do men FALL IN LOVE with sense? When do they, with their superior powers and advantages, turn from the person to the mind? And how can they then expect women, who are only taught to observe behaviour, and acquire manners rather than morals, to despise what they have been all their lives labouring to attain?

Mary Wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman

Well, quite. Excuse me, I have to rearrange my hat.

Further Rakish Adventures:

• Jane Austen’s Mr Willoughby (A Rake Determined To Marry Well).
• The Dastardly Mr Wickham (A Lazy Lower Class Rake)
• William Hogarth, The Rake’s Progress
• The West Wycombe Caves and West Wycombe Park – A rakish sort of National Trust day out.

NEXT WEEK: S is for Ship

QUEEN

To sour your happiness, I must report
The queen is dead.

Shakespeare, Cymbeline (1611) V.5.3400

Queen is one of the few Alphabet words with a firmly British origin, but it makes up for its lack of Latinate pedigree by being extremely complicated. So this is the part where the rap breaks down – it comes from the Old English cwen, the proto-Germanic kwoeniz, and (follow it back far enough) the proto-Indo-European gwen (= ‘woman, wife’). Proto-awesome, man. In this form it coincides rather nicely with the Greek gyne, meaning ‘woman, wife’ (thus gynecology, misoGYNy, gynophobia, and indeed gynocentric), and a whole host of other languages that I don’t think we need all up in our grill just now.

My Family and Other Animals

The interesting thing about these origins is their relation to another word: quean, originally a variant form of queen, meaning then ‘woman, female’ but now mostly an ‘effeminate homosexual man’ (cf., er, queen). Its etymology is similar, but with more emphasis on the insults: thus, quean‘s forebears include the Middle Dutch quene (= ‘older woman’), the Dutch kween (= ‘hussy’) and the Middle Low German quene (= ‘woman, wife, old woman’). It eventually gives us ‘a promiscuous woman’ sometime around the sixteenth century.

Anne, later Queen Anne, at the time of her marriage, 1683.

As is often the case, plenty of forebears inevitably only leads to plenty of embarrassing cousins, and many of these roots (cwen and the Greek gyne in particular) have also been claimed as parents to cunt ( =  ‘the vulva or vagina’), spelled quaint and sometimes queynt by Chaucer, just to illustrate the fluidity of ‘cw’, ‘qu’ and ‘cu’. When you know that portcwene ( = literally ‘a public woman’) means ‘prostitute’, the association of quean / quean and cunt may perhaps become somewhat clearer: it’s what you might call synecdoche. This may also throw some light on quean/queen‘s gay associations: inevitably, words that suggest penetration of the female (pussy, bitch) are eventually seized upon to denigrate an ‘effeminate’ man. Queen as ‘a flamboyant homosexual’ is from the 1920s (as is queer, which originally means ‘oblique, off centre’), thus coinciding with a modicum more gay visibility than its sixteenth century usage.

But it’s not all doom, gloom and back to the Unmentionables: let’s talk thrones. English is unusual in giving a queen her own word, and not simply feminizing king (= ‘of noble birth’) – compare the French roi and reine, from the Latin rex and regina. Nonetheless, the first definition of a queen in the dictionary is as ‘a king’s wife or consort; a lady who is wife to a king’ but the second sense, as ‘a woman who is the chief ruler of a state, having the same rank and position as a king’, is Old English itself, so the two definitions are likely to be essentially simultaneous.

The English the English the English are best.

Yes, over here on Albion’s chalk-ringed shores, we’ve had no less than seven reigning queens. By contrast, even pre-1789, the hated French would never let Ringo have a go – lol Salic law – and all their famous female royals were lowly consorts (Margaret de Valois, Catherine de Medici, Marie Antoinette…), although Henri IV was several degrees more awesome than any English king, ever. Look at how pleased with himself he is! But I digress.

However positive the existence of historical female monarchs on this royal throne of kings, this sceptr’d isle, the residual physicality of queen in relation to cunt is still lurking around, and the body of the queen has always carried a significance that goes beyond everyday concerns about legitimacy (although those are there too). Catherine of Aragon and Anne of Cleves, queens to Henry VIII, were both publicly subjected to a series of intimate questions (and threatened physical examination) about their wedding-bed virginity, genital health and sexual history, and that’s before you get into discussions down the pub throughout history about When The King Is A Queen (thus Edward II roundly condemned for A Weak King and put to an ‘ironic’ death), and the reigning queen‘s menstrual cycle and likelihood of producing a royal heir.

This last was an issue that clearly dogged even those English queens ruling in their own right: in 1554, Mary I was declared to be with child, triggering thanksgiving services and country-wide celebration, until over a year later her belly decreased in size and the ‘pregnancy’ was revealed to be a humiliating ‘phantom’ (pseudocyesis), caused by her intense desire for an heir. After a second false pregnancy two years later, she died (possibly from a uterine tumour) in 1558.

Elizabeth I carrying a sieve, the traditional accessory of the Vestal Virgins. c.1583

A couple of hundred years later, amid some of the most spectacular changes in British history, Mary ‘Williamanmary’ II and her sister, Anne, were competing to be the first to bear a child, and, in consequence, were rarely on speaking terms. Mary had an early miscarriage which may have permanently impaired her ability to have a baby, while Anne (despite being fairly definitely gay herself) had six children who died, eight still-births and four miscarriages. Meanwhile, a few Georges and a William later, Victoria‘s famous fruitfulness was widely seen as a positive statement about British greatness in an imperial age: the truly maternal monarch, whose offspring gave England royal relations in Hesse, Prussia (though post-1914 we didn’t talk about that), and Russia (oops).

Queen Of My Heart.

But, of course, we (along with everyone else, ho ho) have not touched on Elizabeth I, the ‘Virgin Queen’, Gloriana, etc who managed to make a virtue of childlessness by representing the immaculate body of the queen as the symbol of a healthy nation. Bang on cue, queen‘s third meaning is ‘a female whose rank or pre-eminence is comparable to that of a queen; applied, for example, to the Virgin Mary, to the goddesses of ancient religions or mythologies, or to a woman as a term of endearment or honour’. This is the sense it has in Twelfth Night when Viola is ‘Orsino’s mistress and his fancy’s queen‘, in which context it has something of lady about it, just ramped up to full throttle: someone who is also the ‘chief  ruler of a state’ is indeed a mistress par excellence.

It was this tradition that Elizabeth milked till it had no more to give, presenting herself as the adored lady at the centre of a courtly cult of virginity, an age which produced Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene and Walter Raleigh’s The Ocean To Cynthia, as well as hundreds of portraits depicting Queen Elizabeth as immaculate goddess and virgin. Her fleshlessness was only exacerbated after 1592, when the elderly queen stopped sitting for portraits at all, forcing artists to work from earlier templates of her face, creating an eternal ‘Mask of Youth’.

So queen is a word that fuses sexuality and a microscopic focus on the body (where more so than in its use to attack people for what they like to do in the bedroom?) with a kind of awestruck ‘Glorianian’ respect. Those who sit on this lexical pedestal are perhaps a little wonky: it is unfortunate that queenly success seems attainable only for those rulers who have produced litters of miniature monarchs and the one who maintained a virginal ice-princess sort of deal. But then, looking back over England’s history (and, of course, its present), it is cheering to see that Women Have At Least Done It. Now if we could just fix that male primogeniture business…

NEXT WEEK: R is for Rake

PUSSY

daaa be da-da da da da-da DA da da da da da da-da

Robert Smith, The Lovecats (1983)

What’s New Pussycat?

Where's the cat? The Toilet, by Francis Boucher (1742) (Detail)

It should take no great mind to figure out that there is a relationship between pussy and puss, right? The second is, as with so many -y words, a diminutive form of the first.

Etymologically, puss comes from a family of Germanic words, including the Dutch ‘poes’ (= ‘cat’, or ‘a large soft mass’), and this is one of those words that has had a telling journey from its initial meaning to its modern significance. In simple form, of course, it just means ‘cat’, with a tendency towards the proper name, as in Puss In Boots. The dictionary refines this to a ‘call-name’ or ‘nursery term’ for a cat, perhaps originating in the sort of ‘tsk tsk tsk’ noises even the most Serious People inevitably make when seduced by the classic paws, ears and whiskers combo (‘Here puss puss!’).

Around the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, pussy hit its most common modern usage as ‘the female genitals’ (‘the vulva or vagina’, specifically), with an attendant list of seductive compounds and phrases: eat pussy, pussy posse, pussy patrol, pussylicker… &c. For the moment, though, eyes on the road: pussy’s earliest non-feline meaning was ‘a girl or woman exhibiting characteristics associated with a cat, especially sweetness or amiability’ (1580s), where it could also be used as a term of endearment (pussycat. Oh, Mr Jones, really…).

This is, natch, a colloquial usage, as is its subsidiary meaning under this banner, ‘a sweet or effeminate man’. Only later does this degenerate into the unarguably opprobrious, as ‘a weakling, a coward, a sissy’, in which sense citations tend to link it to the idea of ‘a domesticated man’, akin to a ‘house-cat’ (of which more presently). Of course, suggestions about sexuality are never far away from such mockery, and a pussy could, from its earliest beginnings, refer also to ‘a male homosexual’ (where it sits in parallel to pussy‘s final meaning as ‘the anus or mouth of a man as an object of sexual penetration’, connecting it to ‘weakling’ through the concomitant feminisation such penetration implies).

Perfect As Cats

Where's the cat in Jan Steer's The Morning Toilet (1663)? (Detail)

But to really answer the question of when and why cats became synonymous with all this, we must, as usual, ask another question: when and why did cats enter our everyday lives in the first place? It happened late: like so many modern phenomena, cats-as-companions were an eighteenth-century innovation. They had been knocking around before, of course, but primarily as pest control; those showing undue affection for their felines were considered, at best, as a bit eccentric, and, at worst, in league with Satan, and the pagan forces of Nature. Dogs had had a bit more success elbowing their way into domesticity, due to their usefulness in hunting and their essential biddability, but even for them, the eighteenth century was a golden time.

See, it’s easy to forget the fear and awe this Nature lark could inspire in the centuries before efficient systems to keep it under ‘control’, and as the European traveller elbowed his way into Asian and American forests at the dawn of the Enlightenment, he must have felt he was asserting mastery over the very earth (along with the pesky native peoples already living there, of course). With confidence comes bravado, and this increasing satisfaction with Man’s superiority over the elements quickly sparked a fashion for adopting domestic creatures. And so it was that throughout the eighteenth century, cats were welcomed into the home partially as symbols of conquest (where they were painted, along with those Definite Symbols of Conquest, monkeys, parrots and exotically dressed African slave boys).

Inevitably, anything to do with the domestic sphere comes under the auspices of the woman, and the pet-keeping craze was almost universally spoken of as a female-driven trend (although cats were also the favoured companions of weirdo intellectual types like Samuel Johnson, Christopher Smart and Horace Walpole): while the men were out brokering deals down the coffee-house, their wives lounged around in their hoop skirts with an army of diverting creatures to keep them from complete mind-numbing boredom. Of course, fail to go down the coffee-house as a Man, and you risk mockery as a ‘pussy’ in the literal sense of ‘the creature that stays at home with the woman’, viz., a house husband.

Kitten As A Cat

Where's the cat? Where's the cat? 'Le Lever de Fanchon', c18th.

So we have here a consortium of pets, creatures the woman owns, something special to her, a possession and constant companion – and it is easy to see the short step from the woman’s private domestic world to pussy in its Naughty Connotation (spot the cat! spot the cat! passim). So the coincident lexical trend that ended in pussy as genitals must have begun with something along the lines of the now-common association of pet and owner – not a surprising association, since pussy‘s cousin, moggy originally meant just plain old ‘woman or girl’, and didn’t acquire its feline associations until the early twentieth century.

And these associations were standard: we only have to look at the legion eighteenth-century portrait variants on the theme of a girl holding a kitten to see a perceived resemblance extending even to the facial: something about the cat made it a perfect image of womanhood. Its furriness could hardly have been irrelevant (nudge nudge), but the cat’s synonymity with the female must have had a lot to do with felines’ status as a convenient symbol of beauty and cruelty, known to play with their prey before killing it. Thus, little girls looking at Joshua Reynolds’ contribution to the girl/kitten portrait were instructed by an accompanying Moral Poem to look at ‘this thy furry care’ and see ‘an emblem of thyself’, since, once grown, both girl and kitten will find delight in torturing, respectively, ‘some trembling MOUSE’ and ‘some sighing SWAIN’.

We’re gift-wrapped kitty-cats…

The sexual symbolism a cat could suggest also found expression in a series of male-dominated complaints about something slightly more insidious: the familiarities their would-be lovers allowed their pets – from monkeys sharing their mistress’ beds upwards. And, unsurprisingly, there was a particularly misogynistic strain of such writing aimed at the ‘old maid’, who had replaced the never-appeared fiancé and family with a veritable menagerie of domestic animals (an idea that endures to this day, for who else is the ‘crazy cat lady’?), with an inevitable imputation in many cases that there was some kind of sexual element to the displacement, however repressed it might be.

It is perhaps unsurprising, then, to find that pussy eventually resolves itself into a final definition as ‘a woman, or women collectively, regarded as a source of sexual intercourse’ (thus pussy patrol), and, in specifically prison-based slang, as ‘a man or boy regarded in this way’ (cf. bitch). Curious that feline and canine should find themselves so aligned…

NEXT WEEK: Q is for Queen

]]> /2011/01/31/an-alphabet-of-femininism-16-p-is-for-pussy/feed/ 35 48 /2011/01/24/an-alphabet-of-femininism-15-o-is-for-ovary/ /2011/01/24/an-alphabet-of-femininism-15-o-is-for-ovary/#comments Mon, 24 Jan 2011 09:00:47 +0000 http://www.badreputation.org.uk/?p=1950 O

OVARY

Oh! Darling.

Ovary hopped onto the semantic stage around 1658 meaning ‘the female organ of reproduction in animals, in which ova or eggs are produced’ (ova being the Latin plural form of ovum = egg). Eggs, of course, are now generally recognised as a crucial part of reproduction in all species (a chicken ovulates every day, fact fans), making the ovary rather important for the construction of little’uns. Straightforwardly, the word derives from ovarium: ‘ovum’ + ‘-arium’ (aquarium, oceanarium, planetarium, toastarium). Consistency: it’s helpful. But hold! 1658? Really? What about before? Was there some mass genital evolution in the late seventeenth century that made early modern cisgendered Woman so drastically different from her medieval sisters?

Hartsoeker's drawings of 'homunculi', or 'little humans' inside sperm. (1695)

Well no, but there was an evolution in what Scientists considered “Woman” to be. For hundreds of thousands of years previous, the established thinking had been that they were simply men ‘turned outside-in’: female genitals were held ‘up there’ by a colder body temperature than their male counterparts, and, thus, sex differences were a matter of degree. Women were men who hadn’t quite unfurled properly.

Oh My God

With this thinking, the vagina became an inverted penis, the labia a foreskin, the uterus a scrotum, and the ovaries testicles – and all these now-familiar gynecological terms date from the same period: the oft-maligned vagina (= ‘sheath’) is faux-Latin from 1680, labia (= ‘lip’) slightly earlier (1630s) and uterus the earliest, from 1610 (although, as already mentioned in these pixellated pages, it was conflated with the gender-neutral ‘womb’ or ‘belly’, its original Latinate meaning). Pre-seventeenth century ovaries were consequently referred to as ‘female testicles’ or ‘stones’, and the synonymity was so literal as to accept the possibility that if a girl got too hot through strenuous exercise, her entire reproductive system could accidentally pop out and turn her into a boy.

So if sex was a false distinction to make, how did male and female manage to breed? Seventeenth-century scientists approached this question firstly through Aristotle and his theory of epigenesis (= ‘origin through growth’). Aristotle reckoned male semen gave the embryo its form, and female menstrual blood supplied the raw materials.¹ The ‘soul’ enters the embryo at the moment the mother first feels the baby kick.

However, by suggesting new people can spring into being organically, epigenesis risks dispensing with divine involvement. Not cool. So a much more palatable alternative, for seventeenth-century scientists, was preformation (the idea that the parents’ seed already contained a miniature adult, so all the embryo has to do is increase in size). Bit creepy, right? Nicolaas Hartsoeker (1656-1725) was well into this idea and even claimed he could see these ‘homunculi’ through the microscope (above, right).

But once this had been agreed, there came the inevitable Swiftian debate about how you like your eggs, with scientists divided into ‘aminalculists’ and ‘ovists’: those who were with Hartsoeker in believing the ‘germ’ of life to be in the sperm, and those who preferred the ‘egg’ (= ‘the female’). Arguing in favour of the latter was the (understandable) confusion about why God would be so wasteful as to create thousands of Hartsoekerean sperm-germs to be lost on every egg-ward excursion for the sake of one single fertilization: from the outside, the female looked a bit more efficient.

Oh! You Pretty Things

But clearly, all this Knowledge was better on the subject of males than females (and even the women themselves were hard pressed to explain menstruation or recognise pregnancy): ova were still shrouded in mystery, and ovulation a great unknown – it was not even certain whether human females could conceive without orgasm, or if they were more like cats, rabbits, llamas (now known as ‘induced ovulators’) and, er, men. Official advice erred on the side of caution and recommended that both man and wife reach orgasm during procreation – as a side-effect, a rapist could get off scott-free if his victim fell pregnant, since, until the nineteenth century, the law worked backwards and considered conception to imply enjoyment and, therefore, consent.

It is William Harvey (1578-1657), most famous for ‘discovering’ the circulation of the blood, who is commonly credited with realising the importance of an ovary-thing, and the frontispiece to his treatise on the subject blazons the tag ‘ex ovo omnia‘ (‘everything from the egg’). But he was thinking less of a modern day ‘egg cell‘ and more of a ‘spirit’: an egg was the mother’s ‘idea’ of a fetus which was ‘ignited’ in her womb during sex. It was a general generative catalyst, not technical anatomy – as is clear from the image (below, left).

Can of worms... The frontispiece to Harvey's Treatise on Generation (detail). Image from http://www.hps.cam.ac.uk/visibleembryos/

Oh My Gosh

After kicking around for just over a century, ovary suddenly became enshrined in anatomy books as an independent organ that somehow encapsulated ‘woman’: in 1844 Achille Chereau declared that ‘it is only because of the ovary that woman is what she is’ (oh dear). In part, this was to do with a retreat from the previous centuries’ idea that women and men were anatomically the same and an advance towards the notion that sex equalled gender (a surprisingly modern invention, if you listen to Thomas Laqueur). With this came an increasing focus on specifically ‘women’s’ problems via hysteria (= ‘womb trouble’), and, neatly (if disturbingly) a favourite cure for this pre-Freud was the bilateral ovariotomy, also dubbed ‘female castration’: removing a patient’s healthy ovaries to man them up a bit (just as men become ‘feminized’ through removal of the testicles). The ovariotomy would thus, it was believed, act not just as a cure for hysteria, but also for behavioural pathologies including nymphomania, and even general aches and pains. Of course, it also stopped menstruation, rendered women infertile and carried risks endemic to c19th surgery methods. WE DON’T KNOW WHAT THIS DOES, SO LET’S JUST TAKE IT OUT.

It was not until the 1930s that scientists got near a hormonal understanding of ovulation, how it worked and how it could be controlled. Here we really should give a nod to that symbol of 1960s sexual liberation: the combined oral contraceptive pill, a great source of division between parents and children, as epitomised in the backstory to the seminal Beatles song She’s Leaving Home (1967). See, children of the 1920s and 30s must have found the idea of their daughters silently and imperceptibly controlling their ovulation terrifying, whereas the children of the 1960s saw such control as simple empowerment. In miniature, this gives us the whole history of ovary and its linguistic cognates: what cannot be seen is inevitably free for appropriation by a host of meanings. Meaningarium.

Further Reading:

• Making Visible Embryos – an ‘online exhibition’ from the Department of History and Philosophy of Science at the University of Cambridge. And Thomas Laqueur, of course (as linked).

NEXT WEEK: P is for Pussy

1. Yes, menstrual blood.

M

MARRIAGE

Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife, and they shall be one flesh.

Genesis 2.24

So begins marriage. In this day and age, most people think of such ‘cleaving’ as kinda cute, an emotional commitment “’til death do us part”; and indeed the union matrimony represents (‘bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh’) begins with the word’s Latin ancestor, the double-gendered maritus / marita (= ‘husband / wife’). Ever-efficient, the Romans join husband and wife in one word, giving us, in miniature, marriage’s first definition: ‘the relation between married persons; wedlock’.

Ooh little darlin’…

I do... Tim Burton's The Corpse Bride. Image from http://www.halloweenweb.co.uk/

But before all our newfangled post-Romantic notions of individualism, marriage was much less dewy-eyed. It required nothing more than parental consent, and its functions were social, religious and legal. Firstly, it acknowledged a sexual relationship and those children born within it, thus easing the financial burden of bastard upkeep on society and oiling the cogs of inheritance. Secondly, it was a Holy Sacrament, an institution to prevent sin, though it did not sanction guilt-free sex – too much fun with your wife, and it became adultery (= ‘pollution of the marriage bed’).

Finally – then as now – marriage linked families, dynasties, and countries together ‘in-law’, in a way that could be personal, symbolic, or world-changing: new money meeting impoverished aristocracy; the Venetian Doge annually ‘marrying’ the sea; Catherine of Braganza bringing England £300,000, Bombay and Tangier as her dowry. In extension, it helped negotiate the legal exchange of worldly goods, including a dower for the bride should she survive her groom, inheritance for the children, and the resolution of all money matters under the auspices of the pater familias. So it was impossible for a wife to run up debt, to own property, or, in any sense, to exist independently of her husband. In consequence, marriage became the Holy Grail for 99.9% of young women, who dreaded remaining financially dependent on rich relations or married sisters should the marriage-market reject them (as it did, if you were the wrong side of one in three aristocratic women).

…if U ain’t busy for the next 7 years…

Phew. In its second definition marriage takes up the legal challenge, becoming ‘the action, or act, of marrying; the ceremony by which two persons are made husband and wife’.

Dearly Beloved... Raphael's Marriage of the Virgin.

The non-specifics here are no accident: to the irritation of the early modern church, ‘contract marriages’ and Dodgy Marriage more generally (Scotch Marriages or Fleet Marriages) endured for centuries before the Marriage Act of 1753 put paid to such shenanigans and demanded a public service or none at all. Previously, ‘the ceremony by which two persons are made husband and wife’ could be an exchange of bent or halved coins, the presentation of a ring, or a declaration (‘I make you my wife’). There were certain caveats to this last, of course – you had to use the present tense (no conditionals), unless you used the future and then tumbled into bed: present consummation is present consent.

All very neat, in theory, although such marriages generally took place on the hoof between impetuous couples and only became of real significance once the bride fell pregnant or one or both of the parties got into difficulties. Then you get into semantics: what does ‘will’ mean, exactly? It’s an uncooperative word, conflating what you ‘want’ and what you ‘will do’. Church courts agreed, and many of those marriages that were challenged were dissolved, with an inevitably skewed impact on the would-be wife.

So marriage is as much about speech and silence as ‘cleaving’: moreover, much of its value depends on the weight society gives how you live (today, you can lose your state benefits if you ‘live with another person as if you are married‘). It also creates interesting problems if you are physically silenced before you can assert your consent (as happens in Manzoni’s novel The Betrothed), or if your marriage is explosively interrupted, as in Fassbinder’s film The Marriage of Maria Braun. Conversely, Renaissance actors wondered what God thought about marriages carried out on stage as part of a performance: valid or not? Why not? This whole idea is, in essence, the premise of Tim Burton’s The Corpse Bride (2004), where nobody questions the legality of Victor’s (clearly accidental) declaration to the bride of the title, despite trying every other conceivable method to get him out of it.

…Let’s pretend we’re married and go all night.

The word marriage reflects this in a now-obsolete sense, as ‘intimate union’, antonymic to virginity. And here I nearly tripped up on another little tradition: breach of promise, a common law tort allowing a partner to sue their long-fled lover for damages based on the impact of such ‘intimate union’ but also on the value of language – ‘Does she know how you told me you’d hold me until you die? Well you’re still alive…’

This tort was overwhelmingly used by women, although originally payable to the father of a seduced girl, who had lost ‘services’ (make me a cuppa, love) because of her pregnancy. Later on, it became a means of quantifying waste of time, reputation and trousseau-money in a marriage market competitive enough that such things mattered. Although the tort was abolished in the UK in 1970, a version is still in use elsewhere: a jilted woman in Chicago is currently suing her fiance for the costs of her cancelled wedding, and ’emotional distress’. Whether or not she will succeed is unclear, but her early-modern precursors inevitably triumphed:

See my interesting client
Victim of a heartless wile!
See the traitor all defiant ,
Wears a supercilious smile!
Sweetly smiled my client on him
Coyly wooed and gently won him….

W.S. Gilbert, Trial By Jury (1875)

Trial By Jury explains why the tort was so useful to jilted women, but also why it declined: by 1875 female financial options were expanding enough to change the public perception of such cases from ‘poor innocent maid vs. base seducer’ to ‘I ain’t sayin’ she’s a gold digger…’ So what began as a way to compensate gender inequality itself ended as a vehicle for misogyny, with stories of pretty girls luring men in and then threatening to do the legal equivalent of ‘thcreaming and thcreaming until i’m thick‘. What God has joined, let no man put asunder.

Further Reading:

• Check out Lawrence Stone’s The Road To Divorce: England 1530-1987, which tells you everything you need to know about everything.

• Sadly finished now, but keep an eye out for Amanda Vickery’s At Home With The Georgians, should it ever return to TV.

NEXT WEEK: N is for Nanny

L

LADY

‘My lady’, as her friends called her, sincerely desired to be a genuine lady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that money cannot buy refinement of nature, that rank does not always confer nobility, and that true breeding makes itself felt in spite of external drawbacks.

Louisa May Alcott, Good Wives (1869)

She’s A Lady.

Funny Etymology Submission #billion: lady sprung from the Old English hlaefdige (I dunno, I didn’t do Old English), a compound of hlaf (‘loaf’) and dig (‘to knead’). So a lady is literally ‘she who kneads loaves’.

I guess you can kind of see where it went from there, since its original (now obsolete) meaning is as ‘the female head of the household’; i.e., the one what does the cooking, with the ambiguity that still runs through many households where Mum’s In Charge, but Dad’s Earning. Thus, in its second meaning (also Old English), it becomes ‘A woman who rules over subjects‘, now only used in ‘poetical’ or ‘rhetorical’ senses. But in extended Middle English usage, it’s refined to ‘A woman who is the object of a man’s devotion; a mistress, lady-love’.

That’s No Lady, That’s My Wife.

Here we enter the troubled seas of courtly love, that pretty part of medieval culture peopled by sighing knights sitting under rose-bushes. Supposedly ‘invented’ by Eleanor of Aquitaine, at her court in Poitiers, it was brought to England with her marriage to Henry II in 1152.

Fra Angelico, Madonna of Humility, c.1430

The basic idea was an almost iconoclastic worship of your lady-love, whose favours you sought through brave deeds, refined behaviour and that sort of thing. The highest ‘favour’ was the fantastically ambiguous ‘naked embrace’ (although you might well sleep with an unsheathed sword between you), and your ‘lady-love’ didn’t have to be a viable option – she could be married, generically unavailable, or just someone you’d never met but heard lots about down the alehouse. She was a spur to bravery, swordplay and courtliness, not, like, your girlfriend.

Lay Lady Lay.

But courtly love was emphatically not a concept that elevated hoi polloi: your lady would be a lady in the fourth sense of the word (‘a woman of superior social position’) and quite possibly also in the specific extended sense of the second, ‘the female corresponding to lord’ (Lord and Lady Godiva).

In contrast, peasants ‘are impelled to acts of love in the natural way like a horse or a mule’, in the words of Andreas Capellanus, who quite literally wrote the rule book for courtly love. Capellanus advises his readers to steer clear of the ‘game’ of love where the lower classes are involved, and, if overcome with lust, to ‘find a suitable spot [and] not delay in taking what you seek, gaining it by rough embraces’¹ .

And such attitudes are never far from this most ‘pretty’ of love-traditions – a lyric in the Carmina Burana (c.1230) tells what happens when, despite ‘long service’, the lady still denies her knight ‘the final and best stage’:

She rampages with her sharp nails, tears my hair, forcefully repels my violence. She coils herself and entwines her knees to prevent the door of her maidenhead from being unbarred. But at last my campaign makes progress; […] I tighten by embraces our entwined bodies, I pin her arms, I implant hard kisses. In this way Venus’ palace is unbarred.

The ambiguous power-structure at the heart of being someone’s lady could hardly be clearer.

All this said, if you were Specially Virtuous, courtly love was the ideal forum for worshipping a very specific lady – the word’s third sense, ‘Our Lady’, the Virgin Mary. Ah, Mary. Everybody loves Mary, and throughout the middle ages, she picked up honorific titles like a big bit of blue velcro: ‘Our Lady’, ‘Our Blessed Lady’, ‘Our Lady of Sorrows’, ‘the Queen of Heaven’, ‘the Blessed Virgin’ you name it. She even had a special colour-code – white (sometimes red) and blue. Pre-Prussian Blue (discovered in 1704), blues were the most expensive painting pigments, so someone decided MARY SHALL WEAR ONLY BLUE, WE LOVE HER SO.

Nevertheless, Mary has an evil analogue: post-Reformation, there are plenty of references to the ‘Lady of Rome’ or the ‘Lady of Babylon’, an abusive term for the Catholic church in reference to the ‘scarlet woman’ of the Apocalypse. The dichotomy continues outside religion: see also lady‘s more worldly senses: lady of easy virtue, lady of the town, etc.

The Lady Is A Tramp.

In modern usage, lady‘s social standing is ‘loosely defined but not very high’; often, it is ‘merely a courteous synonym for woman‘, giving a strange social gloss to cisgendered biological fact. It was around 1861 (just before Good Wives) that it got its more specific sense as ‘a woman whose manners, habits and sentiments are those characteristic of the higher ranks of society’.

This could be interpreted as Alcott uses it, or, if you are Walt Disney, as exactly what it says: think Lady and the Tramp (1955), one of many poor boy – rich girl tales. The title plays on Sinatra’s song ‘The Lady Is A Tramp‘, which is repeated in strangely sexualised form in the film about the Tramp himself (you could never have a female tramp). The same idea returns in feline form in The Aristocats (1970), where again Society wins but appropriates some of the gritty male spark from the other side of the tracks. For polite desecration only, please.

So a lady can stand for certain upper-class ‘manners, habits and sentiments’ that are in opposition to those of a simple man or woman. From courtly love to the leash and collar set, the feminized force of sophistication calms, restrains, and decorates.

NEXT TIME: we’ll be halfway through! But not before Hodge takes a little Christmas break. We return in 2011, with M for Marriage.

1. …all translations are P.G. Walsh’s: it’s too early in the morning to read blogposts in Medieval Latin.