Babel
Volume XXIV: 2025 Early Modern Studies Student Society
University of King’s College
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Babel 2024–2025 Editors-in-Chief Caroline Jones Erin Inglis Editors Eleanor Peebles Merrick Carr Meg Tremblay Olivia MacDonald Executives Caroline Jones Erin Inglis Eleanor Peebles Meg Tremblay McKenna Blucher-Bunting Zephyr Atkins-Mitra Eliza Rhinelander Merrick Carr Mirren Trevors Layout Editor Caroline Jones
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Land Acknowledgement We recognise and acknowledge that all the work and scholarship at the University of King’s College, including Babel, takes place on K’jipuktuk, in the third district of the Mi’kma’ki, which is Eskikekwa’kik. This is the ancestral, unceded, and unsurrendered territory of the Mi’kmaq people. Additionally, we publish in English, a language of colonialism and oppression. The Peace and Friendship Treaties struck in the early modern period between the Mi’kmaq and British Nations are unique in that they grant uninhibited use of land resources to First Nations, rather than outlining a surrender of land. Canada, however, continues to violate the spirit—peace and friendship—and the letter— Mi’kmaq access to land and resources—of these treaties. This is an important reminder to include at the beginning of a journal that publishes scholarship on the period that gave rise to contemporary colonial frameworks.
For more information on these treaties, visit: www.migmawei.ca/negotiations/migmaqtreatyrights/
We are all treaty people. African Nova Scotian Acknowledgement Furthermore, we recognise that African Nova Scotians are a distinct people whose histories, legacies, and contributions have enriched that part of Mi'kma'ki known as Nova Scotia for over 400 years.
Cover Art Chardin, Jean Siméon. Soap Bubbles. 1733-34. Oil on canvas, 24 x 24 7/8 in.
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Table of Contents Foreword Caroline Jones ................................................................................................. v Beyond Religious Identity: Las Casas' Radical Vision of Human Equality in his book, The Devastation of the Indies: A Brief Account Darius Amanat-Markazi ................................................................................ 1 Crafting Legacies: Laura Cereta’s Strategic Invocation of Penelope in Collected Letters of a Renaissance Feminist Gale J. VanAmburg ........................................................................................ 5 Virginity Through Red and Blue Sam Hovey .................................................................................................... 10 “This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow”: Monstering of Queer Desire in Christabel and The Vampyre Tessa Schaeffer ............................................................................................. 16 Who is this Diva?: Power and Performance in the Rule of Elizabeth I Aliyah Daya ................................................................................................... 23 Article Analysis: “Where Ethics and Aesthetics Meet: Titian’s The Rape of Europa” Isabella Bisci.................................................................................................. 31 Paracelsus and Proserpina, the Alchemical Iconography of Monteverdi's L’Orfeo Cohen Aiken ................................................................................................. 35
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The Woman Behind the Myths: A Quest for the Character of Erzsébet Báthory, As Revealed in Her Personal Correspondence Lauren Konok .............................................................................................. 44 Written in the Margins: The Autonomy of Anne Boleyn in Her Books of Hours Màiri Jacobs ................................................................................................. 54
Players of the Game: A Feminist Analysis of Power in Troilus and Cressida Morag Brown ............................................................................................... 61 ‘Sisters Are Doin’ It for Themselves’: A Look at the Gender Divide in Jane Austen’s Emma Clara Easley .................................................................................................. 66
From Habsburg to Bourbon: An Evaluation of the Reigns of Carlos II and Philip V Elizabeth Carter ........................................................................................... 70 A Difference in Manner, not Matter: A Theological Defense of Anne Conway’s Metaphysics Mark Mann ................................................................................................... 79 Private Consequences for Public Conditions: Locke, Mandeville, and the Economic Relationship Between Vice and Virtue Merrick Carr ................................................................................................ 84 Afterword Erin Inglis .................................................................................................... 90
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Foreword One of my goals as co-president this year was to digitise previous volumes of Babel. As of writing this foreword, I’m still working on it, but it’s been such an interesting process to see the history of Babel and the Early Modern Studies Program unfold. Our alumni speaker this year at the Conference of the Early Modern was Dr Jacqueline Wylde, who was a part of the first graduating EMSP class. She gave a fantastic presentation on early modern music, including leading us all in a few early modern songs and explaining how they would have been sung and received. Today, as I was looking back over the volumes of Babel, I noticed that the last essay in the first volume of Babel, published in 2002, was a piece titled “Songs, Images, the Soul, and Christ: Ideas of Beauty in the Reformation and Counter Reformation” by none other than Jacqueline Wylde. The scholars published in this year’s Babel range from first years to fourth– and fifth– years. We have students doing their honours thesis in EMSP, some who are minoring in EMSP, and some who have only taken FYP so far. Some of those published here may end up doing research and teaching the Early Modern Period, like Dr Wylde, and some may apply their talents to other fields. I don’t know where everyone will go from here, but I know that I’m so grateful to all of these scholars for the work and passion they’ve poured into these essays. This is what our discipline is about: sharing your work and passion and adding to the long dialogue that is history. Whatever else our contributors will be, they are, right now, academic scholars and published writers who have added to the field of Early Modern Studies. I am so grateful for each and every one of them. I’d also like to give a huge shoutout to my fellow EMSS execs. This year has been such a huge success. We’ve launched merch for the first time, and had the first crossover event between HOST, CSP, and EMSP. None of this would have happened without the incredible exec. I’d especially like to thank my co-president, Erin Inglis. Erin is graduating this year and has dedicated so much time and energy into promoting, planning, and running the EMSS. I can honestly say that the EMSS would not have been half as successful without her. Thank you to the King’s Student Union for all the help they’ve given us to keep the EMSS going. Thank you to the University for sustaining this program that we all love so dearly. Thank you to the EMSP professors, especially to this year’s director, Dr Simon Kow, for their guidance and support. And thank you, dear reader, for opening this year’s Babel. I hope you enjoy your read! Caroline Jones
Co-President of the Early Modern Studies Society, 2024–25
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Beyond Religious Identity: Las Casas' Radical Vision of Human Equality in his book, The Devastation of the Indies: A
Brief Account Darius Amanat-Markazi Bartolomé de las Casas’ work, The Devastation of the Indies: A Brief Account, is considered one of the first examples of advocacy for the rights of Indigenous people of the Americas, and condemnation of European colonialism. Most fascinating is that, despite having come from the same society and religious background, Las Casas bore a starkly different attitude towards the treatment of Indigenous people than his fellow Spanish colonists. How could it be, that out of the shared moral framework of Catholicism such drastically opposing views on the humanity of the people of the island of Hispaniola could arise? In response to this question, this essay will begin by considering the characterization of Spaniards and Indigenous Hispaniolans in Las Casas’ account, finding that his description subtly challenges preconceived notions of Christianity. The second half of this essay, in conjunction with an analysis of Las Casas’ epistemology, will extrapolate the conceptual implications of Las Casas’ descriptions, discovering an important ontological premise: Christian identity is subordinate to human identity. Ultimately, in line with Las Casas’ account, this essay will illustrate the fragility of European conceptions of Christian morality and set forward an argument in favour of universal ethics. Las Casas’ descriptions of the Indigenous people of the island of Hispaniola are overwhelmingly positive. Furthermore, the significance of this overwhelming positivity lies in the Biblical terminology and imagery with which he describes them. His description begins as follows: “And of All the infinite universe of humanity, these people are the most guileless, the most devoid of wickedness and duplicity, the most obedient and faithful to their native masters and to the Spanish Christians whom they serve.”1 The use of the words “wickedness” and “faithful” are most prominent, as they both refer to moral concepts in Catholicism. In such a manner, Las Casas ideologically removes the Indigenous people from the category of barbaric savages in the mind of the reader, and places them within the paradigm of Christian morality. No longer are they being judged on the basis of their foreignness; instead, he judges them by the same standard with which he would evaluate a Spanish Christian. Additionally, Las Casas extends the moral excellence of the Indigenous people to serve as evidence of their intellectual receptivity to Christian monotheism, asserting that “if this gifted people could be brought to know the one true God they would be the most fortunate people in the world.”2 This assertion, though mildly paternalistic, further substantiates the vision of virtuous people whose sole deficiency is not having been exposed to the teach-
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ings of Christ. Later on in his account, Las Casas depicts the injustices committed against the Indigenous people, employing Biblical imagery even more directly: “stringing up their victims in the lots of thirteen, in memory of Our Redeemer and His twelve Apostles”.3 The reference to the heralds of the Christian faith takes his moral reframing a step further, not only painting Hispaniolians as morally good and receptive to Christianity, but as victims of oppression similar in severity to that of Christ and his Apostles. In contrast, Las Casas denounces the Spaniards, juxtaposing their Christian faith with the iniquity of their actions. While he employs the term Spaniard to refer to his countrymen, he more frequently uses their religious identity in reference to their atrocious actions, such as when he refers to the “Terrible transactions of the Christians.”4 This juxtaposition serves to expose the fickleness of Christian identity, presenting the word “Christian” as a mere label that has no inherent bearing on the goodness of a person’s actions. Most potent, in this regard, is Las Casas’ analysis of the underlying motivation of the actions of the Spaniards: Christians have an ultimate aim, which is to acquire gold, and to swell themselves with riches in a very brief time and thus rise to a high estate disproportionate to their merits. It should be kept in mind that their insatiable greed and ambition, the greatest ever seen in the world, is the cause of their villainies.5 Here he makes the dichotomy even more clear: “Christians,” and those who commit villainous acts, are two identities that have no causal relationship. Las Casas explains, twice in a row, that the cause of the violent actions of the Spanish has nothing to do with their religion and much to do with their “insatiable greed and ambition.” The discrepancy between their “merits,” and their desires also exists regardless of their religion. This points to the fact the concept of merit, or goodness, exists outside of the Christian moral framework, alluding to a more fundamental ethical standard. In consideration of Las Casas’ descriptions of the Indigenous Hispaniolians and the Spanish, we find that they serve a common purpose. By depicting the Indigenous as less savage, and the Spaniards as not upholding the Christian moral standard, Las Casas begins to draw together the two populations onto an equal moral ground, where their actions can be evaluated from an objective perspective. Moreover, this perspective is echoed in his characterization of divine retribution in a later section of his account, where Las Casas describes the fall of the Kingdoms that once existed on the island of Hispaniola. He explains that after kidnapping one of the kings to take back to Spain, “God desired to manifest Himself against this great iniquity and sent a violent storm that sank all the vessels and drowned all the Christians on board”.6 In such a way, Las Casas depicts God’s actions as impartial, punishing the Christians regardless of their religious selfidentification. Therefore, Las Casas implies that there exists a divinely ordained law that precedes the Christian conception of justice.
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Admittedly, this interpretation of Las Casas’ conception of human equality may seem slightly ambitious. Thus, let us consider an additional perspective. In his work, The Epistemology of Bartolomé de Las Casas, David Thomas Orique outlines equality and natural rights as two of the foundations of Las Casas’ epistemology. Orique maintains that Las Casas “explicated the Indigenous people’s ontological status as fully human, as revealed in the order of nature and in the order of grace” and that “[i]n doing so, Las Casas adhered to the medieval Thomistic conception of natural law as an objective moral order for human life, and equated natural law with divine law.”7 Hence, the initial assertion is confirmed in even greater depth. Las Casas believed in an underlying natural law, one that was created by God and includes the Hispaniolans. In regard to the implications of this natural law upon human beings, this conclusion is further supported by a quotation from another of Las Casas’ works, which Orique includes in his text: All nations of the world are human beings, and all human beings and each of them are one, and this is because they are rational; all have intellect and volition and free will, since they are formed in the image and likeness of God … Thus, the entire human race is one.8 There could be no clearer a statement of fundamental human equality than this. Therefore, we can determine, not only by inference but by direct analysis, that Las Casas believed all human beings to be equal according to the fundamental capacities of the human species rather than on the basis of religion or ethnicity. Although Las Casas' primary motivation for being on the island of Hispaniola was evangelical, which might make one question the progressiveness of his views on spreading Christianity, his underlying belief in human equality has profound implications for his approach. If, in the context of natural law, all human beings are equal and part of the same race, it would be impossible to justify injustice toward any group under any circumstances, even if it be in pursuit of evangelization. Therefore, out of necessity, human identity presides over Christian identity. Returning to Orique’s work, we find that this assertion is confirmed. In referring to the third fundamental concept of Las Casas’ epistemology, Christianization, Orique explains the following: [Las Casas] proposed several alternative inclusivist pathways for salvation, viz., those based on the eternal law of God’s Providence and on the role of Christ in salvation history as head in actu of all unbelievers, and as well as those in which people live in accordance with natural law.9 In simpler terms, Orique is arguing that Las Casas believed that people could be saved not only by becoming Christian, but by the protective spiritual power of God, the universal salvific power of Christ, or by following natural law. This inclusive vision of salvation presents Las Casas’ conception of the human self as even more radical than we have already understood it to be. While Las
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Casas maintains the preeminence of Christianity as a path to salvation, this belief is not absolute. In this way, he leaves room for cross-cultural understanding and universal ethical evaluation. To conclude, this examination of Bartolome de las Casas’ view of the human self in his book The Devastation of the Indies: A Brief Account has revealed two profound conclusions: humans are equal, and there is the possibility of non-Christians being saved. Although Las Casas’ work is rhetorical in nature, his analysis of his experiences provides insight into fundamental ontological assumptions. In characterizing the Indigenous Hispaniolans as pious, and the Spanish as wicked, he aims to produce a context of moral equality in the minds of his European readers. This persuasive narrative indirectly yet undoubtedly implies the fundamental equality of all human beings. Furthermore, this ontological premise has crucial implications upon Las Casas’ conception of salvation, demonstrating that evangelization cannot be used to justify injustice and that there is a universal possibility of salvation. In consulting Orique’s work, both of these conclusions were confirmed. Altogether, Las Casas’ work reveals a principle of universal morality—one that must be upheld to ensure successful intercultural encounters.
Notes 1Las Casas, 192. 2Las Casas, 192. 3Las Casas, 195. 4Las Casas, 194. 5Las Casas, 193. 6Las Casas, 197. 5Orique, 296. 8Las Casas as qtd. in Orique, 296. 5Orique, 304.
Works Cited Bartolomé de las Casas. The Devastation of the Indies: A Brief Account. Translated by Herma Briffault. Foundation Year Program Handbook, Section III, University of King’s College, 2024, pp. 191-197 Orique, David Thomas, O.P. "Chapter 13 The Epistemology of Bartolomé de Las Casas: An Introduction". The Transatlantic Las Casas. Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill, 2022. https:// doi.org/10.1163/9789004515918_015 Web.
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Crafting Legacies: Laura Cereta’s Strategic Invocation of Penelope in Collected Letters of a Renaissance Feminist Gale J. VanAmburg Laura Cereta uses her pen to canonize herself in a history woven by those ignorant of the larger tapestry of her humanity. In her letters, she darns historical accounts of women by establishing a female lineage that used its talents to produce great works, and positions herself as an inheritor of that tradition. The purpose of her attribution to historical figures is two-fold: as an exemplar for her works and a means to prove that her femininity is not a reason she should not write, as exceptional women like her have always existed. In her paper “Weaving Virtue: Laura Cereta as a New Penelope'', R. Natasha Amendola argues that Cereta strategically uses the association of weaving with Penelope to maintain a chaste reputation while seeking glory in her penmanship.1 Granted that Cereta was well-versed in her classics and would have been aware of Ovid’s portrayal of Penelope in the Heroides as a symbol of ultimate virtue, she would have been equally aware of Penelope’s reception by Italian scholars who challenged her virtue as she unwove her work at night.2 Perhaps Cereta could identify with a woman who was deemed domestically ideal during the day and morally questionable by night. Although Cereta’s identification with Penelope might have informed how she positioned herself publicly to leave her private life unquestioned, Cereta herself seems to have expressed in her letters a greater emphasis on their common use of crafty cunning as a strategy to centre themselves in a masculine world. Laura Cereta uses Penelope’s textile work as an example of the reclamation of personal narrative despite overwhelming male revisions through the weaving and deception of time in her written work. Laura Cereta models her writing strategy to help her avoid falling victim to the ploys of men after Penelope’s experience. The men in the lives of both women attempt to flatter them into faltering. They hope that their praises will blind the ladies’ eyes to their greater goals, so they’ll tumble into their traps. Instead of succumbing to their tricks, she divulges that men are trapped by their own attempts at flattery. Cereta’s description of these attempted traps is designed to be traps themselves. Her words are carefully crafted to lull the reader into a false sense of superiority: “In this manner, you appear to be flattering a susceptible young girl because of the glory that has accrued to her-my-name. But the snare of flattery is seductive, for you who have always set traps for the sex that has been revered throughout history have ensnared yourself.”3 In demeaning herself as a ‘susceptible young girl,’ Cereta uses the same seductive flattery that men fruitlessly use on her, to ensnare them. She uses enticing language to prove that women can successfully leverage their position to entrap men. She implies historically her sex has been revered for their tactful trickery,
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as men have ‘always’ set traps and therefore, have always been ensnared by women’s use of seductive flattery to undermine the efficacy of these traps. Cereta associates glory with her name, but reverence with her membership of her sex. Cereta feels that her name makes her notable, but her position amongst the sex of a revered legacy protects her from the male sex’s expectations. The sense of deep respect for the female sex she elucidates is not for all women, as some are susceptible to those traps, but rather for those women who evade them. One such woman is the figure of Penelope. Famously, Penelope avoids the trap of marriage by ensnaring suitors in the limbo of time. Amendola argues that Cereta’s tricks can be compared to Penelope’s in the respective weaving of words and wool. She notes on this shared trait, “[m]ore positively, Penelope’s cunning weaving and unweaving of her father-in-law’s shroud stands as an epitome of the juste ypocrisie necessary to women, [...] Cereta, styling herself as the weaver of chaste words, whether consciously or not, shows the same resourcefulness.”4 Amendola sees the careful practice of their respective skills as a survival tactic. Both women must use their crafts as a defensive tool to avoid masculine social pressures, rather than as a vessel for the advancement of their own personal goals. Amendola imagines cunning as a necessary resourcefulness arising out of the shared struggles of the women, not as a reflection of the innate intelligence the women share. Whereas, Laura Cereta associates their shared trait of cunning with a natural difference between men and women by virtue of the condition of their sex. Elaborating on the dissimilarities in the natural dispositions of men and women, Cereta comments: “But instead of manly strength, we women are naturally endowed with cunning.”5 The word endowed suggests that Cereta sees cunning as something women are entitled to by birthright. Her linear metaphor of the republic of women connects all virtuous women cyclically by their commitment to honing this birthright into greatness. If all these women are linked through time by their scholastic struggle, then it follows that Cereta inherited the strategies of her predecessors to support her intellectual journey. Connected by the common thread of their shared experiences as talented women in a world unconcerned with their talents, Penelope’s tactics serve Cereta as she continues to bear the weight of her latent abilities. Penelope and Cereta both work at night to strategically overcome the loss of identity associated with losing a husband. Although she seems to begin the account of her history with the death of her husband, Cereta recounts her past as a means to preserve it in the wake of his death. Both women use their gifts to turn loss into prosperity for themselves. Cereta writes: “Instead of drawing on the energy and fineness of my more obvious gifts, I have let myself put in writing things that could raise me up from the ground where I had been buried.”6 In her letters, Cereta stitches the loss of her husband to the loss of herself. While still alive, Cereta finds herself entombed with her husband. However, she refuses to live this way, so she herself writes back into her narrative by reinvigorating herself with her verse. She furthers this idea of weaving herself into her narrative by likening her personal history to weaving: “ It necessarily follows then that my history, like the
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simplest piece of weaving, may well be consigned to the annals of darkness and oblivion.”7 Amendola attributes this connection of weaving and history to Cereta’s literary metaphor of textiles and experiences.8 Regardless, she does not connect that Cereta is seeking to reimagine her life more colourful in her letters and pull it out of the darkness of mourning and into a permanent legacy for herself. Penelope stalls her time as a widow so she can be with the one she loves through weaving- this is an exercise of autonomy. She chooses to keep herself tied to her marriage. Cereta never saw her personal narrative as dependent on her husband’s, so her assertion of autonomy is weaving herself into a new history. Penelope fights to stay in her own narrative while Cereta writes her own. Cereta writes, “But let the injury, forgotten for a short while, be restored to its place in my history- the injury which, because of one man’s death has cruelly and unjustly pried up, lacerated, and dismembered my life.”9 Cereta, resentful at the passing of her husband, wishes to restore herself to the place in history she feels entitled to. Cereta's life is like a stitch ripped out by clumsy work; fate should have had a better plan for her. Cereta knows her writing to be a glorious thing, as magnificent as her ability to create lifelike needlework, and uses her writing to reimagine a legacy that is not lost to the oblivion of passing time. It appears that Amendola sees the work of Cereta and Penelope as both motivated and mobilized entirely by a masculine figure. Amendola draws an implicit comparison between the two women who, despite the direct presence of a man, use their memory as a shield. She writes, “Her work at night was a sign of loyalty to her absent husband, whether alive or dead; but it also undid her virtuous labour of the day. Penelope’s night-work, like Cereta’s, had an ambiguous quality to it.”10 The motivation behind the women's work is questioned without a present husband to inspire it. However, since the works and the women are not challenging their domestic virtue in the light of day, their craft seems to pay homage to their husbands. While Penelope reckons with the loss of her husband by stalling time, Cereta steals it out of the night sky, inking her life so it is never lost to fate. Amendola fails to fully draw out the two women’s resourcefulness in their similar situations to use their skills in the face of tragedy to assert themselves despite the overwhelming loss associated with the male figures in their lives. Interestingly, Amendola does not see Cereta’s late husband or father as the dominant male presence in her life, but rather Time. She discusses how Cereta’s act of theft oftime personified is comparable to depictions of Penelope that Cereta would have been familiar with: “The idea of the nightly ‘thief of time’ is reminiscent of Ovid’s portrayal of Penelope, the chaste wife of Odysseus (Ulysses) who describes herself as deceiving the night. Famous from Homer’s Odyssey due to this ruse to deceive the suitors, Penelope wove during the day only to undo the weft at night.”11 She implies that Cereta was inspired to figure herself like Penelope as she personifies time as a suitor that she has outwitted in Ovid’s Heroides. Unfortunately, Amendola’s proposition simplifies the situations of both women. In emphasizing the lurking of a personified masculine Time in the foreground of Cereta’s work, Amendola diminishes its presence in the story of Penelope.
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Penelope undoes her daily weaving to stall her obligations to the suitors; Cereta works at night so she can escape the constraint of time. Cereta is bolder in her deception of time than Penelope. She works on her personal history while Time is distracted by the leisures of the night. Cereta and Penelope both play with time to prolong it for themselves; Cereta expands it to write, while Penelope expands her mourning period. Caught in a fraught web of duty to their family, night is the only time when both women can engage in their true desires. Cereta writes, “Time is a terribly scarce commodity for those of us who spend our skills and labour equally on our families and our own work. But by staying up all night, I become a thief of time.”12 To engage in their skills, both women have to exist beyond time itself, but Penelope creates more time for herself while Cereta, as she describes herself, steals it. She seems to be unapologetic about her thievery, even implying that time is the one attempting to dupe her. One letter reads, “the first shadows of the waning day don’t ever deprive me of the time to read or write.”13 Whilst she does not state it outright, her flipping of the metaphor of time from herself as deceiver to the deceived implies that she feels that she is successful in her subversions of time. She has triumphed over fickle fate and all his timely tricks. Cereta’s affinity for Penelope guided her as she maintained control over her reputation through writing by illustrating how to oversee one's narrative by weaving and successfully showcasing a woman who defies the constraints of time. Laura Cereta followed Penelope’s example of utilizing feminine tropes to subvert and mobilize them to their advantage, rather than to maintain a reputation of chastity, as Amendola suggests. Both women used their crafts to cut themselves from the fates that men had designed for them. Only strategically concerned with her virtuous reputation, Penelope struggled against suitors to live her life for a legacy of love, while Laura Cereta lived for a love of legacy. Laura Cereta constantly re-stitched herself into her working of history when society and fate sought to remember her as an embellishment to her father’s and husband’s simpler weavings. Not only did she succeed in immortalizing her voice, but her delicate craft of language continues to mesmerize the trained eye of scholars who have also been made to study in the shadows. Her letters continue to awaken both the pens and minds of those belonging to her noble lineage.14
Notes 1 Amendola, “Weaving Virtue,” 134. 2 Ibid., 140. 3 Cereta, “Collected Letters of a Renaissance Feminist.” 184. 4 Amendola, 143. 5 Cereta, 186.
6 Ibid., 173.
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8 Amendola, 138. 9 Cereta, 175. 10 Amendola, 140. 11 Ibid., 140. 12 Cereta, 178. 13 Ibid., 178. 14 The sentence is a play on Cereta’s line, “Because of this, a mind thirsting for revenge is set afire;
because of this, a sleeping pen is awakened for insomniac writing,” 184.
Works Cited Amendola, Natasha R. “Weaving Virtue: Laura Cereta as New Penelope.” Virtue Ethics for Women 1250-1500, volume 69, no.1, April 2011, pp. 133-143, nova.net, University of King’s College, 2023, doi: 10.1007/978-94-007-0529-6_9 Cereta, Laura. “Collected Letters of a Renaissance Feminist.” Foundation Year Program Handbook, Section III, University of King’s College, 2023, pp. 171- 193.
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Virginity Through Red and Blue Sam Hovey There are hundreds of paintings of the Virgin and Child from both men and women artists of the middle ages, but there was often one similarity between them: the Virgin tended to be draped in red and blue. The exhibition Virginity Through Red and Blue explores the use of red and blue pigments in depictions of the Virgin and Child, as well as examines the differences in portrayal between men and women artists. This exhibition highlights Artemisia Gentileschi and Caravaggio’s pieces, while demonstrating how male artists depicted the Virgin and Child in the company of other figures, and focused on the Virgin’s purity as opposed to her role as a mother. Female artists put great effort into emphasizing the love Mary had for her son, and her role as a mother beyond being a holy figure. Gentileschi was a known follower of Caravaggio and potentially tutored by him, hence why these pieces were placed next to each other; similarities of colour and fabric painting techniques, for example the silks over the Virgin Mary and Saint Anne’s shoulders, can be more closely observed. Some scholars doubt that the Virgin and Child with a Rosary was truly Gentileschi’s work, as the colours were far brighter than most of her other pieces. However, others argue that her change in style was to suit the desires of a patron. The painting displayed after Caravaggio’s is another Gentileschi piece so the viewers may see her style uninfluenced by the desires of her patron. The paintings are all hung in one room and the viewer is expected to walk the perimeter, beginning with Virgin and Child with a Rosary, alternating between depictions by women and men, then ending with Jean van Eyck’s the Virgin and Child with Canon van der Paele. In Catholic tellings, the Virgin Mary was the woman God chose to birth his son, Jesus. Mary birthed the son of God without having intercourse, which maintained her purity, as premarital intercourse was forbidden in Christianity. Even as atheism grows in popularity today, many people share the belief that intercourse is dirty, devalues women, and is sinful before marriage. A woman who is not a virgin may be considered less valuable and respectable than one who is. A man has the power to change a woman’s value with his body, and a woman is expected to reserve the gift of her “innocence” for a man she truly loves. Virginity Through Red and Blue aims to highlight the history of the Catholic perception of virginity, investigate its value during the middle ages, and discuss how it reaches society today by analysing paintings of the Virgin and Child by both men and women.
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Fig. 1 Gentileschi, Artemisia. Virgin and Child with a Rosary. 1651, oil on copper, 59.5 cm x 38.5 cm, El Escorial, San Lorenzo de El Escorial. Artemisia Gentileschi is best known for her works of feminine rage, depicting female agency, strength, and violence in pieces such as Judith Slaying Holofernes and Jael and Sisera. Some scholars argue that she has a “fixation” on dark and violent themes due to her rape by Agostino Tassi.1 Since she is known for such gruesome, disturbing pieces, how would she treat painting the soft scene of the Virgin and her child? Gentileschi was raised Catholic, and likely believed that Jesus was the only child Mary ever had. Mary never had to give her virginity to a man to be a mother, and she is highly valued independently from Joseph. In 1 Corinthians 11:3, the apostle Paul teaches a “hierarchy of heads” in which God is the head of Christ, Christ is the head of man, and man is the head of woman.2 Joseph was still the “head” of Mary despite her being considered the greatest saint, but Gentileschi prioritizes Mary’s value as her own person. Various forms of feminism today have freed most Western women from the requirement that they submit to a man, but the idea is still present in religious households and in politics.
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Fig. 3 Map of Afghanistan showing the Badakhshan region and Sar-e-Sang mine location, prepared by William Besse. Gentileschi painted the Virgin and Child with a Rosary with utmost care, depicting Mary in bright red, the colour of love and passion, and an ultramarine pigment derived from lapis lazuli, which was expensive considering it only came from the Sar-e-Sang mines in the Badakhshan region of Afghanistan.3 Blue is a colour that signifies the sky, or heaven and divinity. Gentileschi uses this blue on a fabric draped across the Virgin’s lap, underneath the baby Jesus. This is likely Mary’s mantle, signifying that she is putting her son before herself, using her resources to care for and comfort him. Gentileschi acknowledges the Virgin’s holiness by using this expensive blue, and adorning Mary and Jesus in halos, while focusing on the softness of their love, connection, and the importance of motherhood.
Fig. 2 Caravaggio, Madonna and Child with St. Anne. 1605–1606, oil on canvas, 292 cm x 211 cm, Galleria Borghese, Rome.
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Caravaggio’s Virgin and Child with Saint Anne was exhibited in The Church of Saint Anne in the Vatican. It was removed, likely for a lack of “decorum,”4 which may refer to the Child’s nudity, the visibility of Mary’s chest, or the underrepresentation of Saint Anne’s divinity. Some argue, though, that Caravaggio’s depiction was purposeful, as “the nudity of the child, and the prominence of his genitals, give weight to the importance of the fully incarnate child, proof of which is found in his phallus,” and that her breasts are shown to represent the milk with which she nourished Christ.5 Today, it is widely thought that a woman who shows too much of her chest is seeking sexual attention, however, the showing of Mary’s breasts is used as a representation of her pure motherhood; she receives a respect that ordinary women do not due to her virginity. Additionally, since Mary never had other children according to Catholicism, she never had the chance to be considered in a sexual or impure manner. Ordinary women during the middle ages, and today, could never be considered as pure as the Virgin. However, Clarissa W. Atkinson, in “‘Precious Balsam in Fragile Glass’: The Ideology of Virginity in the Later Middle Ages,” delves into the ways in which the idea of virginity changed throughout the middle ages and divides it into two perceptions. One understanding of virginity defines it as a physical state in which a woman has never had sex, whose hymen is unbroken. The second is a “moral or spiritual state—as purity, or humility, or that quality of spirit belonging to those whose primary relationship is with God.”6 This second perception is important as it allows ordinary women, who have waited until marriage to have children, to be considered pure or “virgin.” The physical body was a significant symbol used by Caravagio to showcase Mary’s purity, motherhood, and the tangibility of Jesus, while the mind and faith allowed women in general to appear pure because their bodies alone were not. Similar to Gentileschi, Caravaggio has painted the Virgin in a bright red to reinforce her love, passion, and bravery as she stomps on the head of the serpent. In this depiction, she does not wear blue, but Saint Anne does. Caravaggio’s blue is nowhere near as bright as Gentileschi’s, and it is very likely that he did not use ultramarine. This dull blue makes Saint Anne look much like an ordinary woman, and it is only her halo that depicts her divinity, which may have been one reason this piece was removed from the church of Saint Anne. It is difficult to argue that Caravaggio’s intention with this was to focus on the role of motherhood, rather than divinity, when the Virgin and Child are actively stamping out evil. As acknowledged by Irving Lavin in “Caravaggio’s Roman Madonnas,” Saint Anne “is no longer present simply in view of her motherhood but performs her anticipatory function in a radically new and wholly spiritual way—she has become a veritable prophetess who bears witness to the process of atonement by meditating, like the ancient Philosopher Demosthenes, on its culminating event.”7 In this piece, Caravaggio has depicted Saint Anne with little extravagance but has given her the grand role of overseeing the atonement. Gentileschi depicted solely the Virgin and Child interacting playfully or lovingly, focusing on Mary as a mother, whereas Caravaggio depicted the Virgin and Child in the presence of other figures. Mary was not playing with Jesus, or holding him lovingly in the depiction by Caravaggio. Ca-
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ravaggio emphasized Mary’s Virginity by displaying her pure body and curated her role in his painting to reflect her virgin birth of Jesus. Caravaggio did not see as much value in Mary’s motherhood or womanhood as he did her virginity, as it was her virginity that allowed for the birth of Christ and thus the stamping out of evil. The idolization of Mary’s virginity and its formulation as the most valuable aspect of her character create an impossible criteria for regular women to pursue, overshadowing the importance and necessity of motherhood in Early Modern life, and attributing respect to the status of their bodies. The history and value of virginity has since followed women into domestic, religious, and political spaces, keeping their status as respectable and valuable in the hands of men and sex.
Notes 1 Stępnik, 9 2 Engh, 95 3 Kline, 188 4 Von Rosen, 39 5 Lawless, 439 6 Atkinson, 133 7 Lavin, 8
Works Cited Atkinson, Clarissa W. “‘Precious Balsam in a Fragile Glass’ : The Ideology of Virginity in the Later Middle Ages.” Journal of Family History, 8(2), 1983, pp. 131–43. doi:10.1177/036319908300800203. Cairncross, Bruce. “The Where of Mineral Names: Afghanite, Sar-e-Sang, Koksha Valley, Kuran wa Munjan District, Badakhshan, Afghanistan.” Rocks & Minerals, 96(6), 2021, 568–571. https://doi-org.ezproxy.library.dal.ca/10.1080/00357529.2021.1945389 Engh, Line. “The Symbolism of Marriage in Early Christianity and the Latin Middle Ages: Images, Impact, Cognition”, eBook Academic Collection, Amsterdam University Press, 2024. PDF. Kline, Rachel. “Bravura in Blue: Ultramarine in the Works of Artemisia Gentileschi,” Project Muse, vol. 55, 2024, pp. 188–217. doi:10.1353/941936. Lavin, Irving. “Caravaggio’s Roman Madonnas,” The Age of Caravaggio Symposium, The Metropolitan Museum of Art. 1985. albert.ias.edu/bitstream/20.500.12111/6574/1/ Lavin_OP_CarRomMadonna_1985.pdf Lawless, Catherine. “The Holy Grandmother St Anne and ‘the Fleshly Trinity.’” Studies: An Irish
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Quarterly Review, 104(416), 2015, pp. 433–43. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/24640793. Stępnik, Małgorzata. “‘Grand Narratives’ and ‘Personal Dramas’: (Re)reading the Masterpieces by Artemisia Gentileschi.” Arts, 13(43), 2024. doi:10.3390/13020043. Von Rosen, Valeska. “Implicit Decontextualization: Visual Discourse of Religious Paintings in Roman Collections circa 1600.” Sacred possessions : collecting Italian religious art, 2011, pp. 39–54. PDF.
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“This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow”: Monstering of Queer Desire in Christabel and The Vampyre Tessa Schaeffer Monsters in fiction often reflect societal anxieties, serving as metaphors for issues deemed dangerous or taboo. As Jeffrey Jerome Cohen states in his book chapter Monster Theory, “the monstrum is etymologically ‘that which reveals,’ ‘that which warns.”1 Building on Cohen’s theory, Max Fincher argues that vampires can symbolize a societal fear of hidden queer identities, since “like the queer, the vampire has the power to be ‘scarcely separable’ and to pass as socially and morally conventional.”2 I argue that queer desire is hidden and “monstered” through the motifs of sight and silence in Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Christabel and John Polidori’s The Vampyre. Sight represents societal anxiety about hidden queer identity, embodied by the vampiric characters Geraldine and Ruthven, while silence represents the inexpressibility of queer desire because of this societal anxiety. As queer desire moves to and from the public gaze, it grows increasingly monstrous, reflecting societal fears of hidden queer transgressions. In Christabel, silence is necessary for expressing queer desire lest it be deemed transgressive by the omnipresent public eye. In the opening section, silence is used as a vehicle to express desire, transitioning from heterosexual to queer. Christabel is alone in the forest, praying in silence3 while “heav[ing] soft and low [sighs].”4 These longing sighs link silence to desire, reinforced by the line “She had dreams all yesternight / Of her own betrothéd knight.”5 Combined with her silent, eroticized prayer, this line suggests Christabel is silently expressing desire for her male betrothed. However, this silent yearning is disrupted when Geraldine appears, symbolically replacing Christabel’s betrothed. Geraldine is introduced through the line “It moaned as near, as near can be, / But what it is she cannot tell.”6 Initially identified as an “it,” Geraldine represents an eroticized Other through the “moaning,” evoking Cohen’s monster theory: “the monstrous lurks somewhere in that ambiguous, primal space between fear and attraction.”7 Geraldine’s Otherness and the silence surrounding her are heightened through the dual meaning of “tell.” As Richard Berkeley explains, “Christabel cannot tell (perceive) nor can she tell (articulate) what Geraldine is.”8 Symbolically, Geraldine replaces Christabel’s betrothed, with silence facilitating the transition from heterosexual desire to desire for the queer-coded Other. Furthermore, silence enables Christabel and Geraldine’s queer desire while shielding it from the public gaze. Christabel says, “But we will move as if in stealth, / And I beseech your courtesy, / This night, to share your couch with me.”9 While there is “nothing problematic in two women heading off to share one bed,”10 Christabel’s insistence on “mov[ing] in stealth” frames this
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bed-sharing as an act of desire. Stealth, or silence, becomes an attempt to keep their intimacy hidden from the public gaze, where it risks being deemed transgressive. When the women enter the castle, “Christabel saw the lady’s eye, / And nothing else saw she thereby, / Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall.”11 Leoline’s shield, a symbol of patriarchal authority, represents the public gaze from which their intimacy must be hidden. Its juxtaposition with Geraldine’s queer gaze emphasizes the tension between the public gaze and private queer desire. Through silent passage, Christabel protects her bond with Geraldine, hiding their relationship from the public gaze embodied by Leoline’s shield. When Geraldine and Christabel go to bed together, symbolically consummating their queer desire, silence envelops their intimacy. In Christabel’s bedchamber, the two undress, as the narrator observes: “But through her brain of weal and woe / So many thoughts moved to and fro. / And on her elbow did recline / To look at the lady Geraldine.”12 The narrator excludes the reader from Christabel’s “thoughts mov[ing] to and fro” as she watches Geraldine undress, using silence to hide her desire. The scene grows further silent until even the narrator “cannot be told of Geraldine’s sexual form.”13 The narrator says, “Behold! Her bosom, and half her side -- / A sight to dream of, not to tell! / O shield her! Shield sweet Christabel!”14 The caesura after “side” marks a textual silence that denies both the narrator and the reader access to what Christabel sees, rendering her desire entirely private and silent. The repetition of “shield” recalls Leoline’s shield and the omnipresent public gaze. Even in Leoline’s absence, societal judgment looms, necessitating absolute silence from the characters and narrator to preserve Christabel and Geraldine’s relationship. In Christabel, silence both expresses desire and shields it from the public gaze. In The Vampyre, however, sight becomes the vehicle for expressing queer desire, which remains inseparably tied to the public gaze. As the relationship between Aubrey and Ruthven retreats from the public gaze, it becomes more monstrous. From the opening scene of The Vampyre, Ruthven’s peculiar gaze links privacy with monstrosity: “that dead grey eye, which, fixing upon the object’s face, seemed not to penetrate.”15 The monstrous “dead grey” quality of Ruthven’s gaze makes it both repellent and attractive, offering its target “a singular, truly private life indifferent to and hidden from the public gaze.”16 Aubrey is evidently fascinated with Ruthven: “[Aubrey] watched [Ruthven] … He formed this person into the hero of a romance…”17 According to Ahmet Süner, “to be involved in a romance is to distance oneself from public life and to escape into the private realm.”18 Aubrey’s gaze privately romanticizes Ruthven, representing his seduction into the private realm that Ruthven embodies through his monstrous gaze. As Aubrey and Ruthven’s relationship moves further from the public eye, its queer undertones become more monstrous. The line “[Ruthven] was therefore obliged to carry on his plans in secret; but Aubrey’s eye followed him in all his windings…”19 highlights Aubrey’s obsessive surveillance of Ruthven, even as his family warns him of Ruthven’s “irresistible power of seduction.”20 This voyeurism “can signify a desire for Aubrey to be Ruthven’s victim.”21 Through the mecha-
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nism of gaze, Aubrey becomes further seduced into Ruthven’s monstrous, private realm. Ianthe’s tale of the vampire further associates Ruthven with private, monstrous desire: “[Vampyres] passed years amidst his friends, and dearest ties … by feeding upon the life of a lovely female to prolong his existence.”22 The vampire, like the queer figure, “is distinguished as a monster who looks no different to those around him.”23 Ruthven is monstrous because his identity can remain private. Thus, as Aubrey and Ruthven’s relationship withdraws from the public eye, it becomes increasingly monstrous. Aubrey and Ruthven’s relationship becomes the most queer, and thus the most monstrous, in a dark hovel free from the public gaze. “[Aubrey] found himself in utter darkness: the sound, however, guided him.”24 Süner argues that “No one should be allowed to escape the implicit public gaze,”25 as such freedom enables transgressions to flourish unchecked. Ruthven’s attack on Aubrey is coded as a sexual act. “His enemy threw himself upon him, and kneeling upon his breast, had placed his hands upon his throat.”26 In this scene of “coitus interruptus,” Aubrey puts himself in Ianthe’s place, symbolizing his “unconscious desire for Ruthven.”27 This moment represents a culmination of queer tension between Ruthven and Aubrey, a symbolic consummation of their relationship in the absence of the public gaze. The attack is interrupted “when the glare of many torches penetrating through the hole that gave light in the day, disturbed him.”28 These “torchbearers… throw their public light on the scandalous circumstances of the hovel,”29 exposing the monstrous consequences of private queer intimacy. Ruthven and Aubrey’s descent into monstrosity as they move out of sight of the public eye reflects the societal fear of hidden queer desire. After the “sex” scenes, both Christabel and Aubrey are silenced by their respective vampires, symbolizing the inexpressibility of queer desire for fear of the public consequences of their transgressions. In Christabel, silence initially enables queer desire but quickly becomes a tool of repression. Geraldine’s touch binds Christabel into silence: “In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell / Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!”30 This magical silencing forbids Christabel from telling about their encounter, rendering queer desire unspeakable. Geraldine reinforces the connection between queer desire, shame, and silence: “Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know tomorrow / This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow.”31 The dual meaning of “know” implies both the Biblical sense of sexual knowledge and the awareness of shame that will arise once their transgression faces public scrutiny. The next morning, Christabel observes Geraldine’s “heaving breasts” and exclaims, “Sure I have sinned.”32 Benjamin Grossberg interprets this moment as embodying the “liberating joy of sexuality simultaneous with guilt over transgression.”33 Silence, initially a protective space for queer intimacy, transforms under fear for public consequences into a vehicle for shame and repression. In The Vampyre, Ruthven enforces a similar silencing upon Aubrey following their symbolic consummation: “If you would conceal what you know of me, my honor were free from the stain in the world’s mouth.”34 As the sole witness to Ruthven’s vampiric body, Ruthven “positions Au-
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brey in a closet of unspeakability.”35 Furthermore, like in Christabel, Aubrey and Ruthven’s queer desire is rendered unspeakable for fear of public “stain.” This discussion of “stain” echoes Christabel’s “mark of shame,” representing the fear of public consequences for transgressive queer relationships. Aubrey swears silence, and soon after “[his] mind became broken under so many repeated horrors;”36 Aubrey becomes emotionally affected by his “chosen connection with the Other,”37 mirroring Christabel’s guilt. Thus, the enforcement of silence after queer transgressions represents the inexpressibility of queer desire and anticipates the public consequences of these transgressions. When both transgressions are brought into the public eye, all participants are monstered, emphasizing the societal fear of hidden queer desire as a corrupting force. In Christabel, Geraldine and Christabel become increasingly monstrous when brought “Full before her father’s view,”38 the public eye they had previously been hiding from. This monstering is foreshadowed in the bard Bracy’s dream: “And with the dove [the snake] heaves and stirs, swelling its neck as she swelled hers.”39 If Christabel is the dove and Geraldine the snake, then Geraldine is referred to as an “it” again, Othering her even further. The eroticism of their mutual “heaving” and “swelling” combined with this Othering results in the monstering of queer desire in the public eye. Then, Christabel begins to imitate Geraldine’s snakelike characteristics: “So deeply had she drunken in / That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, / That all hear features were resigned / To this sole image in her mind: / And passively did imitate / That look of dull and treacherous hate!”40 The snake imagery recalls the serpent in the Garden of Eden, linking their hidden transgressions to societal anxiety about queer desire as a corrupting force. This transformation into serpentine figures physically manifests the “mark of shame” Geraldine warned Christabel about earlier. Once exposed to Leoline, the symbol of the public gaze that they so feared, their desire becomes monstrous. Similarly, in The Vampyre, Aubrey’s private oath to Ruthven leads to public consequences. Aubrey’s family seeks to “prevent him from exposing to the general eye those marks of what they considered folly.”41 Like Christabel’s “mark of shame,” Aubrey has been similarly marked by Ruthven, which is considered “folly” to the public eye. His private seduction becomes judged publicly. Furthermore, Aubrey’s silence surrounding the oath allows Ruthven to publicly ruin his sister: “Aubrey’s sister had glutted the thirst of a VAMPYRE!”42 Aubrey’s sister’s seduction mirrors Ruthven’s earlier seduction of Aubrey himself. As Brooke Cameron, citing Eve Sedgwick’s theory on homosocial bonds notes, “in any erotic rivalry, the bond that links the two rivals is as intense and potent as the bond that links either of the rivals to the beloved.”43 Aubrey’s sister’s ruin parallels Aubrey’s own ruin, providing another case for private seduction leading to public catastrophe. As Süner argues, “the secretive and potentially dangerous intimacies of the private realm are critiqued”44 in The Vampyre. Hidden queer intimacies, symbolized by the oath, result in monstrosity and public ruin. In conclusion, queer desire in Christabel and The Vampyre is hidden and monstered through the
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use of sight and silence. While sight and silence both enable queer desire, they are also mechanisms of societal control. Private queer desire is linked to public monstering, evidencing cultural anxieties about hidden queer identities. Quoting Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, “The monster embodies those sexual practices that must not be committed, or that may be committed only through the body of a monster..”45
Notes 1 Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome. “Monster Culture (Seven Theses).” Monster Theory, edited by Jeffrey Je-
rome Cohen, University of Minnesota Press, 1996, p. 4. 2 Fincher, Max. “Penetrating Eye(s): Lara, Giaour, The Vampyre.” Queering Gothic in the Romantic Age: The Penetrating Eye, edited by Max Fincher, Palgrave MacMillan, 2007, p. 142. 3 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. “Christabel.” ENGL 4007/5403: The Gothic Century, A Broadview Custom Text, edited by Julia Wright, Broadview Press, 2024, pp. 100-109, line 36. 4 Ibid., line 32. 5 Ibid., line 27-8. 6 Ibid., line 39-40. Coleridge 39-40 7 Cohen, p. 19. 8 Berkeley, Richard. “‘Jealous of the Listening Air’: Silence and Seduction in Christabel.” Romanticism, vol. 20, no. 3, 2014, p. 262. 9 Coleridge, line 120-2. 10 Grossberg, Benjamin Scott. “Making Christabel: Sexual Transgression and its Implications in Coleridge’s ‘Christabel.’” Journal of Homosexuality, vol. 41, no. 2, 2001, p. 154. 11 Coleridge, line 160-3. 12 Ibid., line 239-244. 13 Berkeley, p. 263. 14 Coleridge, line 251-4. 15 Polidori, John. “The Vampyre: A Tale.” ENGL 4007/5403: The Gothic Century, A Broadview Custom Text, edited by Julia Wright, Broadview Press, 2024, p. 110. 16 Süner, Ahmet. “The Gothic Horrors of the Private Realm and the Return to Public in John Polidori’s The Vampyre.” Moderna Språk, vol. 112, no. 1, 2018, p. 191. 17 Polidori, p. 111. 18 Süner, p. 192. 19 Polidori, p. 113. 20 Ibid., p. 113. 21 Fincher, p. 140. 22 Polidori, p. 114.
Babel Volume XXIV | 21 23 Fincher, p. 141.
24 Polidori, p. 115. 25 Süner, p. 190. 26 Polidori, p. 115. 27 Fincher, p. 141. 28 Polidori, p. 115. 29 Süner, p. 196. 30 Coleridge, line 268-9. 31 Ibid., line 269-70. 32 Ibid., line 380-1.
33 Grossberg, p. 156. 34 Polidori, p. 117. 35 Fincher, p. 142. 36 Polidori, p. 118. 37 Cameron, Brooke. “Queer Vampires: What We Want is in the Shadows.” Queer Gothic: An
Edinburgh Companion, edited by Ardel Haefele-Thomas, Edinburgh University Press, 2023, p. 119. 38 Coleridge, line 610. 39 Ibid., line 553-4. 40 Ibid., line 598-606. 41 Polidori, p. 120. 42 Ibid., p. 121. 43 Cameron, p. 119. 44 Süner, p. 198. 45 Cohen, p. 14.
Works Cited Berkeley, Richard. “‘Jealous of the Listening Air’: Silence and Seduction in Christabel.” Romanticism, vol. 20, no. 3, 2014, https://doi.org/10.3366/rom.2014.0190. Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome. “Monster Culture (Seven Theses).” Monster Theory, edited by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, University of Minnesota Press, 1996, pp. 3-25. Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. “Christabel.” ENGL 4007/5403: The Gothic Century, A Broadview Custom Text, edited by Julia Wright, Broadview Press, 2024, pp. 100-109. Cameron, Brooke. “Queer Vampires: What We Want is in the Shadows.” Queer Gothic: An Edinburgh Companion, edited by Ardel Haefele-Thomas, Edinburgh University Press, 2023, pp. 117135.
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Fincher, Max. “Penetrating Eye(s): Lara, Giaour, The Vampyre.” Queering Gothic in the Romantic Age: The Penetrating Eye, edited by Max Fincher, Palgrave MacMillan, 2007, pp. 131-156. Grossberg, Benjamin Scott. “Making Christabel: Sexual Transgression and its Implications in Coleridge’s ‘Christabel.’” Journal of Homosexuality, vol. 41, no. 2, 2001, pp. 145-165. https://doiorg.ezproxy.library.dal.ca/10.1300/J082v41n02_08open_in_new. Polidori, John. “The Vampyre: A Tale.” ENGL 4007/5403: The Gothic Century, A Broadview Custom Text, edited by Julia Wright, Broadview Press, 2024, pp. 110-121. Süner, Ahmet. “The Gothic Horrors of the Private Realm and the Return to Public in John Polidori’s The Vampyre.” Moderna Språk, vol. 112, no. 1, 2018, pp. 187-200. https:// doi.org/10.58221/mosp.v112i1.7717.
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Who is this Diva?: Power and Performance in the Rule of Elizabeth I Aliyah Daya When Elizabeth I was crowned queen on January 15, 1559, she inherited a divided country in religious conflict with itself, and had to quickly adapt to the tension it generated in England. As Dr. Elke Mettinger argues, Elizabeth used performance and paradox to enhance her control of England.1 According to Mettinger, “Royal power is shown to its subjects in the same way as a play in a theatre to its spectators.”2 Through letters, speeches, portraits, and political enforcement, Elizabeth constructed an image that prioritizes “visibility, theatricality, and paradox to enhance her authority.”3 Performance was a major source of Elizabeth’s power, and her image was carefully curated to obtain, maintain, and usurp control from others. Through letters and gifts, Elizabeth adopted the persona of an obedient, smart, and grateful princess, endearing herself to those in power and creating optimal circumstances for her rise to influence. Although she was exiled from court, Elizabeth was educated as befits her status. Elizabeth broadcasted her intellect to those with influence, corresponding frequently with her stepmother, Katherine Parr.4 They quickly developed an intimate relationship, and Elizabeth used her newfound access to the royal family to bolster her image within the court, namely with her father, King Henry VIII. In a letter from July 31, 1544, Elizabeth extensively flattered her stepmother, calling her “illustrious” and “most excellent,” and highlighted the queen’s authority, “offer[ing] and commend[ing] [her]self ” to her majesty’s grace.5 She remarked that Katherine had “not forgotten [her] every time that [she has] written to the king's majesty,”6 demonstrating how their connection advanced Elizabeth’s status. Her early letters display young Elizabeth’s acute awareness of perception’s power and how conforming to societal standards could advance her reputation. Along with epistolary correspondences, Elizabeth used gifts performatively, emphasizing her familial virtues, knowledge, and similar values to her father and stepmother with symbolic gestures. To celebrate the new year in 1545, she gave Queen Katherine a translation of Calvin’s Institution de la Religion Chrestienne and King Henry a translation of the Queen’s Meditations and Prayers.7 These gifts were curated to project a learned and subservient image, in turn developing favor with the king and the queen. To display her readiness for life at court, her hand-embroidered covers and translations showcased her skill in needlework and knowledge of English, Latin, Italian, and French.8 The texts exhibit her devotion to the Royal Family, emphasizing her willingness to commit time and effort to their satisfaction. In her preface to her 1544 gift to Katherine, she explained her choice is motivated by the queen’s “fervent zeal and perfect love” toward God, showing care
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for her interests.9 In her preface to Henry’s gift, she mentioned it was “a most suitable thing that this work which is most worthy because it was indeed a composition by a queen as a subject for her king be translated into other languages by your daughter,”10 illustrating her desire to assimilate into the new family. In the prefaces, she was deliberately self-deprecating in order to avoid seeming threatening to the monarchs and the line of succession.11 She was painfully cognizant of all of her shortcomings and possible errors, and she broadcasted this awareness, attributing them to her “simple wit and small learning.”12 She aligned her religious values with those of the state, illustrating her devotion to the new Protestant faith.13 This belief allied Elizabeth with her father’s reforms and became a major characteristic of performance later in her reign, “demonstrating royal and religious authority” through her conspicuous attendance at mass.14 Through gifts and correspondence, Elizabeth emphasized the value of language and grand gestures in order to cultivate the ideal circumstances to obtain influence. By performing her virtues and knowledge to Queen Katherine and King Henry VIII, she created a rapport with them and put herself in a position to further her political standing. Once she was crowned queen, Elizabeth used images of herself as an extension of England, curating a flawless performance that rendered her inseparable from the prosperity of the country and its people. In her speech at Tilbury, Elizabeth characterized herself as a manifestation of English power and virtue, saying she has “the heart and stomach of a king and a king of England too.”15 By distinguishing her organs–the fundamental unit of her being–as distinctly English, she rendered “the abstract monarchy concrete in the presence of the Queen” and synonymized herself with English excellence.16 She enhanced this message through her pristine appearance, visually communicating her idealized identity.17 In addition to this image, Elizabeth connected her power to the soldiers by declaring, “I have so behaved myself that under God I have placed my chief of strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and goodwill of my subjects.”18 Her pageantry and language offered “a show of mutual love,” drawing a reciprocal link between their common virtues:19 Her people’s bravery was a manifestation of her virtue “under God,”20 and her continued authority was a culmination of their virtues serving God. Elizabeth carefully controlled her public perception using portraits. Using symbolism, she denoted her power as synonymous with England’s. In 1563, Elizabeth prohibited all portraits not personally approved by the Crown,21 granting her complete control over her image. Through symbolism in approved portraits, Elizabeth conflated herself with England and its welfare. In the Armada Painting,22 the background depicts English ships on smooth seas in contrast with Spain’s tormented waters, representing divine approval for England’s victory over Spain.23 In front of this imposing scene, Elizabeth sits with her hand on a globe, “underlining her claim to world domination.”24 These two symbols emphasize England's superiority over Spain and place Elizabeth at the center of this dominance. The joining of Elizabeth and England's power occurs again in the Ditchley portrait, where she stands on a world map, her feet on England;25 here, “Elizabeth is
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England, woman and kingdom are interchangeable.”26 Through performative language and symbolism, Elizabeth identified her continued rule with England’s excellence, authority, and dominance. Elizabeth performed a paradoxical image of herself, situating herself within naturally contradictory qualities and leveraging each depending on her goals; rather than diminishing the public’s trust in her, these traits complemented one another, creating an image that easily usurped power from others. In her speeches, Elizabeth displayed both masculine and feminine traits, adapting the degree to which she expressed each depending on her situation, audience, and goals. Through calculated appearances of weeping and motherly care at Tilbury, she framed her womanhood as empowering and useful within a martial context. However, Elizabeth still emphasized her masculine traits through her speech and dress, carrying a sword and taking on the role of commander before her troops.27 This characterization of her gender fit the military context in which she was performing. Conversely, in her speeches at Oxford and Cambridge, Elizabeth emphasized her femininity to better navigate the social boundaries she transgressed by speaking in a scholarly context as a woman. She did this by pretending that she did not have a profound knowledge of Latin, describing her speech as “rude and uncultivated,” and acknowledging the “feminine modesty” she lacked when addressing the students.28 Here, Elizabeth placated the young minds who would go on to shape the future of England, downplaying her knowledge and displaying feminine meekness. Through her performance of gendered traits, she occupied normally opposed spheres of masculine and feminine power, thus expanding her reach beyond that of a person who firmly adhered to rigid gender norms. In her answer to the petition that she marry in 1559, Elizabeth framed herself as a wife to the country, a mother to all her subjects, a servant under God, and an individual with absolute authority over England. These four ideas coexisted paradoxically and allowed her to leverage the rationale and influence offered by each, lending her autonomy over her personal and political decisions as well as divine backing to her power. Arguing that she was already married to England, Elizabeth framed her coronation as a wedding, “casting royal power into romantic and erotic relations” and benefiting from the loyalty these connotations inspired.29 Going further, she exclaimed that she needed no heir since “as many as are England are [her] children and kinsfolk.”30 These remarks emphasized the control her subjects had over her since women had little autonomy in marriages at this time.31 In line with this deference, she justified her virginity using her commitment to God, saying “this kind of life” was the best way she may “tend to His service only.”32 Contrastingly, she later implored parliament to abstain from appointing her a prince consort. She remarks that assuming such a level of control over “the majesty of an absolute princess” would be inappropriate because they were “born [her] subjects.”33 By reinforcing her power over her own decisions and affairs, she took on a more masculine characterisation, exerting a level of control over her person that would normally be denied to women. Her bid for personal control seems to contradict the
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spousal authority she bestowed on the country; however, when taken in the context of political theatre, her assumption of subservient and absolutist roles in the same breath can be viewed as a performance meant to obtain influence by allowing her the advantages and favour granted to these opposing traits. Through this performance, she usurped the power of parliament over her political and personal life while solidifying her commitment to and control of the Church of England. Additionally, her role as the “Virgin Queen,” along with the maternal image connoted in her above speeches, portrays her as a paradoxical “virgin mother,” a pair of traits notably seen in the Virgin Mary.34 This performance granted her control over the political and spiritual lives of her subjects, and made a Virgin Mary figure the leader of the Church of England, further undercutting papal control of the nation. By leveraging absolute power and applying familial connotations to her role as queen, Elizabeth “sharpen[ed] her royal power at the centre of everyone’s attention, and facilitate[d] her ability to rule and preserve her independence” with divine approval at her side and within her person.35 Mettinger argues that Elizabeth used public executions as an opportunity for performance where she could assert control as a protestant monarch.36 Her sparse pardons and sweeping brutality solidified her as both merciful and violent, each trait magnifying the other. Elizabethan executions were fundamentally theatrical.37 Occurring on scaffolds–a word also used for a theatre’s platform–executions, like plays, entertained the common folk who interacted with the condemned as groundlings would in a stage production.38 Elizabeth executed 6160 criminals and Catholic traitors at London’s Tyburn scaffold, giving out pardons infrequently and subjecting the condemned to brutal deaths, “demonstrating the power of the state and asserting its legitimacy.”39 These bloody shows and occasional clemency seem to oppose her familial relationship with her subjects.40 However, her contradictory actions complemented and magnified each other; each pardon stood out against the executions, and each execution held more weight since it did not earn a pardon. Her approach to crime and executions displayed Elizabeth's total hold on power and justice,41 undercutting the validity of critics who characterized her as either too punitive or lenient since she could be construed as both forgiving and punitive. Through careful performances in public spheres, Elizabeth created many contradictory self-images of herself; these dissimilar personas existed in paradoxical harmony, creating a complete but flexible whole. She joined masculine and feminine virtues–violence and generosity–along with subservience and absolute control to create a reputation that was strengthened by the presence of discrepancy. She leveraged these qualities to alter her character in different spheres, allowing her to perform in the most advantageous way for her goals in any given situation. Through letters, speeches, portraits, and theatrical punishments, Elizabeth created a persona that expanded her influence, maintained her power, and usurped authority from others. After developing a rapport with influential figures and securing royal power, she presented herself as a living representation of England’s people and identity, tying her rule to English prosperity. Aware of
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the “stage” upon which a monarch is set,42 Elizabeth infused her public appearances with theatrical displays of authority, identifying herself with contradictory traits. Exploiting this dissonance within her character, she leveraged different qualities in different situations, allowing her to adapt to her audience and usurp legitimacy from dissenters. Through performances in public and private spheres, Elizabeth showed how “spectacle combined with paradox [was] indeed [her] most potent vehicle of power.”43
Notes 1 Mettinger, Elke. “‘We Princes are Set on Stages’: Performing Power in Elizabethan England.” Ac-
ta Neophilologica, vol. 53, no. 1-2, 2020, 83-100. 2 Ibid., 91 3 Ibid., 94 4 Wassersug, Yolana. “‘I Have the Heart and Stomach of a King’: Tudor Politics.” Foundation Year Program, 18 November 2024, University of King’s College, Halifax. 5 Elizabeth. “Collected works.” Foundation Year Program Handbook, Section III, University of King’s College, 2024, 64-5. 6 Ibid., 64 7 Ibid., 66-8 8 Ibid., 66-7; Wassersug, “Tudor Politics” 9 Elizabeth, “Collected works,” 68 10 Ibid., 67 11 Ibid., 65-8 12 Ibid., 65 13 Ibid., 65-8 14 Mettinger, “Power in Elizabethan England,” 95 15 Elizabeth, “Collected works,” 76 16 Mettinger, “Power in Elizabethan England,” 95 17 Wassersug, “Tudor Politics” 18 Elizabeth, “Collected works,” 76 19 Mettinger, “Power in Elizabethan England,” 95 20 Elizabeth, “Collected works,” 76 21 Ibid., 81 22 See figure 1 23 Wassersug, “Tudor Politics”; Mettinger, “Power in Elizabethan England,” 92 24 Mettinger, “Power in Elizabethan England,” 92 25 Ibid.; See figure 2
28 | Babel Volume XXIV 26 Strong, Roy. “Gloriana: The Portraits of Queen Elizabeth I” Qtd. in Mettinger, “Power in Eliza-
bethan England,” 92. 27 Elizabeth, “Collected works,” 76; Wassersug, “Tudor Politics” 28 Elizabeth, “Collected works,” 72 29 Ibid., 71; Mettinger, “Power in Elizabethan England,” 95 30 Elizabeth, “Collected works,” 71 31 Wassersug, “Tudor Politics” 32 Elizabeth, “Collected works,” 71 33 Ibid. 34 Wassersug, “Tudor Politics” 35 Mettinger, “Power in Elizabethan England,” 95 36 Ibid., 85 37 Ibid., 86 38 Ibid. 39 Ibid., 85 40 Elizabeth, “Collected works,” 71 41 Mettinger, “Power in Elizabethan England,” 86 42 Elizabeth. “Speech to Parliament 1586” Qtd. in Mettinger, “Power in Elizabethan England,” 83 43 Mettinger, “Power in Elizabethan England,” 98
Works Cited Elizabeth. “Collected works.” Foundation Year Program Handbook, Section III, University of King’s College, 2024, 63–81. Elizabeth. “Speech to Parliament 1586” Qtd. in Mettinger, Elke. “We Princes are Set on Stages”: Performing Power in Elizabethan England. Acta Neophilologica, vol. 53, no. 1-2, 2020, 83. Mettinger, Elke. “‘We Princes are Set on Stages’: Performing Power in Elizabethan England.” Acta Neophilologica, vol. 53, no. 1-2, 2020, 83-100. ProQuest, https://ezproxy.library.dal.ca/login? url=https://www.proquest.com/scholarly-journals/we-princes-are-set-on-stages-performingpower/docview/2564176118/se-2, doi:https://doi.org/10.4312/an.53.1-2.83-100. Strong, Roy. “Gloriana: The Portraits of Queen Elizabeth I” Qtd. in Mettinger, Elke. “We Princes are Set on Stages”: Performing Power in Elizabethan England. Acta Neophilologica, vol. 53, no. 1-2, 2020, 92. Wassersug, Yolana. “‘I Have the Heart and Stomach of a King’: Tudor Politics.” Foundation Year Program, 18 November 2024, University of King’s College, Halifax.
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Figure 1 The Armada Portrait of Elizabeth I Unknown English Artist 1588 Oil on oak panel 1125 mm x 1270 mm The Queen's House, London
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Figure 2 Queen Elizabeth I ('The Ditchley portrait') Marcus Gheeraerts the Younger 1592 Oil on canvas 2413 mm x 1524 mm National Portrait Gallery, London
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Article Analysis: “Where Ethics and Aesthetics Meet: Titian’s The Rape of Europa” Isabella Bisci Within the discipline of art history, Titian’s The Rape of Europa has been lauded as a Renaissance masterpiece; it is only recently that this judgment has been called into question. The Rape of Europa is part Titian’s most famous works, his Poesie Cycle. The cycle consists of six paintings inspired by stories from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Titian’s Rape of Europa was the final painting of the Poesie cycle. According to Ovid, Europa was a Phoenician Princess who was abducted by Zeus in the guise of a bull. She is then brought to Crete where she is raped. She later gives birth to twins who according to myth are the founders of European civilization. Titian’s Painting depicts the scene of her abduction and As A.W. Eaton points out, the painting's depiction of Europa's abduction is heavily eroticised. Through the lenses of David Hume and Aristotle, Eaton explains how this “ethical defect” aesthetically diminishes the painting. Though Eaton’s argument raises many important questions, it does not provide any clear solutions. Eaton’s argument begins with an analysis of the painting and its title. She aptly draws attention to the painting's title, Ratto d’Europa, which was given to it 50 years after Titian’s death. “Ratto” has no exact English translation but is often translated to mean “kidnapping,” “abduction,” or “rape.”1 But, as Eaton points out, in the 17th century it was almost exclusively used to describe the abduction of a woman, with sexual violence almost always being implied. That is what Eaton suggests the painting does––it depicts Europa’s abduction while heavily implying her impending sexual assault. For Eaton, the painting does not “represent a mere kidnapping, but rather the forcible carrying off of Europa for the purpose of sexual intercourse,” which in this case is rape.2 Through analyzing various visual cues within the painting such as Europa’s grasp on the bull, the sensual drapery, and the cupids, Eaton breaks down how Titian’s painting eroticises Europa’s plight. Eaton describes Europa’s hold on the bull’s horn as masturbatory—she’s grabbing the bull by its phallic horn, suggesting active participation in the act. Eaton also notes that one of the cupids has just shot his arrow, and that “she has been struck and is already in the grip of erotic love.”3 This would have been immediately recognizable to Renaissance audiences. Visual cues such as these imply that Europa is somehow enjoying the situation, leaning into the common narrative around sexual violence, which suggests that victims secretly enjoy it. Two cupids, in particular, are staring directly at the sensual drapery covering her genitalia, which bunches in a vulvic shape, drawing further attention to her splayed legs. Within the Renaissance, it was uncommon to see a woman with her legs spread in a painting this size and, at the time, this aspect of the painting was
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disturbingly considered highly “innovative.”4 In order for Europa to be eroticised, Titian must toe a fine line between the consensual and the non-consensual. As Eaton asserts: This fantasy is at odds with itself, fluctuating between the victim's resistance and consent, innocence and guilt, unwanted terror and sexual pleasure. But these tensions cannot be too glaring or the fantasy will collapse: affirming Europa's victimization too much would cancel her complicity, overemphasizing her participation would negate her helplessness, and laying too much weight on her terror would render her pleasure implausible.5 Eaton's argument is compelling, however, it lacks a comprehensive explanation as to how the role of the painting as part of the Poesie Cycle, factors into the eroticization. Without discussion of this, the analysis is missing a crucial part of the context. This lack of a bigger-picture investigation is indicative of a larger issue in Eaton’s argument, as it looks only for proof in the painting and does not acknowledge the larger issue of the eroticization of sexual violence in art. The second part of Eaton’s argument explores how the eroticization of rape within The Rape of Europa is both an ethical defect and an aesthetic diminishment. Eaton outlines three different perspectives on the role of ethics in art: separatism, which maintains that morals and aesthetics are completely distinct; moralism, which judges art based on whether or not it promotes good morals; and ethicism, which argues that the value of an artwork can increase or decrease depending on its moral and ethical qualities. Finding all of these perspectives lacking, Eaton turns to the theories of David Hume and Aristotle. Eaton aligns with Hume’s asymmetrical view of ethics in art, agreeing that a painting can depreciate due to an ethical defect. However, Hume’s theory does not account for cases where the ethical defects are integrated into the work itself. This is where Eaton introduces Aristotle’s theory of tragedy, which posits that if a tragedy fails to elicit the desired emotional response from its audience, it is a failure, whereas if it does, it is a success. While this teleological view emphasizes the artist’s intent, it neglects the reality that viewers interpret art in diverse ways and ignores the importance of decoding within the viewing experience. By giving all authority to the artist’s intended effect, it disregards the multiple and sometimes conflicting ways in which art can be understood by different audiences. In analysing The Rape of Europa, Eaton ultimately adopts a stance she calls the “objection from creepiness.”6 This argument asserts that Titian’s painting fails or is aesthetically diminished because it only provokes an erotic response in people who find sexual assault erotic (i.e., "creeps"). While I agree that the painting’s depiction of sexual violence can only be erotic to those who are either aroused by rape or indifferent to it, this alone is not convincing enough that the work be deemed a failure. The painting's depiction of sexual violence certainly limits one’s ability to enjoy the work, but if the audience looks closely enough, it will not blind them to its technical merits. Eaton's argument is slightly shortsighted as it identifies an ethical dilemma but offers no answers or solutions. As touched on previously, the argument remains focused on The Rape of Europa and does not broaden its scope to the larger topos of sexual violence present within early modern
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European art. Instead of offering any sort of solution on how to deal with this painting or others that contain similar “ethical defects," Eaton's argument leaves one with more questions and dilemmas. For instance, what do we do with the myriad of works that also eroticise rape? And at what point does one object from creepiness, as so many works of art and culture contain what could be deemed ethical defects? This lack of resolution is not without value, as it opens the door to crucial conversations about the responsibilities of modern audiences and institutions in engaging with art that contains problematic themes. Eaton’s concept of an "ethical defect" embedded within a work of art has broad applicability, extending beyond the eroticization of rape to include other issues, such as the portrayal of enslaved individuals to signify wealth or the glorification of colonial conquest in early modern artworks. The Rape of Europa offers a disturbing lens on how Western culture has eroticized rape, and, like Eaton’s argument, it fits into a larger discourse on sexual violence in art history. Eaton's analysis of Titian's Rape of Europa identifies significant ethical flaws in the painting and raises critical points about how sexual violence is depicted in art. However, it does not offer a clear solution as to how we should approach these paintings. Eaton's argument lacks a broader contextual perspective and fails to propose clear solutions for addressing problematic works like this in art history.
Notes 1 Eaton A. W., “Where ethics and aesthetics meet: Titian’s rape of Europa.” Hypatia, vol. 18, no. 4,
(2003):161 2 Eaton, A. W. “Where ethics and aesthetics meet: Titian’s rape of Europa.” Hypatia, vol. 18, no. 4, ( 2003):162 3 Eaton, A. W. “Where ethics and aesthetics meet: Titian’s rape of Europa.” Hypatia, vol. 18, no. 4, ( 2003):162 4 Spencer, Justina. “Sexual Violence in Renaissance Art” Love, Lust, and Desire in Italian Renaissance Art, (November 18 2024) University of King's College, Halifax 5 Eaton, A. W. “Where ethics and aesthetics meet: Titian’s rape of Europa.” Hypatia, vol. 18, no. 4, (2003) :164 6 A. W. Eaton, “Where ethics and aesthetics meet: Titian’s rape of Europa.” Hypatia, vol. 18, no. 4, (2003): 177
Works Cited Eaton, A. W. “Where ethics and aesthetics meet: Titian’s rape of Europa.” Hypatia, vol. 18, no. 4, 2003, pp. 159–188
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Titian. The Rape of Europa. Boston, 1659, Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, Boston, USA. Spencer, Justina. “Sexual Violence in Renaissance Art” Love, Lust, and Desire in Italian Renaissance Art, November 18 2024, University of King's College, Halifax
Figure 1. Titian. The Rape of Europa. Boston, 1659, Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, Boston, USA.
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Paracelsus and Proserpina, the Alchemical Iconography of Monteverdi's L’Orfeo Cohen Aiken Alchemy saturated the early modern world; it was infused into court life, influencing natural philosophy and art alike. For the middle ages and late antiquity, alchemy was primarily concerned with the creation of the philosopher’s stone, the prima materia, that could produce the elixir of life, a substance capable of granting immortality and turning base metals into gold.1 Paracelsus, one of the most influential alchemists of the early modern period, expanded this tradition and its practices, namely distillation, purification and transmutation, to encompass medicine as well as natural philosophy more broadly. He went so far as to relate theological understanding to alchemy as the only accurate natural philosophy in his book, Paracelsus His Archidoxes Comprised in Ten Books translated by John Harding. Claudio Monteverdi, one of the inventors of European opera, composed his foundational 1607 opera L’Orfeo in the alchemically minded Gonzaga court. The opera’s narrative is the familiar tale of the titular demigod’s descent into the underworld in a failed attempt to resurrect his wife Eurydice. Much of the opera’s narrative that is unsatisfactory to modern audiences, such as Eurydice musical and theatrical absence or the opera ending with Apollo’s counsel to abandon grief and emotion in favor of rationality, is resolved when read with the iconography of the alchemical tradition. Monteverdi was an alchemical hobbyist, and he and his librettist Alessandro Striggio would have been familiar with this iconography as well as its spiritual implications.2 Moteverdi’s L’Orfeo is informed by the early modern alchemical tradition and iconography, in that it is a story of transmutation through purification. In its most reduced form, alchemy is a study of matter using stills and other laboratory apparatuses. The two prongs of alchemical investigation are distillation, used in this paper to summarize the wide variety of processes isolating a specific component of a mixture, and its result: transmutation, transforming one matter into another. Transmutation has its justification in two sources: the first of which is observation, such as “the extraordinary case of a lamb, which has the ability to convert water and grass into wool and flesh” and the second is Aristotle.3 That great philosopher dictated that the four elements, fire, earth, water, and air, were all fundamentally unified as they share an origin in a prime matter.4 It is this prima materia towards which alchemy bends its desire. The nature of this substance is largely dictated by neoplatonic cosmology in which the sublunar realm is separate from and dependent on the celestial.5 The celestial, or superlunar, realm is composed of its own immutable and eternal element: aether.6 Prima materia is found by stripping away accidental qualities of a substance until one has isolated its aetherial aspect, which Paracelsus
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names quintessence.7 Distillation is the process by which one manipulates the fundamental components of matter and transmutes the quintessence. In this process alchemists understood themselves to be emulating nature. As with the lamb who transmutes grass into wool, nature is the force behind any given alchemical transmutation; with distillation the alchemist is accelerating nature’s processes, not creating something new.8 The emulation of nature does not need to be directed solely towards the philosopher's stone, as Paracelsus repurposed this method for medicine. Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim, more commonly known as Paracelsus, is known primarily for redirecting alchemy into the medical tradition. He is typically attributed with the reinvention of alchemy as a medical science as opposed to its former goal of transmutational gold making.9 Not only does Paracelsus turn alchemy towards medicine, he goes so far as to claim it is the predominant medicine, saying, “this Art of Separation may then be compared to the Art of the Apothecary, just as the light may be compared to darkness.”10 Traditional medical science pales in comparison to alchemy, for the latter has the power to reveal “the mysteries of nature” by freeing them from their captivity in mattered bodies.11 Paracelsus’s ultimate goal in medicine is to reveal these mysteries and through them learn “what God is, and also what man is, [...] out of which two, the knowledge of Theology, Justice and Truth doth very excellently spring forth.”12 Alchemical medical science can then understand what even theologians can not, for the Mysteries of Nature are placed there by no other hand than “Christ himself.”13 Human bodies serve as a microcosm through which alchemy can examine hidden truth, but such truth is not limited solely to medicine. As alchemy was no longer defined by the creation of gold, medicine is not its limiting factor either. Instead Paracelsus opens transmutational alchemy to encompass any natural or human process of change or transformation, such as making bread or wheat growing from a seed.14 Medicine is but a single branch of alchemy and, as it is the process of alchemical distillation that reveals the truths hidden by Christ, any form of alchemy is capable of distilling esoteric knowledge, regardless of its subject. The search for truth, although emphasized by Paracelsus, is not the only objective of alchemy. In the Gonzaga court it was largely the practical applications of alchemy, gold making and otherwise, that encouraged interest. Alchemy’s promise of gold, and other transmutational dreams, inspired patrons to invest time, money and attention. Denis Stevens explains Duke Vincenzo I Gonzaga’s obsession with alchemists when telling the story of the miserable military campaign led by the Duke against Turkish forces in southern Hungary.15 While languishing in a tent nursing his chronic knee injury after failing to take a Turkish fortress, Vincenzo wrote a letter back to his alchemists in Mantua requesting a chemical cannonball containing poisonous gas.16 Vincenzo did not simply have one or two alchemists under his employment, but “maintained [them] at court in great numbers.”17 The proliferation of alchemists under the Duke’s care, as well as his investment in their success and method, would have set both social and political incentives for a member of the court to become familiar with alchemy as well. For his secretaries, like L’Orfeo’s future librettist Alessandro Striggio,18 such
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knowledge would likely have been accumulated organically as a consequence of their work. Those not working directly under the Duke could have still been pulled into his alchemist obsession. Monteverdi’s own alchemical interest and practice may have been a result of this pressure.19 Under Paracelsus’s expanded definition of alchemy as any process of transmutation, opera’s “musical and theatrical transmutation” creation by the Camerata Fiorentina, of which Monteverdi was a member, could be considered alchemy.20 In distilling ancient and renaissance theater and music, the Camerata transformed them into a new form of art and narrative in an act of cultural alchemy. Alchemy, in its more traditional forms, is capable of revealing esoteric and divine truth in Paracelsus’s understanding, and the cultural transmutation that is opera held this power as well. Montiverdi’s L’Orfeo is, in itself, a story of transmutation. It paints the tale of Orpheus’s change from the earthly to the divine. This simple narrative is explained in the final act by the chorus who sings, “So he obtains grace in heaven / Who down here has braved Hell.”21 The crux of the opera is not a tragic love doomed to fail, although that is an important aspect of the narrative, but rests instead in this ascension of the protagonist, Orpheus. Orpheus’s final obtainment of grace is a fulfillment of deified Music’s promises from the prologue to “make [mortal men’s] souls aspire more / For the resounding harmony of the lyre of Heaven.”22 After the brass and drums hailing the coming story with fanfare, the gentle strings framing Music’s words hint at the tranquility of Heaven’s lyre, demonstrating her promise of harmony.23 Music is presented as an educational source, one unlike Paracelsus’s natural philosophy yet complimentary to it. Alchemy, as Paracelsus tells us, lets one study Nature and through it “consider what God is” as well as humanity.24 The word consider signifies the intellectual nature of this analysis; one has to study nature and think about what their findings show them. Paracelsus is promising an intellectual understanding of God and humanity. Music, in contrast, offers an emotional understanding as she “Can make peaceful every troubled heart, / And so with noble anger, and so with love, / Can [she] inflame the coldest minds.”25 Like Paracelsus, this knowledge is not confined to a direct experience of divine resonances, but includes the human. Before addressing Heaven, Music tells her audience of nobles and lords: “Glorious Heroes, noble bloodline of Rulers, / Of whom Fame relates high praise / Without quite attaining the truth, as it is too high a mark.”26 Within these lines Music denies Fame human truth, suggesting that Music and the arts under its purview have a unique ability to to communicate them. Thus the microcosm of the human, through which Paracelsus studies divine truth, is encompassed within the purview of Music, and therefore opera. As a demigod, Orpheus is a representation of intermingling elements, alchemical and otherwise; he is both mortal and divine, terrestrial and celestial. When discussing the alchemical elements, and the process by which one can separate them, Paracelsus explains that “the strongest element will bear rule, and overcome and subjugate the others.”27 All things are composed of a mixture of air, water, earth, and fire, yet one element supersedes the others, as fire supersedes air in wood. These elements should not necessarily be thought of as physical components, “but they
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have an equal like agreement as the body and soul have.”28 The spiritual reality of the elements mandate that the most visible element is not necessarily predominant. This distinction is important when considering what element one can isolate through distillation. Only the primary element can be separated.29 Thus one must work towards the prima materia through distilling the primary element. In the case of Orpheus, his outward appearance is mortal, yet through suffering and grief his mortality is burned away, isolating his divine aspect, his quintessence. Apollo can only come to his son after Orpheus has passed through the emotional furnace of the opera. Hence the god tells him that: Too much, too much did you rejoice In your happy fate, Now too much do you weep At your bitter, hard fortune. Do you still not know How nothing that delights down here will last?30 The brave Orpheus has to be burned by the extremities of mortal life, both in the joy of love and the sorrow of loss, for divine harmony to make itself present in his disposition. This allows his father to “come from heaven to give [him] aid,”31 but it also enables that side to be received as the condition is created in which Orpheus wishes to “rise, singing, to Heaven, / Where true virtue / Has the due reward of delight and peace.”32 The purification of the divine element, that which is closest to the prima materia, within the demigod is reliant on the emotional fire created by his connection to Eurydice. Eurydice’s presence, or lack thereof, in the opera is fascinating, for she is the axis around which the narrative turns yet is present in no more than two acts, her voice heard only once apiece. It may be tempting for the modern audience to explain away such a choice as an act of early modern misogyny, or something similar, to demote the female voice and presence on stage in favor of the masculine. Although not necessarily without grounds, such a reading must ignore both the other female associated voices in the opera, such as the Messenger and goddess Proserpina, as well much alchemical influence on the opera. From the titanic figure of antiquity, Maria the Jewish,33 to the abundance of early modern women alchemists working in the Paracelsian tradition, alchemy is not a tradition deprived of female thinkers.34 An inventor of laboratory apparatus and a variety of distillation processes, Maria’s name was cited alongside Hermies Trismagistus and Zosimus to grant authority to medieval and early modern technical manuals.35 In one such manual, published in 1656, Marie Meurdrac argued “that mind has no sex, and if the minds of women were cultivated like those of men, and we devoted as much time and expense to instructing them, they might be made equal.”36 Although Meurdrac’s work was published almost half a century after Montiverdi’s opera, it is still indicative of the strong female presence within alchemy. In L’Orfeo, the Mes-
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senger, Eurydice’s companion who is given the dreadful duty of informing Orpheus of his wife’s death, sets both music and narrative. Her entrance ends the pastoral melodies of joy and dance, replacing them with lamentation.37 Before she shares the news of death the shepherd’s music has already adopted the tragic mood she introduced,38 and with her command, “Shepherds, leave your singing,” all pastorals end.39 It takes no great analysis of Proserpina to see that it is she who decides to give Orpheus a chance of reviving Eurydice, and convinces Ploto, through light and tactful pleading as well as some toying with his ego, to grant such a thing.40 Without the easy answer of neglect, refuted by women’s presence in L’Orfeo as well as alchemy, Eurydice’s absence becomes more deeply tied to the nature of her connection with Orpheus as an extension of his alchemical composition. During a distillation an alchemist burns the mixture, allowing the lighter, more aethereal element, the quintessence, to escape the darkened dregs of base elements and be collected. Just as Orpheus, particularly his divine aspect, represents the Paracelsian quintessence, Eurydice is the dregs. Striggio and Monteverdi alike assert that in the beginning the two are unified in a single whole: they are one substance, a single mixture. Eurydice sings out, “I will not say that / In your joy, Orfeo, is my joy, / For no longer do I possess my own heart;”41 the orchestra echoes the sentiment of interconnected unison by emphasizing the beginning of the third line with a string flourish abundant in Orpheus’s music.42 The lovers are a single entity, inseparable. To begin the distillation that will isolate Orpheus’s quintessence, one must burn Eurydice into dregs. So she dies and the distillation begins to yield results. It is no coincidence that her death is at the fang of “a deceitful snake/ That was hidden in the grass.”43 A serpent could represent that which “was more subtle than that of any other wild creature” and was expelled with Adam and Eve from Eden,44 as it does cast the hero from the early opera’s pastoral paradise. L’Orfeo does not, however, result in a life of labor and toil for Orpheus, as Genesis does for Adam; instead, it ends with an ascension to the divine. Aside from the snake of Genesis, alchemy has its own iconography for serpents, the ouroboros, a symbol of immortality, eternal youth and therefore the philosopher's stone.45 Eurydice’s death is foreshadowing the result of the opera, the prima materia represented in Orpheus’s immortality. Her first death is purification in the flames of “happy fate” and overwhelming joy.46 The second distillation is far more difficult, for the base elements have become spiritual and refined, but it is done; Eurydice dies her second death in the underworld. Once more her words bonds her to Orpheus when she sings that “through too much love, then, do you lose me.”47 Striggio’s writing joins Eurydice to Orpheus as she looks only at his heart as if she has none of her own, but unlike their marriage, Eurydice’s music no longer echoes her husband's. Before he turns to see her, casting her back to Hades, Orpheus's music is turbulent, the speed and intensity representing his emotions and anxiety as they overcome his reason.48 It is met by the wave of Eurydice’s calm sorrow, the music is slow and the orchestra is minimal, with her words bordering on recitative.49 The jarring contrast between the two emphasizes the separation that Eurydice and Orpheus have un-
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dergone in her first death. She has been reduced and is no longer prominent in the mixture. Eurydice’s absence throughout the opera is necessary as she, being entirely mortal, is representative of the base elements connected to the quintessence of Orpheus and must therefore be purged almost entirely at the beginning of the distillation. Alchemy informs early modern thought and court culture, shaping the arts produced within them, including Montiverdi’s L’Orfeo. The story of the grieving demigod is shaped by the stark absence of Eurydice, the driving force in the plot. Even before her death she goes almost entirely unseen and unheard, only appearing once before the underworld and only then to affirm her connection to Orpheus. It is this connection, the binding of their hearts into one, that demonstrates Eurydice’s iconographic purpose in the opera. She represents the base elements which the distillation shall burn into blackened ash, separated from the quintessence that is Orpheus’s divinity. Her first deaths are the completion of the first two distillations, the first by the fire of joy and the latter and more difficult distillation by the fires of grief. The third and final distillation in the opera, that which brings about the prima materia, is shown in Orpheus’s acceptance of his father’s advice and ascension into heaven and immortality. By following the thread of an alchemical process throughout the opera, the discomforts of Eurydice’s stark absence are resolved as the natural results of the distillation process. Within the court of Duke Vincenzo I Gonzaga, who was a great patron of the alchemical arts, a production assuming some alchemical knowledge would be well founded. This is not to claim that the musical and narrative aspects of the opera were secondary to the alchemical strain running through the work, but that strain informs the narrative and music alike, giving cohesion to the whole and emphasizing the interest of the man for whom it was written and composed. Monteverdi and Striggio are acting towards Paracelsus’s goal of alchemy, to gain greater understanding about the natural world and the divine in L’Orfeo through the musical and poetic arts instead of alchemical distillation.
Notes 1Hughes, Jonathan. The Rise of
Alchemy in Fourteenth-Century England: Plantagenet Kings and the Search for the Philosopher’s Stone, Continuum, 2012, 10. 2Paulo Andre, Joao. “Viewing Scenes of the History of Chemistry through the Opera Glass,” Journal of Chemical Education vol. 92, no. 1, 2015, 68. 3Lindberg, David C. The Beginnings of Western Science, 291. 4Lindberg, The Beginnings of Western Science, 291. 5Grafton, Anthony and William R. Newman. Secrets of Nature: Astrology and Alchemy in Early Modern Europe, MIT Press, 2001, 16. 6Decaen, Christopher A. “Aristotle’s Aether and Contemporary Science,” The Thomist vol. 68, no. 3, 2004, 376.
Babel Volume XXIV | 41 7Martin Žemla, “A Balsamic Mummy. The Medical-Alchemical Panpsychism of Paracelsus,” Intel-
lectual History Review vol. 34, no. 1, 2024, 82. 8Lindberg, The Beginnings of Western Science, 292. 9Sparling, Andrew. “Paracelsus, a Transmutational Alchemist,” Ambix vol. 67, no. 1, 2020, 63. 10Paracelsus, and J. H. (John Harding). Paracelsus His Archidoxes Comprised in Ten Books, Disclosing the Genuine Way of Making Quintessences, Arcanums, Magisteries, Elixirs, &c. Together with His Books of Renovation & Restauration. Of the Tincture of the Philsophers. Of the Manual of the Philosophical Medicinal Stone, Of the Virtues of the Members. Of the Three Principles. And Finally His Seven Books, of the Degrees and Compositions of Receipts, and Natural Things. London: Printed for W.S. and are to be sold by Samuel Thomson at the Bishops Head in Pauls Church-Yard, 1661, 2. 11Paracelsus, Paracelsus His Archidoxes Comprised in Ten Books, 2. 12Paracelsus, Paracelsus His Archidoxes Comprised in Ten Books, 3. 13Paracelsus, Paracelsus His Archidoxes Comprised in Ten Books, 3. 14Monteverdi, Claudio and Denis Stevens. The Letters of Claudio Monteverdi, Cambridge University Press, 1980, 34. 15Sparling, “Paracelsus, a Transmutational Alchemist,” 63. 16Monteverdi and Stevens, The Letters of Claudio Monteverdi, 34. 17 Monteverdi and Stevens, The Letters of Claudio Monteverdi, 34. 18Monteverdi and Stevens, The Letters of Claudio Monteverdi, 34. 19Paulo Andre, “Viewing Scenes of the History of Chemistry through the Opera Glass,” 68. 20Paulo Andre, “Viewing Scenes of the History of Chemistry through the Opera Glass,” 68. 21Striggio, Alessandro. Libretto for L'Orfeo. Translated by Gilbert Blin, Early Music Vancouver, 2012, 20. 22Striggio, Libretto for L'Orfeo, 2. 23Monteverdi, Claudio. L'Orfeo. Directed by Gilbert Deflo, Opus Arte, 2002, Digital Recording, 18:40. 24Paracelsus, Paracelsus His Archidoxes Comprised in Ten Books, 3. 25Striggio, Libretto for L'Orfeo, 2. 26Striggio, Libretto for L'Orfeo, 2. 27Paracelsus, Paracelsus His Archidoxes Comprised in Ten Books, 14. 28Paracelsus, Paracelsus His Archidoxes Comprised in Ten Books, 15. 29Paracelsus, Paracelsus His Archidoxes Comprised in Ten Books, 16. 30Striggio, Libretto for L'Orfeo, 20. 31Striggio, Libretto for L'Orfeo, 19. 32Striggio, Libretto for L'Orfeo, 19. 33Martelli, Matteo. “Greek Alchemists at Work: ‘Alchemical Laboratory’ in the Greco-Roman Egypt,” Nuncius vol. 26, 2011, 281.
42 | Babel Volume XXIV 34Bayer, Penny. “Women Alchemists and the Paracelsian Context in France and England, 1560–
1616,” Early Modern Women: An Interdisciplinary Journal vol. 15, no. 2, 2021, 104. 35Martelli, “Greek Alchemists at Work,” 281. 36Meurdrac, Marie. La Chymie Charitable et Facile. Translated by Kyle Fraser, 2022, 1. 37Monteverdi, L'Orfeo, Digital Recording. 40:1. 38Monteverdi, L'Orfeo, Digital Recording. 40:1. 39Striggio, Libretto for L'Orfeo, 8. 40Monteverdi, L'Orfeo, Digital Recording. 1:37:55. 41Striggio, Libretto for L'Orfeo, 5. 42Monteverdi, L'Orfeo, Digital Recording. 33:55. 43Striggio, Libretto for L'Orfeo, 9. 44Genesis 3:1 (Revised Standard Version) 45Müller, Juliane. “The Alchemical Symbols in the Manuscripts of ‘The Mirror of Wonders’ (Mirʾāt al-ʿajāʾib),” Asiatische Studien vol. 75, no. 2, 2021, 713. 46Striggio, Libretto for L'Orfeo, 20. 47Striggio, Libretto for L'Orfeo, 17. 48Monteverdi, L'Orfeo, Digital Recording. 1:48:10. 49Monteverdi, L'Orfeo, Digital Recording. 1:49:10.
Bibliography Bayer, Penny. “Women Alchemists and the Paracelsian Context in France and England, 1560– 1616.” Early Modern Women: An Interdisciplinary Journal 15, no. 2 (2021). Decaen, Christopher A. “Aristotle’s Aether and Contemporary Science.” The Thomist 68, no. 3 (2004): 375–429. Hughes, Jonathan. The Rise of Alchemy in Fourteenth-Century England : Plantagenet Kings and the Search for the Philosopher’s Stone. 1st ed. London ; Continuum, 2012. Lindberg, David C. The Beginnings of Western Science. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2007. Martelli, Matteo. “Greek Alchemists at Work: ‘Alchemical Laboratory’ in the Greco-Roman Egypt.” Nuncius 26 (2011). Meurdrac, Marie. La Chymie Charitable et Facile, trans. Kyle Fraser. Halifax: 2022. Monteverdi, Claudio. L'Orfeo. Directed by Gilbert Deflo. Opus Arte, 2002. https:// video.alexanderstreet.com/watch/l-orfeo-2. Monteverdi, Claudio, and Denis Stevens. The Letters of Claudio Monteverdi. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980. Müller, Juliane. “The Alchemical Symbols in the Manuscripts of ‘The Mirror of Wonders’ (Mirʾāt
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al-ʿajāʾib).” Asiatische Studien 75, no. 2 (2021): 685–722. Newman, William Royall, Anthony Grafton, and William R Newman. Secrets of Nature : Astrology and Alchemy in Early Modern Europe. Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press, 2001. Paracelsus, and J. H. (John Harding). Paracelsus His Archidoxes Comprised in Ten Books, Disclosing the Genuine Way of Making Quintessences, Arcanums, Magisteries, Elixirs, &c. Together with His Books of Renovation & Restauration. Of the Tincture of the Philsophers. Of the Manual of the Philosophical Medicinal Stone, Of the Virtues of the Members. Of the Three Principles. And Finally His Seven Books, of the Degrees and Compositions of Receipts, and Natural Things. London: Printed for W.S. and are to be sold by Samuel Thomson at the Bishops Head in Pauls Church-Yard, 1661. Paulo Andre, Joao. “Viewing Scenes of the History of Chemistry through the Opera Glass.” Journal of Chemical Education 92, no. 1 (2015). Sparling, Andrew. “Paracelsus, a Transmutational Alchemist.” Ambix 67, no. 1 (2020). Striggio, Alessandro. Libretto for L'Orfeo, trans. Gilbert Blin. Vancouver: Early Music Vancouver, 2012. Žemla, Martin. “A Balsamic Mummy. The Medical-Alchemical Panpsychism of Paracelsus.” Intellectual History Review 34, no. 1 (2024): 75–90.
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The Woman Behind the Myths: A Quest for the Character of Erzsébet Báthory, As Revealed in Her Personal Correspondence Lauren Konok For many, the name Erszébet Báthory calls to mind images of torture, inhuman cruelty, and theatrical scenes such as bathtubs full of human blood occupied by a vain woman desperate to retain her youthful beauty. Accused of torturing and murdering upwards of six hundred and fifty young women and girls, she has gone down in history as one of the most prolific serial killers in history¹. Others even make the strenuous claim that she inspired Bram Stoker’s groundbreaking vampire novel, Dracula². Between the sensationalism surrounding her history and humanity’s love for the perverse,3 Báthory has descended into legend as a sadistic, bloodthirsty woman with lesbian proclivities. Due to the sheer amount of documentation surrounding her case, including testimonies from over three hundred witnesses, few scholars or enthusiasts have dared to question this characterization. Even the modern scholarship on Báthory has its own shortcomings, despite having far greater access to documentation regarding the Báthory case than historical scholars. Modern scholarship is deeply indebted to the work of Kimberly L. Craft, as she has, for the first time, translated many of Báthory’s letters into English, rendering them accessible to scholars who are not familiar with archaic Hungarian.4 Báthory’s personal letters5 reveal a glimpse into her life that is unaffected by the grandeur and mythos that would be layered onto her reputation in later years. Through Craft’s research, I have also been able to create some translations of my own, which will be brought into conversation with Craft’s work. Together, these letters combine a broad spectrum of her lived experiences, ranging from routine household affairs to her political strategizing and to her personal relationship with her husband. Through the close examination of several of these letters, I intend to bring to light and discuss a more subtle version of Báthory, one where the facets of her alleged brutality and her complex life can co-exist, and form a nuanced picture of a real woman with all the intricacies and contradictions that such an existence entails. Báthory’s notes regarding her estate administration reveal her as strict and precise in her business dealings; a letter sent to her friend, confidante and fellow noble Ferenc Batthyány serves to highlight her education, political skills and delicate diplomatic tact, and a letter sent to her husband in regards to the wellbeing of their children demonstrates both her motherly concern and the affectionate nature of her relationship with her husband. This essay strives to bring some of the woman herself back to the forefront of the discussion, and as such is less concerned with her alleged guilt or innocence regarding the crimes of which she is accused, especially of the most abhorrent accusations. In ad-
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dition to the letters themselves, this essay endeavours to provide enough historical context to situate Báthory in the political, social, economic and military turmoil of the times in which she lived. Whilst doing research for this translation, it became readily apparent that Báthory’s reputation was widely accepted as fact largely due to the abundance of contemporaneous documentation regarding her life. This has, ironically and unfortunately, precluded much more thorough scholarship from taking place. A great deal of the early scholarship where Báthory is mentioned is submerged in misogynistic language, particularly from biased Western European travellers who already viewed the East as barbaric, savage, and languishing behind the rest of Europe. An excerpt from John Paget’s travel diary presents an image of the people as coarse: “I should say they are […] rather too regardless of those little elegances of manner which distinguish good society in the rest of Europe.”6 Additionally, Paget depicts them as unreasonably nationalistic: “I know that many of them will feel sufficiently sore at seeing national defects held up to the gaze of foreigners; but I think the wiser of them will easily forgive me, when they reflect that others would have been sure to find out these defects if I had not, and might perhaps have discussed them with less charity.”7 In Paget’s account, the Viennese are particularly mistrustful of the Magyars8: “No roads! no inns! no police! we must sleep on the ground, eat where we could, and be ready to defend our purses and our lives at every moment! In full credence of these reports, we provided ourselves most plentifully with arms, which were carefully loaded, and placed ready for immediate use.”9 This distaste and fear of the East indeed extends even further back in time, as illustrated by an anecdote from the diary of Françoise de Motteville, written in 1645. Motteville acted as a lady in waiting for Anne of Austria, who was the regent Queen of France at the time. On the occasion of writing, a Polish delegation had arrived for a proxy wedding between the Polish king, Ladislaus IV and Marie Louise Gonzaga. Motteville wrote that the Polish delegates, “who are now the neighbours of the Turks, seem inclinable in some measure to ape the grandeur and majesty of the seraglio.”10 According to Motteville, “there is something in their magnificence, which looks very savage,”11 and the Polish delegates were “for the most part so fat and slovenly, that they are loathsome.”12 She was, however, forced to concede that “our French people instead of laughing at them, as they had intended, were forced to commend them.”13 This anticipation and subversion of ethnic expectations demonstrates the extent of the prejudice against the people of Eastern and Central Europe. With this framework of distrust of the East already in place, narratives coming from that region are already viewed with suspicion and interpretation. A poignant example of this is the anecdote on Báthory from Paget’s travel diary. Paget first published the accounts of his travels in 1839, and dedicated a considerable amount of time and energy to comment on Báthory’s alleged crimes, writing that she was: “remorseless by nature, and now urged on by that worst of woman’s weakness, vanity.”14 This introduction to Báthory as not only cruel and barbaric due to her ethnic background, but also due to her having fallen victim to distinctly feminine sins is a hallmark of her presence in literature. Even women who engage in scholarship on the psychology of women’s
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crimes fall into the trap of presenting rumours and assumptions as fact. Patricia Pearson’s book does not endeavour to break this tradition of Báthory scholarship, as she states: “but we have never heard of the mid-fifteenth-century Countess Elizabeth Báthory, of Hungary, who bled to death 610 peasant girls, whom she abducted and kept in her castle dungeon so that she could fill rejuvenating beauty baths with their youthful blood.”15 The blood bathing myth may be perhaps the most persistent and infamous of the rumours surrounding Báthory’s activities, while interestingly, no such allegation can be found in the contemporaneous court documents nor trial transcripts. This particular legend can be traced back to László Turóczi, a Jesuit priest16 who discovered the court transcripts in the 1720s.17 He used them as an original source for his book, titled Ungaria suis cum Regibus Compendio Data, where he first extrapolated this story from the trial documents. Eventually, Turóczi was in turn used as a source by the noted, accreditable Slovakian historian Matej Bel for his work Notitia Hungariae Novae Historico Geographica, or “New Historical and Geographical Information About Hungary”: a political, historical and geographical encyclopaedia on Hungary, first published in the 1730s.18 These personifications of Báthory lack both reflection and nuance, and fail to account for the historical attitudes and societal traditions of the time. Báthory’s sordid reputation can trace its roots to not only her lifetime, but even prior to her birth. Báthory was born into a family with complex political affiliations, in the midst of a desperate struggle for power in eastern Europe. Not only were there near constant skirmishes with the Ottoman Empire,19 but the Báthory family had recently become political enemies with the powerful Hapsburg family. In the sixteenth century, Hungary was in political turmoil when King Louis Ⅱ died in battle against the Ottomans. He was without a legitimate heir to the throne and two contenders stepped forth: Ferdinand I of the Hapsburgs and János Szapolyai, who was the preferred choice among the nobility.20 The Báthory clan had long been divided into two branches: the Ecséd branch supported the Hapsburg claim to the throne, while the Somlyó branch staunchly backed Szapolyai.21 This rift was healed when Erzsébet’s parents, Anna and György Báthory, united both branches of the Báthory clan through marriage. This caused strife with the Hapsburgs, for when György married Anna he withdrew his allegiance from the Hapsburg clan and instead pledged himself to Szapolyai.22 While the marriage united the family internally, the alliance ensured that the offspring of the union would inherit political tensions and turmoil. Born into this difficult environment, Erzsébet came to play a key role in royal politics, particularly after her marriage. On May 8th, 1575, at fourteen years of age, Erzsébet was wed to nineteen year old Ferenc Nádasdy at the behest of their two extended families.23 24 By all accounts, the wedding was lavish, and even the Holy Roman Emperor Maximillian II sent a delegation laden with gifts, including (according to a letter written by the Emperor himself) “a silver-overlaid goblet or a pitcher and basin valued at 200 Thaler25 … a goblet worth 100 Thaler … Rudolf, King of Hungary and Archduke Ernst of Austria, should also provide cups worth 150 Thaler, as well as have the credenza inscribed.”26 The wedding was representative of the enormity of the combined wealth of the cou-
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ple, including their landownings. This vast affluence spread out across such an extensive geographical region portended great difficulties. Not only were lands vulnerable to attack and repossession, but peasant revolts were not uncommon at this time. Báthory soon proved herself as a savvy and shrewd business woman, effectively running over twenty castles and dozens of towns that spanned thousands of acres and across five countries, including modern day Austria, Romania, Hungary, Slovakia, and the Czech Republic.27 The letters related to her household affairs reveal her to be strict and exacting with her dealings. In one missive she instructs Imre Vasváry, the overseer of the family mills, to “give a stone of wheat to Benedek Balas at the mill. We have not agreed to anything more.”28 Such precision would be a necessary quality in order to successfully run the many properties and industries for which Báthory was responsible, as she was largely in control of estate administration. While her husband Nádasdy was away in campaigns against the Ottoman Empire, Báthory was left to maintain the household and affiliated responsibilities.29 This was not uncommon for Hungarian women of the era, as the ongoing armed conflicts ensured that many husbands were away at war, and that many widows were left behind.30 This places strain on the theory that Báthory was feared and reviled by men in power due to her wealth and widowhood, as a woman acting independently of her husband (living or deceased) was not an unusual phenomenon for the time. Her shrewd business manners and impatience for incompetence are readily apparent in further letters to Vasváry. In a letter dated January 23rd, 1589, Báthory invokes her husband as a threat against Vasváry, stating: “you are well aware that, if God’s peace brings my husband back, you will have to answer and explain what you are doing.”31 While Báthory may have been running the household during the extended times her husband was at war, it can be inferred that Vasváry was not always as obedient to her as was expected of him. In a later letter, Báthory again reminds him of her expectations, and that excuses will not be tolerated: But you should know, Your Grace, that these provisions should have been sent to us last week. Therefore, for next Saturday send to us all that you are accustomed to send, and even the provisions for the week to come or, lo, you will see our anger, for we expect guests and also my husband to return home. For tomorrow evening, send fish and crayfish. You explain/excuse yourself that you were distributing food to the poor, but we placed you in our office to administer our estates.32 Báthory’s refusal to accept excuses and her clear expression of displeasure do not align with the narrative of a weak woman who was incapable of managing not only her own affairs, but dozens of administrative tasks, but rather that she was sharply observant, intelligent, and incredibly aware of the goings on in her household. Even among the nobility, Báthory was known for having a sharp eye for discord and an excellent sense of diplomacy. I took the liberty of translating a letter that demonstrates her delicate negotiation and tactical skills, as well as her complex role in a political web that extended across eastern Europe. A great many of her surviving letters can be found in the Batthyány family archive—
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amongst them her correspondence with Ferenc Batthyány. A close friend and confidant, their letters display a deep personal friendship that is intertwined with their shared political interests. Their letters display several curious characteristics, among them how Báthory addresses Batthyány. Despite her status, wealth, reputation, and political influence, Báthory repeatedly defers to Batthyány, calling him her son and her lord, (fiamnak translates as “to my son”)33 as can be seen in the translated letter below. She frequently refers to him as “kigdneh”, translated as “your Grace”, however this can be seen in her letters to her staff, where she shows considerably less submission and politeness. Her referral to herself as his mother (“Annija”) adds another layer of complexity to their dynamic, for although the word ‘mother’ implies a certain level of personal intimacy and closeness, it also suggests a subtle power dynamic: mothers are typically seen as deserving respect and deference from their children. This seemingly discordant choice of words demonstrates her affection towards him as a friend and extended family member, while also demonstrating respect and deference for his nobility and political position, and yet finely restating her own status. This deference to Batthyány is not only a preventative mechanism designed to maintain the favour of a powerful friend, but highlights her vulnerable status not as a widow, but as a woman whose resources are stretched thin and who must maintain the order and security of her property holdings. By remaining politically useful and closely ingratiated with her fellow nobles, she can assure protection for her family and property, should the need arise. The letter in question is dated to March 27, 1608, four years after the death of her husband. It concerns some political manoeuvring involving a general assembly. Little context is given as to why the letter was written and to which general assembly it refers, but there is enough to deduce that she felt it prudent to warn Batthyány of any potential political repercussions stemming from the general assembly and its objectives. At your service, your Grace, I send well wishes to my Lord and son. May God grant your Grace continued health and happiness. As Mistress, I wish for you to understand that this letter is not only from myself but also from other lords and responsible friends, who have fair hands. 34 We heard, through a conversation, that a general assembly has been called in this way to be given on the 20th day of April. And that then, now the very wounded bailiff Viczi shall announce it. I consider that the meeting should continue no more than three days, but Vegs would be selected. Rest assured, we have the money and used it, I know that the lords will be cared for and can trust in your Grace. It is certain that I write a letter to you but choose not to document it, but of this letter let you know what is on my mind. It is not documented inasmuch that several more have been sent to your Grace for such as that of which I have written in my letter to your Grace. May God continue to grant your Grace with good health and happiness. 27th of March, 1608 Good wishes from your Mother, at your Grace’s service,
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Erzsebet Bathory P. Scripta (Postscript): If such has been written, your Grace, that gives more information, write to me with your reply.35 Spectabili ac Magnifico domino D. Francisco de Botthijan Sac: Ca’s: Regia’gz Mittis Consiliar: etc. Domino ac filio mihi fem per observandissimo.36 The letter ends with a Latin sign off, which remains a consistent feature across her letters to Batthyány. It translates to: “To be considered by my praiseworthy Lord Sir Francis of Batthyány, holy: fortunate: send me your Royal counsel, et cetera. Master and my son, observe by means of me.”37 This use of multiple languages including the scholarly Latin is a demonstration of her linguistic abilities and education, further proof of her intellectual prowess. Here, she characterises herself as not only seeking his advice “Send me your Royal counsel”, but also as offering support and her own observations “observe by means of me”. This mutual understanding of the value of political insight and acknowledgement of their shared interests paints a picture of Báthory as being known and respected for her knowledge of political affairs and how they might influence the shared lives and holdings of the nobility. Báthory’s letters to her husband also reveal a great deal of concern for the wellbeing of her children. She opens the letter with terms of endearment, calling Nádasdy her “beloved husband.”38 As this was a private letter, she would have had little reason to use disingenuous affectionate terms, particularly as her husband was often away at war and they spent vast stretches of time apart. Her word choice implies a genuine affection for her husband, and this concern continues for her children when she goes on to describe the state of her daughter’s oral health. She writes: “Regarding Kata, however, there is a problem in her mouth: namely, rot has spread there, such that even the jawbone is infected. The Barber poked about the middle of the tooth with an iron—he says it was a stroke of luck that not a single tooth fell out.”39 Here, Báthory shows genuine care and concern for her daughter, she could have easily referenced Kata’s health troubles in passing, and merely mentioned that they had had a barber-surgeon see her. Instead, she remembers his words and the diagnosis, and recounts them to her husband. Nádasdy saw his children infrequently due to his military obligations, and that Báthory took the time to write to him on their wellbeing demonstrates a level of concern for them as well as a desire to keep her husband informed on even the more mundane domestic affairs. As can be seen from the documentation surrounding her life, trial, and death, Erzsébet Báthory was a complex woman. On the one hand, she was accused of torturing and murdering hundreds of innocent girls, on the other she is presented as a victim of gender and political conspiracies—a woman who was taken down by men in power who were afraid of her wealth and in-
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fluence. As a collective, humanity has always been fascinated by the macabre and perverse, and equally by those accused who are proven innocent. In this struggle between two opposing views of Countess Báthory, she became lost, as did many Eastern European women of the Early Modern period. Eastern Europe has long been viewed as backwards and coarse, leading not only to prejudice but a noted reduction in available scholarship from those regions. This leaves a perfect gap for Báthory to fill: either as a self-fulfilling prophecy as a product of her times and ethnicity, or as an innocent victim and scapegoat who suffered due to the era in which she lived and misconstrued ideas of gender, power, and sexuality. While there is no doubt that the image of Báthory as a bloodthirsty, murderous tyrant will continue to endure in the collective consciousness and popular media, it would do her a great disservice to neglect the glimpses into her character that can be found in her personal correspondence. One can see that she was a shrewd business woman, a strict employer, a politically savvy noblewoman, and a dedicated mother. There is even evidence of her attempting to enact justice on behalf of a peasant woman who was robbed,40 further complicating the question of her character. Although she may not fit neatly into the character slots construed by the public, or conform strictly to the roles of either a sadistic serial killer with no regard for human life or a powerful but well-meaning victim of a great conspiracy, she was above all else a human being, with all the complexities associated with that designation. Through her letters, it is possible to once again come to appreciate, in some capacity, the woman behind the myths.
Notes 1“Most Prolific Female Murderer.” Guinness World Records, www.guinnessworldrecords.com/world-
records/most-prolific-female-murderer. 2Kelly, Amy Eloise. “Elizabeth Báthory - between Fact and Fiction.” History of Royal Women, 5 Aug. 2023. 3Williams, Anne. “Dracula: Si(g)ns of the Fathers,” 452 4While I relied heavily on Craft’s work, particularly her extensive collection of translations of Báthory’s letters, she lacks consistent and accurate citations throughout her work. Therefore, I approached her work with caution, and searched for some measure of support for her claims. 5Unfortunately, even supposedly scholarly sources have rarely bothered to return to the primary sources on Báthory’s life, making it a very difficult task to even find the original letters in question- I was able to do so through the Batthyány family archives, see:https:// adatbazisokonline.mnl.gov.hu/adatbazis/batthyany-missilisek-p-1314/hierarchia 6Paget, John. Hungary and Transylvania: With Remarks on Their Condition, Social, Political and Economical, 12 7Paget. Hungary and Transylvania, viii
Babel Volume XXIV | 51 8The ethnic and linguistic term for the Hungarian people
9Paget. Hungary and Transylvania, 2 10Jasienski, Adam. “A savage magnificence: Ottomanizing fashion and the politics of display in
early modern east-Central Europe,” 2 11Jasienski. “A savage magnificence,” 2 12Jasienski. “A savage magnificence,” 2 13Jasienski. “A savage magnificence,” 2 14Paget. Hungary and Transylvania, 68 15Pearson, Patricia. When She Was Bad: How and Why Women Get Away with Murder, 156 16It is important to note here that Turóczi’s loyalty was to the Catholic church, and his work on the Protestant Báthory should be approached with caution as there was a great deal of religious turmoil in Bathory’s and Turóczi’s day (Bledsaw, 5) 17Craft, Infamous Lady, 168 18Craft, Infamous Lady, 168 19Espejo, “The Prince of Transylvania”, p. 515 20Craft, Infamous Lady, 6 21Craft, Infamous Lady, 6 22Craft, Infamous Lady, 41 23The parents of both Báthory and Nádasdy had died by this time, necessitating the involvement of extended family members (Craft “Infamous Lady” 41). 24Craft, Infamous Lady, 6 25The Thaler was a silver coin with widespread use throughout Europe, and the predecessor of the modern dollar. A cup worth 200 Thaler was thus an extremely valuable gift to give the newlyweds. 26Quoted in Craft, Infamous Lady, 40 27Craft, Infamous Lady, 44 28Quoted in Craft, Infamous Lady, 60 29Craft, Infamous Lady, p. 52 30Bledsaw, “No blood in the water”, 26 31Quoted in Craft, Kimberly L. The Private Letters of Countess Erzsébet Báthory, 28 32Quoted in Craft, Private Letters, 29-30 33The spelling in the letter itself is ‘fijamnak’, and the ij can be substituted with the modern loan letter ‘y’, thereby changing the word to ‘fyamnak’. From here, the word can be extrapolated to be ‘fiamnak’; with ‘fiam’ meaning the possessive form ‘my son’, and the suffix ‘nak’ meaning ‘to’. 34In this context, fair hands means someone with nothing to gain, or someone acting in good faith 35Hungarian translation by Lauren Konok and Dr. George Konok
52 | Babel Volume XXIV 36Note on the translation: Translating even one of Báthory’s letters took hours of work. This is
due not only to the difficulties of reading cursive (the ‘E’s resemble ‘I’s and almost everything that could be construed of as a ‘B’ was actually an ‘S’), the alphabet itself being under evolution (there was no letter ‘Y’ in Báthory’s time, instead a combination of ‘ij’ was used. Thus, I had to change every ‘ij’ into a ‘Y’ for translation purposes), and the struggles of translating a foreign language in a specific dialect into modern Hungarian, then English, before adjusting the grammatical structure and syntax to make it easier to comprehend. 37Latin translation completed with the generous assistance of Dr. Joseph Angel, Ph.D Emeritus Professor Biochemistry, Microbiology & Immunology 38Quoted in Craft, Infamous Lady, 74 39Quoted in Craft, Infamous Lady, 74 40Craft, Private Letters, 92
Works Cited Báthory, Erzsébet. Letter HU-MNL-OL-P 1314-2252., March 27, 1608. Batthyány Missiles. https://adatbazisokonline.mnl.gov.hu/adatbazis/batthyany-missilisek-p-1314/hierarchia. Bledsaw, Rachael Leigh. “No blood in the water: The legal and gender conspiracies against countess Elizabeth Bathory in historical context.” Illinois State University ISU ReD: Research and eData, 20 Feb. 2014, https://doi.org/10.30707/etd2014.bledsaw.r. Craft, Kimberly L. Infamous Lady: The True Story of Countess Erzsébet Báthory. Kimberly L. Craft, 2014. Craft, Kimberly L. The Private Letters of Countess Erzsébet Báthory. Craft, K. L., 2011. Espero, Carmen. “The Prince of Transylvania: Spanish News of the War against the Turks, 1595– 1600.” News Networks in Early Modern Europe, Brill, 2016, pp. 512–541. Jasienski, Adam. “A savage magnificence: Ottomanizing fashion and the politics of display in early modern east-Central Europe.” Muqarnas Online, vol. 31, no. 1, 19 Oct. 2014, pp. 173–205, https://doi.org/10.1163/22118993-00311p08. Kelly, Amy Eloise. “Elizabeth Báthory - between Fact and Fiction.” History of Royal Women, 5 Aug. 2023, www.historyofroyalwomen.com/elizabeth-bathory/elizabeth-bathory-countess-dracula/ #:~:text=It%20is%20widely%20believed%20that%20Bram%20Stoker%20was,the% 20Impaler%20when%20he%20wrote%20Dracula%20in%201897. Lawhead, Rachel. “The Trial of Countess Elizabeth Báthory: Developing a Defense for Dame Dracula and Deconstructing Dominant Damsels.” University of Minnesota Twin Cities, University of Minnesota Twin Cities, 2019, pp. 1–62. “Most Prolific Female Murderer.” Guinness World Records, www.guinnessworldrecords.com/worldrecords/most-prolific-female-murderer. Accessed 22 Apr. 2024. Paget, John. Hungary and Transylvania: With Remarks on Their Condition, Social, Political and Economical.
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Vol. 1, John Murray, 1839. Pearson, Patricia. When She Was Bad: How and Why Women Get Away with Murder. Penguin Books, 1998. Williams, Anne. “Dracula: Si(g)ns of the Fathers.” Texas Studies in Literature and Language, vol. 33, no. 4, 1991, pp. 445–463.
Linguistic Tools Mahoney, Kevin D. “Quaere!” Latin Definitions for: (Latin Search) - Latin Dictionary and Grammar Resources - Latdict, www.latin-dictionary.net/search/latin/. Accessed 22 Apr. 2024. Szabó , Attila T. “Transylvanian Hungarian Verbal History Museum.” Magyar Elektronikus K, mek.oszk.hu/08300/08370/pdf/emszt_12.htm. Accessed 22 Apr. 2024. “Translation into Hungarian - Dict.Com Dictionary.” Lingea, www.dict.com/hungarian-english/no. Accessed 22 Apr. 2024.
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Written in the Margins: The Autonomy of Anne Boleyn in Her Books of Hours Màiri Jacobs In Eric Ives’s seminal biography The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn, he describes the controversial Queen as a woman of intense complexity, holding intellect and ambition in her political, religious, and social beliefs.1 In the almost 500 years since her death, Anne Boleyn remains an enigmatic figure of history, with her image arguably being manipulated by historical, religious, and political factions as seen fit. What little artifacts that survive from her life offer fascinating and crucial understanding into her beliefs, personality, and how she shaped the Tudor and reformation era of England. One of the most fascinating objects of Anne’s that we still have today are her books of hours, specifically her Use of Saurum, circa 1526. Anne’s Book of Hours, Use of Saurum is one of three of her surviving books of hours. Usually on display at the British Library, the book was loaned to the National Portrait Gallery in 2024 for the exhibition Six Lives: The Stories of Henry VII’s Queens. Anne’s books of hours provide fascinating insight into late medieval prayer books, their usage by women, and their role in the reformation. The books also offer a glimpse of Anne’s courtship with Henry VIII through their surviving annotations, as well as Anne’s own religious views and autonomy. In the preservation and study of these books of hours, we can better understand Anne Boleyn’s life through cultural context and her own writing, allowing for some clarity in her complex life.
Books of Hours: from Medieval to Early Modern Books of hours are medieval prayer books that were frequently used from around 1200-1700 A.D.2 Originally designed for ordained members of the church, these books became popular with non-lay members and were used in order to promote personal piety and understanding of church dogma.3 Wendy Stein, art historian in the Metropolitan Museum’s Department of Medieval Art writes that “no two [books of hours] are exactly alike, although they share one group of devotions.”4 The devotions, as mentioned by Stein, were prayers meant to be said at multiple periods, or hours throughout the day.5 Outside of these devotions, Books of Hours were practically customizable, and patrons could decide on any secondary texts to include in their commissioned book. Stein notes that these could contain a calendar, gospel lessons, and prayers to saints.6 The customization of these books would engage in the discussion of the gospel and dogma, and it is evident that these were intended to foster a deeper relationship to one’s piety and god. It is important to note that while these books further fostered piety and religious practice outside of the church, these texts were mostly kept by members of wealthier classes and nobility due to the exu-
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berant production costs of the book, as well as the discrepancy between the literacy levels of the classes. The expense involved in the production However Stein notes that as literacy rates grew during the Middle Ages, so too did the demand for books and books of hours.7 One demographic of the population that held a special relation to books of hours were women. In “Medieval Women Book Owners” Susan Goreg Bell writes that in the later Middle Ages: [w]omen frequently bought and inherited religious as well as secular books and spent considerable time reading them. In particular, as readers of vernacular literature, as mothers in charge of childhood education, as literary patrons who commissioned books and translations, and as wives married across cultural and geographical boundaries, women had a special and unique influence.8 The relationship between women and books in the Middle Ages is a somewhat forgotten aspect of the period. Groeg-Bell further writes that towards the late Middle Ages, women began to assemble libraries with the wealth of books and manuscripts that they owned.9 She gives the example of Isebeau of Bavaria, who owned “nine books of hours and sixteen books of devotion. 10 Books of Hours in particular were important texts to women in the late Middle Ages, and aided in allowing them autonomy in their religious beliefs and teachings. Groeg-Bell gives examples of English noblewomen, including Cecily, Duchess of York and Margaret Beaufort who both commented on the importance of the devotional prayers in their daily routines.11 Books of Hours were essentially ingrained in medieval women’s life, and were common gifts to be given to young girls for their religious education.12 Groeg-Bell also notes that the late Middle Ages saw a rise in vernacular literature, many of whose readers were women.13 The rise of vernacular literature and the increasing autonomy in personal religious piety laid the foundations for the protestant reformation of the 16th century.14 In the context of Anne Boleyn’s surviving books of hours, it can be argued that she would have been gifted or passed down these books as well. Anne’s remaining two books of hours currently are on display at Hever Castle, the historical seat of the Boleyn family. One of the two books dates to around 1410-1450, and it is likely that this had been passed down to her.15
Je Anne Boleyn: Anne’s Books of Hours and Use of Sarum
Figure 1: Anne Boleyn’s Book of Hours, Use of Saurum c. 1526. On display at the National Portrait Gallery.
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The figure above showcases the object in question: Anne Boleyn’s Book of Hours, Use of Saurum. In The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn, Eric Ives describes these Books of Hours as being “more akin to jewels than books,” and argues that this lavish design showcases Anne’s enthusiasm for the manuscripts.16 Out of the three Books of Hours attributed to Anne, this one holds significance for its etched messages and love notes between Henry VIII and Anne. Figure 2 Below showcases one of Henry’s messages to Anne during their courtship. This would have been written whilst Henry was trying to obtain a divorce from his first wife, Katherine of Aragon. Henry writes to Anne in French, and his writing translates to, “‘If you remember my love in your prayers as strongly as I adore you, I shall hardly be forgotten, for I am yours.’”17
Figure 2: Page from Book of Hours, Use of Saurum depicting Christ as the man of sorrows with inscriptions from Henry VIII to Anne Boleyn. Courtesy of the British Library (MS King’s 9, f. 231v) It is important to note that Henry chose to write his message to Anne under an image of Christ as the man of sorrows. Henry is comparing his pain and lovesickness for Anne to the suffering of Christ. Henry’s suffering, as he depicts in his writing, could also be attributed to his desire and failed attempts to produce a male heir. Anne seems to understand this in her message and tactfully chooses a corresponding image to respond to Henry’s writing.
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Figure 3: Page from the Book of Hours, Use of Saurum depicting the annunciation of Mary with inscriptions from Anne Boleyn to Henry VIII. Courtesy of the British Library (MS King’s 9 f. 66v) Figure 3 above showcases the corresponding message from Anne to Henry. Anne writes in English, “‘By daily proof you shall me find/ To be both loving and kind.’”18 Anne chooses to write her message under an image depicting the Annunciation of the Virgin Mary. Anne’s choice to write under this image is a thoughtful one, as she is promising Henry both love in return (as written in her message), and a son and heir to the throne of England (as depicted in the image of the Annunciation). It is also important to note that part of this page with Anne’s writing has been torn off (better seen in Figure 1). It is likely that the damage to this page was done after her execution, in an attempt by Henry VIII to erase her authorship from the page. As previously mentioned, Anne’s remaining two Books of Hours are on permanent display at Hever Castle. The first of these manuscripts dates to around 1410-1450. Eric Ives describes this book as, “lavishly decorated, with thirty three large illuminations plus twenty-two small and one historiated initial within fine foliage borders enriched with flowers, fruits and grotesques.”19 This Book of Hours is certainly Anne’s most elegant, and chose to write her inscriptions in this book in French, one example being in Middle French, “‘le temps viendra / je anne boleyn.’”20 Anne’s second Book of Hours at Hever Castle reflects late 15th century initiatives to make these manuscripts cheaper and more accessible to members of lesser nobility and the middle class.21 These less elaborate books were cheaper to produce and therefore more accessible. Stein notes that while
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these books were more accessible, “[they] never attained the appeal of the finest handmade copies.”22 In viewing these Books of Hours and understanding their historical context and personal significance to Anne, a clear narrative can be made about the importance of these books: 1. These books showcase Anne’s early courtship with Henry VIII, and having these manuscripts gives us first-hand documentation of their relationship amidst Henry’s divorce from Katherine of Aragon and split from the Catholic Church. 2. These manuscripts showcases Anne’s own religious devotion, in her enthusiasm for the books, and it could be argued that Anne had a devotion to or particular reverence for the Virgin Mary based on her choices in inscriptions 3. The manuscripts highlight an instance of how women acted as book owners in the late Middle Ages and in Early Modern Europe.
Reclusivity, Resurrection, and Restoration The fact that there are three known Books of Hours attributed to Anne Boleyn is nothing short of a miracle. Anne Boleyn was executed in 1536 under charges of adultery, incest and treason. It is almost certain that these charges were false, and Ives theorizes that Anne’s death was likely engineered by Thomas Cromwell and out of Henry VIII’s desire to marry Jane Seymour for another chance to gain an heir to the English throne.23 In an interview with The Telegraph, former Hever Castle steward Kate McCaffery was quoted as saying, “Henry encouraged a widespread erasure of Anne from history after her execution,”24 which would’ve included her Books of Hours. McCaffery, a masters student in the United Kingdom, used ultraviolet lighting on the latter of Anne’s Books of Hours at Hever Castle, to reveal erased and lightly written inscriptions in the book. McCaffery believes these writings to be from the Hill family, including Elizabeth Hill, a friend of Anne’s at court.25 It is likely that after Anne’s execution this manuscript was passed down in the family, potentially making its way to Queen Elizabeth I.26 The significance of McCaffery’s findings highlight a new understanding of these manuscripts and the lives they lived after Anne’s execution. Through the restoration of these Books of Hours, as well as the irreplaceable damage done to them, we can understand the afterlife of Anne Boleyn in the Tudor court, and the threat that was imposed on her memory. Nonetheless, three of Anne’s Books of Hours still remain and provide crucial, concrete information of Anne Boleyn’s life, said in her own words.
Notes 1Ives, Eric William. The Life and Death of
Anne Boleyn: “The Most Happy,” xiv-xv
Babel Volume XXIV | 59 2Stein, Wendy A. “The Book of Hours: A Medieval Bestseller.” The Met’s Heilbrunn Timeline of
Art
History, paragraph 2 3Wieck, Roger S. Time Sanctified: The Book of Hours in Medieval Art and Life, 26 4Stein, “The Book of Hours,” paragraph 2 5Stein, “The Book of Hours,” paragraph 2 6Stein, “The Book of Hours,” paragraph 3 7Stein, “The Book of Hours,” paragraph 3 8Bell, Susan Groag. “Medieval Women Book Owners: Arbiters of Lay Piety and Ambassadors of Culture.” Signs vol. 7, no. 4, 1982, 743 9Bell, “Medieval Women Book Owners,” 750 10Bell, “Medieval Women Book Owners,” 750 11Bell, “Medieval Women Book Owners,” 752-753 12Bell, “Medieval Women Book Owners,” 753 13Bell, “Medieval Women Book Owners,” 743 14Bell, “Medieval Women Book Owners,” 742 15Allen, Lisa. “Castle Objects of the Month: Anne Boleyn’s Books of Hours.” Hever Castle, 25 Apr. 2024, paragraph 3 16Ives, pg. 239 17Bernard, G. W. “Anne Boleyn’s Religion.” The Historical Journal vol. 36, no. 1, 1993, 7 18Bernard, “Anne Boleyn’s Religion,” 7 19Ives, The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn, 239 20Ives, The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn, 240 21Ives, The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn, 240 22Stein, “The Book of Hours,” paragraph 14 23Ives, The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn, 315-319 24Simpson, Craig. “Anne Boleyn’s Book of Hours Secretly Saved by Female ‘Solidarity.’” The Telegraph (19 May, 2021), paragraph 8 25Simpson, “Anne Boleyn’s Book of Hours Secretly Saved by Female ‘Solidarity,’” paragraph 12 26Simpson, “Anne Boleyn’s Book of Hours Secretly Saved by Female ‘Solidarity,’” paragraph 14
Works Cited Allen, Lisa. “Castle Objects of the Month: Anne Boleyn’s Books of Hours.” Hever Castle, 25 Apr. 2024, www.hevercastle.co.uk/news/castle-object-of-the-month-books-of-hours. Bell, Susan Groag. “Medieval Women Book Owners: Arbiters of Lay Piety and Ambassadors of Culture.” Signs vol. 7, no. 4, 1982, pp. 742–68. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3173638. Bernard, G. W. “Anne Boleyn’s Religion.” The Historical Journal 36, no. 1 (1993): 1–20. http://
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www.jstor.org/stable/2639513. Ives, Eric William. The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn: “The Most Happy.” Blackwell Publishing, 2004. Lerer, Seth. “Literary Prayer and Personal Possession in a Newly Discovered Tudor Book of Hours.” Studies in Philology vol. 109, no. 4, 2012, pp. 409–28. http://www.jstor.org/ stable/24392011. Simpson, Craig “Anne Boleyn's Book of Hours Secretly Saved by Female ‘Solidarity.’” The Telegraph, 19 May, 2021. https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2021/05/18/anne-boleyns-prayerbook-secretly-saved-female-solidarity/. Stein, Wendy A. “The Book of Hours: A Medieval Bestseller.” The Met’s Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History, https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/hour/hd_hour.htm. Wieck, Roger S. Time Sanctified: The Book of Hours in Medieval Art and Life. G. Braziller and Walters Art Gallery, 1988, pp. 26–148. https://kerkcultuur11tm14eeuw.wordpress.com/wp-content/ uploads/2013/03/time-sanctifide.pdf.
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Players of the Game: A Feminist Analysis of Power in Troilus
and Cressida Morag Brown With a conflict between Greek and Trojan military powers as its backdrop, Troilus and Cressida is fundamentally about power. The play’s most explicit focus on power is within a military context; the unravelling of the power structures in the Greek camp prompted by Achilles’ refusal to fight and Ulysses’ strategies and schemes to restore these structures form one of the major narrative arcs of the play. But in its parallel narrative arc focused on domestic relationships in the Trojan court, specifically on Troilus’ courtship of Cressida, the play also deals with power in the context of domestic rather than military relationships. The subtler power dynamics at work in the domestic relationships at the court are evident in Pandarus’s desire to unite Cressida to Troilus so as to obtain power by earning the good opinion of a powerful prince, and Cressida’s scheme to avoid committing herself to Troilus so as to maintain the power and value she holds as an unwon object of desire. Cressida’s relation to the power structures that surround her is especially significant because, due to both her gender and the precarious social position she occupies due to her father’s treachery, Cressida has very little power, or as some critics have argued, none at all in her relationships. In the article “Not Saying No: Female Self-Erasure in Troilus and Cressida,” Grace Tiffany responds to earlier analyses of Cressida’s character. Tiffany argues that critics have either condemned her as the false and morally culpable “Cressida as wanton”1 without recognizing that her choices are limited by “the oppressiveness of a patriarchal environment,”2 or have characterised her as the passive and powerless “Cressida as victim”3 without acknowledging her personhood or granting her any capacity for choice. Tiffany sets out to present a critical approach that acknowledges Cressida’s oppression while simultaneously ascribing her agency by arguing that Cressida chooses to participate in her own oppression and erasure, writing that “at every turn, she chooses either not to speak or to acquiesce in male discursive practices”4 which eventually silences her voice, “thus accomplishing a virtual self-erasure from Shakespeare’s play.”5 This approach, one that sets out to identify agency and choice in Cressida’s actions, can be taken even further. Instead of concluding that, despite initially having some degree of choice, Cressida relinquishes that choice by suppressing her voice, this approach can identify agency even in the silence and wit that Tiffany argues suppress Cressida's voice and diminish her autonomy. It is in fact possible to understand Cressida’s silence and wit as part of a strategic approach to her relationships that Cressida adopts in the interest of preserving her safety, security, and what little power she has.
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In addition to allowing for a reading of Cressida’s character that grants her further power and autonomy, this approach elucidates the complex intersection between the domestic, Trojan love narrative and the military, Greek war narrative. The first act of the play introduces these two narrative arcs as if they are separate and distinct, but these narratives, and the domestic and military spheres that they unfold within, are interconnected and inseparable. Their interconnectedness is subtly evident from the very beginning of the play when the prologue introduces the Trojan war: Sixty and nine that wore Their crownets regal, from th’Athenian bay Put forth to Phrygia, and their vow is made ransack Troy, within whose strong immures The ravished Helen, Menelaus’ queen, With wanton Paris sleeps - and that's the quarrel.6 Originating in a domestic conflict over Helen of Troy, the Trojan war fundamentally involves both military and domestic spheres. Because the war forms the larger narrative that contains them both, the smaller narratives in the play necessarily participate in this dualism. Despite this shared context, these two narratives and their respective spheres seem separate until they eventually converge when Cressida is abruptly removed from the romance narrative unfolding in Troy and enters the military narrative unfolding at the Greek camp. With Cressida’s crossing over, the two narrative arcs converge. As Achilles demonstrates when he tells Hector, “Tomorrow do I meet thee, fell as death; / Tonight all friends,”7 by the end of act four, the distinctions between Greek and Trojan, military and domestic, and strategy and courtship have disintegrated. This disintegration evident when Ajax and Hector meet as military opponents but depart together as friends and cousins, when Trojans and Greeks feast together together as friends while remaining military enemies, and when Cressida’s confession to Diomedes—which so closely parallels her earlier confession to Troilus—is strategically employed by Ulysses to further his war schemes. This collapse reveals the superficiality of the distinctions between domestic and military relationships. Examining Cressida’s character provides insight into this superficiality because Cressida herself demonstrates the interconnectedness of military and domestic spheres even before she acts as the catalyst that brings them together. As the daughter of Calchas, a former Trojan who defected to the Greek army, Cressida occupies a liminal position between the Greek camp and the Trojan court. Her precarious position leaves her at the mercy of military decisions; the fact that her liminality means that Cressida is not assured security at the court becomes evident when, despite protesting, “I have forgot my father,”8 and “I will not go from Troy,”9 the Trojans accept her father Calchas’ militarily advantageous proposal that the Trojan prisoner Antenor be used to, as Calchas puts it, “buy my daughter.”10 For Cressida, Ulysses’ military world of schemes and strategy and Troilus’ domestic world of courtship and love are inseparable, as her domestic relationships are
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inherently fraught with military significance. Understanding the interconnection of the domestic and the military in Cressida’s relationships provides insight into her significance in the play, while also enabling a reading of her character that views her approach to ostensibly domestic relationships as almost militaristic in its strategy. An interpretation of Cressida’s strategic wit and silence as evidence of her liminal position between the play’s two narratives and spheres challenges Tiffany’s argument that Cressida’s wit and silence are evidence of her “voluntary sacrifice of independent self expression.”11 Tiffany begins her argument by asserting that: “The key action by which Cressida relinquishes authorship of her own identity is the surrender of her voice.”12 Tiffany notes that “Cressida voices herself—reveals, that is, her fundamental desires and interests—only rarely in the first three acts,”13 and that in acts four and five, “Cressida hardly speaks at all and shares no private thoughts in soliloquy.”14 It is worth noting, however, that Cressida is not the only major character who rarely reveals their private thoughts, desires, and interests. Ulysses, for example, never shares his private thoughts, either in soliloquy or dialogue, and he does not voice the desires and interests that motivate his schemes. However, in Ulysses’ case, because his social position grants him much more power than Cressida has, and because his voice is unquestionably present and active in implementing his schemes despite not revealing his internal thoughts, his silence cannot be attributed to a surrender of his voice. Instead, Ulysses’ silence can be best understood as being strategic and used to pursue his interests and desires rather than to suppress or relinquish them. This interpretation of silence as strategic rather than self-suppressing can also be applied to Cressida, who, as she makes clear when she states that she depends “upon my wit, / to defend my wiles,”15 uses her cunning and intelligence to further her own schemes, much like Ulysses. Unlike Ulysses, however, Cressida does voice the interests and desires that motivate her schemes in at least in one instance: in her soliloquy in act one, Cressida states “though my heart's content firm love doth bear, / Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear.”16 She reveals that despite loving Troilus, she will remain silent about her feelings, knowing that, because her power is derived from her value to others, and because “Men prize the thing ungained more than it is,”17 she will have more value and power if she stays silent about her love than she will if she accepts Troilus as a lover. The fact that her silence in this instance is part of a scheme suggests that, throughout the play, Cressida’s silence is similarly strategic rather than indicative of an erasure of her identity and voice. Tiffany also asserts that, like her silence, Cressida’s wit serves to suppress her true desires. In reference to Cressida’s witty evasion of Pandarus’s entreaties that she become Troilus’s lover, Tiffany claims that “The wit she deploys here, seen by some as an expression of her best self, is actually a protective strategy, produced in her encounters with men and designed for self-shielding. She loses this wit in her rare moments of honesty, as when she confesses her love to Troilus.”18 Tiffany acknowledges that Cressida’s wit is strategic when she describes it as “a protective strategy,”19
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but claims that its strategic goal is dishonest to Cressida’s true desires. Tiffany’s assumption that it is possible to accurately identify honesty in someone who states that she relies “upon my secrecy, to defend mine / honesty,”20 runs the risk of offering an overly simplified interpretation of Cressida’s complex and nuanced character. It would be equally possible and just as simplistic to argue that Cressida is honest when she wittily repudiates her confession, saying “Perchance, my lord, I show more craft than love,”21 and that, rather than being honest, Cressida’s confession is, as she suggests, all part of a scheme. Because Cressida’s true motivations and desires are, as Tiffany points out, seldom revealed, and because her ability to either express or pursue them is limited by the oppressiveness of her environment, it is impossible to identify where Cressida chooses to be honest without being reductive. Although Tiffany argues that “holding Cressida responsible for her moral choices, which include acquiescence in her own oppression, does her, and us, a service,”22 identifying Cressida’s dishonesty or other moral failings is not necessary in a critical approach that seeks to ascribe her agency. Fundamentally, Tiffany’s argument concerns Cressida’s agency, not her morality, and what matters is not whether she is or isn’t honest, but whether she is choosing to be honest or not. By concluding that Cressida’s agency extends only to her choice to relinquish that agency by dishonestly suppressing her voice, Tiffany ends up granting Cressida a very limited and short lived form of agency. By instead interpreting Cressida as strategic—as having autonomy that extends to calculated choices that she makes throughout the play—it is possible to ascribe to Cressida a more powerful and lasting form of agency, regardless of whether she is honest or not. Interpreting Cressida as strategic also allows for a recognition of the ambiguity and unknowability of Cressida’s true desires without necessitating an attempt either to identify her moral failings, or to resolve the ambivalence that is both central to her character and representative of her liminal position between the military tactics of the Greek camp and the domesticities of the Trojan court. Cressida’s ambiguity and her position in the intersection of the play’s military and domestic narratives reflect central aspects of the play itself. In keeping with its status as one of Shakespeare’s problem plays, Troilus and Cressida is complex, ambiguous, inconclusive, and defies genre. The confusion and eventual collapse of the distinctions between the play’s domestic and military narratives contribute to its complexity and expose the fact that power dynamics are similarly at work in both contexts, despite being foregrounded in the military context. Because she is continuously involved in both contexts, a critical approach that seeks to ascribe agency to Cressida by reading her as strategic provides insight into the power dynamics present in both spheres of the play. Reading Cressida as having agency necessarily entails reading Cressida as having the power to make her own choices. This is a power that she has been denied by the numerous critical evaluations of her character that have, as Tiffany recognises, echoed Ulysses’ judgement that the women in Troilus and Cressida are “sluttish spoils of opportunity / And daughters of the game”23—in other words, passive and powerless objects that are exchanged within a game that privileges male de-
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sire. Interpreting Cressida as an active and strategic player in the game, rather than or even as well as a spoil of it, is essential for a reading of Troilus and Cressida that approaches its complex and nuanced power dynamics with an equal degree of complexity and nuance.
Notes 1Tiffany, Grace. “Not Saying No: Female Self-Erasure in Troilus and Cressida.” Texas Studies in Lit-
erature and Language, 44. 2Tiffany, “Not Saying No,” 47. 3Tiffany, “Not Saying No,” 44. 4Tiffany, “Not Saying No,” 51. 5Tiffany, “Not Saying No,” 51. 6Shakespeare, William. Troilus and Cressida,5-10. 7Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, 4.5.267-68. 8Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, 4.2.94. 9Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, 4.2.107. 10Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, 3.3.267. 11Tiffany, “Not Saying No,” 45. 12Tiffany, “Not Saying No,” 45. 13Tiffany, “Not Saying No,” 45. 14Tiffany, “Not Saying No,” 45. 15Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, 1.2.245-46. 16Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, 1.2.280-81. 17Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, 1.2.275. 18Tiffany, “Not Saying No,” 48. 19Tiffany, “Not Saying No,” 48. 20Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, 1.2.246-47. 21Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, 3.2.143. 22Tiffany, “Not Saying No,” 44. 23Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, 4.5.62-63.
Works Cited Shakespeare, William. Troilus and Cressida. Edited by Kenneth Muir, Oxford University Press, 1982. Tiffany, Grace. “Not Saying No: Female Self-Erasure in Troilus and Cressida.” Texas Studies in
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‘Sisters Are Doin’ It for Themselves’: A Look at the Gender Divide in Jane Austen’s Emma Clara Easley Jane Austen’s Emma depicts a Regency-era society where male-dominated spaces prevail and where the women of the community are often pushed aside and dismissed. The women of the novel react to this exclusion by strategically exacerbating the division of the genders, both through their interactions with men and their relationships with other women. In a society that seeks to ostracize them, the women achieve a greater sense of agency and empowerment by intentionally separating themselves from men and asserting their own intelligence. They reassure themselves that men are not separate because they are “better”, but merely because the two genders are fundamentally different. Highbury’s gentlemen consistently perpetuate the notion that all decisions and emotions stemming from women are, by nature of their origin, destined to be foolish and unworthy of consideration. In response, the female characters defend their intellect by reassuring themselves that the gentlemen’s masculinity simply prevents them from ever understanding the feminine experience. Both women and men attribute all empathetic failures of the opposite sex to gender essentialism; women refuse to believe a man could have any valuable insights into issues that solely affect women, and vice versa. Mr. Knightley and Emma, the two characters most prone to bashing heads, frequently dismiss one another's perspectives throughout the novel, due to their difference in gender. Mr. Knightley criticizes Harriet’s decision to refuse Mr. Martin’s offer of marriage by calling her “a greater simpleton than I ever believed her.”1In response, Emma abruptly brushes off all his opinions on the subject, for “it is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. A man always imagines a woman to be ready for anybody who asks her.”2 Though Mr. Knightley’s original comment is devoid of any attempt to understand Harriet’s point of view, Emma’s immediate dismissal of his concerns on the grounds of his gender creates no room for him to try for a more nuanced view of the situation. By immediately shutting him down and declaring him incapable of ever understanding what Harriet could be thinking, Emma is perpetuating the idea that men and women can simply never comprehend one another. In her view, Mr. Knightley’s masculinity does not make him inherently better or more intelligent than her but instead blinds him to certain truths about the feminine experience, rendering him unable to understand the perspective of a lady. Mr. Knightley goes on to assert himself as the absolute authority on male preference; though Emma “know[s] that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every man delights in,”3 he states that “[m]en of sense, whatever [Emma] may chuse to say, do not want silly
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wives. Men of family would not be very fond of connecting themselves with a girl of such obscurity.”4 According to him, no matter what Emma may think, he ultimately knows best what gentlemen want out of a marriage, and she must accept it even though she will never be able to understand this frame of mind. When they part ways, she reassures herself that his critiques mean nothing of consequence–she was still “a better judge of such a point of female rights and refinement than he could be.”5 Emma frames his inability to empathize with Harriet’s situation as a defect stemming from his masculinity, not as a failing of his personal compassion. In a society where there is a vast and ever-growing divide between men and women, it comes as no surprise that strong bonds tend to form in people of the same gender. The women band together and create their own social cliques to combat the exclusionist tendencies of male spaces; this unification births an “us versus them” mentality that further pits the two genders against one another. Mrs. Elton is adamant about beginning a music and social club exclusive to the married women of Highbury, for “[s]omething of that nature would be particularly desirable for [her], as an inducement to keep [herself] in practice; for married women, you know–there is a sad story against them, in general. They are but too apt to give up music.”6 While married men have plenty of time to continue their hobbies and maintain clubs and societies–such as the cards group hosted at the Crown Inn– “a married woman has many things to call her attention.”7 Though Mrs. Elton’s music club is snubbed by Emma, the ladies still meet and converse regularly enough to form a sense of alliance with one another and collectively come to each other’s defence when the gendered social groups butt heads. While inspecting the Inn in preparation for Mr. Weston’s ball, Mrs. Weston complains of the dirty and run-down looks of the place. Her husband chastises her particularity, saying that “[the men] never see any thing of it on [their] club-nights.”8 At this comment, the group immediately splits down the middle– “[t]he ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, ‘Men never know when things are dirty or not;’ and the gentlemen perhaps thought each to himself, ‘Women will have their little nonsenses and needless cares.’”9 Their differences in opinion are written off as consequences of gender; neither group takes real steps to understand the opinions of the other side. While the gentlemen continue to uphold their misogynistic view of women’s opinions as “nonsense”, the women unite to defend their intelligence and counter with an equally disparaging opinion of men’s ability to perceive the world around them. Instead of submissively accepting the gendered criticism, the ladies of Highbury band together against the gentlemen and maintain their sense of adequacy. By separating themselves from male figures and asserting their own sufficiency, an understanding is fostered between the ladies in the society. Even if there is animosity between two women, there is still a mutual feeling of community and the expectation that they should be looking out for each other ‘against’ men. This is readily demonstrated through Emma’s relationship with Jane Fairfax, who she can hardly stand for the greater part of the novel. Emma admits that she never felt the kind of sisterly bond she was expected to feel with Jane, who was so close to her age and
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similar to her in almost every way. “I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death,”10explains Emma to Harriet. Even though she feels some animosity towards Jane, Emma continues to inquire after her and shows some compassion along with her disdain for her situation in life. There is an understanding that whether she likes it or not, Emma still has a social obligation to Jane because of their gender and similar social standing. This perceived obligation leads to some regret on Emma’s part when she shares her belief of Jane’s attachment to Mr. Dixon to Frank Churchill at a party, as “[s]he doubted whether she had not transgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of Jane Fairfax’s feelings to Frank Churchill.”11Though she holds some resentment for Jane, Emma understands that she still had a moral imperative–a “duty of woman by woman”12–to hold Jane's suspected feelings in confidence and knows it had been “hardly right”13 to divulge her suspicions to Frank. They are still a part of a sisterhood, bound by virtue of their gender to defend each other’s personal lives against men, whether they feel any particular love for each other. The ladies and gentlemen of Highbury share many similarities–a love for drama, social gatherings, and marital gossip–but from their perspectives, the two genders could not be more different. Instead of submitting to the patronizing chastisements of men, women levy the perceived divide between the genders for their own gain to maintain a sense of self-worth and authority over their lives. Brushing off male opinions on feminine matters, uniting with other women in the face of male criticism, and fostering a feeling of sisterhood even with ladies who they dislike, the women each contribute to a growing sense of female empowerment and autonomy. Though they are limited to working within a patriarchal framework, Emma’s female protagonists force their opinions to be heard, even if it means silencing the voices of men around them.
Notes 1Austen, Jane. Emma. Edited by John Mullan, Oxford University Press, 2020. pp 48 2Austen, Emma, 48
3Austen, Emma, 50 4Austen, Emma, 51 5Austen, Emma, 52 6Austen, Emma, 212 7Austen, Emma, 212 8Austen, Emma, 194 9Austen, Emma, 194 10Austen, Emma, 69 11Austen, Emma, 177
12Austen, Emma, 177
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Works Cited Austen, Jane. Emma. 1815. Edited by John Mullan, Oxford University Press, 2020. Franklin, Aretha & Eurythmics. “Sisters Are Doin’ It For Themselves” Who’s Zoomin’ Who?, 1985. Spotify.
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From Habsburg to Bourbon: An Evaluation of the Reigns of Carlos II and Philip V Elizabeth Carter Introduction In November 1700, Carlos II died childless, marking the end of nearly two centuries of Habsburg rule in Spain. This launched a succession crisis in Europe, culminating in Philip of Anjou being chosen as the heir in Carlos’ will. He was crowned Philip V, the first Bourbon king of Spain. This paper will seek to understand the transition of power between these two monarchs and their impact within Spain. This period is additionally marked as a time of decline within Spain, and as such, I will specifically focus on the efforts taken to reform the Spanish economy and government in both reigns. One challenge in writing this paper is grappling with the conflicting historiographical depictions of the two monarchs. In terms of Carlos II, there has been significant scholarship throughout the centuries, which discredited Carlos as a weak and passive ruler who was largely responsible for the decline of Spain. Much of this scholarship would then paint Philip V, and later Bourbon monarchs, as the saviours of Spain. The Bourbons would be credited with saving the economy and modernizing the country. Recent scholarship has sought to complicate this idea. Scholars such as Henry Kamens and Christopher Storrs argued that this portrayal resulted from the ensuing Bourbon presence in Spain. In this paper, I want to further examine this binary portrayal of both the reigns of Carlos and Philip and ultimately discard it for a more nuanced view of their reigns. Both Carlos and Philip inherited a Spain in decline and had to work on reforming the various institutions within the monarchy, with varying degrees of success. Neither is completely responsible for its destruction nor its salvation. To examine this, I structured this paper into three sections, following the chronological sequence of events. The first section will discuss the reign of Carlos II. It will evaluate the monarchy that he inherited from Philip IV and then examine the reforms he made under his rule. Then, this paper will examine his death and the ensuing War of Spanish Succession. Lastly, I will analyse Philip V and his reforms. In doing so, a clear understanding of Spain’s economy and monarchy, as well as both Carlos II and Philip V, can be made.
Carlos II The reign of Carlos II has been traditionally viewed as being in a constant state of decline.
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However, a growing revisionist study of his rule has allowed for more complexity. Spain was facing economic and political problems before his reign and was not caused by his rule. Despite this, one must examine if this decline continued with Carlos II. This section will evaluate the reforms of the last Habsburg monarch and whether they worked to alleviate the decline of Spain or exacerbate it. Ultimately, it will show how Carlos was able to effectively conserve the monarchy and help limit the growth of inflation. Before the reign of Carlos II, the Spanish economy was in decline. Charles P. Kindleberger conducted an analysis of the Spanish economy in his text World Economic Primary, in which he argued that the Golden Age of Spain occurred from the Catholic Monarchs to the death of Philip II, after which Spain was then in decline. A major factor in this shift was the increase of silver in the Spanish economy, following the discovery of the Potosí Mountain in 1545. As expected, this increase had a significant impact on inflation in Spain, which plagued Spain throughout the seventeenth century and reached its peak between 1670–1680, as noted by Henry Kamen in his analysis of the decline of Castile. Now that it has been established that the decline within Spain did not begin with Carlos II, it is important to look at the rule of Carlos and evaluate whether he worked to ameliorate these issues or exacerbate them. Philip IV died on September 17th, 1665, and Carlos succeeded him as king. However, Carlos was only four years old at his father’s death, and as such, Philip IV stated in his will that Carlos’ mother, Mariana of Austria, would be appointed regent until Carlos reached 14, in 1675. However, it is important to note that Mariana had little experience in government and chose to rely on her confessor, Father Nithard. Nithard was a polarizing figure in the Spanish courts, with many nobles distrustful of him as an Austrian foreigner. Nithard was later removed from power by Don Juan Jose de Austria, a recognized but illegitimate son of Philip IV. In February of 1669, Don Juan marched into Madrid with an army of 1000 and demanded the removal of Nithard. These strong personalities surrounded Carlos at court, and they all had a great influence on him. This negatively impacted the perception of Carlos’ rule, as many felt that he had no personal agency, but instead was manipulated by those in this life. Christopher Storrs challenged this idea and added complexity to Carlos’ reign. He argued in his text The Resilience of the Spanish Monarchy: 1665-1700 that Carlos was a relatively active monarch, noting that in the summer of 1691, Carlos was quite involved in the implementation of financial reforms. It was also stated that Carlos would sometimes have the councils and juntas meet in his presence. Additionally, Carlos’ concerns impacted many of the policies made during his reign, even when he was not actively involved in the decision, as noted by the bishop of Solsona in 1695. Carlos felt that he held certain responsibilities to the monarchy, namely the conservation of it, which was a central issue of his government. While it is not fair to suggest that Carlos was an active monarch, comparable to Louis XIV of France, one must still acknowledge the influence that he held and the way that he engaged in the policies and government during his reign.
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One early challenge to the conservation of the monarchy occurred through the War of Devolution. This conflict has its roots in the marriage of Louis XIV and the half-sister of Carlos, Maria Theresa of Spain, in 1659. Before her marriage, Maria Theresa was the heir presumptive to the Spanish throne following the death of her brother, Charles Balthazar. However, when her father had a son with his second wife, Mariana of Austria, she was displaced in the line of succession. This coincided with the Peace of the Pyrenees, the end of the war with France, and as such, a marriage between Maria Theresa and Louis XIV was proposed. Upon her marriage, Maria Theresa had to renounce her rights to the Spanish throne. However, in 1667, the lawyers of Louis XIV argued that since France had not been paid the dowry of Maria Theresa, the renunciation of her rights was deemed invalid and passed to her husband, Louis. Furthermore, Louis cited an old law, titled the right of devolution, which barred children of second marriages from being able to inherit. Thus, Carlos II’s claim to Spain was void, and the territory belonged to Maria Theresa, which became Louis XIV’s territory through marriage.. Louis used this law to argue control over much of Spanish territory, especially in the Spanish Netherlands, leading to wars between the Spanish and France. The frequent wars that occurred during Carlos’ reign led to a strain on the economy, which was already in decline before Carlos. As a result, finances were a critical concern of his reign. Expenditures in 1678 totalled nearly 20,000,000 ducats, and much of the money spent would have been related to the war and defence, with only 2,400,022 vellon escudos budgeted for non-war expenditures. This would equal about one-eighth of the overall budget. It is important to note the contrast between the amount spent and the amount that was raised from the subjects. Compared to the reign of Philip IV, Carlos did not create any taxes and removed some that were created by his father. However, to raise money to cover the war expenditure, Carlos reduced the budget for nonmilitary spending by appropriating the salaries of officials. Depending on the year, this might have been simply taking a percentage of their salaries, or the entire salary might be appropriated. Through these salary cuts, the government of Carlos II sought to reduce costs. Another significant financial issue during this time was inflation. As previously discussed, this was an issue before the reign of Carlos, but at the beginning of his reign, inflation rose throughout Spain, peaking between 1670–1680. Several solutions were proposed and enacted to deal with this inflation. One system, enacted on October 14th, 1686, fixed the premium of silver on new vellon reáles at 50%. The old coin, which was still at 50% from 1680, was raised to 87.5%. Kamen argued that this system was relatively successful and was able to stay fixed for the remainder of the century. This started a steady regrowth in the economy, which lasted up to the end of the century. Carlos II had a reign marked by decline and, in the traditional perception, has been portrayed as a weak, inactive ruler. However, one can see that there were pre-existing issues in Spain that were resolved during the reign of Carlos II and arguably allowed for a better transition to the Bourbon dynasty. The issue of inflation plagued Spain for over a century, but through the curren-
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cy reforms of 1686, it was able to be controlled and contained. However, central issues remained in Carlos, namely those of the administrative system, which had been criticized for its ineffectiveness. This would be one of the large issues of Philip V, who sought to centralize the monarchy and its domain. Overall, Carlos II worked to overcome challenges that were set out by his predecessors, as well as other countries. In doing so, he allowed for the succession of Philip V, with a monarchy that was relatively preserved.
The Transition from Habsburg to Bourbon: The War of Spanish Succession From the beginning of Carlos’ reign, it was evident across Europe that he would not produce an heir. The expectation was that he would die young and without a named successor to the Spanish empire. As such, the European countries began to plan for this outcome, looking to claim any potential territory, notably that of Spain and its empire. This was largely done through treaties, which were created throughout the reign of Carlos. The two main participants were the French king, Louis XIV, and Emperor Leopold I of the Holy Roman Empire, who was also a Habsburg. They agreed to a secret partition treaty on January 19, 1668, when Carlos II, then seven, had been on the throne for three years. This treaty divided the Spanish empire between the two monarchs However, this plan had to be reevaluated when Carlos did not immediately die, going on to live decades longer than predicted. This led to other countries vying for control over the fate of the Spanish Empire. Leopold soon gained the support of William III of Orange, who ruled England and the United Provinces. Numerous treaties were signed during the reign of Carlos II, which divided up his territory among the different powers. It is important to understand that neither Carlos nor Spain were in favour of such partitions, wishing instead for a single heir to rule all of Spain. Carlos and his wife favoured the Austrian archduke, Charles, as heir, but significant anti-German sentiment at the Spanish court meant that in June 1700, when the council of state convened in Madrid, they voted almost unanimously for Louis’ candidate, Philip of Anjou. As a result, Carlos wrote his will on October 2nd, 1700, naming Philip as his successor for the entire monarchy. The will that made Philip heir to the Spanish monarchy was very carefully crafted. Many elements of the will were included to ensure that the Spanish Crown would not fall under French control. This is discussed in Álvaro Silva Soto’s text Entre Austrias y Borbones: Derecho y Razón de Estado en la Sucesión de Carlos, wherein Silva Sota analyzed the legal aspects of the will and why certain elements were included. One example was that Philip was the second son of the Dauphin, not the Dauphin himself. Silva Soto argued that based on the leyes Partidas, the statutory code of Castile, it should have been the Dauphin with the strongest claim to the Spanish throne. However, had the Dauphin been chosen for the Spanish crown, it would have led to the union of Spain and France, which Carlos II wanted to avoid. As such, Philip of Anjou was chosen to be his heir, having re-
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nounced his right to the French throne. Rather than abide by the Partition treaty, which would have divided the Spanish empire amongst the various world powers, Louis XIV chose to accept the will, and Philip was named the heir. A month later, in November of 1700, Carlos died, leaving Philip to succeed him as monarch. Understandably, this caused tension among the other European powers, who had agreed to split the power of the Spanish Empire. By May of 1702, the Grand Alliance, largely led by England and the United Provinces, declared war on France and Spain, marking the beginning of the Spanish War of Succession. Portugal later joined the Allies in 1703, leaving the Bourbons with only French aid to help fight against the British, Dutch, Germans, and Portuguese. The Allies made great advances into Spain but were quickly met with counter-offensives by the Bourbons. The war went back and forth, with the regions being switched between the Bourbons and the Allies. By 1711, the Bourbons had regained the majority of Peninsular Spain, with the Allies contained to Igualada, Tarragona, and Barcelona. Kamen argued that two main factors led to the end of the war. First, in 1710, England elected a new government, which was Tory and committed to ending the war. Then, in April 1711, Emperor Joseph died, meaning that Charles was the new Holy Roman Emperor and ruler of the Austrian Habsburg monarchy. As a result, England chose to withdraw from the war, not wanting Charles to have complete control of Habsburg territory. A peace conference was initiated in Utrecht and formally concluded on April 11, 1713. It dictated that Spain, and the Indies were guaranteed to Philip V, who, in turn, was required to renounce his right to the French throne. In addition, Spain lost territory in Europe; the Spanish Netherlands was given to the Holy Roman Empire, and Sicily was given to Savoy. The War of Spanish Succession resulted in the placement of Philip V as the successor to Carlos II and marked the transition of the Habsburg Dynasty to the Bourbon Dynasty. It is no surprise that this war had significant consequences for the economy, which would soon face significant reform under Philip V. However, it is not just the financial system that was reformed but also the administrative system. This is particularly relevant in the relationship between the monarchy, the nobility, and the Aragonese. The next section will further explore the reign of Philip V as the new Bourbon monarch and his impact on Spain.
Philip V When Philip V came to the Spanish throne, he launched a series of reforms with the intent of centralizing the authority of Spain. The most significant reforms occurred in the economy and tax system, the administration of the government, and the relationship between the various kingdoms of Spain, namely, Aragon. One recurring theme throughout his reforms was the influence of French ideas, namely that of centralization and the monarchy’s authority. Kamen argued that the Habsburg monarchy had significant debt, and the taxation system was
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so flawed that it failed to help alleviate the debt. Various reforms to fix the system during the reign of Carlos failed, and it wasn’t until the beginning of Philip V’s reign that saw the implementation of a new taxation system. This was outlined in the Nueva planta, which set to increase the various councils to allow for better ministerial guidance. Kamen argued that this system, as well as changes in the way that the accounts were recorded, was based on the French system. This made the taxation system significantly more efficient and led to a centralization of finances into one treasury for the whole peninsula. However, it is important to note that despite these changes, there was no real change in the financial state of Spain. At the beginning of the Spanish War of Succession, the archbishop of Toledo, Cardinal Portocarrero, who was the frequent regent for Philip V, wrote a letter signalling his retirement from politics. In that letter, he stated the problems of the kingdom. One of those issues was the high nobility. Cardinal Portocarrero stated that the nobility in Spain was overly decadent and had no interest in administration, thus resulting in an inefficient and weak bureaucracy. While these concerns were already apparent and had been stated before, Cardinal Portocarrero wrote them at a time when the new Bourbon government was looking to reform the administrative system. In these reforms, the most significant change happened to the grandees, the high nobility of Spain, who dominated the government. Kamen argued that the Bourbons lessened the power of the grandees and replaced them with lower nobility, who began to occupy key administrative positions, most commonly that of intendants. Previously used in France to monitor and administer parts of the country, it was implemented in Spain to help centralize power. Philip V also changed the relationship between the various kingdoms of Spain. He centralized them under the authority of the monarchy and disregarded their fueros, or previous laws and traditions. This can be further explored through the impact of Philip V on Aragon, as contrasted by the relationship that the Habsburgs held with Aragon and the other main kingdoms of Spain. The Habsburgs followed a composite policy, where the sovereign ruled over a series of territories, and all swore loyalty to him. So long as they pledged their loyalty, each territory could have its own administrative, fiscal, legal, and other institutions, and the ruler was expected to respect them. There would typically be a viceroy, who would oversee the territory on behalf of the monarch, and this figure would have been chosen by the monarch. It is important to first consider the impact of the Aragonese actions during the War of Spanish Succession and Philip V’s response. During the war, the kingdom of Aragon declared their loyalty to the Austrian Archduke Charles in 1705. When Aragon was recovered in May 1707, Philip V soon made a decree, abolishing the fueros. As a result, Aragon lost the significant independence that it had while under Habsburg rule. As a result, they had to submit to new tax reforms, as well as a new administrative system, which was based on the overall Spanish monarchy. Their armies and navies were also incorporated into the Spanish military. This was done to centralize key kingdoms in Spain and work to unite their institutions with that of the monarchy.
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Philip V began his rule with the War of Spanish Succession, but immediately following it, he began to reform much of the Spanish government and other institutions. He favoured centralization as a model, in which one can see the influence of his grandfather, Louis XIV, and that of France. He worked to reform the tax system, using methods from the French to help make the collection system more efficient. Additionally, using the idea of the intendant, Philip lessened the power of the grandees and installed lower nobility to monitor the Spanish territories. Finally, he abolished the fueros in Aragon, which worked to centralise the territories of Spain. While Philip did not see significant economic recovery under his rule, he worked to make the overall system more efficient, allowing for better support in future years.
Conclusion This paper set out with the intent of examining the reigns of both Carlos II and Philip V and the transition between the Habsburg and the Bourbon dynasty. Both monarchs dealt with a considerable economic decline both before and during their reigns. In evaluating their response to these circumstances, one can get a sense of their influences, as well as the overall global context. For Carlos II, the idea of conserving the Spanish monarchy was instilled in him at a very young age. As such, much of his policy and concerns were based on maintaining the territory that he had inherited despite the economic pressures. Philip V, coming from France, was accustomed to the idea of centralized authority. As such, he immediately worked to centralise the tax collection system and the government, even abolishing the fueros of other kingdoms. In terms of success, neither achieved complete economic recovery, or even progress, during their reign. However, that does not mean to suggest that their actions were deemed failures. Carlos was able to fix the rate of the coin for nearly two decades after significant levels of inflation. As well, Philip made the various institutions significantly more efficient, allowing for better control and maintenance over the Spanish territory. By analysing the reigns of both Carlos II and Philip V, we better understand their reforms and impacts. Additionally, it allows for a close evaluation of the transition between the Habsburg and Bourbon dynasties and an examination of their differences in administration and rulership.
Notes 1 Christopher Storrs. The Resilience of
the Spanish Monarchy 1665-1700. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, Incorporated, 2006). Accessed November 17, 2022. ProQuest Ebook Central. 8 2 Charles Kindleberger, World Economic Primary: 1550-1990, (Cary: Oxford University Press, Incorporated, 1996), ProQuest Ebook Central. 3 Henry Kamen, “The Decline of Castile: The Last Crisis,” The Economic History Review 17, no. 1
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(1964): 75, https://doi.org/10.2307/2592691. 4 Storrs, Resilience, 154. 5 Storrs, Resilience, 165. 6 Storrs, Resilience, 166. 7 Álvaro Silva Soto, Entre Austrias y Borbones: Derecho y Razón de Estado en la Sucesión de Carlos, (Madrid: Dykinson, 2020), 306. 8 Vellon Escudos, made from silver (vellon) refers to the Spanish currency during the 17th century. Ducats, as referenced earlier, refers to the trade currency concurrently used throughout Western Europe. 9 Storrs, Resilience, 112-113. 10 Storrs, Resilience, 106-107. 11 Kamen, The Decline of Castile, 75. 12 Kamen, Castille, 76. 13 Henry Kamen, The War of Succession in Spain 1700-15, (London: Cox & Wyman Ltd., 1969), 2. 14 Kamen, War, 3. 15 Silva Soto, 360. 16 Kamen, War, 17. 17 Kamen, War, 23. 18 Kamen, War, 199. 19 Kamen, War, 203. 20 Kamen, War, 108. 21 Christopher Storrs, The Spanish Resurgence, 1713-1748, The Lewis Walpole Series in EighteenthCentury Culture and History, New Haven: Yale University Press, 2016. https://searchebscohost-com.ezproxy.library.dal.ca/login.aspx? direct=true&db=e000xna&AN=1362432&site=ehost-live. 169. 22 Storrs, Resurgence, 173.
Bibliography Geevers, Liesbeth. “The Miracles of Spain: Dynastic Attitudes to the Habsburg Succession and the Spanish Succession Crisis (1580-1700).” The Sixteenth Century Journal 46, no. 2 (2015): 291– 311. http://www.jstor.org/stable/43921242. Kamen, Henry. “The Decline of Castile: The Last Crisis.” The Economic History Review, 17(1), (1964): 63–76. https://doi.org/10.2307/2592691. Kamen, Henry. The War of Succession in Spain 1700-15. London: Cox & Wyman Ltd., 1969. Kindleberger, Charles P. World Economic Primacy: 1550-1990. Cary: Oxford University Press, Incorporated, 1996. ProQuest Ebook Central.
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Silva Soto, Álvaro. Entre Austrias y Borbones: Derecho y Razón de Estado en la Sucesión de Carlos. Madrid: Dykinson, 2020. Storrs, Christopher. The Resilience of the Spanish Monarchy 1665-1700. Oxford: Oxford University Press, Incorporated, 2006. Accessed November 18, 2022. ProQuest Ebook Central. Storrs, Christopher. The Spanish Resurgence, 1713-1748. The Lewis Walpole Series in EighteenthCentury Culture and History. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2016. https://searchebscohost-com.ezproxy.library.dal.ca/login.aspx? direct=true&db=e000xna&AN=1362432&site=ehost-live.
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A Difference in Manner, not Matter: A Theological Defense of Anne Conway’s Metaphysics Mark Mann In the 17th and 18th centuries, Western philosophy saw an influx of metaphysical systems of philosophy and the natural world. New ideas, which challenged Aristotelian and scholastic thought, formed the basis of a new approach to philosophy itself. Anne Conway was one of these philosophers: who, despite not being able to attend formal school, built a metaphysical system of the universe with the goal of uniting and reconciling several schools of philosophy. Conway’s main philosophical influence came from the Cambridge Platonists. She was very interested in Cartesian philosophy and her philosophical system of the natural world attempts to resolve the issues of Descartes’ mind-body dualism, while challenging the strict materialism of figures like Thomas Hobbes. Conway’s English contemporaries were less likely to accept or take seriously a system of the world which could not be reconciled to the Christian faith. I argue that this is a key goal of Conway’s system, and provides a path to defending her philosophical ideas. Although Conway’s philosophy has largely been overlooked, scholars credit her work as a key influence on the metaphysics of Leibniz, who is generally regarded as one of the more influential German philosophers of the 18th century. Conway’s only work of philosophy, The Principles of the Most Ancient and Modern Philosophy, was published posthumously in 1690. It includes her metaphysics, an in depth theodicy, and a wide ranging critique of Descartes and Hobbes. I will first explain the key aspects of her metaphysics concerning natural substance, and then examine its compatibility with two specific Christian doctrines. The first essential claim Conway makes is that there are only three substances in the universe: God, Christ, and the creatures. God is a single entity, who is immutable and wholly perfect. Christ serves as the mediator between God and the creatures, and can change only for the better. The creatures, or creation, which for Conway refers to everything on Earth, is infinitely mutable. Interestingly, Conway’s metaphysics differs from other 17th century metaphysics in that she argues that all of creation is composed of one distinct substance: spirit. Everything on Earth is made of spirits, which are arranged in a multitude of ways. These spirits can differ greatly in manner from each other, making the immaterial and the material two ends of one continuum. I argue that Conway’s metaphysical theory of physical substance successfully reconciles the natural world to two specific Christian doctrines. This makes her system of the natural world digestible to a large Christian audience, while also using the discussion of spirit to combat the problematic implications of Cartesian dualism. The first theological benefit of Conway’s metaphysics is that it explains how apo-
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catastasis—the Christian doctrine of infinite restoration—is possible. Because all aspects of creation are composed of a continuum of spirits, Conway argues that they are able to change within that continuum to become more or less perfect. The second theological benefit is that Conway’s metaphysics provides an explanation of how creation executes Christ’s second commandment: to “love your neighbor as yourself.”1 Because God made all of creation out of the same substance, there are natural sympathies between the species of creation, even if sin has made it more difficult for those sympathies to be actualized. These theological benefits provide the basis for a defense of her metaphysical system. The first aspect of Conway’s metaphysics concerns the way in which beings are “distinguished from each other in terms of their substance.”2 This point is essential for establishing the broader cosmos that her philosophical and theological theories exist in. Conway argues that there are only three of these beings: “God, Christ and creatures.”3 Not only are these entities distinguished from each other, they encompass the “vast infinity of possible things,”4 meaning they are the only types of beings that exist in the universe. These three distinct beings exist in a hierarchy, descending from the wholly perfect God, through Christ the mediator, to the creatures, who Conway asserts as the “lowest order of being.”5 Each of these three entities have distinct attributes, specifically with respect to their changeability. Because God is the “supreme being,”6 He is “altogether immutable.”7 God is a wholly perfect being, meaning He is not subject to change. On the opposite end of that spectrum are the creatures, who are “altogether mutable,”8 and can change “for good or bad.”9 Christ serves as the mediator between God and creation, communicating God’s nature to the creatures. Christ is “partly mutable”10 and can only change “in respect to good.”11 For Conway, it is clear that both God and Christ are composed of only one distinct substance, as they are both single entities. It therefore follows that, “the whole of creation are also a single species in substance or essence.”12 For many readers in the Early Modern period, this conclusion would not have been intuitive. The notion that all of the natural world is composed of a singular substance is not self-evident, due to the varying states of matter, different species, and the complexity of living creatures. To respond to this potential objection, and help convince a potentially skeptical reader, Conway argues that all creatures are composed of a “body and a spirit.”13 More specifically, bodies and spirits are dispersed throughout the human body, forming a distinct whole. Conway argues that man, for example, is made up of a “countless multitude of bodies,”14 and a “countless multitude of spirits,”15 which can be arranged in a multitude of ways to form the different species that exist throughout creation. Moreover, the body is the “passive principle” and the spirit is the “active principle,”16 meaning that the spirits make active decisions that the bodies receive. Conway goes on to assert that “every body is a spirit and nothing else, and it differs from a spirit only insofar as it is darker.”17 A body, then, is only a “darker”18 type of spirit because it is more corporeal, receiving the light that emanates from the more active spirit. In this sense, body refers to all material substance, and spirit refers to all immaterial substance. Consequently, Conway
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concludes that “the distinction between spirit and body is only modal and incremental, not essential and substantial.”19 In other words, the body—which refers to all material substance—and the spirit—which refers to all immaterial substance—are the same in essence, since a body is only a darker type of spirit. This makes the material and the immaterial two opposite ends of the continuum of spirits that compose the natural world. I argue that Conway’s metaphysics are defensible because of the theological doctrines they explain. The first theological doctrine that Conway’s metaphysics explains is apocatastasis: the Christian doctrine of infinite restoration, in which all of creation can become infinitely more perfect. Conway argues it is in creation’s fundamental nature to strive toward perfection. She asserts that, “the divine power, goodness, and wisdom has created good creatures so that they may continually and infinitely move towards the good through their own mutability.”20 Because God—an infinitely perfect, immutable being—created the creatures to be mutable, it is necessarily in their nature to ascend toward His perfection. This also applies across different species, because for Conway, specific creatures can be reborn as different species (32). Because different species or “entities”21 are not distinct in essence, the spirits that compose them can change into different species, and ascend through the hierarchy of creation. To articulate this, Conway uses the negative side of that argument: “For if a creature were entirely limited by its own individuality and totally constrained and confined within the very narrow boundaries of its own species ... then no creature could attain further perfection.”22 It would be against the fundamental nature of the creatures if they were unable to ascend toward God and perfect itself through this perpetual restoration. Furthermore, this “continual motion”23 of the creatures is more fundamental than their goodness, because they are mutable to the point where they can turn away from God. Conway argues that creatures will strive for their “further good,”24 unless they “resist that good by a willful transgression and abuse of the impartial will created in them by God.”25 Because God also gave creatures free will, they can turn away from God. This is possible in the same way that ascension towards God is possible, but is distinct insofar as it is a willful act of the individual creature. The second theological benefit of Conway’s metaphysics is that it allows for creation to satisfy Christ’s second commandment: to “love your neighbor as yourself.”26 Conway argues that this is possible because all of creation has the same essence: God “made all tribes of human beings from one blood so that they would love one another and be bound by the same sympathy.”27 Because all human beings are made from the same blood, they naturally have sympathy and love for each other. Conway extends this to all of creation, concluding that “God has implanted a certain universal sympathy and mutual love into his creatures so that they are all members of one body.”28 It is in the creatures’ nature to love each other because of the mutual sympathies that God infused in them. Furthermore, Christ commands this to the creatures because “sin has weakened this love and sympathy ... to an astonishing degree,”29 inhibiting their natural capacity to love each other. Christ acts as a mediator by commanding the creatures to love your neighbor as yourself. Crea-
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tures can then follow this commandment because of the underlying natural love that already exists within them. In conclusion, Conway’s metaphysics provides a theory of physical substance that has positive theological implications. Conway argues that there are three beings in the universe that are distinct in essence: God, who is infinitely perfect, and unchangeable; Christ, who is the mediator between God and creation; and creation, which encompasses all of the natural world, and is infinitely changeable. Creation itself is also composed of one substance, which Conway calls spirit. Each aspect of creation is composed of a multitude of spirits, ranging greatly in manner from each other, with some being more or less corporeal. They can also be arranged in a multitude of ways, resulting in multiple species and entities with different appearances that are still the same in essence. Conway’s metaphysics reconciles apocatastasis, the idea that all of creation is in perpetual restoration and can be infinitely more perfect. Because all creatures are composed of a substance that ranges in manner, they can either ascend or descend through the hierarchy of creation. While it is in creation’s nature to emulate the perfect attributes of God, their free will allows the creatures to turn away from Him through active transgressions of God’s laws. Conway also explains that creation is predisposed to follow Christ’s commandment to “love your neighbour as yourself,”30 as, being composed of the same substance, mutual sympathies exist between the different creatures throughout the hierarchy of creation. Sin has made mutual love more difficult, but has not demolished it completely. The explanation of both apocatastasis and Christ’s second commandment provide the basis for a theological defense of Conway’s metaphysics.
Notes 1 The Bible, Mark 28:31. 2 Conway, Anne. The Principles of 3 Conway, Principles, 30. 4 Conway, Principles, 30.
5 Conway, Principles, 30. 6 Conway, Principles, 30. 7 Conway, Principles, 30. 8 Conway, Principles, 30. 9 Conway, Principles, 30. 10 Conway, Principles, 30. 11 Conway, Principles, 30. 12 Conway, Principles, 30. 13 Conway, Principles, 38.
14 Conway, Principles, 38.
the Most Ancient and Modern Philosophy, 30.
Babel Volume XXIV | 83 15 Conway, Principles, 39.
16 Conway, Principles, 38. 17 Conway, Principles, 40. 18 Conway, Principles, 40. 19 Conway, Principles, 40. 20 Conway, Principles, 32. 21 Conway, Principles, 32. 22 Conway, Principles, 32. 23 Conway, Principles, 32. 24 Conway, Principles, 32.
25 Conway, Principles, 32. 26 The Bible, Mark 28:31. 27 Conway, Principles, 31. 28 Conway, Principles, 32. 29 Conway, Principles, 31. 30 The Bible, Mark 28:31.
Works Cited Conway, Anne. The Principles of the Most Ancient and Modern Philosophy. Translated by Allison P. Coudert and Taylor Corse, Cambridge University Press, 1996. The Bible. Revised Standard Version, Penguin Group, 1974.
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Private Consequences for Public Conditions: Locke, Mandeville, and the Economic Relationship Between Vice and Virtue Merrick Carr John Locke and Bernard Mandeville were writing during a time of intense debate on moral reform. M. M. Goldsmith states that “[i]n the half century that followed the Glorious Revolution, Englishmen were frequently warned of the dangers inherent in private vice and in public corruption; they were frequently exhorted to practice virtue in both public and private.”1 During the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, moral corruption was a concern at the institutional level: William III appealed to the archbishops of London to curb the vices of the public through sermons and publishing statutes against prevalent sinful behaviour.2 On a social level, private reform groups, such as the Society for the Reformation of Manners, began to gather among the public to reduce individual moral depravity.3 Locke and Mandeville’s work is situated amid this frenzy. Much of their writing centers on the mutually dependent relationship between the public and the private created by the commercial culture of early modern England. This paper will compare theories on private vice and public virtue in Locke’s Second Treatise and Mandeville’s Fable of the Bees to demonstrate that both philosophers acknowledge that industry forms the basis of English society, but disagree on a crucial point: the moral value of labour. Namely, Locke contends that labour holds the key to universal moral reform, while Mandeville essentially argues that the corruption of humankind coincides with economic prosperity. I will discuss their notions of the principle of labour, colonial conquest, and the relationship between industry and religion to demonstrate the tension between morality and industry implicit in economic discourses of the early modern period. Both authors write extensively on the individual and their relationship to their nation through labour. Locke asserts that individual morality is directly impacted by the economic cultivation of society. He writes that God gave the earth to “the industrious and rational” to use “for their benefit, and the greatest conveniences of life they were capable to draw from it.”4 Here, Locke’s praise of labour is twofold: he suggests that by cultivating the land, men improve the nation by creating a more comfortable environment to inhabit, and, at the same time, they enhance their own morality by supporting the livelihood of their fellow citizens. In both instances, nationwide economic prosperity contributes to private morality. He points to industry and rationality as virtues fostered through labour and defines the relationship between the economy and private morality as mutually supportive. Through industry and commerce, man minimizes the amount of land “lying waste in common,” thus improving “the stock of mankind.”5 Locke’s concept of labour necessitates both
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material comforts for humankind as well as the refinement of morality in those active participants of industry. In contrast, Mandeville views industry, as it existed in eighteenth-century England, as the source of immorality. In the preface to The Fable of the Bees, he writes: “For the main Design of the Fable, [...] is to shew the Impossibility of enjoying all the most elegant Comforts of Life that are to be met with an industrious, wealthy and powerful Nation, and at the same time be bless’d with all the Virtue and Innocence that can be wished for in a Golden Age.”6 The fable rejects Locke’s notion of a mutually supportive relationship between private virtue and public benefit and insists that a well-ordered society depends on the immorality of its inhabitants. Mandeville does not propose a method for moral reform—he merely points out that it is ignorant to view labour as innately virtuous and does not suggest an alternative path to individual integrity. His main objective is to prove that a thriving civilization is predicated upon individual pride and desire for material wealth—unless we collectively consent to surrender our familiar comforts, we cannot enjoy the prosperity of a civilized life. The foundation of this argument is that “flattery must be the most powerful Argument that could be used to Human Creatures.”7 That is, men do not contribute to civilization out of duty or moral goodness, as Locke suggests: Mandeville believes that men participate in the economy to gratify their pride. Daniel Luban argues that The Fable of the Bees espouses “the notion that egoism or self-love (amour-propre) can lie at the root of every human action, no matter how seemingly virtuous or self-sacrificing.”8 Thus, Mandeville’s dispute with Locke’s theory of public and private virtue is that the economic success of society does not reflect the morality of those who reside within it—rather, the public flourishes at the expense of individual virtue. Locke and Mandeville also discuss the relationship between virtue and colonial enterprises. Locke maintains that dominion over “uncultivated” lands reflects virtue in the individual who applies their labour to it, while Mandeville affirms that industry of this kind occurs in tandem with the corruption of the labouring individuals. Locke argues in The Second Treatise that the lands of America are wasted because the Indigenous people do not cultivate them in the same way that the English would: [S]everal nations of the Americans are of this, who are rich in land, and poor in all the comforts of life [...] for want of improving [the lands] by labor, have not one hundredth part of the conveniences we enjoy: and a king of a large and fruitful territory there, feeds, lodges, and is clad worse than the day-laborer in England.9 He builds on his idea that industry simultaneously improves society and the virtue of the labourer by arguing that non-European nations do not apply sufficient labour to their lands, which, in turn, deprives both their civilization as a whole and their individual labourers of moral prosperity. He goes even further to assert “the extent of ground is of so little value, without labour, [...]
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[that] the inhabitants think themselves beholden to him, who, by his industry on neglected, and consequently wasted land, has increased the stock of corn, which they wanted.”10 Here, Locke suggests that he who takes it upon himself to appropriate these “wasted” lands with his labour, exhibits virtue through his acts of industry. In this sense, Locke justifies colonization because he considers it an improvement of the moral life of the colonizer, as well as the Indigenous communities that reside on the land. His defence of colonial power further articulates his insistence that public wellness (in this case, the economic benefit of conquest) is linked to private virtue through labour and industry. Mandeville rejects the colonialist claim to virtue through labour in The Fable of the Bees. He writes, “All Trades and Places knew some Cheat, / No Calling was without Deceit,”11 which can be assumed to include colonial enterprises. In fact, he goes as far as to admit his preference for “uncultivated” territories over industrious, opulent English society because his notion of a prosperous society entails the proliferation of vice: I would prefer a small peaceable Society, in which Men, neither envy’d nor esteem’d by Neighbours, should be contented to live upon the Natural Product of the Spot they inhabit, to a vast Multitude abounding in Wealth and Power, that should always be conquering others by their Arms Abroad, and debauching themselves by Foreign Luxury at Home.12 Mandeville goes on to argue that colonial conquest does not improve private morality—rather, it has the opposite effect. When vice rules English society, conquest is merely a pompous demonstration of power and wealth. However, when Jove restores virtue to the masses, “Vain Cost is shunn’d as much as Fraud; / They have no Forces kept Abroad; / Laugh at th’ Esteem of Foreigners, / And empty Glory got by Wars; / They fight, but for their Country’s sake, / When Right or Liberty’s at Stake.”13 If virtue were to be restored to the hearts of individuals, Mandeville insists that Englishmen would no longer feel compelled to assert their industry on foreign lands. Instead, they would be content with the minimal wealth accumulated within the bounds of their nation. Regarding Locke’s assertion that the inhabitants of untilled lands might be indebted to the virtuous men who colonize them, Mandeville maintains that “Pride and Vanity have built more Hospitals than all the Virtues together.”14 This is to say that colonial endeavours are not carried out in view of charity. Rather, prideful individuals execute them out of desire for esteem. Mandeville destabilizes Locke’s justification of colonialism by suggesting that the material gain of cultivated lands is not the primary goal of conquest—it is the selfish desire for power and status that comes with dominating a nation. Thus, in Mandeville’s view, the economic success of colonialism comes at the high price of the deterioration of individual virtue. Finally, religion is central to Locke’s assertion that labour and industry are linked to the cultivation of individual morality. He argues that “God, who has given the world to men in common, has
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also given them reason to make use of it to the best advantage of life, and convenience. The earth, and all that is therein, is given to men for the support and comfort of their being.”15 According to Locke, the earth exists for men to cultivate, build a society upon, and extract comforts and conveniences from. In this sense, Locke suggests it is against God and reason to not indulge in these labours and to allow the lands to go to waste. Goldsmith notes that in the early eighteenth century, “Christian virtue and civic virtue were not difficult to fuse. God, after all, had not yet been relegated to trivial personal matters; he still bestowed his blessings and his curses on whole nations.”16 This made it easier to connect public and private notions of morality in early modern England. Thus, it follows that Locke readily associates the cultivation of individual virtue with religious obligation. He frames industry as God’s command, meaning that he who obeys by contributing his labour to the nation’s economic prosperity will be rewarded with wealth and virtue. Locke’s religious defence of industry is not limited to private moral cultivation. Emily Nacol claims that for Locke, “labor is a moral imperative, not just for its individual benefits. The Lockean individual is a laborer positioned between God and society who must use his rationality and industry to honor his maker and contribute to the whole.”17 He who labours for his country experiences public benefit from the increase in industry as well as private gain from the fulfillment of his divinely ordained role on earth. Once again, Locke insists that the refinement of private virtue is contingent upon the welfare of the nation’s industry. Mandeville again counters Locke’s argument that public prosperity nurtures private morality: he contends that while the Bible may dictate that man must cultivate the earth, there is nothing sacred or virtuous about the state of the economic society in early modern England. He insists that “T’ enjoy the World’s Conveniences, / Be fam’d in War, yet live in Ease, / Without great Vices, is a vain / Eutopiaseated in the Brain. / Fraud, Luxury and Pride must live, / While we the Benefits receive.”18 In Mandeville’s view, the economic success of the nation has been secularized to the extent that it is individual sin, rather than Locke’s labour-driven virtue, that secures public benefits. Mandeville draws on Classical examples of prosperous nations, referencing paganism and the flattery of political leaders to dispel the notion that virtue and piety are the keys to successful societies: No States or Kingdoms under Heaven have yielded more or greater Patterns in all sorts of Moral Virtues than the Greek and Roman Empires, more especially the latter; and yet how loose, absurd and ridiculous were their Sentiments as to Sacred Matters? [...] But if we would know what made them excel in Fortitude, Courage and Magnanimity [...] we shall find, that what carried so many of them to the utmost Pitch of Self-denial, was nothing but their Policy in making use of the most effectual Means that human Pride could be flattered with.19 Here, Mandeville makes it explicit that the welfare of nations does not, and has never, relied on religious devotion. Instead, citizens contribute to the economy not out of their desire to fulfill God’s command but out of the prideful desire for flattery and rank. Notably, Goldsmith inter-
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prets Mandeville’s apparent pessimism about moral reform as an opportunity to shift from the traditional dichotomy of vice and virtue to a new way of thinking about social prosperity: “Having seen that [...] the societies for the reformation of manners valued wealth, pleasure, power, comfort, and prosperity as well as virtue, he set out to show that those values were inconsistent. Accepting the good things of life implied accepting the actions that produced them.”20 Mandeville’s insistence that public benefit requires private vice calls for a reconsideration of what is most valued in Christian nations: if moral corruption is a significant source of anxiety for politicians and clergymen, perhaps they might examine the effect of industry, wealth and status on individuals. To conclude, Locke and Mandeville represent the tension between the public and the private in the discussion of moral corruption in early modern England. Kevin L. Cope describes their key differences as a matter of depth: “Locke compresses time and depth into immediately perceived surfaces; Mandeville extends surfaces, exploring hidden complexity by viewing the superficial at a thousand different angles, scales, and perspectives.”21 This notion encompasses the main argument of this paper: Locke insists that a nation collectively working toward the boundless goal of wealth and prosperity will invariably repel private vice, while Mandeville argues that the question of individual morality requires a more nuanced answer. Mandeville asserts that men are naturally driven by flattery rather than spiritual devotion, and that the success of industry derives from pride— rather than, as Locke claims, religious duty. Mandeville’s theory of private vice and public virtue indicates that no labour is done truly out of consideration for the welfare of humankind—least of all colonial enterprises. Locke’s praise of cultivating “wasted lands” to increase its utility, is, from Mandeville’s perspective, merely an attempt to acquire esteem and power. Although Locke argues that the success of industry indicates mankind’s fulfilment of God’s command to cultivate the earth, Mandeville insists that the rise of wealth, luxury, ease, and pleasure in eighteenth-century England coincides with an increase in private sinful behaviour. Their opposing views represent the seemingly irreconcilable but mutually dependent relationship between the public and the private in the ongoing debate on moral reform.
Notes 1 Goldsmith, 477. 2 Ibid., 490. 3 Ibid., 491. 4 Locke, 46. 5 Ibid., 48. 6 Mandeville, 63. 7 Ibid., 77. 8 Luban, 834.
9 Locke, 50.
Babel Volume XXIV | 89 10 Ibid., 48.
11 Mandeville, 67. 12 Ibid., 64. 13 Ibid., 72. 14 Ibid., 178. 15 Locke, 43. 16 Goldsmith, 479–480. 17 Nacol, 153. 18 Mandeville, 74. 19 Ibid., 80.
20 Goldsmith, 510. 21 Cope, 267–77.
Works Cited Cope, Kevin L. “Locke, Mandeville, and the Insignia of the Future: Terminators, Mutants, Vectors, Plurals, Emblems, Maps, Targets, Proposals, Narratives, Crawfish.” The Past as Prologue: Essays to Celebrate the Twenty-Fifth Anniversary of ASECS, edited by Carla H. Hay and Syndy M Conger, AMS Press, Inc., 1995, pp. 245-279. Goldsmith, M. M. “Public Virtue and Private Vices: Bernard Mandeville and English Political Ideologies in the Early Eighteenth Century.” Eighteenth-Century Studies, vol. 9, no. 4, 1976, pp. 477– 510. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/2737791. Locke, John. The Second Treatise of Civil Government. Edited by Andrew Bailey, Broadview Press, 2019. Luban, Daniel. “Bernard Mandeville as Moralist and Materialist.” History of European Ideas., vol. 41, no. 7, 2015, pp. 831–857, https://doiorg.ezproxy.library.dal.ca/10.1080/01916599.2015.1010777. Mandeville, Bernard. The Fable of the Bees or Private Vices, Publick Benefits, Vol.1. Commentary by F.B. Kaye, Liberty Fund, Inc., pp. 62-83, 175-178, http://oll.libertyfund.org/title/846. Nacol, Emily C. “Locke and Cicero on Property, Labor, and Value.” The Ciceronian Tradition in Political Theory, edited by Daniel J. Kapust and Gary Remer, University of Wisconsin Press, 2021, pp. 140–159. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx? direct=true&db=mzh&AN=202120747991&site=ehost-live.
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Afterword The cover of this year’s volume of Babel is Jean Siméon Chardin's Soap Bubbles—it depicts a young man, well dressed aside from his torn waistcoat, leaning out of a window blowing a bubble through a straw. Behind him, a young boy in a plumed cap peers over the ledge curiously, hoping to catch a glimpse of the older boy’s experiment. I personally love this scene—it’s lighthearted and sweet, symbolic of youthful inquisitiveness. This painting is how I came to appreciate that children have been blowing bubbles for thousands of years! Dutch artists in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries regularly included soap bubbles in their depictions of young children, but the reasoning behind this was rather morbid: to illustrate the fleeting nature of youth and of life itself. Soap bubbles became a token of memento mori, a reminder that all men must die just as all bubbles must eventually burst. That being said, this painting seems to be full of life: from the lush greenery bordering the window to the vibrant natural light tumbling onto the boy’s face from above. The bubble’s viability is tenuous, yes, but that perfect moment of hopeful uncertainty is preserved in perpetuity within the painting. I tend to imagine history as a plethora of remarkable, galvanizing, and monumental moments, frozen in time by texts and works of art. But as Early Modern Studies has taught me, it is occasionally those mundane, frivolous, inconsequential moments that provide us with the most beauty, insight, and connection. It is the image of Montaigne playing with his cat, the thought of Rousseau floating peacefully in a boat on a still lake, lost in reverie. And this painting of two boys, mesmerised by a glistening soap bubble. I think fondly on this sentiment as I careen towards my graduation—my time at King’s seems to have flown by in the blink of an eye, but the impact of these million-odd moments, ranging from the ordinary to the truly extraordinary, have completely changed who I am and how I see the world. Working with the Early Modern Studies Society has certainly been a highlight of my time at King’s. The passion, stick-to-it-iveness, and dedication of this year’s executives has made it all too easy to act as co-president, and I am so grateful for the overwhelming kindness and support they’ve shown me in this new and initially intimidating role. I want to thank Eleanor Peebles, Meg Tremblay, Zephyr Atkins-Mitra, Merrick Carr, McKenna Blucher-Bunting, Eliza Rhinelander, and Mirren Trevors for doing such wonderful work for us this year, for picking up my slack time and time again, and for being all-around amazing human beings. Most of all, I owe a huge thank you to my phenomenal co-president, Caroline Jones, who has devoted so much time, energy, and enthusiasm to the Early Modern Studies Society over the last three years. I am constantly amazed by Caroline’s organizational and administrative skills—I wish I possessed such strengths, but I have been incredibly fortunate to reap the benefits of Caroline’s. Her passion and creativity are what make this club so wonderful to work with, and I know that,
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though many of us are graduating this year, with Caroline, the Early Modern Studies Society is left in very good hands. A better co-president could not exist! This journal is the product of many people’s hard work, and I would like to extend my gratitude to them. First of all, thank you to our fourteen wonderful contributors for being brave enough to submit their work to us. I would also like to thank the wonderful Early Modern Studies faculty for the unwavering support they have shown us over the years. Many of these papers serve as a testament to their inspiring lectures, their insightful guidance, and their genuine passion for the course material they teach. We owe a special thanks to Dr. Kow for all the help he has given us as this year’s Early Modern Studies Program’s director. I want to thank Eleanor Peebles, Meg Tremblay, Merrick Carr, and Olivia MacDonald for volunteering to help us edit the journal, and for taking the time to give thoughtful feedback to each author. Thank you to Caroline for putting everything together and formatting the journal so meticulously. Lastly, I would like to thank you— our reader! Thank you for supporting our work, and for journeying into the early modern world with us.
Erin Inglis Co-President of the Early Modern Studies Society, 2024–25