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Monday, November 1, 2021

Spit

 

    What could be more familiar than spit which is always present for each of us though we may give it little attention?  Spit occupies a curious borderline zone in many ways.  It both is and is not a part of one’s body.  It has been regarded as both a medicine and a poison and is employed in magic to avert evil and attract good as well as to curse.  Associated with identity and intimacy but also filth and contempt, saliva, which has vital biological function, has been assigned potent symbolic roles as well. 

     Animal life emerged from the oceans through the stratagem of making the sea portable, carried about in the cells and blood and lymph fluids of beasts who learned to breath in open air.  Estimates of the water content of the human body vary, but are generally close to two-thirds.  If that vivifying moisture is not renewed, death will occur in a matter of days, or at most, a week or two.   One function of water in the body is to carry out waste in sweat and urine.  Thus our liquid content has a sort of liminal status, at once an essential part of the body, and, at the same time, a temporary component just passing through.  As incoming fresh water it is vital; as outgoing waste, it is disagreeable and even toxic.

     Thus spit may be considered very dirty, and appropriate for potent insults, used like the sole of one’s shoes in Islamic countries or excretions in maximum security prisons.  The Deuteronomic Code provided that, if the brother-in-law of a woman whose husband had died refused to take the widow as wife, she should spit upon him in the presence of the elders.  In his suffering Job is considered so contemptible that he is spit upon as is Christ in his passion. [1]  Such a gesture might evoke a forceful response such as that of Shylock who complained to Antonio through gritted teeth, “Fair sir, you spet on me on Wednesday last.” [2]

     Yet spit may also be considered a healing balm.  Christ heals a deaf mute and a blind person with an application of his saliva. [3]  Tacitus tells us that while in Egypt Vespasian was asked to do as much for a blind petitioner and to cure the paralyzed hand of another. [4]  Though at first ridiculing these requests, the emperor was prevailed upon to apply the royal spittle and both were, according to reports, instantly cured.  His suppliants, doubtless familiar with the story of Thoth similarly curing Horus, [5] were perhaps unsurprised. 

     The ancients believed in the efficacy of spittle in curing snakebites.  This opinion is shared by Aristotle, Aelian, Pliny, and others.  [6]  The use of saliva in treating a variety of other conditions is prescribed in Celsus, Galen, Paulus Aegineta, and Oribasius. [7]  While these uses remain in the category of folk medicine or the miraculous, science has confirmed that saliva contains antifungal proteins, immune cells, antimicrobial compounds, and growth factors that promote healing.  Dogs, and sometimes their owners as well, lick a wound instinctively.

     The same belief in the beneficent power of spit is evident in many old practices.  Theokritos’ shepherd, to avert ill fortune after seeing his reflection in the sea, spits three times “into my breast.” [8]   Persius records the custom of spitting on an infant to protect against the evil eye.  [9]  The extreme antiquity of this practice is suggested by its widespread distribution.  Three spits are considered efficacious in averting evil yet today in Greece, India, and among Jews, though only symbolic sounds of spitting have been considered sufficient in recent times: in Greece saying “ftou ftou ftou,” in India "thoo-thoo-thoo,” and among Jews “pooh-pooh-pooh.”  

     As the power of spit is a double-edged, such spitting serves both to avert bad luck and tom attract the good, just as Aristotle thought it could not only combat the venom of snakes, but also kill the reptiles.  Modern science, while rejecting these particular claims, recognizes the role of bodily fluids, including spittle, in both the spread of illnesses such as tuberculosis and HIV and in protection against transmission of diseases such as colds, covid and other flus, streptococcus, and hepatitis.

     Yet our fluids contain as well our identity in DNA, and, perhaps through some intuitive caution, people have often feared that any cast-off portions of ourselves, like spit and cut hair and fingernail parings, might be used in conjuring.  Frazer provides examples of such malicious use of spittle among Native South Americans, New Zealanders, Hawaiians, and South and West Africans. [10] 

     In modern times a good deal of spitting is associated with the use of tobacco and betel, but attenuated versions of these superstitions survive in recent times.  Such gestures include spitting into the hands before setting to do a task or shaking hands on a bargain, or to seal an oath, or in disgust.  In the nineteenth century “boys in the North of England have a custom amongst themselves of spitting their faith (or, as they call it in the northern dialect, ‘their Saul,’ i.e. Soul), when required to make asseverations in matters which they think of consequence.”  In the same region miners spit together on a stone “by way of cementing their confederacy.”  Parties to an agreement are said to “spit upon the same stone.” [11] 

     Anthropologists record a great many spitting customs.   The Maasai of Kenya are well-known for spitting on babies as a blessing, on a bride to bless the marriage, and when greeting others as a sign of respect.  In India some may spit in a toilet before using it or to the side of a companion to guard against the evil eye (buri nazar).   Some Indian shopkeepers think it prudent to spit on the cash from the first sale of the day. [12]  Some of their fellow citizens consider it prudent to spit in the corner of a toilet before using it. [13]

      Spitting is sometimes, however, practiced with no reference to magic or medicine, but simply as a natural activity of everyday life like sweating or excretion.  To Erasmus it is “unmannerly,” not to spit, but, on the contrary, ”to suck back saliva,” though a polite person will see that he does not spit on a bystander. [14]  Medieval poems advise that proper etiquette requires spitting properly, avoiding the dining table or the washbasin. [15]  In a curious mingling of the nasty and sexual associations of spit, Samuel Pepys reports that he had been enjoying a play when “a lady spit backward upon me by a mistake, not seeing me, but after seeing her to be a very pretty lady, I was not troubled at it at all.” [16]  Still in 1702 a French etiquette book advises that it is not spitting but swallowing what one should spit which is revolting to others.  Nonetheless the writer adds that one should not spit unnecessarily or often.   By 1859 a British volume flatly advises against spitting altogether, and shortly before Frances Trollope had expressed her distaste at spitting as a crude American habit.  “The gentlemen spit, talk of elections and the price of produce, and spit again.” [17]  In Germany Heine, wondering where he might head, rejects America as a place where “they spit without a spittoon.” [18]

     These writers may have wished to demonstrate the barbarity of American society, but practices elsewhere were similar even in what might be assumed to be refined settings.  Indeed, there are accounts of members of Parliament spitting during deliberations until the end of the nineteenth century and British pubs were still being built in the nineteen-thirties with spitting troughs for the accommodation of patrons. [19]   The Museum of the Georgia State Legislature in the Capitol Building exhibits a spittoon of the type that was used in legislative sessions into the 1970s.  To this day spittoons are provided on the floor if the United States Senate and in the Supreme Court chambers, though they are now considered simply a tradition and are used, if at all, merely as trash cans. [20]

     The Georgia legislators may have been old-fashioned.  By 1910 a writer refers to open spitting as a relic of the past.  [21]  The influenza epidemic of 1918 accelerated social disapproval of the practice to the point that in America today routine spitting is ordinarily done discreetly if at all, though Sears, which  once featured pages of cuspidors, offers yet today a modern version, the “Don't Tread On Me Spit Bud Portable Spittoon with Can Opener: The Ultimate Spill-Proof Spitter by Spitbud.”  Casual spitting survives, though often associated with the lower classes and with men.  Many visitors note with distaste the spitting commonplace in some parts of the world, particularly in China, India, Nepal, and Korea. 

     Even when stripped of its supernatural qualities, spitting can retain considerable symbolic power.  Such culturally constructed uses may be confined to a single artifact or to an era or moment in history, while some symbolism seems all-but-ubiquitous. 

     In Montaigne’s marvelous essay “Of the Cannibales,” describing the cruelty with which Tupinambá people in Brazil treat sacrificial victims, notes that “those that paint them dying, and that represent this action, when they are put to execution, delineate the prisoners spitting in their executioners faces, and making mowes [grimaces, i.e. making faces] at them” [22]  As Montaigne says, artists had chosen to depict the scene of defiant spitting, he had made it a dramatic point of his account, and the passage has remained among the best-known in his work. [23]  The notion that one might, though dying, turn the tables on a captor, demonstrating contempt and casting an implied curse, while the very opposite of the meek deaths told of the saints, has doubtless been reenacted numerous times through the violent turns of history.  As a chilling image of fortitude such stories indicate the potency of spit even for a person facing imminent and certain death.  The victim, in a kind if tragic acceptance, can retain dignity despite helplessness.  

     A widespread modern myth indicates that spitting has not altogether lost its magical efficacy.  Although organizations opposing the Vietnam War regularly expressed support for soldiers, including placing active-duty and returned service members at the head of protest parades and seeking to organize inside the military, when the war ended in America’s defeat in 1975 and President Carter then  pardoned draft resisters two years later, narratives began to surface claiming that anti-war protesters had spit upon soldiers.  Accounts multiplied after a scene of protesters spitting on Army men appeared in the film Rambo in 1982.  Such incidents became a commonplace, mentioned as fact in countless news stories, though most likely nothing of the kind had ever occurred.  In 1998 Jerry Lembcke, a sociology professor and Vietnam veteran, published The Spitting Image: Myth, Memory and the Legacy of Vietnam which painstakingly demonstrated the lack of evidence of such incidents; there is not a single news account or photograph, no arrest or police complaint of such acts, no references even in private correspondence. [24]  Though many such stories are third-person, there are also hundreds of people who came to assert that they had themselves been spit upon, though none mentioned such an insult until years after the end of the war.  It seems clear that, though of course it is impossible to prove absolutely that not a single spitting incident ever happened, these “memories” are mythic, manufactured for a symbolic reason and not an account of actual events. 

     In spite of a long history of ambivalence, spit elicits predominately negative reactions today.  By gazing just a bit into what might be an adjoining room in the Museum of Cultural Practices, though, the inquirer will note a practice allied with spitting but universally appreciated and likely as old as the species: kissing.  In many of the earliest references to kissing, the practice clearly occurs as part of romantic love as in the Song of Songs (!:2) “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth--for thy love is better than wine.”  The intensity of erotic kisses is associated with spit since the wetness is an index of intimacy from a dry cheek-peck to a lover’s deep kiss.  Love kissing may be considered as well a survival of the use of spit to certify oaths since a kiss is often a pledge of fidelity.  Kisses may also signify fealty, or friendship, or may indicate spiritual fellowship.  Indeed we know from Justin Martyr that in the second century the “kiss of peace” was a regular part of the liturgy. [25]  Though this usage has dwindled now to a gesture during the Veneration of the Cross on Good Friday, it parallels the practices of Jews kissing the Torah or a mezuzah and Muslims kissing the Koran or the Ka’aba.  Kisses of friendship or respect or simply of greeting are common as well.  The social kissing that used to be characteristically European has become widespread in the United States.

     In each of us dwells a solipsistic infant whose most absorbing interests are bound by the body itself: pain and pleasure, the passage of materials into and out from the self.  Pared to the essential, this constitutes human life, though between the baby in a cradle and the aged and failing sufferer in a hospital bed we have more than sufficient distractions to focus attention elsewhere. The balance of trade in the regulation of the corporeal economy deals in acts of feeding, excretion, secretion, bleeding, vomiting, and spit.  Around each of these has accumulated vast stores of both practical and symbolic associations to aid the individual in easing the passage through life by the wise management of intake and output.  Before the time that all systems fail, spitting holds a place in such somatic regulation, contributing to health as well as, through the sort of applied metaphor which lies at the base of both magic and religion, aiding in making alliances, even love relationships, avoiding misfortune, bringing woe to enemies, or lifting the soul in the direction of the divine. 

 

 

1.  Deuteronomy 25:9, Job 30:10, Matthew 26:67, 27:30, Mark 10:34, 14:65, and 15:19.

2.  Merchant of Venice I, iii.

3.  Mark 7:33, 8:23.  In the case of the deaf mute it may be that Jesus spit on the ground before healing with his hand.  

4.  Tacitus, Histories, LXXXI.

5.  See Book of the Dead, 17.

6.  Aelian, De Natura Animalium, I, 24; Pliny, Naturalis Historia, VII. 14 and XXVIII, ; Aristotle, Τῶν περὶ τὰ ζῷα ἱστοριῶν, called Historia Animalum, VIII, 29.

7.  See G. Chowdharay-Best, “Notes on the Healing Properties of Saliva,” Folklore, Vol. 86, No. 3/4 (Autumn - Winter, 1975), pp. 195-200.

8.  Idyll VI, line 33.

9.  Satire II, 31 

10.  The Golden Bough (Macmillan abridged one-volume edition), p. 276.  Other examples in the same book include practices in Malaysia (15) and in the Marquesas (272).

11.  John Brand, Observations on the popular antiquities of Great Britain: chiefly illustrating the origin of our vulgar and provincial customs, ceremonies, and superstitions (Volume 3), p. 26.  The proverbial expression is also included in Robert Christy’s Proverbs, Maxims and Phrases of All Ages (1887).

12.  See Coomber, R., Moyle, L. and Pavlidis, A., “Public Spitting in ‘developing’ nations of the global South: Harmless embedded practice or disgusting, harmful and deviant?” in Kerry Carrington, Russell  Hogg,  John Scott and Máximo Sozzo (eds.), The Palgrave  Handbook of Criminology and the Global South, 2018.  A contemporary website provides practical instruction on combating the buri nazar: https://rgyan.com/blogs/easy-ways-to-remove-evil-eye-buri-nazar-nivarak-sujhav/.

13.  “Spit and Unpolish,” The Hindu Oct 11 2020.

14.  De civilitate morum puerilium.

15.  Examples are collected in Norbert Elias, The Civilizing Process (1939).

16.   In his entry for January 26, 1661.

17.  Ch. 6, Domestic Manners of the Americans.

18.  “Jetzt Wohin?” line 24.

19.  Paula Cocozza, “Spitting in public: disgusting and antisocial – or a great British tradition?,” The Guardian, September 25, 2013.

20.  See the Wikipedia article on “spittoons”: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spittoon.  Original references were Richard A. Baker’s Traditions of the United States Senate and a web posting, "Advocate's Lectern" from The Oyez Project of the Illinois Institute of Technology's Chicago-Kent College of Law.

21.  More examples from  Norbert Elias, The Civilizing Process (1939).  The French book is Jean-Baptiste de la Salle’s Les Règles de la bienséance et de la civilité chrétienne and the British one is The Habits of Good Society.  The 1910 reference is in Moeurs intimes du passé, attributed to Docteur Cabanès.

22.  I quote from Florio’s translation, but add the bracketed definition.

23.  Three engravings from the late sixteenth century on the theme are reproduced in Michèle H. Richman, “Spitting Images in Montaigne and Bataille for a Heterological Counterhistory of Sovereignty,” Diacritics vol. 35, no. 3 (Autumn, 2005), 46-61.

24.  Lembke also demonstrates the consistent support for GIs within the anti-war movement and the government’s propaganda attempts to paint the protesters as hostile to the troops. 

25.  See I Apology, 65.

A Few Stabs at Li Bai

 

 

     My title is ironic.  With very little knowledge of Chinese (only a year of formal study) I have some sense of how the language works and sounds and I am able to use a dictionary, but that is about it.  As I approach a sophisticated literary tradition as that of Tang China with such limited resources, little wonder if I am uncertain whether I am honoring the poet or injuring him.  The fact is, though, that some earlier poets have published their versions of great Chinese poetry with no knowledge at all of the language in which they are written – Amy Lowell, for example – and that some of the very best – I am thinking of Ezra Pound and Kenneth Rexroth -- had quite sketchy skills.  While my few comments on allusions and images are those of an amateur, I hope they lead, at least, back toward the lines of poetry. 

 

 

 

I.

Passing the Time

 

I saw just wine and missed the sun’s decline -- 

new fallen petals on my clothes appear --

I stand up drunk, the moon is in the stream,

far off birds sing, few people stop by here.

 

 

     Li Bai, of course, has a reputation as a drinker.  The role of wine in Chinese poetry is familiar to Westerners from ancient Greek lyrics where drink is praised as a palliative for the harsh circumstances of life.  Not noticing the approach of night suggests the poet’s temporary escape from mortality.  Though his is a secular sort of meditation, his goal differs little from disciplined contemplatives.  The flower petals that cover his clothes are a further reminder of the impermanence of things as well as indicating a lengthy trance.  At the same time, the beauty of flowers leads to the birdsong of the last line, both endorsements of the charm of the transient world.  The final phrase reinforces the poet’s isolated perspective.   The image of the moon’s reflection in water may imply a tipsy, “up-side-down” state, but it is as well a conventional topos for the ambiguous reality of the phenomenal world, most familiar from the story of the poet’s death.  The expression “mirror flower water moon” (jìnghuā shuǐyuè) is an idiom (in Japanese as well) for an illusion or mirage.

     I use just regular old rumbling iambic pentameter and preserve the second and fourth line rhyme. 

 

 

II.

Question and Answer on the Mountain

 

You ask me why I live in this green height.

My heart at ease, I answer with a smile,

The petals from the peach trees flow downstream.

Alone, no people here, just earth and sky.

 

 

    European poetry has both praise of landscape and contemplative poetry, but lacks the Asian tradition of writing by those who have retired from active life.  This verse suggests the author’s motive, though he does not answer when asked, but only smiles.  The reader, however, hears that his heart is “at ease.”  The fallen peach tree petals again remind the reader of mortality, but peach flowers are also associated with springtime and romance in poems from the Shijing, the Classic of Poetry and in other poems such as Cui Hao’s “Written in a Village South of the Capital.”  Peach orchards were also associated, however, with Daoist utopias in texts such as Tao Yuanming’s 421 C. E. account of the Peach Blossom Land.

     The petals are carried then by the water’s current in a motion echoing that of the Dao in general which is repeatedly described as resembling a stream.  See Dao De Jing 8, 32, 34, 61, 66 and other passages.  The poem ends with everything vanishing, leaving the solitary contemplative eye undistracted, suspended in the cosmic void.

     I have here settled for an enhanced assonance of an elusive rhyme. 

 

 

 

 

III.

Lament of the Staircase

 

The fine jade steps have grown quite pale with dew.

My gauzy stockings, drenched with dewdrops soon.

I pull my filmy curtain down and see

the lovely sight of that full autumn moon --

 

 

     The figure of the lady lost in romantic longing is familiar to lovers of Indian miniatures.  The cultivated taste of the persona is evident from her restraint, the elegant indirection of her lament.  The steps suggest white jade (though they are likely made of marble), so the paleness of their appearance covered with dew is natural.  White jade also suggests the woman’s fine complexion.  The dew may suggest tears, but weeping is not mentioned.  Dew-drops are also used as an emblem of impermanence. 

     The reader may speculate that the glorious moon represents a noble lover.  While the breath-taking sight of the full moon may simply suggest a grander view, it may also raise associations with the myth of Cháng'é who was said to have gained immortality but was thereby obliged to leave her beloved husband, reinforcing the theme of separation.  “Floating clouds, morning dew” (fúyún zhāolù) is an idiom expressing ephemerality.  Though the verses primarily refer to love-longing, the metaphysically-minded might see the “filmy curtain” as the veil of maya and enlightenment in the marvelous face of the moon.

     My concluding dash does not correspond to anything in the original, but is meant as an indication of all that is unsaid.  

 

     The extent to which the poem is composed by reshuffling conventional elements is evident by examining other “palace lament,” such as this by Xie Tiao, a poet whom Li Bai praised.

 

 

Jeweled Stairs' Grievance

 

In the evening, your highness, pearl curtain;


Fireflies come again to rest.


Long night sewn silk gown,


I think of my lord; where can he be?

 

 

     This poem is one of those translated by Ezra Pound.  His version and his explanatory notes which seem to me, with their cadences, still a part of the lyric, remain powerful today.

 

The Jewel Stairs’ Grievance

 

The jewelled steps are already quite white with dew,

It is so late that the dew soaks my gauze stockings,

And I let down the crystal curtain

And watch the moon through the clear autumn.

 

Notes:

Jewel stairs, therefore a palace. Grievance, therefore there is something to complain of. Gauze stockings, therefore a court lady, not a servant who complains. Clear autumn, therefore he has no excuse on account of weather. Also she has come early, for the dew has not merely whitened the stairs, but has soaked her stockings. The poem is especially prized because she utters no direct reproach.

Transformation of Plot in Several Stories by Aphra Behn


I discuss here “The Adventure of the Black Lady,” “The Court of the King of Bantam,”The Unfortunate Happy Lady” and “The Fair Jilt,” the short fictions in the very early Grove Press volume Selected Writings Of The Ingenious Mrs. Aphra Behn, published before Barney Rosset had become editor.  Numbers in parentheses refer to pages in that edition, and my quotations follow it, including the editor’s unnecessary modernization of spelling, capitalization, and punctuation.  Numbers in brackets refer to endnotes.

 

     Though literary convention is sometimes dismissed as a device favored by writers lacking originality, in fact, the use of conventions in literature (as in language in general), enables an increased density of signification and subtlety. [1]  Conventions create reader expectations, which may then be fulfilled, frustrated, altered, inverted, or twisted.  Often conventions foreground important thematic elements, by reinforcing preconceptions in some cases and by challenging them in others.  At the same time, just as in music, a certain idea, like a melodic phrase, may be part of a formal design as it is repeated or varied.  Folk stories and myths are highly conventionalized, indeed to the extent that scholars such as Propp and Levi-Strauss have sought to reduce their patterns to formulae. [2]  The entertaining short narratives of Aphra Behn illustrate this principle of economic variations on a theme and shed light on the uses and pleasures of story-telling  by the creation of patterns that highlight the central concerns of the literate public of her day. 

     Aphra Behn stands at the wellsprings of the English novel.  Though many of us learned from Ian Watt’s The Rise of the English Novel to call Robinson Crusoe (1719) the first novel, Behn had published the extraordinary Oroonoko in 1688 and she was quite likely the author of Love-Letters Between a Nobleman and his Sister (1684) even earlier.  While that work foreshadows the epistolary form that dominated the eighteenth century in works by Richardson, Cleland, Fielding, Goldsmith, Burney, and others, Behn wrote a number of shorter narratives with a different sort of voice.  “The Adventure of the Black Lady,” “The Court of the King of Bantam,” “The Unfortunate Happy Lady,” and “The Fair Jilt” are written with colloquial liveliness as if they were transcriptions of spoken story-telling, including hesitations and revisions.  Like folk tales, most romances, medieval fabliaux and tales like those in Poggio’s Facetiae, the stories have very little characterization or description.  Action is what matters.   While more subtle retellings are available in collections such as Boccaccio’s Decameron or Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, the barer narratives remained popular in collections like Painter’s The Palace of Pleasure and the hagiographies of the Aurea Legenda.

     Long neglected, then studied from the narrow perspective of social implications, Behn’s fictions also illustrate the pleasures of a largely formal elaboration beautiful after the manner of a fugue or an abstract painting.  The sequence of stories in the Grove Press anthology indicates increasingly sophisticated patterns of play between oppositions which, though arising from experience and rooted in the day’s received expectations, take flight and assume independent aesthetic value.

      “The Adventure of the Black Lady” provides the basis for her formula.  As the protagonist’s name suggest, Bellamora seeks a satisfying love relationship.  She has conceived a child with a man of her choice who, though he had persuaded her to bed with “violence” and “accursed success,” is nonetheless sincere in his affection, as indicated by his name Mr. Fondlove.  Consumed by shame and escaping an unwanted marriage to another gentleman “of much better estate,” the “fair innocent” moves from her home in Hampshire to London, feeling “ashamed, ruined, and damned . . .for ever lost” (24) and hoping to stay with a city cousin.  Though Mr. Fondlove had importunately urged his attentions upon her, she is convinced that, by yielding to his advances, she has lost his respect, and he will surely no longer care to marry her.  A country girl lost in the big city, she loses her luggage and cannot locate her relative.  In the sort of unlikely coincidence common in romances, she is charitably given shelter in a home which, as it happens, belongs to Mr. Fondlove’s sister.  Hearing then of her distress, and faithful still in spite of her fears, he arrives to marry her and resolve the plot’s tensions in a happy denouement. 

     Behn has set in play a number of oppositions each of which is resolved in this brief narrative.  The most significant are the tension of the requirement (for women only) of virginity for a respectable marriage and the suspense of placing an unsophisticated young woman from the country at risk in an urban environment.  The damsel in distress is, of course, a universally popular theme [3], pervasive in early English novels such as those by Richardson and the later Gothic novels. 

     As an author of works that aimed for a large purchasing audience, Behn implicitly endorsed the norms of her era.  The imbalance in male and female power in sexual relationships is evident in Fondlove’s impetuous seduction and in her fear that, having had his way, he will no longer wish to be with her.  The move from country to city emphasizes the myriad dangers that might threaten the poor and naïve woman in the city, though Bellamora, through incredible luck, not only escapes all hazards, but also regains her beloved.  The unexpected pregnancy, which had seemed disastrous, becomes an occasion for joy, and the reader may assume that the happy couple will assume their place back in Hampshire as a respected couple.  In this tale the knots of difficulty all vanish in a rapid and satisfying rush, making way for the story to conclude with a tension-releasing joke.

     This final humor is at the expense of the “Overseers of the Poor” whom Behn calls “the vermin of the parish,” well-named, she notes, because they overlook the needy they are supposed to serve.  This satirical touch is surprising because the story itself has little to do with social justice of any kind and includes no lower-class character, though the heroine finds herself in need after leaving her home and losing her possessions.  Though unrelated to the main thread of Behn’s narrative, this social comment adds a sassy note to the speaker’s voice.

     In “The Court of the King of Bantam” which Behn claimed she wrote “upon a wager,” [4] the same story is retold with greater complexity and a different tone.  Again, the plot concerns an upright woman who has a bad suitor and a good one.  She evades the first and marries the second.  Yet in the “King of Bantam” the tone is humorous whereas it had been anxious in “The Black Lady.”  Additional characters ornament the plot line like decorative motifs.  The lady and her good lover are symmetrically supplied with a relative, Sir Philip Friendly assisting and Sir George Goodland retarding the relationship.  Lucy is the less respectable (but still worthy) doublet of Philibella.  While the lady of quality must have a corresponding mate, the reader assumes that Lucy, already compromised by her willingness to take a lover for money, is likely well-pleased at accepting the King after Sir Philip has decided to cast her off. 

     The satirical element plays a greater role here.  The Would-be King, the King of Bantam [5] is ridiculous because he is a parvenu, an arriviste who lacks refinement.  Though genuinely rich from his real estate investments, he is a figure of fun to the others due to his lack of taste.  Associated throughout her life with the party of the court, Behn would not have grudged the greedy accumulation of those of aristocratic birth, but this capitalist King is an absurd pretender.  

     With its paradoxical title, “The Unfortunate Happy Lady” once more tells a tale of a virtuous woman, this time in the most melodramatic terms.  The undesirable marriage option here appears in the extreme form of prostitution and the “barbarous” (50) and profligate brother Sir William Wilding is a heightened version of the pushy families of the first two stories.  Just as Bellamora had happened to lodge at the home of her fiancé’s sister, Philadelphia’s first customer in the brothel turns out to be not only compassionate, but takes up her cause and, in the end, marries her as well.  She is indeed “happy” in his arrival, as her escape depends entirely on his aid while she remains largely passive, contrary to the assertions of contemporary critics who would like to imagine Behn’s anticipating modern ideas of feminism. [6]  The heroine sounds very like countless other demoiselles en détresse when she cries, “’O heaven! . . . thou asserter and guardian of innocence!  Protect me from the impious practices intended against me!’” (57)  She appeals to Gracelove, who thought he had purchased her sexual favors, “”for heaven’s sake, hear and help me!’”    Her virtue is so great that he is instantly reformed and says “’By all things sacred, I find my error; I pity you and I fear I shall love you.’” (58)  Indeed, the beneficent effect of her aura is sufficient even for the rehabilitation of her positively wicked brother.  

     Here the story is elongated and embellished in unlikely ways that do not alter the familiar basic pattern.  Before her happy marriage, the heroine acquiesces in a (presumably unconsummated) brief marriage to Counsellor Fairlaw which places her in comfortable circumstances.  In an exotic nod to adventure tales, the good lover, Mr. Gracelove, who had been abducted by pirates and detained abroad, has the good fortune to be spotted by Philadelphia in a carriage as he trudges down the road.  These additions contribute suspense and pathos while preserving the standard plot.

     “The Fair Jilt” (1688) employs a more radical transformation of the narrative by making a manipulative woman the central figure.  (Novel though it is, Behn may have been influenced by the popularity of The London Jilt; Or, the Politick Whore [1683].)   The story opens with a rhetorical paean to love as “the most noble and divine passion of the soul” which becomes the occasion for another of Behn’s adventitious satires, here ridiculing the self-love of fatuous coxcombs. (72)  The leading lady Miranda is universally admired for her beauty and her accomplishments (as her name implies), yet she is a cynical Beguine, a femme fatale who enjoys her power over men and who “loves nothing so much as to behold sighing slaves at her feet.” (76) 

     Capable of even greater villainy than Sir William Wilding, Philadelphia’s brother, this sinister Miranda first contrives to punish the noble Henrick (who has entered holy orders in reaction to his selfish brother’s having usurped his beloved and then intrigued to have him killed) by a false accusation of rape.  Having married Prince Tarquin [7] and squandered their funds, she seeks to kill her sister Alcidiana for her money at first at the hands of a servant and then through the agency of Tarquin himself.   In one of Behn’s improbable turns which strain her readers’ ability to accept her claims that the story is factual, Tarquin’s execution is botched, whereupon he is pardoned.  Following a life of iniquity, matters are now settled.  Father Francisco, born Henrick, is freed; Alcidiana survives; both Tarquin and Miranda are morally regenerated; and all live subsequently happy lives.  So even this plot bends around in the end to the same conclusion of all the others.  

     The innocent heroine has become a cruel and arrogant villain (a good role perhaps for Joan Crawford [8]) whose iniquities preying upon men match those of the immoral seducers in some of the other stories.  The subsidiary stories of Henrick and Alcidiana grow naturally out of the basic reversed framework; both are virtuous individuals traduced by the wicked Miranda.  Retributive justice takes the life of the servant Van Brune but Tarquin is miraculously spared in a botched execution so that he may provide a match for Miranda to make the required happy ending, leaving Miranda in fact in “as perfect a state of happiness, as this troublesome world can afford.” (116)

     The transformation of convention in these narratives serves several purposes.  These stories foreground certain thematic implications: gender stereotypes such as the lusty man, the weaker woman, and the importance of a good marriage for the female’s survival, as well as the more general hazards of erotic desire.  Apart from these issues, meant to evoke the reader’s unhesitating assent, the use of convention allows the author to manipulate reader expectations.  What the convention may lead one to anticipate may be delivered, heightened, softened, multiplied, twisted, or inverted.  When the writer fulfils the reader’s assumptions, she or he is gratified at a correct presumption, both about the text and about the world to which it refers.  When the convention is altered, there is instead the pleasure of surprise and the possibility for the development of novel ideas, themselves perhaps to be overturned in another generation. 

 

 

1.  See my essay “Transformation of Convention” on this site.  Among the analyses which use this concept are “Transformation of Convention in Early Minnesang” and “The Early English Carol.”

2.  See Propp’s Morphology of the Tale (1928) and Levi-Strauss’s “The structural study of myth,” The Journal of American Folklore 68, (1955) 428–444.  The latter’s so-callled “canonical formula” is fx(a) : fy(b) fx(b) : fa-1(y). 

3.  Among the countless works using this motif are stories of the Odyssey and the Ramayana, St. Barbara, the Yuan Dynasty play The Injustice Done to Dou E, and the early film serial The Perils of Pauline.  The more immediate context of Behn’s work includes the so-called “amatory fiction” of Delarivier Manley and Eliza Haywood as well as Defoe’s Roxana and Cleland’s Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure. Other related fictions include picaresque novels in translation, stories by Paul Scarron, and Richard Head’s The English Rogue (1665) whose later editions were cowritten with Francis Kirkman.

4.  See Behn’s “An Advertisement to the Reader,” prefixed to the text.  She goes on to say she was simply trying to imitate the style of the French writer Paul Scarron.

5.  The name derives from the location on Java where in 1605 the British established a trading post which apparently seemed so exotic as to be somewhat absurd.  The association of the word with diminutive stature (bantam fowl) made the term appropriate for her mocking use here. 

6.  See, for instance, Juan de Dios Torralbo Caballero, “’I drink to thee’: Female agency and female authority as gender reversal in ‘The Unfortunate Happy Lady,’” Études anglaises Volume 69, Issue 4, 2016, 410-426 and Violetta Trofimova, “Liberated Women in Aphra Behn’s and Jane Barker’s Prose Fiction,” Litinfo: Georgian Electronic Journal of Literature vol. V, no. 1, 2011, available at  https://www.litinfo.ge/vol.5-iss-1/trofimova.htm.              

7.  Prince Tarquin claimed a descent from Sextus Tarquinius, son of the last king of Rome, known principally for his rape of Lucretia.  This seems as outlandish a title as King of Bantam. 

8.  One might also think of Bette Davis in Of Human Bondage or Marlene Dietrich in Der Blaue Engel.