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postanthropocene · 7 years ago

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Subversive approaches to Gender in Aphra Behn’s Oroonoko.

Aphra Behn takes a novel approach in her representation of gender in Oroonoko. On the surface appearing to reinforce contemporary dominant thinking, a deep reading of the novel reveals the subversive way Behn engages with gender issues. This is demonstrated when Oroonoko chooses to incite rebellion against the slave masters. A superficial endorsement of conservative gender politics is easily unravelled to reveal a fundamental questioning, even a rejection, of those same values. Written at a time of upheaval in gender politics, Oroonoko casts a critical and radical light on patriarchal structures. As such, she engages with gender in a novel way that was, nonetheless, palatable to 17th Century expectations.

Challenging concepts of masculinity and the patriarchy are at the core of this piece of text. Susan Goulding argues that the failure of patriarchal systems in much of Behn’s work is a novel approach to literature (Goulding 2008, p.40). To be enslaved, says Oroonoko, is to lose your manhood, to become “beasts” to be in a worse situation than “an ass, or dog, or horse.” The fact that he has already removed the women from this discussion further clarifies that he is talking about ‘men’ in a very specific way. Yet, by the late 17th Century, the concept of masculinity was being rewritten. Richard Allestree’s 1660 book The Gentleman's Calling repudiates the notion that honor must be fought for (Allestree 1671, pp.133-136). Paraphrasing 1 Samuel 26:20, Allestree could be directly advising Oroonoko, at this moment, when he writes that it is better “to have a whole than a wounded body… to be hunted like a Partridge on the Mountains” (Allestree 1671, p.147). Ultimately, of course, Oroonoko is pursued through the mountains. As the theme of revenge and pursuit of satisfaction is played out, his body is literally made less than whole. This theme is mirrored in Advice to a Young Lord,1691, by Thomas Fairfax (Fairfax 1691, pp. 114-119).

Behn associate unjust slavery with effeminacy and impotence in this passage (Ferguson 1991, p.165). Behn notes that “the English had none but rusty swords” other than those owned by “people of particular quality, who took care to oil ’em”. “Sword” was popular slang for “penis” in the 17th Century (Fissell 1995, p.441).The impotence of the English men is made clear, in this sense. However, when the rebels are confronted, the English brandish whips “as the best of their Weapons”, possibly an allusion to “whip” as a 17th Century colloquialism for stealing (Gent, B.E. 1699) but also, no doubt, in keeping with the bestial treatment of the slaves. Oroonoko specifically associates being whipped with demasculinisation in our passage, likening slaves to “dogs, that loved the whip”. As such, both the English and slave men are shown lacking in traditional masculine attributes. On the surface women are left out of this passage, however a close inspection soon reveals the way Behn navigates this aspect of gender, even where the principal woman character appear absent from the text.

Of course, the central woman character in Oroonoko is never absent. Imoinda’s speedy removal from this scene leaves Behn, as narrator and author, the only woman. In the lead up to this scene, it is Behn who encourages Oroonoko to be patient and, at least ostensibly, Imoinda who urges him to action (Gqola & Gqola 2001, p.112). Margaret W. Ferguson argues that there is competition between Imoinda and Behn for Oroonoko’s body (Ferguson 1991, p. 170). In the first sentence, Imoinda is depressed about her families ‘captivity’ and her doubt in the promise of ultimate ‘liberty’. In terms of their current situation, however, Behn is the master. As such, it is easy to imagine Imoinda’s sudden eagerness to persuade Oroonoko to act toward a hasty liberty as a response to an anxiety about her own relationship. In such a reading, Oroonoko’s identification of slaves as ‘the sport of women’ could be a direct reference to the influence of Behn’s influence on their relationship. Earlier in the text, Oroonoko refers to Behn as his ‘Great Mistress’, a term with a dual meaning as both master and lover. Behn, the narrator and author, are both empowered through a rejection of the 17th Century ideal. If, as Behn the narrator suggests, Oroonoko should be seen as a ‘Great Man’ then the failure of his rebellion speaks to the flaws in the very concept he seems to embody. Equally, while Imoinda is portrayed as the ideal English woman, these attributes fail to protect either her or her child. This paradox is at the heart of Behn’s novel approach, and suggests an alternative viewpoint where it is Behn and Oroonoko who compete for Imoinda’s body.

Behn may have identified as queer in her personal life (Ferguson 2014, p.39). Her dedication to the Duchess of Mazarin in The Fair VowBreaker, or The History of the Nun is coloured in erotic overtones (Todd 2000, p.56) and the Duchess would have been a strong contemporary role model, if not actual acquaintance, even lover. Importantly, Behn tells Imoinda “Stories of Nuns” earlier in the text. These stories propose an alternative lifestyle and mode of sexuality outside of the limitations of the patriarchal order (Goulding 2008, p.49). When Imoinda falls into depression and incites Oroonoko to insurrection she explicitly rejects these overtures of sexual freedom. At this moment Imoinda becomes a shrew, encouraging the man to an error of judgement (Gqola & Gqola 2001, p.113). In their embracing of traditional patriarchal society, a moment encapsulated in this passage, both Oroonoko and Imoinda renounce the sexual alternatives offered by Behn.

Considering her position on monarchy and the Restoration, the argument that Behn would hold equally conservative views in terms of gender is a compelling one. Certainly, many critics believe Behn’s work to reflect contemporary dominant masculinist values (Pearson 1991, p.40). There was a very distinct shift in attitudes during the Commonwealth, with the latter decades of the century witness to a realigning of gender assumptions (Fissell 1995, pp.445-446). Texts such as A Discourse of Women and The Arraignment of Lewd, Idle, Froward, and Unconstant Women are, in many ways, a backlash against this movement and reveal a desire to return to the types of dominant gender assumptions of the earlier part of the century (Swetnam 1702). We can see similar themes as advocated in these texts in this passage from Oroonoko. The submissive woman, ideally pregnant, the dominating and powerful man. However, as we have seen, in the broader context of the novel, and even within the layers of this passage, the failure of these attributes reveals the novel approach Behn takes in engaging with issues of gender.

Allestree, R. 1671, The Gentleman’s Calling, Printed by R. Norton for R. Pawlett, London.

Behn, A. & Summers, M. 1915, Oroonoko; or the Royal Slave, in Montague Summers (ed), The Works of Aphra Behn, Vol. 3, London, pp. 125-208.

Behn, A. 1688, Oroonoko: or the Royal Slave. A True History, Will Canning, London.

Fairfax, T. 1691, Advice to a Young Lord, Baldwin, London.

Ferguson, M. 1991, ‘Juggling the categories of race, class and gender: Aphra Behn’s Oroonoko’, Women’s Studies, vol. 19, no. 2, pp. 159–181.

Ferguson, M. 2014, ‘Subject to Others (Routledge Revivals) British Women Writers and Colonial Slavery, 1670-1834’,Routledge, London.

Fissell, M. 1995, ‘Gender and generation: representing reproduction in early modern England’, Gender & History, vol. 7, no. 3, pp. 433–456.

Gent, B.E. 1699, A New Dictionary of the Terms Ancient and Modern of the Canting Crew: in its Several Tribes, of Gypsies, Beggers, Thieves, Cheats, &c.: With an Addition of Some Proverbs, Phrases, Figurative Speeches, &c, Printed for W. Hawes at the Rose in Ludgate-street, P. Gilbourne, London.

Goulding, S. 2008, ‘Aphra Behn’s “Stories of Nuns”: narrative diversion and “Sister Books”’, Interdisciplinary Literary Studies, vol. 10, no. 1, pp. 38–55.

Gqola, P.D. 2001, ‘“Where there is no novelty, there can be no curiosity”: Reading Imoinda’s body in Aphra Behn’s “Oroonoko or, the Royal Slave”’, English In Africa, vol. 28, no. 1, pp. 105–117.

Hensbergen C.V 2015, ‘“All the world knows her storie”: Aphra Behn and The Duchess of Mazarin.’, in Ann Lewis (ed), Prostitution and Eighteenth-Century Culture Sex, Commerce and Morality, Taylor and Francis, pp. 45–59.

Olivier, J. 1673, A Discourse of Women: Shewing Their Imperfections Alphabetically: Newly Translated out of the French into English, Printed for R.T., London.

Pearson, J. 1991, ‘Gender and narrative in the fiction of Aphra Behn. Part I’, Review of English Studies, vol. 42, no. 165, p. 40.

Swetnam, J. 1702, The Arraignment of Lewd, Idle, Froward, and Unconstant Women: Or, the Vanity of Them; ..., Printed for B. Deacon, London.

Todd, J. 2000, The Secret Life of Aphra Behn [ebook], Pandora, London; New York.

Cross-posted from the official Christopher David Blog https://ift.tt/2qj4KUG

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postanthropocene · 7 years ago

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Miss Pettifellar’s Cat.

Many years ago I left home. Having nowhere else to go, I worked and begged my way to the big city. I thought I was in control, but in truth I was falling. I didn’t stop falling until I arrived at Miss Pettifellar’s house. It was neither at the end of the street nor the beginning. It was completely and, seemingly innocently, located at an entirely arbitrary point. And yet, it was central to everything. In fact, I believe it may have been built there long before any of the neighbouring houses and the city risen up around it.

Miss Pettifellar didn’t meet me at the door but it was ajar. I followed her voice, all grumbling and unwelcoming, through the passageway and down to the lounge. Where she sat, in an ancient cushioned chair with spindly wooden features, her broken foot raised up on an old pouf and wool from her knitting cascading down the sides of her long dress.

“We shan’t have any Hoovering, young lady,” she said “can’t you use a broom?”

“I have to vacuum, it says right here…” I held out the piece of paper detailing my responsibilities, which she instantly dismissed.

“Not wearing my glasses, dear. Hoovering upsets the cat, don’t you know?”

She gestured toward one of the cabinets, upon which a black and mangy looking cat lulled in, what seemed to be, the only ray of natural light in the house. The cat looked at me and rolled over, exposing a large white patch on its chest. I had to vacuum, however, it was my job. I explained all this to the old woman and she begrudgingly acceded.

“Pretty silly job, girl. Hoovering where no Hoovering needs be committed, don’t you know? It’s in that cupboard, over there.”

She was right, after all, the carpet was clean. In fact, the whole house was immaculate. Yes, it was cluttered, with what seemed like more than one lifetime’s worth of collectables, but it was clean. I wondered how it was that an elderly woman, with a broken foot and a hospital appointed cleaner could keep the house so clean.

The following week the cat met me at the door with a low growl and raced back to the spot in the ray of sunlight. Miss Pettifellar had retained her grumpiness and only smiled, in a toothless and menacing kind of way, when she saw me walk to the cupboard for the vacuum cleaner.

“Must have been an accident,” she said as I held the cut power cord in my hand. “No, don’t put it back, push it like that, girl.”

“But, it doesn’t work,” I insisted.

She looked at me, daring me to refuse, until, finally, my nerve broke and I began pushing the lifeless contraption across the floor. As I did so, she returned to her knitting, tapping away in amused cheerfulness.

Of course, I had other jobs to perform, as well. Dusting, wiping, washing, and so forth. All the usual things a girl in my position could be expected to do. The impotent vacuum, however, became the strangest ritual I performed in that old house, with the old woman and the old cat. If, at first, I had seen the chore’s execution a humiliation, and conducted it with anger and loathing, as the weeks wore on I began to view it with the same amusement as my host.

In time, knowing her plaster cast would soon be removed, she found an old walking cane in amongst the clutter. It was, she told me, made from the wood of an old sailing ship.

“I was on that ship,” she said. “The Tartar. We were shipwrecked and marooned and not all of us made it, given the hunger, don’t you know? But I made sure Captain Peck had plenty to eat and it was him that made this cane, and gave it to me.”

She sat, week after week, rubbing oils into the old cane till the whole house smelt of camphor, turpentine and linseed. Her eyes would water with the noxious vapour as she methodically massaged life into the dry old wood. Such was the overpowering essence of the oils and spirits, I could smell it leaching from my pours long after I left the house and other clients would remark on my strange odour.

“Do you have any family, Miss Pettifellar?” I asked one day, noting the many photos, framed and placed as though in random along the walls.

“Probably, I wasn’t always alone, don’t you know? There were many of us once…” she replied, her voice drifting away as she stared blankly toward me. “I have a habit of outliving people,” she said by way of explanation.

So the weeks went by, each visit as unsettling as the one before. Each week the cat would stare at me, and the old lady would grumble and groan and rant, and I would push the silent vacuum around. She seemed always ready to belittle me for some small error. I could make the tea one way and be praised, but follow the same procedure the next visit and have it handed back with disgust. If I took advice on some method of housekeeping, and replicated it directly, she would insist that I had messed it up entirely. Then deny she had advised as I remembered at all.

“You never married?”

She squirmed in her seat, and the cat growled, and she shouted at the cat, and the cat rolled over.

“In a manner of speaking, I suppose. I have been married many times.”

I asked how long she had the cat.

“Oh, cats come and cats go. There always seems to be a new cat ready to take over as another one leaves. I lose track. Best not to get too familiar with cats, don’t you know? They guard the gates to the other world and eat souls, when they can.”

So, if we were both prisoners of our circumstances, and if we both resented each other’s company for those two hours each week, nonetheless there came to be something of an accord between us. Don’t get me wrong, she would still call me a ‘silly bloody girl’ for even the smallest errors, and slowly shake her head disparagingly at me from time to time. But, when my roster was complete and I would make us both a pot of tea to drink, per her instructions, and we talked in front of the gas heater, well, I came to crave those conversations.

Her stories were rich with colour and morals and adventure. Interesting characters and people she once knew. She seemed, to me, to be a repository of all the histories and all the gossip of a thousand endless years. As though everything that happened had to pass through this old house on its way out. Back then, when my actual life was so stricken of colour and joy, yes, I came to value my time in that house each week. Perhaps I even began to see her as a friend. For, although she was always quick to labour on my failings, she would also, in her calmer moments, offer advice and counsel. Other clients would either ignore me or fawn over me, with this old lady, it felt like a relationship.

She met me in the narrow entrance to the kitchen, one day, trapping me against the wall. She was still so unsteady on her feet. Miss Pettifellar looked me up and down.

“You really are a very pretty girl, don’t you know?” she said. “I should eat you up and take all your youth and beauty for myself.”

She pushed up against me and I felt the roundness of her body against my own slight frame, the hardness of the curved handle of the walking stick pushing into my leg. Then she slid past me and resumed her seat.

A little later, while I was dusting or following after some other pointless task, she spoke up loudly.

“They used to do that, don’t you know? The Androphagi. Every spring, the old women would find a young virgin and eat her. You could lose 20 years, or more, that way. Not to mention taking all of their power for yourself. Of course, they were entirely wrong, didn’t have to be a virgin. But try telling them that.”

One day I noticed the cat deliberately move from its position in the sunlight. It stepped a few paces, stretched long and luxuriantly and reclined a little way from its usual spot. The cat looked at me. Beckoning me? So, I picked up the faded little cushion, all covered in cat fur, and determined to take the opportunity to actually clean something.

Miss Pettifellar turned in her seat, and the three of us all stared at the spot where the cushion had been.

“So, she’s found it, then,” said the old woman. “What do you think she’ll do now, hey? Do you think it will be so easy?”

“Easy?” I replied.

“There’s more to that than it seems, don’t you know?”

I was afraid to touch it. It seemed to glisten in the sunlight, shiny and lumpy and impossible. I had never seen anything quite so beautiful.

“A man gave me that, dear,” she said, reaching with her cane and poking me in the hip. “And now, you think a little girl will take it away from me? Haven’t I always treated you well, silly girl? Now look, you’re thinking of dashing my skull in with that vase. You’re thinking of taking the nugget and leaving me here to die. An old, crippled, woman, lying here in a puddle of her own blood, her head caved in. Shameful.”

She tossed and turned in her seat, swinging that well-oiled cane around, with me just out of reach. I would never steal from her, I insisted. She simply raised one eyebrow at me in disbelief.

*****

As I lay staring at the ceiling in the dark, my boyfriend beside me still, spent and sweaty, my mind refused to let go of that glittering piece of metal. It tormented me even for a week. With every old woman’s house I cleaned, there, in the back of my mind was the same object. Every old man who lecherously told me dirty jokes, every foul tasting blow job when my boyfriend came home, every bill under the door, every memory of home. They all reminded me of the same thing.

Until, eventually, it overwhelmed me.

What good was it to her? When it could do so much for me? How selfish and arrogant this old woman truly was, to make a bed for a cat where I could have my life remade. To me, it was as remarkable as a doorway to a better existence. To her, it gathered cat fur and dust. And she dared to say she had treated me well? She dared? When it was I who had the power, all along.

*****

The cane was broken in two.

The cat greedily pulling at the throat of the bloated, lifeless body. Lapping at the blood that pooled and congealed around its paws. It hissed and growled at me, afraid I might choose to deprive it of its meal.

“You’ve waited a long time for this,” I said, as I stepped over Miss Pettifellar.

The nugget was round and smooth. I caressed it in my hands and rubbed along its axis. Gold is greedy, taking all the weight for itself. For its size, it is always surprisingly heavy. I opened my bag and removed a bottle of cleaning spray to make room and carefully lowered it into place.

The cat rushed its eating. As it pulled, the old woman’s head rolled back and forth across the floorboard. Like a marionette shaking its head, the cat pulling the strings.

“No?” I replied. “Would you prefer me to leave it here for the lawyers and the officials? For you? Oh, you can’t tell me what to do now, old woman.”

She just kept shaking her head. Her mouth dropped open, as though about to add voice to the silent remonstrations. But no sound came out, only a thin trickle of bloodied spit.

I promised to call the police, later, when I had recovered from the shock.

“Of finding you here, Miss Pettifellar. Like this. Any girl would run from the horror, wouldn’t they?”

Still she shook her head.

So I left them there. Walked out of that anonymous little house, somewhere along a nondescript street. It wasn’t even hard. Now I was the centre of the universe and things would align to me.

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Awarded A grade 2017 Creative Writing La Trobe University.

Cross-posted from the official Christopher David Blog https://ift.tt/2Ew8asi

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