Ingres, directly inspired by Montagu |
I came across a copy of the Letters of Lady Montagu who followed her husband to Constantinople in 1716. Two letters had been banned (pages torn off), and both dealt with the Turkish baths where naked women shared intimate moments. A coincidence?
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FIRST ARTICLE
Lady Montagu
One day, a bookseller from New York tried to convince me to buy one
of his books despite some minor defects: “I’ve
been in the business for more than thirty years and trust me, the beauty of a
book lies in its defects.” I laughed, and then retorted that if that was
his conception of life, he surely had had a lot of girlfriends in his life. But
just the other day, I remembered our discussion with a strange feeling.
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FIRST ARTICLE
Lady Montagu
Naked in a Turkish Bagnio
I had
just bought a book on eBay—God forgive: a copy of the Letters of Lady M—y W—y M—e, a new
edition printed in English—and in Paris—, in 1784. A small in-12 volume
bound in contemporary calf; a modest binding but a book in a very good
condition that didn’t cost me much. At first, I was delighted. It was lovely
and the reading was exciting—but I realized it was incomplete. Several pages
were missing in two different parts of the book. Only a book lover knows how I
felt at this precise moment. Upset, I cursed the bookseller—who had forgotten
to mention this detail—for spoiling my joy, and put this horrible book aside
with the firm intention to send it back. But later on, a bugging thought came to
me. I had noticed that the missing pages had been torn away a long time ago,
and this defect just didn’t match with the overall good condition of the
book—it became clear to me, my dear
Watson, that someone had deliberately taken off these specific pages. And I
decided to understand why. Googlebooks soon taught me the unknown tearer hadn’t expressed his or her fury at random, but on
two precise letters numbered XXLVI and XLII.
A strong woman
The Lady M—y W—y M—e stands
for Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1689-1762), the famous wife of Mylord Wortley—she
followed him to Constantinople when he was appointed Ambassador in 1716. Her
letters were written to various persons during her journey, including Alexander
Pope with whom she kept falling in and out of friendship with. It was uncommon
for a woman to travel so far, but this young lady was quite uncommon. Not only
had she character but she was also a very good writer. “If the reader, after perusing one letter only, has no discernment to distinguish that natural elegance,
that delicacy of sentiment (...) and
lovely simplicity (...) in which
these letters exceed (...), let him
lay the book down, and leave it to those who have,” wrote the authoritarian
Lady M.A who published these letters.
“I confess, I am malicious enough to desire,” this lady went on, “that the
world should see, to how much better purpose the LADIES travel than their LORDS.”
Men, beware: this is a story of proud and militant women who refused to bow to
the so-called superiority of men—poor them. And it took place in the early 18th
century! The same Lady M.A stated
that the reader shouldn’t be prejudice towards the female author: “Rather let us freely own the superiority of
this sublime genius, as I do in the sincerity of my soul, pleased that a woman
triumphs.” She even exulted in the two letters that upset
our unknown tearer.
The First Missing Letter
The first missing letter was written in Adrianople, in 1717, “with some content of mind”—and flesh, I should add. Indeed, while
in Sophia, she went incognito to the hot baths (or bagnios), where she found many women, “all being in the state of nature, that is, in plain English, stark
naked. Without any beauty or defect
concealed.”—guess my New York bookseller would have been comfortable with the
whole situation. She was clearly impressed, and maybe a little bit confused, by
what she saw, and this is what probably upset our unknown tearer. Naked women showing themselves shamelessly? What an
outrage! Furthermore, Lady Montagu’s description is quite sensual. “They walked
and moved with the same majestic grace which Milton describes our General
Mother with.” This reference to Paradise Lost was quite daring—how could we
honestly imagine Eve bathing in some Muslim bagnios?
Lady Montagu went further: “Most of their
skins shiningly white, only adorned by their beautiful hair, divided into many
tresses, hanging on their shoulders, braided either with pearl or ribbon,
perfectly representing the figures of the graces.” What a
thought-provocative—to say the less—piece of writing! This is a moist, hot, and
sensual scene, depicted by another woman who didn’t care about looking at the
protagonists in the eyes: “If it were the
fashion to go naked, the face would be hardly observed. I perceived that the
ladies of the most delicate skins and finest shapes, had the greatest share of
my admiration, though their faces were sometimes less beautiful than those of
their companions.” Lady Montagu enjoyed her unexpected emotion, and
confessed having “wickedness enough”
to wish one Mr. Gervais, painter, “could
see (so) many fine women naked, in
different postures, some in conversation, some working, others drinking coffee
or sherbet, and many negligently lying on their cushions, while their slaves
(generally pretty girls of seventeen, or eighteen) were employed in braiding
their hair in several pretty fancies.” But it would have meant the end of
him, as “’tis no less than death for a
man to be found in one of these places.” No male traveller could have ever
given such an insight into this world, indeed.
Let’s imagine the agitation of the unknown tearer who read those scorching lines—especially the part
where the English Lady is finally “forced
to open (her) shirt, and show them (her) stays, which satisfied them very well.”
But this experience was so exciting for Lady Montagu that the ruins of
Justinian’s church she visited afterwards appeared like “little
more than a heap of stones.”
The Second Missing Letter
As soon as she reached Constantinople, our wicked Lady went back to the bagnios,
tackling Mr. Hill on her way: “’Tis also
very pleasant to observe how tenderly he and all his brethren voyage-writers,
lament the miserable confinement of the Turkish ladies, who are perhaps more
free than any ladies in the universe, and are the only women in the world, that
lead a life of uninterrupted pleasure.” As a feminist, Lady Montagu was clearly enthusiastic about the condition
of women in Constantinople, and saw their confinement as a convenient way to
escape men’s attention and power—the debate still rages on. This time, she
witnessed the reception of a Turkish bride. “The virgins very hastily
threw off their cloths, and appeared without (...) ornament or covering. (...)’Tis
not so easy to represent to you the beauty of this sight, most of them being
well proportioned and white skin’d; all of them perfectly smooth, and polished
by the frequent use of bathing.” Our unknown
tearer couldn’t stand these lines worthy of the poetess Sappho. The Lady’s
sensual agitation is here too obvious to be ignored. She was definitely carried
away by what the Europeans would call the licentious morals of this country. In
the same letter, she related the sad story of a beautiful lady found dead in a
street—probably killed over some domestic affair, alleged Lady Montagu. But
death itself couldn’t belittle the sensuality of this creature. Her body was “naked, only wrapped in a coarse sheet”
and “not quite cold”. Lady Montague
was fascinated, and she noted that the girl “was so surprisingly beautiful, that there were very few men (...) that did not go to look upon her.”
Lady Montague went on with the disturbing story of a Spanish lady of
quality who had been captured and raped by a Turkish Admiral while at sea, and
who chose not to come back to her country when offered the opportunity—a
nunnery was her only horizon there. She married the Admiral and “never had reason to repent the choice she
made.” How in the world could a Christian woman feel less miserable in the
hands of a Muslim? And how could a woman choose to rule her destiny rather than
to obey the compulsory rules imposed by society? Let us tear down those pages
for the sake of our children.
Orientalism
Our unknown tearer
probably acted to spare some young people from this licentious civilisation at
a time it collided with the European one (as also shown in Montesquieu’s Persian Letters). This is the genesis of
Orientalism, the birth of the Seraglio’s wonderful tales of naked women, innocently bathing and discussing.
Ingres or Flaubert, 150 years later, would give unforgettable images of this
exotic sensuality. As a matter of fact, Ingres was
directly inspired by the first letter for his painting entitled Le Bain turc (1862)—he even reproduced some
passages of it in one of his books.
I then started to meditate over my incomplete copy, looking at the
old small bits of papers—the only remains of the two sulphurous letters. They
tell about the prudery of an unknown tearer,
but also about the strength of Lady Montagu’s words. This is what they could
provoke at the time. This modest copy seemed to have a deep meaning, after all;
and its scars indeed tell a story not to be found in its pages... but in the
missing ones.
© Thibault Ehrengardt
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