42

Fays, Floozies and
Philosophical Flaws

Arlene Ladden

The smile of my gracious lady makes me happier
than if four hundred angels laughed at me from
the heavens  (Raimbaut d’Orange, while some
less gracious ladies chuckled from

the wings.)

The attitudes in True Romances (and in most
of our pasts) originally shone forth from 12th-
century troubadour poetry, and even then they
were a little tarnished. Chaste, idealistic and
upper-class, medieval troubadour poetry sup-
posedly countered a strong tradition of misog-
yny. It also supposedly elevated woman by up-
holding that same feminine mystique which, for
centuries, the Christian fathers had diligently
tried to demolish: “Corporeal beauty is nothing
else but phlegm, and blood, and humor, and
bile, and the fluid of masticated food. ...”
said John Chrysostom, a saint, in the 4th cen-
tury. “When you see a rag with any of these

things on it, such as phlegm, or spittle, you
cannot bear to touch it even with the tips of
your fingers. . . . Are you in a flutter of excite-
ment about the storehouses and depositories of
these things?1

Woman was so many layers of mucous mem-
brane. And writings from 6 and 7 centuries later
attest to the muddy strides saints and clerics
had taken in the interim: “If her bowels and
flesh were cut open, you would see what filth is
covered by her white skin. If a fine crimson
cloth covered a pile of foul dung, would anyone
be foolish enough to love the dung because of
it?”2 Now, woman was simply so much manure
smattered across the coprophagous pages of
Christian doctrine.

The wheels of progress kept on turning. A
13th-century work addressed itself specifically
to women—three worthy recluses: “What fruit
does your flesh yield from all its openings?”
began their catechism. “Between the taste of
mouth and smell of nose, aren’t there holes like
two privy holes? Aren’t you born of foul slime?
Aren’t you worm-food?? To the Church, wom-
an was simply full of shit. Yet this was the
legacy bequeathed to the Middle Ages, where
the love of woman was a cult—an absolute pre-
requisite for respectability. And love flourished.

Of course, misogyny continued to flourish
too. Woman would still be called “a stinking
rose” and “glittering mud” and “a temple built
over a sewer.”* But, as sister to Mary, she was
also the mystical elevator of the masculine soul
which, by its nature, gravitated toward perfec-
tion. By merely contemplating woman in her
golden radiance, man could rise to spiritual
heights in a kind of “gilt” by association. For
somewhere between the muddy slime and the
hazy castle spire, a new woman had been
spawned. Like the enchanted fay (fairy) of Celt-
ic lore, she moved softly, gliding over but never
touching terra firma, surrounded by auras so
fragile that they were better left unpenetrated.
But these were beautiful, mysterious and prom-
ising auras, and scribes feverishly copied down
the formulas for keeping them intact: “If you
have ugly teeth, don’t laugh with your mouth
open.” “Practice making pretty speeches.” “Dye
your hair; wear false hair if you have lost your
own...”5

Andreas Capellanus, Jacques D’Amiens, Rob-
ert le Blois, Garin le Brun, Drouart la Vache,
Ermangau and de Fournival—all added their
instructions to the heap: Lie. Cheat. Drop
names, if you have to. Drop dead, if you have
to. Anything.

Maintaining the mystique was the important
thing, and that meant keeping the distance. It
meant the ecstasy was in the wooing while sex
lay in the winding down. Even the ladies under-
stood that attainment decreased their value,
and many who loftily kept their suitors well
below thigh level would rather have had it
otherwise. After all, as even the ladies knew: a