Djuna Barnes - Ladies Almanack

“What,” said that good Dame, “can you know about it, who have gentlemaned only? Recall, and remenber, my Love, that the Camel is forever facing a Needle, but cannot go through it, and a Woman is much nearer the needle’s proportion in her probabilitities than a Man.”

“Still and nevertheless!” said Patience.

At this moment entered the two Doxies, High-Head and Low-Heel, the opposites that one often meets in this World of Women. One (Low-Heel) protesting that women were weak and silly Creatures, but all too dear, the other (High Head) that they were strong, gallant, twice as hardy as any Man, and several times his equal in Brain, but none so precious.

“I hold,” said High-Head, “that she is Voltairian of Breath, that she sheds a sharp Aroma, that her mind is so webbed and threaded with Thought and Fancy that the World sees little of either, for the two are in a Thrall, skull-bound and head-hampered. A man can tell you what he thinks, for it comes spinning, a thin and little Thread, from one and a single Bobbin.

“And I hold,” said Low-Heel, “that for just that reason she should not declare herself in possession of her own Opinion, for an Opinion is a single and a nice thing, not two Creatures sitting in Skull, sulking away their Days.

“Yet sometimes,” broke in her Companion, “she thinks of new things, my lass, and how do you account for that?”

“She must come on something, since they untied her Bib and altered the size of her Breech-cloth,” said the other, “but what of it? She is nothing but nice!”

“She is everything but!” cried High-Head. “Is she not the spinning Centre of a spinning World? Do not the Bees belly and blow, hone their Beaks and hoard their Honey to make her Negus and Nectar? The Worm, from Head to Heel, one long contriving inch that she may be wrapped in Silks and Satins, the Seal well suppled for her Coat, and the Seed in the Dirt, fattening and bursting for her Delight? Why, does not Nature, that old Trot, weave Day and Night the Threads of human Destiny whereto these Damsels hold, Chin and Shank, sky-swimming up the Tree that has plotted an hundred Years to coffin her! Great Mother of Geese, how she crawls!” she added.

“Nine Pins and ten Pins and Crows to a Cock!” exclaimed her Bride, “How you wander! such Women as you describe are only seen in Books, or are raked up with the Plough, or are written of in Tomes with the Quill of the Goose that has, with her, been dead a million years, and is Dust with her doings! And even at that, what have These Scriveners said of her but that she must have had a Testes of sorts, however wried and awander; that indeed she was called forth a Man, and when answering, by some Mischance, or monstrous Fury of Fate, stumbled over a Womb, and was damned then and forever to drag it about, like a Prisoner his Ball and Chain, whether she would or no.”

“Because, sweet Fool,” said her Companion, “they cannot let her be, or proclaim her just good Distaff Stuff, but will admit her to sense through the masculine Door only, nevertheless, I’ve noticed, belabouring her the while they admire, with Remarks to the effect that she be unwieldy, gander-gated, sprung at Hip, unlovely, disenchanting, bearded, hoop-chested, game of Leg, out at Elbow, double-jointed, hook-toothed, splay-footed, wattled, hamstrung, mated with nothing, high-bridged and loose-lipped, no-woman’s Meat the length of her Bones, fit for no diddling, dallying Tom, white-eyed and no Wind in her Nostrils but such as blows down her Bellows to make her a neither, and so forth and so on. In no wise worth their pains. For near to a Man or far from a Man, she will not be of him!” She paused “And from where, say you, come such Women? Up from the Cellar, down from the Bed of Matrimony, under Sleep and over come. Past watching Eye and seeking Hand and well over Hedge. From Pantry and Bride’s-sleep, in Mid-conception and in old Age, from Bank and Culvert, from Bog’s Dutch and Fen’s marrow, from all walks and all paths, from round Doors and drop Lofts, from Hayricks and Cabbage-patch, from King’s Thrones and Clerks’ Stools, from high Life and from low. Some dropping Teapots and Linens, some Caddies and Cambric, some Seaweed and Saffron, some with Trophy Skulls and Memory Bones, gleanings from Love’s Labour lost. Some in Nightgowns and some in Fashion, some hot with Home work and some cool with Decisions. Indeed, some of all sorts, to swarm in that wide Acre where, beside some brawling March, the first of shes turned up a Hem with the Hand of Combat.

“Too true for you, perchance”, admitted her Love. “But nevertheless, did not some and several return to their Posts?” “Indeed, and a few”, said High-Head, “but how!”

HER TIDES AND MOONS

THE very Condition of Woman is so subject to Hazard, so complex, and so grievous, that to place her at one Moment is but to displace her at the next.

In Youth she is comely, straight of Limb, fair of Eye, sweet back and front; tall or short, light or dark — somehow or somewhat to the Heart. Yet it is not twelve span before she sags, stretches, becomes distorted. Her Bones dry, her flesh melts, her Tongue is bitter, or runs an outlawed Honey. Her Mind is corrupt with the Cash of a pick-thank existence. Life has taught her Life. She hath become Friends with it, nor hath she lain long enough upon her Back-though she hath lain so half her duration, to prefer the Coin of Ether. She was not fashioned to swim in Heaven, she is a Fish of Earth, she swims in Terra-firma.

Yet in this poor Condition she causes Pain to Condition as poor. For all are bagged of the same Net, and one comes to as ignoble Ashes as another. The pelvic Bone of Saint Theresa gapes no more Honesty than that of Messalina, for the missing Door wherein no Man passed, is as Not as that windy Space where all were wont to charge, and the Eye that wept for it is as unhoused as the flesh it cried for.

No Feet come and go in the Grave, nor is any Hand wanton in the Tomb, and this is a long while, wherefore then do you grieve? She is dishonest to-day, but tomorrow she is unsought for forever.

Yet we trouble the Heart for that which was made hastily and without peradventure of how it should be in the Womb, and without Wish to know how it shall fare ten weeks in the Earth.

These be three Conditions, yet we take account of the one and second only, that she is. What then is this but a short swinging of the Mind, a false Addition, for that two Figures of its entirety are left to no accounting?

If then in Man Jealousy for his Wife is an unthinking and amiss Calculation, how much more pointless is it for a Woman to faint, grow sick, turn to Fury and Sorrow over a Woman? A man may rage for the little Difference which shall be alien always, but a Woman tears her Shift for a Likeness in a Shift, and a Mystery that is lost to the proportion of Mystery.

Yet do this Fire rage as hotly here in the Garden of Venus, yea, with an even more licorous and tempestuous flame, than in the very Camp of Nature; and where one Man is cut down from a Rope’s End for the sake of his dishonest Wife, two Maids will that same day be found swinging to that Same Beam for that same Girl.

They do not plead, as is the Custom among Families, that they are by Treachery made Cuckold, wear Horns and nourish a bastard Child, for such a contention were more than impossible. And though that has been, for the ancient, the chiefest Thorn in the side, see how vain is Man’s suffering, change it how you will, for though that Prick is nowhere in the Flesh of Sister for Sister, they cry as loud, yea, lament still more copiously, turning and twisting as if the very Lack were an extraordinary Pain!