I am Eve

the bad girl, the evil woman.

I stand accused, and sentenced. Without a trial. For life.

Because of my single action, millions of individuals have been born with ‘original sin’, have been guilty even before they acted, doomed before they started. I alone have been held responsible href="#eve_note01">[1] for this sad and pathetic fallen race. Therefore, let me begin by correcting this: if I were free not to fall in the first place, they were free not to fall after me; and if I were not free, then I can’t be held responsible—for my fall or theirs.

Now, let us further examine the charges, let us correctly define that action.

I have been condemned for choosing knowledge over ignorance: the fruit I ate came from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. In a society that praises pursuit of knowledge and honours men of wisdom, why have I been viewed with disfavour? Had Adam reached out first, would he have been so rebuked? Or is the state of ignorance requisite for women only? (Histories pass on Socrates, they pass over Aspasia.)

In the same vein, I chose experience over innocence. In a context of attitudes that value experience, the disapproval of my action can only imply the desire that women, like children, live in a state of innocence.

I have also been condemned for disobedience. If that were the issue, then why wasn’t the tree so named—‘the tree of obedience and disobedience’ or ‘the tree of temptation’. By naming it what it was not, God either deliberately tempted me or deliberately deceived me. And he should be judged, not I.

Perhaps though, the tree really was a tree of knowledge. In that case, one should wonder what insecurities led God to prefer obedience over knowledge. Indeed, one should wonder why he went so far as to forbid knowledge. The reason is evident in Genesis (3:22-23): he didn’t want us to equal him. He sent us out of Eden to prevent our eating from the tree of life, because already we were as wise for having eaten from the tree of knowledge, and if we had made it to the tree of life before he found us, we would’ve been immortal as well—we would’ve been as godly.

And that takes me onward, for counted among my sins is that of pride. Considering that later, through his son, God commands us to ‘follow in his footsteps’, I find the label of pride odd for the action that would do just that—make me like God. Furthermore, I find it odd to be condemned for being like God when, after all, he created us in his image (Gen 1:26-27). And God certainly is proud: to create us in his image can be called narcissistic, and to prefer us to spend our time admiring him rather than learning about him is equally evidence of pride. (As an aside, I would think that my knowledge would increase my admiration; that wasn’t why I ate the fruit, but if it was, would it have mattered? Did God ever ask my intent?)

I have also been charged with a lack of faith. Yet I took it on faith in the first place that God told us not to eat from the tree: remember, he gave the command to Adam before I even existed (Gen 2:16-17). href="#eve_note02">[2] Further, I had faith in the serpent, I trusted the serpent to be telling the truth. Is it dishonourable to trust?

And is it reprehensible to act on that trust, as I did then in offering the fruit to another, to Adam? God commanded innocence, then held me responsible for an act of innocent intent. For how could I know my faith was misplaced? How could I know the serpent was evil until I had knowledge of good and evil? By telling us not to eat of the tree, he insisted on ignorance—but then held us responsible, for an act of ignorance.

Lastly, I have been condemned for using my reason, for it is through the exercise of reason that I decided to eat the fruit. The serpent’s explanation of God’s motives, that the knowledge of good and evil would make us godly and he didn’t want us to equal him (Gen 3:5), seemed very reasonable to me. God’s command on the other hand, not even to touch the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil because then I’d die, seemed so very unreasonable. Where is the fault in using that faculty given to me by God? The fault is not mine, but God’s: he made reason guide our will and left our reason prey to deceit.

Or did he? History has it that the serpent’s words were false, that I was deceived. But God’s words after the fact (Gen 3:22 “Behold, the man is become as one of us”) verify the serpent’s prediction (Gen 3:5 “Ye shall be as gods”): the serpent was telling the truth. href="#eve_note03">[3] And so I stand condemned, for listening to truth. And for offering that truth to others.

href="#eve_ref01">[1] Even though Adam was beside me through it all (Gen 3:6) and made not one objection. And, of course, also ate the fruit.

href="#eve_ref02">[2] I don’t rule out the possibility that the command therefore was meant only for Adam—God knew that knowledge in the hands of men is a dangerous thing.

href="#eve_ref03">[3] And in fact God lied: he said we would die (Gen 3:3) if we touched the fruit of that tree, and we didn’t—at least not for several hundred years.

Clytie

I can see you sitting there
looking up to your love
watching his every move
through the sky

like the girl who waited
every day at the corner
so to follow him to school
I knew his timetable
where he sat for lunch
and which afterschools he had practice

gradually your life changes
from human to plant
till you are finally immobilized
by your adulation
and unrequited love

if only you’d known
he wasn’t a god at all
but just some bunch of hot air

The Portrait

My dearest Nannerl,

Of course you have a right to be upset about the portrait. After all, you performed right alongside your brother; in fact, your father had the bills printed to read “Two World Wonders.” Two, not one. You were with Wolfgang on the 1762 tour through Passau and Linz to Munich and Vienna; I remember Count Zinzendort called you (not Wolfgang) “a little master”. And you went again through Germany, in 1763, this time to Augsburg and Ludwigsburg as well as Munich, on to Paris, and then to London where the two of you performed that sonata for the Queen of England. And in 1765 you performed in Holland. No, do not doubt yourself, Nannerl: you were quite correct in calling Carmontelle’s portrait inaccurate because it shows Wolfgang at the keyboard, your father at the violin, and you merely holding the music for them. And he said you insulted him! I do know how you feel about the matter and I am completely on your side. Nevertheless, I must ask you to apologize.

And I know that your father’s recent decision to leave you at home and take only Wolfgang on this next tour doesn’t make it any easier. Though I admit to being glad not to be left at home by myself for once, I know it is terribly unfair. And I am writing this letter not to excuse or justify your father, but to explain. Nannerl, you are not to take his decision personally. It is not, as you first thought, that you are not good enough. Recall the Elector of Munich insisted on hearing you play the clavier, not Wolfgang; and there are many who share his high regard for your abilities. Nannerl, you are an excellent musician, a great performer. Nor is it that you have fallen out of favour with your father; he loves you as much as he ever did. (Which is, unfortunately, not as much as he loves Wolfgang. He is a man of his times. Didn’t you ever wonder why he started Wolfgang on lessons at a younger age than he started you? Surely you noticed he spent more time with Wolfgang? And it wasn’t until Wolfgang was ready to appear in public that he let you perform. You were young then, and perhaps did not notice... All the better. But I know Wolfgang had a head start right from birth and—but enough, I am getting ahead of myself.) Nor is the reason for your father’s decision, as you also suggested, that he considers you too frail to withstand life on the road. Wolfgang too came down with typhus in Holland.

Then why, you must be crying out! Let me try to explain. There is a time in every girl’s life when, suddenly, people stop treating her as a person—and start treating her, instead, as a mere woman. All of the doors that until that time were open are suddenly shut. All except one. It happens to every one of us, some time between twelve and twenty. It is happening now to you. (And later, when that door has been passed through, it too will close, and there will be nothing left: nothing left open to go back to, and nothing open yet to go forward to. As soon as I gave birth to a boy, your father’s attention rapidly shifted: I was of no more importance and Wolfgang was everything—but again I digress.)

This time of life is particularly difficult for someone like you, someone for whom the open doors promised such glory and richness. Why, when still a youth you were performing in all the great centers of Europe, you received excellent reviews and return engagements, you were meeting with all the important musicians of the day, you had a knowledge and experience of the outside world forbidden to others of your sex and age. And you were beautiful too, I know enough of the world to know this is an asset. Oh Nannerl, you had it all! Not even your brother had your beauty! But he had something more important: the right sex.

It’s a betrayal, I know it. It dashes to the ground all of the things you thought mattered: ability, dedication, desire. I had a talent for singing. I found it hard too, when I realized that I was not destined to become a famous singer. But, alas, I loved your father and wanted a family, so I accepted that loss for another gain. But you, Nannerl, I suspect it will be a long time before you marry, if at all, and perhaps you will not have any children. So it must be particularly frustrating and painful to have the only door you ever wanted open, suddenly closed.

I know this is little consolation, and indeed in a less generous heart, it would be salt to the wound, but remember, without you, Wolfgang would not be where he is today. You helped him become what he is. Much as your father likes to take all the credit for Wolfgang, it is simply not true. He had a family to support, a job to do, and while he was away playing in the consort, and directing the choir, it was you Wolfgang learned from. Remember in London, when Wolfgang was introduced to Johann Christoph Bach and the two of them, taking turns, with Wolfgang seated between Bach’s legs, the two of them played a sonata together and afterwards improvised. What a delight that was to everyone! Of course I knew it was with you he learned how to do that. I remember you, as a mere girl of ten, taking your little brother, then six, and ‘babysitting’ him just like that. And there was so much more. All the musical games you made up, and the time you spent helping his little hand form the notes on the staff when he could not yet write the letters of the alphabet. When I saw how much more valuable it was to have you spend time with your music and with your brother, well, I did not force upon you all the domestic duties it is common for daughters to bear. Besides, how many women get to do the washing and cooking to the music of such artistic genius!

And all of that makes this last bit even harder to tell you. You suggested that I ask Carmontelle to re-do the portrait. That is an excellent idea, but it cannot be done. You see, the one you saw was already a second version, done at my insistence. Nannerl, in the first one, you were not there at all. The man had excluded you completely, left you out altogether. (And the portrait you see now is his idea of atonement.)

Love,
Mother

Ophelia

O what a noble mind is here at last uncover’d!
The glass of fashion, the mold of form
Is quite dash’d against the stone;
The shattered pieces lie at my feet.
My thoughts, my feelings,
Once fixed, encased in crystal,
Breathe and blow in the quick’ning wind
Like petals. Once pale, now pulsing,
Rich, and rainbowed, come!
I beseech thee, attend and heed
As I the shards examine.

Laertes, brother, you insult to suggest
Hamlet’s love impermanent
For his choice must be queen
As well as wife: Am I not worthy?
Further, you warn caution,
Lest I my ‘chaste treasure open’:
I am mistress of my self!
And since more than a man, I pay the cost,
Then more, not less, do I take such care.
Lastly, you say ‘safety lies in fear’:
I have grown weary of being afraid,
Of being made to feel afraid; I yearn
To meet the day and greet the night
Unafraid—as men are wont to do.
And I crave to love with opening arms—
So tell me not to hide my heart
Lest my desire lead him to abandon
Restraint, and madly ravish—would it be so?
(Or do you extend to all of your kind
Knowledge of your self alone?)

Father, your words are as out of tune.
You say I do not understand myself
And see me still an infant babe,
For by foil you would then appear the more mature:
Is contrast your only proof of wisdom and worth?
(Alas, all cowards and chameleons create their colour
From what is without, not what is within.)
And you instruct me to ‘set my entreatments at a higher rate’
As if I am some prize! Do you think me a whore,
That my presence must be paid for?
Then you claim he may walk with a larger tether
(As if we were but animals!): Why do you grant him
More freedom than I?
Why does Laertes go to Paris (and not I)
When you know his simple mind so well
You sent another to be guardian?
I pray thee, Father, reconsider—
Is it because your own judgement is faulty
That you do not trust mine?
Hamlet is a fine man, soldier, scholar, courtier,
A prince! And I judge him to be sincere.
Is that not enough?
No, indeed, that is nothing, for lastly
You tell me to forsake him—forever!
For no other reason than your own mistrust
Of him, of me, that I’ll become with child
(And thereby make you the greater fool—
You think not what it would make of me.)

To you both, I never sought your advice
Why do you ‘press it upon me so?
Perhaps you feel your sex gives the right—
No. I’ll give the reason: Projection is all.
Brother, your passions run without rule
So you tell your sister to reign hers.
And Father, you are a fool and master both,
Of fine words and deception’s smile
So you counsel your daughter to believe none.

And now, Hamlet, no longer my lord
I have words that I have longed to deliver.
I pray you now, receive them.
The first time you came to me,
dishevell’d and distraught,
I was startled by your manner
And wanted dearly to explain my seeming change of heart
But I dared not. Yet to see you thus disturbed
I almost broke my vow and cried out
Love!

But caught my breath: your eyes,
It was your eyes that pierced my heart
With icy arrows poison-tipped,
And froze my tongue.

And when later, I returned your letters,
Could you not see I was commanded
By a will other than mine own?
My father’s glance had soiled those pages,
And for that I almost willingly returned them
But to ask for more!
When finally I was permitted to reach out to you,
To speak with you, perchance to touch you—
Did you not see my hand tremble as I held
Our hearts between us? Could you not tell?
Did you not know? No, you did not.
Or could not. Perhaps would not.
And I wondered, what love is this
So blind to my state,
So focused on your own?
(You have the luxury of feigning
What I was truly fighting!)
You thought to fool with me:
I loved you, I loved you not,
Carelessly plucking the petals of my heart
One by one, finally crying out
‘Get thee to a nunnery!’
Did you think me that cold, that bereft of desire?
Or, unable to have me, did you wish no one to?
Or did you think me pure, too pure for the arrant knave?
I pray thee, do not set me upon a pedestal,
An angel or a saint—allow me to be human:
I bleed, I desire— Is that it?
Desiring, am I thus impure, fit only for a ‘nunnery’?

Then, sitting near to see the players,
Did you think yourself a member of the troupe
To be playing thus with me?
Your closeness, your words, taunting me—
For desire’s restraint or for its absence?
I was as fever’d as you were cold.
But you could not see at all,
So much it pleased you to be the wronged,
Poor little Hamlet, hard done by
His uncle, his mother, his sweetheart.
There was a line, not unnoticed,
‘A woman’s love is brief’:
The brevity of my love is but a measure
Of the weakness of yours.
Pray, what is the source
Of your sudden loss of faith in me?
You think I betrayed you, used you,
Played pawn of the King and Queen:
But they merely sought to learn
The cause of your madness,
A knowledge I too desired—
(Was it your love for me?)
Why did you doubt me so?
Ah—‘your mother, your sweetheart’—
Your mother is unfaithful therefore I must be;
Your mother fickle, therefore I fickle;
Your mother’s love brief, mine too.
Hamlet, I am as different from your mother
As I am from you.
Like the child who calls all furry creatures ‘dogs’
You think that because we share sex
We share all else as well.
I would as easily say that because my father
Is a cowardly fool, so too are you.
(An opinion not unworthy of consideration, now—
Perhaps it was you who used me—
Your lusty talk not for my ears but for theirs,
So they might conclude your madness unrequited love—
A perfect decoy for your petty plan
Of avenging unrequited hate.)

And then that second time you came to me,
Disturbed and in despair, you burst into my chamber
As I lie in bed still flushed and confused—
That night you come to me, so full of delighted rage,
Your uncle’s guilt finally exposed,
But your inability to kill the King persisting
And frustrating your filial duty, your honour,
You tell me then you have killed my father,
Mistaking him for another, and though racked
With the pain of love for your mother
You effect a turbulent reconciliation,
Burning still you babble on of your father
That he appeared to you again.
Thus you come to me, all empty and full too—
And what am I to do but take you in my arms,
Take you to my bed, calm you, comfort you,
I loved you! And I am pained to admit
My father dead and Laertes now abroad,
Nothing could prevent the consummation
Of our love and our desire.
I said yes, my father’s blood on your fingers
To be mixed with my own maidenhood blood,
And I said yes, to prove my love,
To show you finally what I truly felt,
To erase that past of forced and frigid distance.
Love’s restraint hath increased its fire, I said yes
To make you believe, make you see
This is what I am to you, this is what you are to me,
And nothing less, I said yes to love you.
Taking you in my arms, gently, tenderly,
Soothing your passion ’till another took its place,
All night we held fast, all night we loved.

And in the morning, love,
In the morning I awake and you are not there.
My bed is empty and I fear I have dreamt
But no—I hear it said you have left for England.
What news is this?
You left no word, no explanation,
And I beat my breast flinging myself down,
Wondering have you played with me yet again?
I love you, I love you not!
Perhaps they tell true and I took to my bed
My father’s murderer, and not my love.
He has left, and I am the fool,
No, there must be a reason, I resist—
But then you send a letter to Horatio
And there is none for me.
Tormented, I wander for days, how should I
Your true love know from another one?
Now you seem dead and gone
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine;
But up he rose and donned his clothes
And dupped the chamber door,
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.
Young men will do’t, if they come to it
By cock, they are to blame.
And will ‘a not come again?
I wander’d thus a while, alas,
They thought me a poor virgin,
Loosed by insanity, mourning for my father;
But they did not know in whose bed
You lie the night before—
For that sanity makes, out of silly songs.

I hear it told a suicide:
A heart twice broken by grief
Over a father’s death and a love lost.
Alas, it seems men like to believe
They are the center of the universe
For all members of my sex.
But some of us are made
Of stuff more strong and independent.
My life was affected by you, ’tis true,
But not extinguished because of you.
And so, there arises a new thought:
Despair over a young unmarried pregnancy.
While more flattering than the former,
This, alas, is also untrue—
Hamlet was thirty and I was no Juliet;
And, with a simple sheath, a douche of zinc—
The truth, let it be known,
Is not suicide at all.
To your disadvantage it is
That clowns, idiots, and other asses
Are believed before a woman’s word.
Go, heed the Queen
And not the clown: It was an accident.
As I was perched in a tree sorting my mind,
I fell into the water, my dress billowed out,
And heavy as it quickly became,
it weighted me down.
Who would realize but another woman?
Forsooth indeed ’twas the damned dress!
Against the farthingale, several petticoats,
And my kirtle, velvet and voluminous,

I had but little chance.
Struggling with tens of tiny buttons and ties,
I could not get it off in time.

No, I could not free myself soon enough—
For I was the more deceived
To obey, to submit, to accept.
To wear my thoughts like garments
Fitting to the fashions of time and place
But that hinder and hide the self.
’Tis sad we seldom know what we are
And less what we may be.
But I do know now what I think:
Again, projection is all.
Hamlet, you tried to cast off your desire,
That constant source of frustration—
But alas you could not, and so instead
You sought to strip me of mine.
In your diversion with revenge and hatred,
You realized your love for me was brief—
And so you accused me and mine of brevity.
In your heart, loving your mother instead,
You were the unfaithful one—
And so called me fickle.
Incapable of strong belief and trust,
Doubting, vacillating, questioning all—
You take the mirror for glass and see me instead.
Guilty of dissembling and deceiving
With a mockery of madness and The Mousetrap—
You call upon my face-painting with disgust.
And last, you punish me for acting
With simple allegiance and obedience
To my duty toward my father—
Yet you have done the very same,
Pursuing to a far ghastlier end
The duty to yours.
Laertes, Polonius, Hamlet—
Everything you are that displeases you,
Everything that you cannot look at in yourself,
You have projected upon me, you see in me.
Well I have cast that glass in splinters upon the floor!
I am more and different than what you want to see.
The mold is broken, no more to be filled
With your frustrated dreams and fearful dreads.

(Soft, I have garlands still of flowers sweet—
No fennel, nor columbine,
The violets have withered,
And the daisies have been plucked.
There is some rue for all,
And for Hamlet, here’s rosemary:
I did love you once.
And here is pansies, that’s for thoughts.
And for myself,
T’have seen what I have seen, to see what I see
A single dogrose, rubied and free.)

Gretel

We read fables in school to teach us a lesson. And we read fairy tales at bedtime to put us asleep. And indeed they do: especially those of us, a full half of the human species, who are lulled lower and lower into a semi-conscious state by their lessons.

Remember “Hansel and Gretel”? The one about a little boy and a little girl. Who was me. Not particularly proud of it, but there you go. I didn’t write the story. I didn’t intend those lessons.

That, first, women are deceitful. There are two women in the story, the stepmother and the witch. And both of them lie to us. When Hansel and I are taken into the forest to be left there to die, my stepmother says “We’ll come back for you.” And later, when we meet the witch, she assures us she will “do us no harm”. But of course they didn’t and she did. Both women used deceit to achieve their goals.

That, second, women aren’t very intelligent. It was my stepmother’s idea that a good solution to the food shortage was to leave us in the forest. Why not kill and eat the pigeon or the cat first? Why not hunt for squirrels and rabbits? The witch, as well, wasn’t too brilliant when she climbed into the oven to give a little demonstration.

That, third, little boys are competent and resourceful (and therefore can, and do, take care of little girls, like me). The first time we were taken into the forest, it was Hansel who thought to unravel a spool of thread behind us so we could find our way back. The second time, again he planned for our survival, leaving a trail of crumbs to mark our path. Clever though this was, he didn’t think about the birds, who ate the crumbs. I was quite resigned to our fate; it was Hansel who refused to give up so easily. Well, as you know, we found our way to a house, but it belonged to the witch and she locked Hansel in a cage. Still using his head, he held out a bone instead of his finger each time she checked to see if he was fat enough to eat.

However, if you’ve read the story, you’ll know that, notwithstanding this glowing portrait of my brother, I’m the real hero: it was my cleverness that saved us. You’ll remember that the witch told me to creep into the oven to see if it was hot enough to bake the bread. I knew, of course, that she was going to slam the door shut and bake me instead. So, I said, ever so sweetly, “I do not know how I am to do it, how do I get in?” You know the rest, I’m sure: she showed me, I shut the door on her, and then I rescued Hansel and together we escaped.

What bothers me is that I had to be clever in that way. To this day, I resent having had to resort to that ‘dumb blond’ ploy. To begin with, because it’s just that—a ploy, a disguise, a deceit; and it teaches us that pretence is our best method of operation. So we pretend to be something we’re not to get what we want, be it life, love, whatever. But more than that, I resent the ploy because it teaches us that for a woman, ignorance is valuable: it is her defence, her weapon, her salvation.

Why is that so dangerous a lesson, since my ignorance really is just a ploy, and not genuine? Because habits of behaviour become habits of thought which become habits of belief. If I spend most of my life acting like I’m stupid, people will think that I am. And then it’s just a short step to actually becoming what people already believe I am.

But if we wake up, we all will live ever after.