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Anne of Green Gables, Colette, France, Gigi, Jane Austin, Little Women, Louisa May Alcott, Paris, Place Colette, Pride and Prejudice
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By Philippa Campsie
The Place Colette, named for the writer Colette (1874-1954) who lived nearby, is a good place to contemplate French novels and their heroines. And why would we do that? Well, because French fiction may well be an important key to the mystery of what makes Frenchwomen the way they are.
Whole books have been written about Frenchwomen’s special qualities, with oceans of ink spilt over the “scarf-tying gene” and the myth that they don’t get fat, and the fact that they always dress impeccably. Nobody ever looks at what they read, and the heroines who might serve as role models.
For example, consider the traditional heroines you probably read about when you were in your teens. They might include Elizabeth Bennett from Pride and Prejudice, Jo March from Little Women, or Anne of Green Gables—outspoken, tomboyish, and spunky characters. They make mistakes and learn from them, they spend time with sisters and schoolmates, they are loyal to their families. The only one who seems particularly interested in her appearance is the disaster-prone Anne, who dyes her hair green by mistake and believes that happiness can be found in a dress with puffed sleeves.
French writer, Colette
Now who do we have in the French line-up? For a non-French person, the character who comes to mind immediately is Gigi, the almost-courtesan, surrounded by adults who are grooming her for a rather unconventional job. Of course, most of us know Gigi from the sanitized musical play and movie by Lerner and Lowe, but even so we can see that Gigi has no siblings or schoolmates to share confidences, and her lessons consist of learning how to serve food, dress beautifully, and converse with men.
Gigi is one of Colette’s creations, and Colette herself is a far cry from Jane Austen or Louisa May Alcott (two spinsters) or or L.M. Montgomery (a woman trapped in an unhappy marriage to a morose Presbyterian clergyman). Colette married three times, and had various affairs. Some of the spicier bits of her books are simply drawn from her own life.
The story goes that Colette’s first husband, Henri Gauthier-Villars (known as Willy) ran a sort of literary sweatshop, in which he employed ghost writers to pump out material he could publish under his own name. Apparently he would lock Colette into a room until she had written a certain number of pages. It was a brutal but effective form of apprenticeship; for the rest of her life, Colette was able to produce reams of material on deadline under trying circumstances.
When she wasn’t writing, she was performing—one of her more celebrated roles was in a play called La Chair (The Flesh), in which a breast-revealing wardrobe malfunction was written right into the script. You just can’t imagine Louisa May Alcott in that situation.
Now we can’t come to a definite conclusion based on this single example (and we may well be overlooking much more influential books pitched at young Frenchwomen in their teens), but we do wonder if in trying to pin down why Frenchwomen are the way they are, it might be worth taking a peek at their bookshelves, not just their boudoirs.
A novel is un roman in French, and a writer is un écrivain or une écrivaine, although a woman writer might also be called une femme des lettres. In the 19th century, literary women were known in both French and English as les bas-bleus (bluestockings), although this term probably did not apply to Colette. In the 17th century, the term Les Précieuses (the Precious) was applied to a group of women who wrote elegant and very feminine romance novels; they were lampooned in a Molière play called “Les Précieuses ridicules.” Obviously, men really didn’t get it.
P.S. Of course, the French do have children’s books, such as Les malheurs de Sophie (The Trials of Sophie) written in the 1860s by the Comtesse de Ségur, about a little girl living in a French country house whose curiosity tends to get the better of her, rather like the spunky heroines in English books, but it was pitched at a younger audience.
BOOKS RECOMMENDED BY A WOMAN’S PARIS
Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott (Author), Valerie Alderson (Editor). Oxford University Press (2009).
Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen. Tribeca Books (2010).
The Collected Stories of Colette, by Colette (Author), Robert G. Phelps (Editor), Antonia White (Translator), Matthew Ward (Translator), Anne-Marie Callimachi (Translator). Farrar, Straus and Giroux Publisher (1984).
The Complete Anne of Green Gables Boxed Set, by L.M. Montgomery. Starfire; Reprint edition (1998).
VOCABULARY: French to English translations
Les bas-bleus: Bluestockings. 19th century literary women were known in both French and English as les bas-bleus.
Les Précieuses: The precious. Applied to a group of women who wrote elegant and very feminine romance novels.
Un écrivain/une écrivaine: (M/F) Writer.
Une fremme des letters: Woman writer.
Un roman: Novel.
Philippa Campsie teaches part-time in the urban planning program at the University of Toronto and runs her own writing and research business, Hammersmith Communications. Before starting her own business, she was editor-in-chief at Macmillan Canada. Philippa lived in Paris as a student and regularly travels to Paris and Normandy. She is interested in stories of famous Parisian women throughout the ages and how they influenced the Parisian style we have come to love and know.
You may also enjoy A Woman’s Paris® post, A behind-the-scenes look at French parenting, by au pair Alyssa Glawe who asks, “How do the French have such polite and courteous children without lifting a finger?” For Alyssa, every day leads to new cultural shocks and humorous situations.
Children fashionistas: Why French children dress better than you do. French au pair Alyssa Glawe tells that a child’s clothes in France are more than just something to cover the body. “It’s safe to say that, French parents would never put an item of clothing on their child that they would not wear themselves,” she writes “Comfort is important, but in all truth, it’s really about the fashion.” Including a list of children’s labels and websites.
The Child Madeline, by writer and educator Natalie Ehalt who shares her love of Madeline and brings a deserved respect for girls and children worldwide. Including excerpts from Mad About Madeline: The Complete Tales, by Ludwig Bemelmans.
I dream of Paris. Writer and educator Natalie Ehalt shares the quote from Napoléon, who wrote in 1795, “A woman, in order to know what is due her and what her power is, must live in Paris for six months.” To Natalie, Paris is the ultimate in elegance and style. It is old-fashioned, it is cobblestone, it is aprons, it is a chauffeur helping you step off the curb…
A Fairy-tale Weekend in the French Countryside, by Parisian Abby Rodgers who writes: “Cars rolled in, guests suited up in white, delicious cuisine, divine choux pastry tower, sparklers, dancing till dawn…”
Vive La Femme: In defense of cross-cultural appreciation. Doctoral canditate and writer Kristin Wood finds Francophiles around the world divided by Paul Rudnick’s piece entitled “Vive La France” in the New Yorker magazine. As is often the case with satire, there is a layer of truth to the matter that is rather unsettling. Including comments from readers worldwide. (French)
Le Baisemain, a kiss of the hand, by Barbara Redmond who shares her story of the French-style kiss, considered by some out of fashion, and writes, “Gallantly, he bent down from the waist and reached for my right hand. He took my hand as though it were a fragile butterfly about to fly away. Poised, he raised it…” She wondered, was it the Chanel No.5 perfume?
Text copyright ©2010 Philippa Campsie. All rights reserved
Illustration copyright ©2012 Barbara Redmond. All rights reserved.
barbara@awomansparis.com
7 comments
April/Céline said:
April 22, 2010 at 9:44 am
How about a comparison between S. E. Hinton and Françoise Sagan?
A friend shared a memory of high school, saying that she’d once turned in a literature paper before class began. The teacher began to skim through the paper and then grinning and chuckling. She said: “It turns out that I had written one of my most quotable pieces of scholarship to date:
‘The men in her life put Emma Bovary in many strange positions.’
I have to admit this is probably the best summary of Mme. Bovary I’ve read yet!
Katherine Louise said:
March 18, 2010 at 1:38 pm
Well, only as it reveals my personal interests, 😉 When I joined the French chic group I was looking for an interesting name that said something about myself. As a woman of a certain age and a newborn Francophile, I liked “Madame” (much to be preferred to Ma’am; can we not abolish Ma’am entirely?!). Then I was reading a novel (I forget which one), and one of the characters was Mr Constant. Ah . . . Madame Constant. I love the way the name sounds and, to me, contains an entire character. Oh, and the 1893 is courtesy of Henry James and his wonderful European novels.
Katherine Louise said:
March 15, 2010 at 10:10 pm
I found the link to your site via the French chic group. This is a fascinating discussion. I’m afraid I don’t have any idea what young French girls read, but I think it’s a brilliant idea to see if adult Frenchwomen are formed by their adolescent reading. As an aside, does anyone know how Austen and George Eliot were received in France? I look forward to reading more of this site.
awomansparis said:
March 15, 2010 at 11:10 pm
Dear Katherine Louise/Madame Constant,
Thank you for your comment. We’re glad you enjoyed the discussion, and we intend to find out more about French reading habits as we go along (the two of us are planning a trip to Paris for research).
We’re curious about your choice of username — Madame Constant 1893. There must be a story there.
Philippa and Barbara
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Heather said:
March 12, 2010 at 2:59 pm
Great post! This is such a fascinating subject. I, too, am curious as to what young French girls grow up reading (because I am an unabashed Franchophile). French girls are imbued with such confidence from the beginning, it seems. I’m sure what they read has some influence in their lives and how they choose to live.
Admittedly, Alcott, Montgomery, and Austen are all included in my list of favorite authors. I must respectfully disagree with your assessment of Alcott, however. Although a spinster, there is evidence that she had a lover (of whom the character of Laurie was based). Additionally, she was rumored to be a lesbian at some point and to prefer the company of much younger men. To me, it sounds as if she may have enjoyed keeping everyone guessing.
As for Austen, I can only hope that she might have had a love affair with Tom Lefroy. It’s too bad that so many of her letters to her sister were destroyed–it’s been difficult to piece together the truth of that relationship based on the lack of important evidence.
And Montgomery, I truly pity her! Have you heard of the new book _The Blythes Are Quoted_? I haven’t had a chance to read it, but I hear it puts a dark spin on our favorite characters–from what I understand, she was not permitted to publish these stories in their entirety during her lifetime.
Thank you for writing such a thought provoking article.
awomansparis said:
March 12, 2010 at 3:07 pm
Dear Heather,
Thank you for your wonderful comment. We had no idea Alcott was quite such a colourful character (admittedly, at least one of us is much more familiar with Austen and Montgomery and knows very little about Alcott’s life). Thank you for setting the record straight. Of course, her life was not exactly reflected in her books!
We are asking others if they know what kinds of things French girls read as teenagers. If you know someone who might know, please pass along the link.
Much appreciated,
Philippa and Barbara
Susan Gebelein said:
March 10, 2010 at 4:50 pm
What a fascinating thought to look at children’s literature to understand the psyche of women of a country. That sounds like someone’s doctoral thesis. I would not be surprised if it is not one.
The stories a culture tells are so important. There is some thought that cultures who re-tell stories of persecution in lurid detail unintentionally traumatize the succeeding generations.
Perhaps in Afghanistan there will be stories of the brave men and women who set up schools for girls and women.