Yesterday, having resolved to make some last minutes trips to tourist attractions before I go home and kick myself for having overlooked some very obvious things, I went to Westminster Abby. While it was really cool to see the tomb of Queen Elizabeth I, who wrote some great poetry if you have any desire to read it, my favorite spot in the Abby was not nearly as opulent as that occupied by the Virgin Queen.
Around the corner from the Poet's Corner, and outside in the courtyard, there lies a flat and faded marble slab laid into the ground. Nothing about it boasts of importance. There is no figure carved from stone to stand above it and demand attention from all passersby. It is just smooth and plain. But the words carved into it couldn't be more perfect.
It was specifically to see this spot that I had ventured into the Abby. The stone read:
Here lies a Proof that Wit can never be
Defense enough against Mortality.
Behind these most fitting words lies the Wit of Aphra Behn.
Mrs. APHRA BEHN
DYED APRIL 16
A.D. 1680
Aphra Behn, as you may have already guessed, unless you have heard of her before now, was a writer during what is called the Restoration period of British Literature. This era was, for the most part, filled with the words of Pope and Dryden and Swift (Read: crusty old white men who were very angry about a lot of things, and loved to complain about the endless shortcomings of women). And then there was Aphra Behn.
Behn is a figure whose personal life is shrouded in mystery. Nothing is known for certain about her birth or the identity of her parents or the man that made her a Mrs., but what is known is rather fascinating. She traveled, for instance, to the New World, the West Indies, and lived there for a time, later writing about her experiences in a pseudo-documentary way in a novella called Oroonoko; she also worked as a spy in Holland for the British government, using her feminine wit and charm to get information out of, who else?, men; and lastly, and most importantly, she is recognized as being one of the first and most prolific female writers and playwrights of her era who supported herself by way of her writing. She wrote for her bread.
In her novel, A Room of One's Own, Virgina Woolf wrote that every woman should "let flowers fall on the tomb of Aphra Behn, for it was she who earned them the right to speak their minds." I just finished a paper on one of Behn's plays for my class on the Restoration. It's called The Rover, and it had me laughing out loud. So, needless to say, though to say it makes me sound like a pretty huge dork, I was SO EXCITED to see this unassuming spot in Westminster Abby. I mean, it was kind of like seeing a celebrity on the street or something. That doesn't really make any sense, but just to know that I was, in a sense, in the presence of this woman was a really cool sort of thing.
I sat down on a bench for a minute, just to look at the black faded stone, just to think. And then a pigeon walked across her grave, her tomb, whatever you want to call it. A pigeon walked across Aphra Behn. Then feet shuffled over her--feet belonging to a tour group that was completely oblivious to what they were walking on top of, of who they were looking over. And then came a stroller.
I thought the contrast between my attitude of "hero-worship" and everyone else's nonchalance was pretty hilarious. And it made me think about the idea of legacy.
When I was in Paris the first time, Claire, Syd and I went to find Jim Morrison's grave. He's burried at this cemetery on the outskirts of Paris, and Syd basically came to Paris so that she could "see Jimmy."
We found the site after a bit of hiking around. It was barricaded with the sort of gate one might find lining a red carpet to separate the stars from photogs and screaming fans. His headstone was strewn with wilting flowers, candles, and other sundry items left my many an adoring fan. The tomb to the left of his was covered in messages from his fans who found it permissible to deface a stranger's tomb in order to leave Jimmy a message.
Meanwhile, in London, pigeons and strollers and tour groups are passing over the resting place of English Literature's first professional woman writer.
But this might be preferable to a tacky barricade.
