Author: Aliosha Bielenberg

Fontaine, Carol. “The Social Roles of Women in the World of Wisdom.” In Feminist Companion to Wisdom Literature, edited by Athalya Brenner-Idan, 24–49. Bloomsbury Publishing, 1995.

In this article, Fontaine investigates how women’s lived experience became part of the literary forms, content, and theology of the wisdom tradition in ancient Israel. To do so, she surveys the roles of women as portrayed in the books of Proverbs, Job, and Ecclesiastes and also draws on examples from other ancient Near Eastern cultures.

To begin, Fontaine proposes a new definition of a “sage” as anyone who routinely performs “authorship, scribal duties, … counselling, management of economic resources, conflict resolution, teaching and healing” (25). She also notes the presence of great female figures in wisdom literature, such as Woman Wisdom and the Woman of Worth. Fontaine observes that these exaltations of women belie real women’s status in society – in the same way that venerating the Virgin Mary does not correlate with valuing real women. Therefore, characters like Woman Wisdom should only be seen as expressing partial truths, or at least only those “facts” that male sages felt were worth recording. In short, Fontaine complicates any kind of simple relationship between literary representations and “reality,” whatever that may be.

Next, Fontaine makes some methodological notes. First, she proposes that wisdom literature is a kind of art produced by “verbal artisans” (27) and so should be approached with literary sensitivity. Fontaine sees this literary wisdom as a result of the writers’ “intellectual ecumenism”; although Israel was emphasized as theologically unique, these writers felt comfortable drawing from their neighbors and their predecessors. Wisdom, in Fontaine’s reading, means precisely the kind of thought that is “honed” on “the cultures that preceded and surrounded them” (27). Fontaine also notes that wisdom literature drew on “folk wisdom” and in particular on the tribal heritage of Israel. She even suggests that “the Hebrew Bible’s indecision on the subject of monarchy … may be a survival of the sentiments of the non-elite” (28). Although wisdom literature may not be a “pure” representation of the folk, some elements of non-literary “reality” were certainly incorporated in it.

First, Fontaine analyzes literary representations of women. The “virtuous wife” or “Woman of Worth” is perceived as the mistress of the “private domain.” She completes day-to-day tasks, manages her servants, and even gives alms to the poor. Yet she also finds time to teach and counsel – in other words, she is a practitioner of wisdom. This wisdom has distinct characteristics, among them the association with young children and the home and, more negatively, craftiness and manipulation. Fontaine suggests that these “indirect means … are typical strategies employed by those who do not have direct access to power” (31). Fontaine notes that these characteristics are particularly associated with the negative counterpart of Woman Wisdom, Woman Stranger. Her use of language is seductive and deceptive; she takes all the wifely virtues and turns them upside down. In both forms, though, the woman is portrayed by the male sages who are authors of the literary texts.

Fontaine next turns to women as authors. She asserts that women almost never received a full scribal education. In other words, most women were illiterate. Fontaine also notes that some folk genres are traditionally associated with women – “lullabies, working songs, [and] love songs” (36) among them. This complicates determinations of authorship in interesting ways. For example, if a woman creates a work but it was transcribed by a male scribe, do both parties share authorship? What if a work emerges from a communal tradition but is put into its definitive form by a male scribe? Fontaine gives one example to illustrate this complexity of authorship. In Proverbs 31:1–9, King Lemuel records the admonitions, prohibitions, and proverbs given by his mother. Fontaine argues that these words of the queen mother are clearly part of “the mother’s Torah,” with much use of imperatives, familial terms, and common themes. Fontaine points out that other queens also used “the language of wisdom to achieve [their] goals” (39), including the Hittite Queen Puduḫepa. Once again, however, other parts of the Bible portray the same characteristics in inversion – this time in the story of Jezebel. The authorship of the “Instruction” in the Book of Proverbs is unclear – the queen mother? King Lemuel? The scribe who first wrote it down? – but the presentation of women as diplomats, in harmony with other contemporary cultures, is unmistakeable.

Another function of women in wisdom literature that Fontaine notes is as folk healers. Apart from evidence from the Bible, Fontaine points to the example of Hittite wise women. They used their “keen observation of natural phenomena” to practice “medical magic” (43). “Female sorcery” like this is condemned in multiple verses of the Hebrew Bible – and the function of women as folk healers is thereby confirmed. When they fail to heal, though, these women were accused of witchcraft and severely persecuted. In all situations, the perception of women as healers is strongly influenced by the wider societal climate.

The last role of women in wisdom literature that Fontaine describes is as professional mourners. These women used the “poetic conventions of ritual mourning” to express a sense of “orderly ritual” by “raising an outcry over the dead” (45). In ancient Sumerian, a special dialect (EME.SAL) was reserved specifically for women to use in ritual functions such as mourning. Similar roles of women are attested in Jeremiah 9:12, 2 Samuel, the Hittite MI.SU.GI, and examples of Ugaritic lament.

Fontaine draws a number of conclusions. First, she notes that all the roles of women she described hinge on the practice of “deliberate, formalized language acts” (46). Training of some sort was required to use these, even though the roles originated from the functions of wives, mothers, sisters, and daughters within the home. Finally, all the roles – as diplomats, healers, and professional mourners – had negative counterparts when women’s actions were perceived to be challenging the patriarchy. All of these characteristics of “real” roles are paralleled in the literary figures of Woman Wisdom and Woman Stranger. As Fontaine puts it, “these two metaphorical figures embody the social roles, positive and negative, which women filled within society at large and the wisdom movement in particular” (46). This parallel structure is coherent and convincing. In particular, Fontaine’s integration of literary evidence, “real-life” roles, and examples from other ancient Near Eastern cultures is skillful and strongly supports her argument. Parallels can certainly be drawn with the roles of women in ancient Athens, especially in the type of rituals described by Manuela Giordano. Unlike Giordano, however, Fontaine made a concise and convincing argument by adroitly incorporating a variety of sources while maintaining a tight focus.

Faulkner, Andrew. “The Gods in the Narratives of the Homeric Hymns.” In The Gods of Greek Hexameter Poetry: From the Archaic Age to Late Antiquity and Beyond, edited by James Joseph Clauss, Martine Cuypers, and Ahuvia Kahane, 32–42. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2016.

In this chapter, Faulkner examines the role of the gods in the Homeric hymns. In Homer’s epics, the gods are “essential cogs in the narrative machinery” (32) but are nonetheless not the primary focus. Faulkner notes that, after all, both the Iliad and the Odyssey begin with “an invocation to the Muse to sing of mortal characters and their agency” (32). In contrast, the Homeric hymns focus directly on the divine. Each poem names a specific god as its object and addresses the god directly. Their narratives recount important episodes in the gods’ lives. In sum, while the Homeric epics are about mortals the Homeric hymns are about gods.

Faulkner notes the links between the hymns and Hesiod’s Theogony. Faulkner cites Strauss Clay’s argument that the hymns can only be fully understood against the background of the Theogony. The most important difference is the role of Zeus. The Theogony narrates his rise; the epics portray the stable Olympian order with Zeus at its head. The hymns present an intermediate divine order, in which the gods still vie for supremacy but largely accept Zeus’ hegemony. Faulkner argues that this role of Zeus is apparent in his narrative role. Many of the plots are driven by Zeus and his will. On the other hand, Zeus has very little direct speech, in contrast to the Homeric epics. His role is important, but not yet fully established.

Faulkner next examines the role specific gods play in the narratives of the Homeric hymns. Demeter and Persephone are both lauded in the Hymn to Demeter. Faulkner argues that this “dual tribute reflects the close association of mother and daughter in both myth and cult” (36). This hymn also provides the first fully fleshed-out anthropomorphism of Hades. Faulkner claims that this is indicative of the space that the hymns give to relating the extended myth and background of gods and goddesses. At the same time, both the Hymn to Apollo and the Hymn to Demeter devote much of their narrative to the foundation of cults. Faulkner notes that the narrative of Apollo, in particular, echoes Book 1 of the Iliad. While the pestilence that Apollo inflicts in that episode is often seen from the perspective of the Achaeans, from a different view Apollo’s actions are fundamentally support for Chryses, his faithful priest. Hermes and Aphrodite are the objects of more light-hearted hymns. Hermes in particular is seen as a trickster, full of humor and wit. Less attention is given to cult in these hymns. Furthermore, the gods barely interact at all with the mortals.

In sum, the Homeric hymns clearly present the gods at the center of their narratives. Some gods that are barely seen at all in the Iliad and the Odyssey (like Demeter) have whole hymns devoted to them, while other gods (like Zeus) are seen very differently. Faulkner ends by concurring with Calame’s argument that the Homeric hymns are “not just songs about the gods, but themselves poetic offerings for the gods” (42).

Faulkner, Andrew. “The Female Voice of Justice in Aratus’ Phaenomena.” Greece and Rome 62, no. 1 (April 2015): 75–86. doi:10.1017/S0017383514000254.

In this article, Faulkner discusses the female in Aratus’ Phaenomena. In the middle of discussing Greek constellations, Aratus refers to the Maiden, who he identifies with “the virginal Justice” (75). According to Faulkner, previous scholarship linked Aratus’ depiction of this constellation with the narrative of Dike in Hesiod’s Works and Days. Aratus gives this character the only direct speech in his poem. It is this speech that Faulkner focuses on.

Faulkner begins by looking to Hesiod’s Theogony and referencing the speech in which Zeus threatens Prometheus with the evil of Pandora. He suggests that Aratus “has transposed the foreboding prophecy of mankind’s future from the male voice of Zeus to the female voice of his daughter Dike” (77). This link is emphasized by similar language in Hesiod and Aratus. That being said, there are differences between the two accounts: Zeus actively creates and destroys the ages, while Dike is more passive, letting humanity destroy itself. This shift hinges on the use of the second-person plural (υμεις). In Hesiod, the pronoun is used to address “the kings responsible for upholding justice” while in Aratus Dike uses the same pronoun to address “humankind as a whole, including both men and women” (81). Faulkner further links this form of address to the Stoic thinking that upholds an explicitly public role of women. In this view, Dike’s speech reflects a philosophical tradition that emphasizes the importance of women.

An alternative manuscript reading would further link Dike’s speech to the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite. In that poem, Aphrodite prophecies, but as a seductive trickster. She is deceptive and beautiful, in contrast to the “honest and virginal Dike” (84) that Aratus portrays. This contrast parallels that between Dike and Pandora, who can be seen as the mortal counterpart of the deceitful Aphrodite. In conversation with both these antecedents, Aratus uses Dike’s speech in his Phaenomena to “recast the potentialities of female power in human society” (85). Instead of fundamental difference, men and women are now seen as equal. Indeed, the very power of Dike’s speech provides an archetype for mortal women in an ideal society. She has female agency. When women and men do not work together, what results is the degenerate Bronze Age that ends the episode of Aratus’ narration.

In this short article, Faulkner makes a number of interesting points. It is remarkable how much can be made of just a few lines in an obscure poem of the third century BCE. Yet his arguments are convincing: it seems true that Aratus’ constellation – Justice – is a “visible sign relevant to all humankind … men and women alike” (86).

Erol, Merih, “The ‘Musical Question’ and the Educated Elite of the Greek Orthodox Society in Late Nineteenth-century Constantinople,” Journal of Modern Greek Studies, 32 (2014): 133–163.

In this article, Erol demonstrates various complex “positions and discourses” (133) of cultural identity in the Greek Orthodox community of nineteenth-century Constantinople. She draws on sources from the press, secular songs, and musicological writings to explore musical discourse in the context of broader Ottoman, Orthodox, and Greek issues. Through this survey of diverse sources, Erol convincingly argues that the discourse surrounding Greek Orthodox music is intertwined with sociopolitical concerns of the time.

To begin the article, Erol lays out the background of the Greek Orthodox community in the nineteenth century. This period was dominated by the Tanzimat, a series of reforms that helped create a “μεγάλη αστική ρωμέικη τάξη” (135). In this context, the millet asserted its Hellenic identity through, for example, the projection of “its ecclesiastical (and folk) music as ‘remnants’ of an ancient past to distinguish its identity as a distinct cultural group” (136). Erol also mentions other contextual factors that influenced this process. These included Westernization and conspicuous consumption as well as the backlash to this movement. Another factor is the agitation for an independent Bulgarian church, which provoked mixed reactions from the Ottoman Greeks. All these contextual elements are crucial to Erol’s subsequent analysis.

The first source Erol treats is the 1860 satire by Ioannis Raptarhis entitled Πικρά η αλήθεια. In Erol’s analysis, the criticisms that Raptarhis levels at the Church are drawn precisely from the sociopolitical concerns of the time. For example, Raptarhis “pleaded that the divine melody should rule in ‘one voice and one language’” (139) – a direct rebuke to the Bulgarians who sought to use Slavonic as the liturgical language. In analyzing the music of liturgy, Raptarhis both reflects on current political events and admonishes authorities for their perceived disunity. In the same vein, Raptarhis criticizes the use of “novel and different” (141) ecclesiastical music because it indicates encroaching Westernization. Erol’s analysis of Raptarhis also reveals that judgments about music, especially in ecclesiastical contexts, are closely tied to class divisions. Drawing on Pierre Bourdieu, Simon Frith, and Theodore Zeldin, Erol reads Raptarhis as seeing “the lower ranks of society … as fundamentally unable to engage in the spiritual dimension of the music because of the coarseness of the bodily labor by which they earn their keep” (142). What may seem to be an aesthetic problem is clearly a social judgment. Furthermore, Raptarhis writes that the tract was motivated by a sense of collective insult – in his words, his motivation came “εκ της εθνικής ημών φιλοτιμίας” (143). In sum, Erol convincingly argues that the Greek Orthodox community of Constantinople perceived liturgical music as crucial in determining ethnonational dignity.

Next, Erol examines the Musical Society of Constantinople and its connections with Romanticism and Hellenism. By examining the documents of the Society, Erol demonstrates that Greek Orthodox music symbolized the continuity of Greeks from antiquity to modern times and therefore represented a powerful civilizing force. The best demonstration of both these elements comes from the Musical Society’s choice of logo – the lyre of Orpheus. The hero of Ancient Greek mythology was famed for his ability to tame nature with his music. By choosing his lyre as their symbol, the Greeks of Constantinople “affirmed their identity as Greeks by paying tribute to the ancient Greek ideal” (145) while simultaneously aligning themselves with the ancient and contemporary (European) association of music with a civilizing moral mission. The Musical Society thus exemplifies Hellenism – the synchronic and diachronic unity of the “Hellenic-Christian” Greek national identity. At the same time, Erol notes that “this phenomenon had its ideological and conceptual origins in German Romantic nationalism” (146), the society diverges from this movement in its attention to “recording the folk melodies of non-Greek neighboring peoples” (146).

Erol turns next to musicological debates and ecclesiastical music itself. She traces the development of the “musical question.” On one side were the Greeks who “aspir[ed] to ameliorate the unpleasant situation of music” (148, quoting an 1890 book) by introducing European characteristics, including polyphony, harmony, and even the use of musical instruments in liturgy. On the other side were those who cherished “the restoration of the hyphos of ecclesiastical music” (149) through the use of original ecclesiastical chants and the recognition of the Patriarch’s authority. Erol notes that this view is aligned with the narrative of Hellenism and the Orientalist descriptions of Orthodox hymns corrupted by “meaningless, barbarian, and foreign syllables” (151, quoting an 1881 article). In sum, Erol demonstrates that the “musical question” is inseparable from sociopolitical concerns of the Greek Orthodox community in Constantinople.

Overall, Erol convincingly argues that musical discourse in this context is closely related to “seemingly disconnected issues, such as the aesthetic judgment of religious music, the formation of social and national identity, the integrity of the Rum millet, and the Westernization of the Greek community’s lifestyle” (154). Erol successfully draws on a variety of sources to support her thesis. This article should be a starting point for a broader discussion about what the links Erol demonstrates between music, religion, and politics mean in context. For example, it would be wonderful to trace this thread through the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire or to adopt a comparative approach with Turkish musical discourse at the time.

Erol, Merih. “Musicological Debates between Greeks and Turks in the Late Ottoman Empire.” In Celebration, Entertainment and Theatre in the Ottoman World, edited by Suraiya Faroqhi and Arzu Öztürkmen. London: Seagull Books, 2014.

In this chapter, Erol continues her investigation of musicological literature in the Ottoman Empire around the turn of the twentieth century. She demonstrates that musicological discourse involved musicians of diverse backgrounds in the public sphere; in her words, “music was a public, scholarly and multi-ethnic sphere of communication” (359). At the same time, Erol recognizes that music was an instrument of nationalism and nation-building, especially in the late nineteenth century.

To begin, Erol sketches the historical context. The Megali Idea (Μεγάλη Ιδέα, ‘Great Idea’) was one of the pillars of Hellenism and the Greek state. However, this ideology had suffered a serious setback in the Greek-Ottoman War of 1897. Partly in response to this event and partly because of the “growing Slavic challenge in Macedonia” (360), some members of the Greek millet pushed against Greek irredentism in favor of “an ecumenist ideal” (360) based on the authority of the Patriarch of Constantinople. At the same time, the Ottoman elite advocated “a unifying Ottoman identity” (360) based on common citizenship. Thus, in both the Turkish and Greek contexts there were a diversity of political and social positions regarding questions of identity and nationalism. This is the multifaceted context in which the nationalization of music was inscribed.

The multi-ethnic character of music-making was expressed in many ways in late Ottoman society. One example Erol gives is of Ovannes, an Armenian singer of Izmir who recorded songs in Turkish accompanied by an orchestra of Greek musicians. Spaces of cross-cultural encounter included “musical societies, music stores, gazinos and recording studios” (362). Musical associations were particularly important, since they were often intertwined with nationalist projects. Erol notes that there was a burgeoning interest in “musical traditions of the non-Western world” (363) with a strong desire to “discover” music and create a “national” musical tradition. As Erol previously discussed in detail, both Greeks and Turks yearned to save “their” music from “a state of decline and decadence” (363) by developing “a scientific interest” (364). Erol notes that this discourse is steeped in orientalism: even Ottoman musicians referred to “Oriental music” as “powerfully emotional” and “outside the influence of Western science” (364). Nineteenth-century nationalist discourse had promoted the idea of “an almost ‘sacred’ and pure musical tradition inherited from ancestors who had established its rules” (365). On the one hand, twentieth-century musicians wanted to avoid any chance of “corrupting” the music with “foreign idioms.” At the same time, many musicians recognized the need for better performance of the music through the use of more precise – i.e. Western – techniques, including a metronome and more precise notation.

Intertwined with this “scientific” approach to music was what Erol, drawing on Leppert, calls “the fetishizing of numbers as the embodying principle for both truth and progress” (365). By using figures and calculations in their writing, musicians of all ethnicities invoked mathematics and thereby “staked a claim to objectivity” (366). Erol gives as an example an article by Ebu Refi Kazim in the newspaper Malumat. Kazim was a teacher of mathematics who studied traditional music and composed religious hymns. His technical writings presented three types of intervals in Ottoman music and the relevant calculations. In this article, Kazim drew on the work of Archimandrite Hrysanthos – a Greek musician who himself used the work of Arab theorists. Furthermore, Kazim verified his work by citing the figures determined by the Greek cantor Nikolaos Paganas. Erol parses examples like these to show that “multi-ethnic discussion over music and numbers was part of a shared discourse highlighting the concept of ‘progress’” (367).

Finally, Erol turns to evidence of broader nationalist projects in music. She gives the example of Necib Asım, who demanded “the publication of the biographies of all Turkish musicians,” including “prominent Greek musicians of previous centuries” (369). Erol sees this as part of a broader view among Turkish musicians that Greek ecclesiastical music and Ottoman art music “had emerged from the same source and were based on the same theory” (369). In this view, expressed for example by Rauf Yekta, “the seeming distinction between the two types of music was minor” (369). Greek musicians disagreed, but the common decision from both sides was to clarify matters through “science” – in the words of the Greek musician Georgios Pahtikos, to investigate music’s “technical basis and its historical genesis” (370). Other Greeks attempted to show that both musics did indeed have a common origin – but that origin was Ancient Greece. Erol identifies this as an example of Hellenist discourse, while the Ottoman view existed within its own ideological framework of nationalist discourses.

In sum, Erol demonstrates that “music was a pluralistic social and aesthetic field governed by the exchange of specialized knowledge and skills” (371). National projects competed and discourses collided in shared spaces, both physical and discursive. Overall, Erol’s argument is convincing. However, it is not as detailed as her other work. I would have expected that a work that has less detailed analysis would compensate by arguing for a more ambitious thesis. Nevertheless, this chapter is a valuable summary of excellent scholarship.

Erol, Merih. “Music and the Nation in Greek and Turkish Contexts (19th – early 20th c.): A Paradigm of Cultural Transfers.” Zeitschrift Für Balkanologie 47, no. 2 (2011): 165–75.

In this article, Erol adopts a comparative approach to Ottoman music culture in order to shed light on music’s place in “the nationalist discourses and the politics of culture in Greece and Turkey” (165). Her methodological framework is based on the concepts of “transfer,” “exchange,” and “interplay.” These concepts are used to investigate the romantic, nostalgic, and modernist discourses in Greece and Turkey. Furthermore, Erol places these discourses within the “wider European problematic of the instrumentalization of music in a plethora of nationalisms” (165). Erol compares various primary sources from the Greek and Turkish contexts, including many texts written by musicians. Erol’s methodology supports her interrogation of identity problematics in the context of music and nationalism.

Erol first notes that her inspiration for this paper came from historical research in the Franco-German context, especially the work of Michel Espagne and Hans-Jürgen Lüsebrink. Next, Erol describes Greek nationalism as a model for many other national ideologies. For example, the Greek nationalist demand for the purification of the Greek language (as articulated by Adamantios Korais) shaped the ideas of Ottoman intellectuals. To trace this dynamic Erol draws on the work of Johann Strauss, who showed that intellectuals like Şemseddin Sami became convinced that Turkish must be purified of its “foreign” elements. Erol sees a strong similarity between the discourse surrounding language and that surrounding music. As demonstrated in Erol’s other work (e.g. “The ‘Musical Question’ and the Educated Elite of the Greek Orthodox Society in Late Nineteenth-Century Constantinople”) the state of music was perceived by the Greek Orthodox community as a clear indicator of national self-esteem. Erol argues that this is why many musical texts of the nineteenth century place so much value in “progress” and “improvement.” After all, if music is identified with the nation then ameliorating the state of music also promotes “national dignity.” The emphasis on “progress” also reflects the Enlightenment ideals of “science” and “objectivity” that motivated calls to reform Greek Orthodox music. These same discourses also resonated with “the modernist project of the Ottoman Turkish educated elite” (169). Erol gives the example of the nineteenth-century musician Ali Rifat Çağatay, who lamented the neglect of theoretical, scientific music, claiming that this is why music had “waned in comparison to its previous grandeur” (170). In sum, Erol convincingly demonstrates “the emergence of a repertoire of certain tropes and themes pertaining to music throughout the nineteenth century, i.e. the ‘decline,’ ‘corruption,’ and ‘progress’ of music, the ‘scientific’ rules of music, and the notion of music as ancestral heritage” (170).

Erol next shifts from “an entangled history” (170) of musical contexts t0 “a comparative and transfer history” of “national” music (171). To do this, Erol broadens her scope to cover the whole European continent. Erol notes that national movements across Europe – including Hellenism, Slavism, and Turkism – saw “folk music as the authentic musical heritage of the nation” (171) and called for the elimination of idioms that did not conform to this ideal. Erol notes, though, that the creation of “national” music is not completely in opposition to Western, metropolitan ideals of music. Rather, the use of folk music by nationalist movements contributes to the “complicated processes of perception and meaning formation between the center and periphery” (172). This is particularly evident in the Turkish case. There, the project was explicitly to create “a music which was both national and European” (174, citing Ziya Gökalp). Drawing on the work of Füsun Üstel, Erol argues that the “codification and dissemination of folk music by the political power” was part of the Republican project of constructing a united, definable, and hence controllable Anatolia. In Greece, the creation of a national music was less teleological; instead of subsuming the national into the European, Greek musicians dealt with the “debated age-old distinction between the Hellenic vs Romeic thesis” (173). Unfortunately, Erol does not deal with this tension in the Greek context at length. Yet the overall point is clear: the creation of “national” musics in both Greek and Turkish contexts had to tackle “the Western/Eastern identity problematic” (175).

This article has two main aims, as Erol acknowledges. First, the author sketches common discourses pertaining to music in the Greek and Turkish contexts. This aim was better fleshed out in Erol’s other work. But what makes this paper particularly stimulating is that it begins to link these discourses synchronically and diachronically. By adopting a comparative method and using the concept of “cultural transfers,” Erol shows that identity problematics resonate in both Greece and Turkey, yet also differ significantly because of broader sociopolitical projects and tensions. This is a valuable addition to the scholarship of music and nationalism, but it represents only a first small step in a promising direction.

Doerfler, Maria. “Holy Households.” In Melania: Early Christianity through the Life of One Family, edited by Catherine Chin and Caroline Schroeder, 71–85. Oakland: University of California Press, 2017.

Doerfler begins in medias res, by analyzing an episode from the Vita Melaniae Iunioris. When a fetus died during childbirth, the mother became “neither able to live or die” (71, citing the vita). Melania the Younger then miraculously saved the woman’s life – but did not heal the child in her womb. For Doerfler, this “incomplete miracle” gives a glimpse into late ancient thought about children and even about ascetic women. First of all, the fact that something so tragic – the death of a child – is passed over so lightly indicates that infant mortality was distressingly normal in late Antiquity. Doerfler also sees this story as a metaphor: only through the intervention of a saint – only through asceticism – can a woman overcome the bonds of biological motherhood and marriage to reach “the fullness of life in Christ” (72). Doerfler sees a similar pattern in the story of Melania the Elder, whose husband and two sons died at the same time. Jerome claims that instead of mourning excessively, Melania saw the tragedy as an opportunity to serve Christ and God with greater devotion. Even Melania the Younger was “blessed” in this way: after her child’s early death, her husband gave his assent to “live together in chastity thenceforth” (74).

Doerfler recognizes that these tales reveal little about “real” feelings around infant mortality and parental bereavement. Rather, the accounts presented provide a glimpse of the rhetorical strategies employed by the Church Fathers. On the one hand, the ascetics praised breaking biological bonds between mothers and offspring and relinquishing hope of more children. On the other hand, the ascetics did not reject motherhood. Indeed, they saw the women’s adoption of ascetic practice as a way to become greater mothers by adopting spiritual children. A prominent example of this is provided by Melania the Younger’s visit to Constantinople. There, the Empress Eudocia – in Gerontius’ words – “received her with every honor, as Melania was a true spiritual mother” (76). Doerfler contends that “relations of spiritual mentorship” between women often used “maternal terms” (77). This rhetoric was based on the real bonds between mothers and their (biological) children in late Antiquity. In the view of Jerome and John Chrysostom, these kinds of relationships are only made stronger by “shared ascetic devotion” in monastic contexts. A good example is Jerome’s attitude to “little Paula.” In Epistle 107, he recommends that she be pledged from birth to a life of asceticism – a member of not only the Roman but also the Christian monastic elite. Drawing from Rebecca Krawiec, Doerfler recognizes that even the famously antifamilial Jerome “demonstrate[s] an investment in ascetic genealogies” (79).

In sum, Doerfler argues that Christian writers “labored to rescript women’s experiences of renunciation” (80) in order to incorporate the important roles of wife and mother. The Vita Melaniae Iunioris illustrates how renouncing the motherhood that is “corporeal, painful, ultimately producing nothing but death” in favor of that which is “spiritual, joyful, and genuinely life-giving” (80) sets one free to serve, nourish, and revive many. Whether most non-ascetics followed this rhetoric is another question entirely; Doerfler stresses, again, that the “male ascetics who composed, translated, and copied these texts … were preoccupied less with ordinary households, women, and mothers than with their expediency as metaphors and their usefulness in theological debates” (81). Ultimately, what Doerfler convincingly demonstrates is that late ancient women “had to negotiate their existence between experience and metaphor, their roles both defined and circumscribed within a male framework of textuality” (81). Like Elizabeth Clark, Doerfler is very successful at working with texts to make them yield up their ideological content; however, her reliance on literary sources (abetted by an unclear structure) constrains the power of her thesis.

Cribiore, Raffaella. “The Education of Orphans: A Reassessment of the Evidence of Libanius.” In Growing Up Fatherless in Antiquity, edited by Sabine Hübner and David Ratzan, 257–72. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009.

In this article, Cribiore investigates “the influence of an orphan state on advanced education” (258) by examining the writings of Libanius, a Greek teacher of rhetoric in fourth-century Antioch. She evaluates the earlier conclusion of Krause that fatherless boys encountered obstacles that often prevented them from being students of Libanius. She convincingly demonstrates that the picture conveyed through Libanius’ writing is more complex than Krause indicated.

Libanius himself was an orphan. In his case the loss of his father, although tragic, had many “unforeseen positive consequences” (257). For example, his mother assumed guardianship of her children, choosing to be “everything” (τὰ πάντα) for them and encouraging them to pursue academic studies. Not all widows had as much power as Libanius’ mother had. For example, widows could not be designated as tutor (guardian) for their children if they decided to remarry. Usually, other male relatives assumed responsibility for the upbringing of orphans. Some of Libanius’ letters discuss boys whose relatives in fact made pursuing studies quite easy – particularly if the students were scions of wealthy families. One boy, for example, had two excellent letters of recommendation solicited by his male relatives. Mothers usually did not write to Libanius themselves – the world of rhetoric was, after all, almost exclusively male – but their influence helped their sons in other ways.

Libanius’ letters also provide evidence that some orphans faced significant financial difficulties. Cribiore rightly cautions that these obstacles should not always be read as the result of being fatherless. For example, Libanius wrote to one family pleading that his student be given enough money to continue his studies. The family refused – but they still wanted to provide an education to the boy, just not in Antioch. In addition, the relatives were angry with the boy because he had run away from them. Their decision to cut off funding, although unfortunate, thus had nothing to do with the boy’s loss of his father. On the other hand, students with neither mother nor father often had genuine difficulties with their education that stemmed from their condition as orphans. In these cases, Libanius often solicited external support – for example, from the governor or another prominent politician – to ensure that the boy could continue his studies. Libanius often advocated for boys like these because of his affection for his students. At the same time, he supported promising students in particular because their success increased his own reputation.

Cribiore acknowledges that these factors distort her sources; after all, Libanius is most likely to write about exceptional students and so the record is biased against average pupils. Accounting for these factors, Cribiore estimates the average attendance of Libanius’ students at “two or three years” (268). This was true for all types of students, including orphans, since the reasons for ending rhetorical training were diverse – from poor health to a desire to enter the job market or pursue training for another profession. Some students were even compelled to enter civic service by the city council.

Cribiore draws on this large, diverse body of evidence to make several conclusions about the education of orphans in fourth-century Antioch. First, she acknowledges that losing a father does not paralyze a boy’s education – especially if Libanius becomes his personal advocate. Indeed, orphans could even aspire to a “future at the highest echelons of society” (272) if they had the right support. In the end, the most important factor for education was not the presence of a father. Instead, what “helped a young man go to and stay in school were family support, ability to pay for costly studies, lack of urgent need to earn a living, and personal motivation and talent” (271). Cribiore sees many of these factors as being indicative, fundamentally, of belonging to “elite social strata” (272). In sum, what matters most is not whether a boy is an orphan but rather whether a student comes from a background of privilege.

Clark, Elizabeth. “Antifamilial Tendencies in Ancient Christianity.” Journal of the History of Sexuality 5, no. 3 (1995): 356–80.

In this article, Clark traces the “ideology of antifamilialism” (358) in Christian antiquity. She draws on a variety of sources to parse the argumentative and interpretive techniques used to promote this ideology. Clark identifies antifamilialism with a variety of Christian principles, including the promotion of celibacy, the exaltation of the virgin, and the emphasis on a spiritual rather than temporal family. But, Clark notes, this literary evidence “gives us little access to ‘reality’” (358). Rather, antifamilialism as Clark characterizes it is fundamentally a form of propaganda whose effect is to “bolster the power of ecclesiastical leaders and their values” (358).

Clark begins by providing examples of antifamilial views advocated by Church Fathers. She first presents Jerome’s disgust at pagan marriage and the Roman “‘sentimental ideal’ of matronhood” (358). Christianity’s ideal is, of course, the virgin. Jerome characteristically says that the virgin will receive a “one-hundred-fold harvest” while the married woman will only get “thirtyfold” (358). Clark reads similar tendencies even in the New Testament itself. Here, the motivation for antifamilialism is that the end times are near. In this eschatological context, Clark says that Christians understood Jesus as preaching that traditional values must be displaced by “an ethic of radical allegiance to God alone” (359). Clark supports this assertion by quoting Paul’s epistles, in which the apostle “praises the unmarried state ‘because of the impending distress’ (1 Cor. 7:26)” (359). In the fourth and fifth centuries, though, antifamilialism was extricated from its eschatological context. Clark gives the example of John Chrysostom, who continued to disparage marriage but denied that the end times were near. Instead, his antifamilialism was motivated by misogynism. For Chrysostom, women (especially rich ones) are “wild beasts” rather wives. Many antifamilial writers imagined that men “bear the greatest burdens of marriage” because they are unable to “try out” the “commodity” – that is, their wives – before “acquiring it” (361).

Yet antifamilalism was not always misogynistic. Clark cites authors who exhorted women to remain virginal in order to avoid “female servitude and subjection,” not to mention “the difficulties of bearing and raising children” (361). Furthermore, at least one argument in favor of virginity was relatively indifferent to gender. Gregory of Nyssa promotes celibacy as a way to avoid “the constant production of new beings doomed to die” (362). This dark turn has philosophical appeal for both sexes. The Old Testament also offers broad support for celibacy through the transposition of codes on priestly purity onto Christian marriage. At the same time, the ascetics’ appeals to the Hebrew Bible are necessarily selective, avoiding the “tales of incest, polygamy, and rape” (364). From the story of Abraham, for example, the willingness to sacrifice family (Isaac) for God was greatly esteemed – but the patriarch’s polygamy was diminished. A final example of “gender-neutral” exhortations for celibacy are those based on the idea of a family of Christian faithful. Jesus repeatedly calls his followers “brother,” “sister,” and “mother.” At first, this appeal was eschatological. But the most potent articulation is due to John Chrysostom’s image of Jesus as Bridegroom, which is especially directed to (young) female ascetics. Indeed, Chrysostom promises “the faithful virgin that … Jesus will be ‘hotter’ (sphodroteros) than any human” (368).

These exhortations had a fair amount of success. Yet they also encountered significant resistance. For example, non-ascetic audiences might have viewed celibacy as “a genuine threat to the reproduction of society” (371). Even the ascetics themselves acknowledged the fierceness of their opposition, including from fellow Christians. One motivation for resistance to antifamiliasm is that family wealth might be given by an ascetic to the church “rather than entering the family’s coffers” (373). In many cases, this involves the transfer of vast sums of money; Clark claims that Olympia’s donations to the church “would have sustained around 211 000 poor people” (374).

Partly in response to these criticisms, the ascetics did temper their ideology of antifamilialism at times. For instance, Augustine inveighs against lust rather than family per se. Indeed, he warned virgins “not to presume that they are better than Sarah and Abraham” (376). Ascetics also praised the marriages of some parents – especially their own. The emphasis, again, is on moderation and sexual restraint rather than celibacy. And Augustine, too, was faced with criticism, notably from Julian of Eclanum. Clark claims that these voices upholding marriage, isolated as they were, “may well have reflected the views of the majority of ‘ordinary’ Christians” (378). If ascetic propaganda had limited success, Clark suggests that the aims of ascetic rhetoric may have been less to make “social norms or the law more rigorously ascetic” (379) and more to communicate what they believe God commanded.

In this article, Clark paints a complex and convincing picture of antifamilialism in early Christianity. On the one hand, ascetic antifamilial rhetoric convinced thousands of Christians to divert energy – and wealth – “from families and secular pursuits to religious institutions and charities” (380). Clark suggests that this shift benefitted women; from a feminist perspective, she claims, antifamilialism was a success. On the other hand, the Church fathers failed to bring about significant, swift change in law or societal norms. Indeed, Clark argues that most “ordinary” Christians remained unconvinced by antifamilialism. Yet this talk of success and failure is problematic. First of all, Clark does not convincingly show why a feminist perspective should be used to deem antifamilialism a success, and does little to show a real improvement in women’s lives. Additionally, Clark supports her analysis of “ordinary” Christians’ views only through the tangential evidence that they “continued to marry and reproduce” (378). Second, Clark herself recognizes that discussing “success” and “failure” suggests “there is some ‘reality’ … [that] we might be able to measure without ambiguity” (380). But literary sources – especially those written by educated men with financial interests at stake – are fundamentally ideological; as Clark says, “the literary remains are not a copy of some extraliterary domain of ‘the real’” (380). Clark’s recognition of this is heartening. Within this framework, she has certainly succeeded at her goal “to push and jab at these documents to make them yield up their ideological content” (380). What remains is to contextualize her findings and, crucially, to shore up the ramifications of the artifacts of a literary elite for ordinary men and women.

Brown, Amelia. “Psalmody and Socrates: Female Literacy in the Byzantine Empire.” In Questions of Gender in Byzantine Society, edited by Bronwen Neil and Lynda Garland, 57–76. Farnham: Ashgate, 2013.

In this paper, Brown investigates the presence and importance of literate women in the Byzantine Empire. She uses hagiography, biography, history, and fiction, among other sources, to illuminate the prevalence and influence of female literacy in the Greek-speaking world from the fourth to fifteenth century. Brown acknowledges the limitations of her literary sources, but argues that “there is enough information to perceive some radical changes in women’s literacy over the one thousand years of the Byzantine Empire” (59).

Brown follows a chronological approach in what follows. She begins from the fourth century, in which the Byzantine Empire was mostly a continuation of Roman and earlier Hellenistic culture and traditions. Boys and some girls learned the alphabet, words and sentences before eventually progressing to the works of Homer, Euripides, Menander, and Demosthenes – all part of the εγκύκλιος παιδεία (general education). Byzantine education combined this heritage with the trivium and quadrivium of the Latin West, along with a few Christian texts. Brown is particularly interested in how the rise of Christianity affected female education. On the one hand, Christianity emphasized the text and therefore encouraged literacy; on the other, some Christians rejected Classical texts as pagan. The Life of Macrina exemplifies the “ambivalent effects of Christianity on education” (60).

Christianity was important for expanding women’s access to literacy in a number of ways. For example, the Life of St Matrona describes the importance of the convent in women’s education. In Nisibis, the abbess apparently “read from the Scriptures to the assembled sisters, and to women of the community” (63). Nuns like Eulogia, Thomais, and Egeria are probably the most important female writers of late antiquity. Outside the church, women did read; Brown cites Hägg’s work which suggests that women read ancient Greek novels by Heliodorus and Xenophon. There were also some non-Christian female writers, such as Faltonia Betitia Proba, although they mostly wrote letters. Hypatia of Alexandria was notably well-educate, including in sciences and mathematics. But Brown cautions that letters “by” women may in fact have been dictated to scribes.

From the sixth to eighth centuries, Brown argues that education, including female literacy, suffered tremendously. Cities and their literate populations shrank, partly because of invasions, while the Iconoclasm and Justinian’s moves against pagans were quite devastating. Brown argues that the “low point in Byzantine literacy” (65) came at the beginning of the Iconoclasm and the height of Arab invasions. What education women did receive now used “the Bible and the Psalms as the basic teaching texts” (67).

Brown next turns to the “Macedonian Renaissance,” which began in the ninth century. The number of well-educated men and women increased significantly, partly because of the use of paper instead of papyrus, the end of Iconoclasm, and the invention of minuscule. As a result, there were a number of new texts both religious and secular. Theodosia, Thekla, and Kassia were all nuns who composed hymns. Kassia’s remain important until today. There were also some female saints from outside Constantinople who were literate, including Febronia (in Nisibis) and Elizabeth the Wonderworker. Women also learned to read and write for secular purposes; Brown mentions that some women participated in trades that require literacy, such as shop-keeping and book-copying. Michael Psellos describes in detail how he provided for the education of his daughter, Styliane, before she died at the age of nine. Even in this funeral oration, though, Psellos praises his daughter for spending an equal amount of time at the loom as at her letters.

Next Brown shifts to the Comnenian period, which includes the most famous Byzantine literate woman of them all: Anna Comnena. The number of women who could read and write, especially among the aristocracy, continued to grow. Brown points to detailed legal documents concerning women as indications that even non-Constantinopolitan women were often literate. Education beyond this level was less accessible, though. Even Anna Comnena had to study the classics in secret, because her parents “feared the moral effects of a classical education” (72). Nevertheless, she acquired enough knowledge to brag of in the Alexiad.

Finally, Brown turns to the period between the Fourth Crusade and the Fall of Constantinople. She uses typika of convents to indicate that many nuns were assumed to be literate. Indeed, some typika even provide for libraries in convents as well as the education of novices and even nuns’ daughters. Turning to other sources, Brown notes that Ibn Battuta and other travel writers recorded “large numbers of women in the retail trade” (74). This period also had increasing contact with the West. Some erotic literature, such as the Greek romance Livistros and Rodamni, were apparently written for female audiences and combined both Greek and Latin influences. Brown points to two upper-class women who are notable for their erudition: Theodora Raoulaina and Irene-Eulogia Choumnaina. Although most women remained illiterate, Brown points to these two Palaiologans as examples of the most educated Byzantine women – who, she suggests, “undoubtedly helped to spread Greek literacy along with the more famous men” (75).

Brown concludes with the simple observation that there were always fewer literate women than men in Byzantium, but that the numbers of both fluctuated with the size of the upper class. Nuns and Christianity also played important roles in the evolution of women’s literacy throughout the Byzantine Empire. Brown’s survey of the evidence seems fairly comprehensive and it is certainly interesting to gather the scattered records of individual literate women. However, there are quite a few statements that would have been worth exploring and arguing more strongly for. For example, is it true that women were part of the Greek exodus to Italy? If yes, how so? How did attitudes and social norms towards female literacy evolve throughout the period? Were women always marginalized to the same extent? Was there a conscious effort to avoid educating women, or was widespread illiteracy the inevitable result of Byzantine society? These and more questions would be fascinating to answer using Brown’s research as a solid foundation.