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Wednesday, June 10, 2026 - 15:00

When it comes down to it, the Codrington divorce trial is not a shining example of much of anything. Maybe Helen Codrington and Emily Faithful had a lesbian affair? But the divorce trial was about Helen's heterosexual extra-marital relations. The hint of the threat of a revelation of Emily's sexual orientation comes into play only to prevent her from testifying on Helen's behalf. And it's quite possible that the testimony Helen wanted her to give would have been false in the first place. But it still provides insight into Victorian ways of talking about lesbianism without ever actually mentioning it.

Major category: 
LHMP
Full citation: 

Vicinus, Martha. “Lesbian Perversity and Victorian Marriage: The 1864 Codrington Divorce Trial” pp.92-94 in Journal of British Studies 36, no. 1 (1997).

If you want an interesting fictional version of the Codrington divorce trial and its context, check out Emma Donaghue’s The Sealed Letter.

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The main point of this article is how, in the course of a Victorian divorce trial that was a ostensibly about heterosexual adultery, lesbianism became the ghost at the banquet–present largely in the refusal of any of the participants to name it. The situation shows the overlapping dynamic between the image of female romantic friendships as acceptable and unproblematic, and the anxiety around friendships that appeared to infringe on marriage imperatives.

The developing image of lesbianism that became established solidly around the turn of the century emerges slowly in hints and whispers as early as the mid 19th century. Romantic friendships existed in a wide range of expressions and evoked a similarly wide range of reactions from positive to negative. Vicinus deliberately uses the word “lesbian” to name a portion of these expressions. The dynamics that tended to provoke anxiety included “mannish” presentation (popular as a fashion style among feminists) and resistance to marriage, especially in favor of female friendships. Although romantic friends frequently described non-genital eroticism, that doesn’t exclude further activities, given the social restraints on what could and could not be spoken of openly. Because such things were not explicit, there was a scope for them to be assumed or understood without being named.

The primary focus of this article Is on the intersection of marriage and lesbian relations. Although the Victorian doctrine of “separate spheres” for the sexes left a great deal of room for homosocial and homoerotic interactions, this was in a context where marriage was an assumed constant. At the same time, the ideal of romantic “companionate” marriage didn’t play well with the reality of patriarchal authority and a legal system that university privileged men.

The 19th century version of feminism focused on reform of marriage laws alongside issues of education and employment. Even after some reform of divorce laws, men were still the primary instigators and beneficiaries. The barrier for a woman to achieve divorce was high (far beyond simple adultery) while men could cite a wide range of faults that damaged their “property interest” in their wives’ reputations.

The essential facts of the Codrington divorce trial are complex. Admiral Codrington had a cold and unaffectionate nature, which was a very bad fit for his vivacious flirtatious wife. He disliked social events, she lived for them. In the hothouse environment of the British base at Malta, her flirtations with young officers threatened his reputation. Back in England, she moved on to probable adultery with two named men, one of whom she plotted an elopement with.

Helen Codrington was emotionally supported, though not necessarily outright abetted, by her close friend Emily Faithful. Faithful was seven years younger than Helen and during several years around age 20 lived in the Codrington household in London. Admiral Codrington at that time had ceased sexual relations with his wife, for the purposes of birth control, and Emily shared Helen’s bedroom and bed while living there. The key incident raised in the divorce trial involved one night when Codrington entered his wife’s bedroom and “attempted to take improper liberties with Miss Faithful.” The question of what actually happened is not resolved–Faithful changed her testimony from “possibly” to “I was asleep and don’t know,” but one of the background implications is that Codrington may have observed something that caused him to be suspicious of the relationship between the two women. He ejected Faithful from the household and allegedly wrote the “sealed letter,” detailing his reasons for doing so, that was later held over her head as an implied threat during the trial.

Faithful moved on to join feminist circles and became a leading activist, lecturer, and publisher. Half a dozen years later during the divorce trial, Faithful initially supported Helen Codrington’s claims of mistreatment, but then suddenly fled London to avoid a subpoena and, when she later returned as the trial resumed, threw Helen under the bus and declined to support any of her claims.

Helen Codrington lost everything in the divorce but Emily Faithful came out with her reputation relatively unscathed, though gossip that combined events of the trial with her position as a prominent feminist hinted strongly at her “mannish” proclivities. It’s quite likely that the gossip was mostly accurate. Faithful lived the rest of her life in all-female circles and in her will left everything to her longtime partner Charlotte Robinson.

Another clue to the nature of Helen and Emily’s relationship appears in the novel that Faithful wrote about a promiscuous and flighty heroine who is an obvious stand-in for Helen Codrington, and a gender-flipped self-insertion hero who vainly believes that he can reform and redeem the woman with his ennobling love. The novel is not at all kind to the Helen character.

The lesbian implications of Helen and Emily’s friendship are elusive. Nothing they did fell outside the bounds of accepted friendship, and even Emily’s later life never involved any open public scandal. Everything was hints and implications. Faithful successfully spun those implications to frame herself as a naïve supportive friend who was led astray by the older, sexually-experienced seductress (by implication only). In a slightly later age, the implications would have been more likely to evoke the image of the mannish lesbian seductress, interfering in the marriage of the object of her devotion. But the discourse hadn’t yet moved to that point.

The lesbian implications were stronger once one moved away from strait-laced London society. The poet Robert Browning (who was a friend of much more overtly lesbian figures such as Charlotte Cushman’s artistic circle in Rome) told a female friend that the “sealed letter” contained “a charge I shall be excused from even hinting to you–fear of the explosion of which caused the shift” in Emily’s support. Search references to things that cannot be named or spoken of are common dog whistles for homosexuality.

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Tuesday, June 9, 2026 - 11:00

There are many angles to be had on the ladies of Llangollen. This article looks specifically at the aesthetics of the rural cottage retreat as an element both for romantic friendship and Romanticism in general.

Major category: 
LHMP
Full citation: 

Reynolds, Nicole. 2010. “Cottage Industry: The Ladies of Llangollen and the Symbolic Capital of the "Cottage Ornée"” in The Eighteenth Century, Vol. 51, No. 1/2: 211-227

In the 18th century, the ideals around female romantic friendships included the image of a rural retirement from society. Eleanor Butler and Sarah Ponsonby, the “Ladies of Llangollen,” not only achieved this goal but helped promulgate the image of “cottage life” through extensive renovations, interior and exterior decoration, and the development of the grounds.

While the article notes the women’s place as icons of romantic friendship (and the discourse around whether it is appropriate to categorize them as lesbians), it focuses strongly on the relationship between the Romantic literary movement, cottage culture, and their place in it.

The Ladies, by embracing the performance of rural bourgeois domesticity that their home represented, were able to deflect much of the anxiety their history and personal lives might otherwise have generated. This performance–which included shared intellectual interests, extensive correspondence and memoirs, and a carefully-curated accessibility to visitors and tourists—helped construct their public image, as well as contributing to an interest in rural “romantic” tourism in Wales.

The motif of rural life representing virtue and morality was being generally embraced as an esthetic by the middle and upper classes, often in the form of artificial follies, but also in cottage-style architecture, enhanced into the “cottage ornée” by decoration. Architectural pattern books reflect this interest, offering varied floorplans and options for decoration that bear only a remote connection to the working class buildings that inspired them.

The unusual domestic arrangements of Butler and Ponsonby did not entirely escape scrutiny, but their embrace and display of “cottage life” helped to deflect it. Their connections with prominent figures such as lady Francis Douglas and even Queen Charlotte were bolstered by gifts of albums and architectural plans of their home.

Their performance of the ideal of “rural retreat” was not without contradictions, especially in opening their lives up, not only to their extensive literary friend circles, but to more casual tourists. [Note: Followers of and Lester may be aware that she was one of those casual tourists, and meditated afterwards on the nature of Butler and Ponsonby’s relationship.]

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Sunday, June 7, 2026 - 09:00

Sometimes, what looks like a fascinating article simply turns out to be a view into an academic slap-fight. Still interesting but not particularly relevant.

Major category: 
LHMP
Full citation: 

Bell, Rudolph M. 1987. “Renaissance Sexuality and the Florentine Archives: An Exchange” in Renaissance Quarterly, Vol. 40, No. 3: pp. 485-511

This response (and re-response) to Judith Brown’s Immodest Acts is one of those features of academic discourse in which one scholar takes a public podium to critique the scholarship and conclusions of a colleague. As usual, it includes a rebuttal by the original author.

To be honest, the substance of this article hinges on details of the authorship and chronology of the primary resources but does not substantially dispute the events or conclusions with regard to Benedetta Carlini’s erotic activities. Therefore I see no practical point in summarizing it in detail

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Saturday, June 6, 2026 - 07:00

Lesbian Historic Motif Podcast - Episode 344 – When Did We Become Lesbians? (Reprise) - transcript

(Originally aired 2026/06/06)

I’m re-running some older episodes for the next month or two because I broke my arm, which interferes greatly with typing up extensive scripts. Today’s show, “When Did We Become Lesbians?” originally aired in 2017. I’ve done a lot of research since then, so if I were writing the episode anew, there would be things I’d add or change, but on the whole it holds up fairly well.

One of the factoids that annoys me the most is the assertion that people had no words for women-loving-women before the late 19th century, and that this is proof that there was no such thing as “lesbian identity” before that. Both parts are false, though for different reasons. So I wrote this essay to address the question, “when did people first use the word lesbian to mean women who loved women and what other words were in use with related meanings?”


For all that we’ve had a generation of hearing queer people say, “I don’t like labels,” the power of names and labels is hard to deny. One of the arguments we hear from people who say that lesbians didn’t exist until the late 19th century sexologists invented the concept, is that no one identified as a lesbian before the 19th century and how can something exist without a name?

There are several arguments against that position. One of them is that the word “lesbian”, used in the sense of a woman who had homoerotic desires, came into use much earlier than that. Another argument is that there were other words in use throughout history to refer to women who had sex with other women. But it’s also true that words change in meaning over time, and that the ideas represented by the word “lesbian” today may be different from what people in other eras meant when they used the word. And it’s true that the specific shades of meaning implied by various labels don’t correspond precisely to our current meaning of “lesbian.” But then, there are ongoing debates today about just what exactly the category of lesbian encompasses.

Today’s podcast is going to take a tour through some of the vocabulary used in European history for women who loved or desired other women. I’m also going to touch briefly on some Arabic terms, but I don’t have the resources available at the moment to cover the rest of the world. I’m looking specifically at words for persons. There was a parallel vocabulary of adjectives and verbs, and different forms of the language evolved at different times. For example, “lesbian” as an adjective, talking about desires and acts, seems to have emerged earlier than the widespread use of the word as a noun, referring to a person. Similarly, the word “Sapphic” used as an adjective to describe feelings and activities seems to show up earlier than “Sapphist” as a word for a person. Some words were in widespread use across cultures, showing up in forms specific to the various languages. We can see the evolution of the Latin word “fricatrix” as it begins showing up in vernacular languages across Europe. Other words, especially slang terms, were found only in a single language, like the Dutch word “lollepot.”

It might be useful to think of these words as having three types of origins. There are words that have their primary meaning as describing what it is that lesbians do. We’ll see that most of these descriptive terms have to do with the act of rubbing, referring to that action in the context of sexual activity. Second are the metonymic words that refer to someone or something that has come to be associated with lesbians but had some other original meaning. The most obvious example of this group is the word lesbian itself, which originally meant simply a person from the island of Lesbos and acquired its sexual sense by a roundabout path because Sappho lived on Lesbos. The third set of words can be slippery to identify. These are slang terms, which derive their meaning from an indirect allusion or from some coincidence of reference. Finding their origins can be tricky because the word or phrase may mean something else on the surface and you have to find contexts where the sexual sense is unambiguous. A great example of this type of word is “gay”, though it won’t be one of the ones discussed here. It’s hard to figure out when the word “gay” first started to be used to mean homosexual because most of the time the interpretation is ambiguous. Often that’s exactly why slang terms come into use: because they can be used discretely.

So let’s follow the histories of some of these words and see where it leads us.

Hetairistriai

One of the most tantalizing words I’ll discuss is the Greek hetairistriai. It is perhaps the oldest clear reference for a woman who desires women and appears in a relatively positive context, but it is a hapax legomenon--a word that appears only once in surviving records, other than later sources quoting  that source--therefore it’s hard to think of it as a term in common use. It’s also awkward that we only have the word in the plural and it isn’t entirely certain what the singular form would be, though hetairistria is perhaps a good guess. Hetairistriai is used in Plato’s Symposium in a mythic tale of how human sexual attraction came into being. All people, so the story goes, were originally double-bodied beings that split into two. Those who descended from double-bodied creatures that were both male and female have heterosexual desires (although obviously Plato doesn’t use that term), while those who descended from double male bodied creatures are men who desire men, and those descended from double female bodied creatures are “hetairistriai”, who have no interest in men but are attracted to other women. The word has the same root as “heteira” or courtesan, but with no additional context it’s hard to know the exact relationship between the two words, whether hetairistriai means “women who love courtesans” or has some other sense.

The word appears rarely in later writings, and the examples that people cite are from dictionaries or from commentaries where it’s being used to discuss and define other words. A 5th century Byzantine dictionary considers dihetaristria to be equivalent to the word tribas (which we’ll discuss next), and glosses it as meaning “women who, like men, are oriented towards female companions for sex.” And similarly, a 10th century commentary of the 2nd century Roman author Lucian equates hetairistria and tribades. Another 10th century commentary, this time on the 2nd century Christian writer Clement of Alexandria, lists tribades, hetairistriai, and Lesbiai as all being equivalent in meaning.

One thing to notice in the definitions and explanations for these early terms is that there is often an implication that the label applies specifically to a woman who actively pursues other women, but with the implication that her female partner may not fit under the same definition if she merely passively allows herself to be pursued.

Tribas, Tribade

Chronologically, the next word that comes into use is tribas, from the Greek verb tribein meaning “to rub or wear down”. Tribas is used by classical Greek writers for women who have sex with women. The Greek plural, tribades, gave us the later use in various languages as tribade. We can find this term used in Greek astrological texts of the 1st and 2nd century to describe a woman whose stars result in her being a lover of women. The context and discussion implies that this is due to masculinizing factors in her horoscope. Like the classical Romans, the Greeks viewed sexual roles in terms of active and passive, rather than in terms of the gender of the sex partner. A woman who took the active role was considered to be taking on a male sexual role and therefore was expected to desire women.

The word tribas was taken directly into Classical Latin and is used by authors such as Seneca and Martial to refer to a woman who has sex with other women, not only by rubbing but also by penetration. Given the way that classical Romans understood sexuality, they made a distinction in considering only the active partner--the top, if you will--to be a tribas.

Medical manuals of the early Christian era are another early source of examples of tribade to discuss women with homoerotic desires.

Tribade continued in regular use during the medieval period and later, well into the modern era. As noted previously, there are 10th century writings that specifically comment on it meaning the same thing as hetairistriai and lesbia.

In the later 16th century, the scandalous French writer Brantôme included a long discussion of women who loved women in his book The Lives of Gallant Ladies. He uses the terms tribade and fricatrix, or in French, fricatrice, as well as using lesbian as a noun, clearly in the modern sense as being equivalent to those terms. Finding writers who use sets of different terms together like this help us be certain of which of the possible senses is being included.

In the 16th century, in addition to France, tribade is found in use in Italy and England. Spanish had its own version at this time, as tribada. In English, it continued in use as late as the 18th century, although it was falling out of popularity by then. By the Renaissance, the term tribade was starting to acquire a more specific meaning of a very sexually aggressive lesbian, and became particularly associated with the myth that lesbians were associated with an enlarged clitoris capable of penetrative sex.

Lesbian

One of the difficulties in tracing the use of the words lesbia and lesbian to mean women who desire women is the word’s basic meaning of “a woman from the island of Lesbos” in combination with the somewhat fuzzy reputation in early Greek and Latin writings that the women of Lesbos had for various atypical sexual practices. Despite the clearly homoerotic content of her poetry, Sappho of Lesbos became a figure associated with excessive heterosexual desire in satirical Greek plays of the 4th century BC. It isn’t clear whether the more generic sexual meanings of Lesbian in early sources were due to an entirely independent reputation that the women of Lesbos had, or whether all the various sexual implications derive from the various incarnations of Sappho’s reputation.

The Greek playwright Aristophanes, in the 5th century BC, used a verb with the same root as lesbian to mean “to practice oral sex” in a heterosexual context, and this meaning was one of the senses the word had through late Antiquity. But eventually Lesbos also became associated with women who loved women, and again it’s unclear whether this was specifically due to an association with Sappho or whether there were independent reasons for it. In the 2nd century, the Roman writer Lucian has one of the characters in his “Dialogues of the Courtesans” say, “They say there are women in Lesbos with faces like men, and unwilling to consort with men, but only with women as though they themselves were men.” This is in his dialogue about Megilla, who comes across either as an extremely butch woman or as a trans man (if I may be forgiven for using modern categories). And Megilla is, literally, a woman from Lesbos. But in the context of the dialogue, the courtesan relates how she was hired to entertain Megilla and Megilla’s female partner. The ambiguity is there, but there’s a clear implication that the phrase “a woman from Lesbos” was meant to suggest sexual attraction to women.

In post-classical use, the first fairly unambiguous example we have of lesbiai (the plural) to mean homosexual women comes from the previously mentioned 10th century commentary on Clement of Alexandria that groups tribades, hetairistriai, and Lesbiai together. While any one of the terms might sometimes be ambiguous, setting all three together in this way is strongly suggestive.

As mentioned above, the 16th century French writer Brantôme used the word lesbian clearly in the sense of a female homosexual. And in English, the earliest example found to date is in an early 18th century satirical poem, which uses lesbian several times as an adjective, but concludes with proclaiming a woman “chief of the tribades or lesbians” which is unarguably the modern sense.

Sapphist

It might be surprising that the term sapphist is fairly late to arrive to the party. The earliest known use in English is in a late 18th century diary entry by society gossip-monger Hester Thrale who, in contradiction to the popular image of Ponsonby and Butler--the Ladies of Llangollen--as the epitome of chaste romantic friendship, refers to them as “damned sapphists”. The adjective sapphic was in fairly common use in English in the 18th century, so it’s likely that this was not an isolated invention on Thrale’s part. By the early 20th century, sapphist came to be a somewhat upscale term, used by the literati with full awareness of its classical associations.

Fricatrix

Like the Greek word tribas, the Latin word fricatrix or frictrix derives from a root meaning “to rub”--the same root we get “friction” from. The early Christian writer Tertullian uses frictrix in a sexual sense, possibly implying a woman who performs oral sex, but it isn’t entirely clear that he intended homosexual activity.

But in an astrological text dating to some time between the 2nd and 7th century and associated with the name of Hermes Trismegistos, we find fricatrix used to describe a woman with a horoscope that inclines her to love women, and it describes her partners also using fricatrix. This suggests a more egalitarian sense than sometimes found for tribade, which often seemed to imply an active-passive distinction. In early modern English the word is found as fricatrice, and a sense of mutual activity is emphasized in the less common alternate form confricatrice.

Italian turned the original Latin word into fregatore, which we encounter by  the 16th century. In French, we find frigarelle in the same era, and a few decades later frigarelle turns in English too.

Sodomite

It can be difficult to untangle the contexts in which the word sodomite and its derivatives indicate female homosexuals. The history of what types of activities were considered sodomy is complicated and it changed greatly over the centuries. In the early medieval period, sodomite meant someone who performed any sort of sex act that was considered to be counter to nature, including same-sex acts but by no means confined to them. During the high medieval era, there was more of a tendency for it to mean homosexual acts specifically, and we find references to “female sodomites”, as well as to the Latin sodomita with a female sense. There is a 13th century Italian record where a woman who boasts of giving her female lovers pleasure using a strap-on dildo is called sodomita, but it’s possible that the word more narrowly referred to penetrative sex between women as opposed to any same-sex act. There is a rare example in English around 1600 of the form sodomitesse.

Bugger

Another set of words that overlap with the nomenclature of male homosexuality derive from the word “bugger”. Bugger itself has a rather convoluted origin, deriving from Bulgar that is, a Bulgarian, it picked up the meaning of “religious heretic” due to attitudes by western Catholic Europeans toward the Eastern Orthodox religion that was common in Bulgaria. But there was a long association of religious heresy with forbidden sexual practices, and in medieval France the word shifted in meaning to a purely sexual sense with a similar meaning to sodomite. In the 16th century, we find the Spanish word bujarrona and the Italian buzerone both used specifically for women who had sex with women.

Hermaphrodite

Another term that was sometimes applied to women who had sex with women, but where the specific meaning was somewhat different is hermaphrodite. This derives from a premodern understanding of sexual desire that tried to fit everything into a heterosexual mould. So if a woman desired other women, this was considered to indicate a masculine personality. The combination of a male personality in a female body was labeled hermaphrodite, and similarly people with male bodies who were considered to behave in a feminine manner were similarly labeled. It’s also likely that some of the people identified as hermaphrodites may have had ambiguous genitalia. I’d hesitate to say that hermaphrodite was in any way a label for women who desired women because its use was based on entirely different models of gender and sexuality than we have today. But it was definitely a term that such a woman might be called by her contemporaries who were trying to understand her behavior. In general, the heyday of the hermaphrodite model was around the 15th through 17th centuries and the term doesn’t seem to have been used for same-sex desire outside that period.

Virago

There are some early texts that use the Latin term virago--literally a masculine woman--in a context that equates it with tribas. One example comes from a 4th century astrology manual by Julius Firmicus Maternus. But I’d be hesitant to consider virago to have an unambiguously sexual sense, since it is commonly used to talk about social behavior where a woman is considered to be usurping what was considered to be a masculine role in general. This is a general issue with a number of terms in cultural contexts where the desire for women was considered to be inherently masculine.

Miscellaneous

In addition to words that were in use across a number of different cultures, though often adapted into those languages in local forms, there are words that came into use in specific languages, either as new descriptive coinages or as slang terms.

Rubster

The popularity of words meaning “one who rubs” to describe those who engaged in lesbian sex was not just a legacy of Greek and Latin words with that meaning. In the 17th century, a medical manual by Bartholin gives rubster as an equivalent for the more learned confricatrice.

Lollepot

In 17th century Dutch, we begin to find the word lollepot used for women who have sex with women, a narrowing of meaning from earlier use where it simply meant “an immodest woman.” I don’t know what the literal meaning of the word was originally.

Tommy

Readers of Sarah Waters’ novels about lesbians in the Victorian era are familiar with the English slang term tommy. Slang terms like this can be hard to pin down in origin unless the context of use is quite specific. In this case, we have a clear example from a late 18th century English poem that reads in part:

“Woman with Woman act the Manly Part,
And kiss and press each other to the heart.
Unnat'ral Crimes like these my Satire vex;
I know a thousand Tommies 'mongst the Sex:”

This sense of tommy is reminiscent of the modern use of tomboy to mean a girl who rejects gender stereotypes and behaves in ways associated with boys. But rather than tomboy being a watered down derivation from the sexual sense of tommy, the origin may go in the other direction. Tomboy begins showing up in the mid 16th century to mean a particularly rude or boisterous boy, but by the end of the 16th century it had been transferred to meaning a “bold or immodest woman” or a woman who behaved in ways considered masculine. Tom, short for Thomas, was at that time considered to be a name for a generic man, with maybe a connotation of being rude or ill-mannered. Consider the word tom-foolery, but also the use of “tom” in tomcat to signify a male cat. So tommy to mean a lesbian most likely was derived from the more general gender-transgressive sense of tomboy.

Arabic

Sahq

While most of this discussion has focused on European cultures, I promised to touch on some historic Arabic terms that show interesting parallels. I mentioned some early astrological texts that were a source of vocabulary about homoerotic relations. An Arabic translation of a 1st century Greek astrology manual by Dorotheos of Sidon discusses constellations that result in a woman desiring women and uses the word sahaqa for such a woman. This is the term found throughout Arabic literature of the medieval period, sometimes as suhaqiyya as the basic word for a woman who has sex with women. Like tribade and fricatrix, the root meaning of the word is “one who rubs”, generally implying a particular type of sexual technique. This term and associated words have been in use up to the modern era.

Zarifa/Tharifa

Another term found in Arabic literature falls more in the slang category and has intriguing connotations. This is zarifa or tharifa. (I believe these are variants of the same word but I haven’t been able to confirm it solidly.) In origin, this term means “someone elegant, witty, and charming” and is part of a medieval Arabic esthetic movement that prized sophistication and elegance. There are descriptions of how women who were sexually interested in women would use these terms as something of a code, saying that a woman was tharifa to indicate that she was a suhaqiyya and part of a subculture of women who loved women. But the word tharifa was never exclusive to this sexual sense. One might think of it as similar in implication to “gay” in that there were always non-sexual interpretations available as well.

Conclusions

So the answer to the question “when did we become lesbians?” depends to some extent on whether you’re speaking specifically of the word lesbian used as a noun to denote a woman whose primary sexual and romantic orientation is to other women, or whether the question is when did people have a vocabulary available to talk about homoerotic relations between women, or whether you’re being a stickler for some particular shade of meaning equivalent to the modern understanding of the word.

But is there a single modern understanding of the word lesbian? Think about all the arguments people have over what degree of commitment and experience is required to bestow the title of lesbian on a woman. Is it appropriate to speak of a bisexual woman as being in a lesbian relationship if she happens to be with a woman? Is someone allowed to claim the identity of lesbian if--for reasons that seem convincing to her--she chooses to be in a relationship with a man, despite feeling a primary orientation towards women? One could argue that some far future historian studying the use of the word lesbian in the 20th and 21st century would have a hard time coming to a clear definition of exactly what the boundaries of the category were.

Let us keep that in mind when we’re studying the vocabulary of the past and trying to sort out exactly when a woman might first have called herself a lesbian to claim an understanding of herself that we would recognize today under that banner.

Show Notes

In this episode we talk about:

  • The history of words for women who loved women throughout recorded European history.
  • What words were used?
  • Where did they come from?
  • What shades of meaning did they have?
  • How did those meanings change over time?

Links to the Lesbian Historic Motif Project Online

Links to Heather Online

Major category: 
LHMP
Friday, June 5, 2026 - 07:00

Although cross-dressing is one of the motifs that I trace within the Project, not all instances of cross-dressing reflect gender identity or sexuality. At least, not in the most overt sense of gender identity. Madame de Saint Balmon took a "masculine" role in protecting her lands during war, in part because she ended up on the opposite side of the war from her husband. This study of two portraits that reflect subtly different presentations of her life and activities shows the balance between admiration and normalization that such transgressive actions can inspire.

Major category: 
LHMP
Full citation: 

Abbott, Carmeta. 1993. “The Portrait as Text: Two Depictions of Madame de Saint-Balmon (1607-1660)” in Atlantis: Critical Studies in Gender, Culture, and Social Justice vol. 19, No. 1.

This biographical article isn’t directly relevant to lesbianism, but provides an example of a woman who broke gender norms and was celebrated for it. I’ve added her to my list of fascinating 17th century women.

Madame de Saint Balmon was a French noblewoman who lived in the first half of the 17th century. Although she was an acclaimed poet and playwright, she avoided the court. Her management of the family estates launched her military fame in the context of the 30 Years War. (One contributing reason for Saint Balmon’s military leadership is that her she and her husband we’re on different sides in the war–she remaining loyal to the French crown while he was on the opposite side.) This fame led to a near-contemporary biography titled (in French) The Christian Amazon, or the Adventures of Madame de Saint Balmon. She was also immortalized in a number of portraits, including the two military-themed works by a single artist that are the focus of this article.

In a common style of the day, both portraits frame the central equestrian figure with a panorama of images representing scenes from her life and deeds. The two center slightly different aspects of her life, possibly related to the different intended audience is for the works.

Both paintings feature the dominating image of Saint Balmon, wearing male clothing (a completely male outfit, not only individual garments) seated on a rearing horse wearing a sword and holding a lance. Above her are saints, angels, and cherubs. Below is a landscape representing her lands, with scenes of battles as well as more peaceful activities, such as a group representing a salon. The article provides background for some of the skirmishes depicted, including one in which she received both bullet and sword wounds during a successful raid.

The smaller of the two portraits focuses more consistently on Saint Balmon as a military hero, without imagery associated with more conventional feminine virtues, well the larger portrayed mixes military and courtly imagery. The article suggests this difference reflects that the smaller work was intended for her family, while the larger may have been commissioned for the Queen of France and thus needed to soften her image somewhat.

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Thursday, June 4, 2026 - 09:00

Having finished up a series of articles on general sexuality topics, I'm now embarking on an extended series of biographical articles. Initially this will be several short articles scattered across time periods, then finishing up with two much more extensive books about Anne Lister. The Lister material may easily tide me over for most of the month, if I break it up into manageable bite-size pieces.

Major category: 
LHMP
Full citation: 

Anonymous. 1697. The history of the intrigues & gallantries of Christina, Queen of Sweden, and of her court whilst she was at Rome faithfully render’d into English from the French original. London: Richard Baldwin.

I have been trying, in a desultory fashion, to track down a lead on a memoir that is said to include gossip about Queen Christina’s lesbian activity in Paris. A footnote in one book cited the current work in a context that implied it had content of this type. Alas, on reading it through, the only “intrigues and gallantries” discussed are with men, although there is reference to Christina’s cross dressing.

Perhaps it isn’t surprising that this wasn’t the work in question, given that it specifies Rome rather than Paris. So the quest goes on.

The word “gallantries” is an interesting detail. In modern use—though usually in archaic contexts—“gallant” and “gallantry” tend to have a sense of dramatic performative chivalry, of gender-based deference, and especially of military valor. (When I was searching in my blog for examples of “galant” to cite, one group came from my transcripts of my great-great-grandfather’s Civil War diaries, where he describes a soldier’s promotion for “galant services” in battle.) But in the 16th and 17th centuries, (to some extent into the 18th) it was a codeword for illicit sexuality, both heterosexual and, when relevant, homosexual. Brantôme’s Lives of Fair and Gallant Ladies {https://alpennia.com/lhmp/lhmp-199-brantome-1740-vies-des-dames-galantes} was about the illicit love lives of women of the French court, both with men and with other women. Wahl’s Invisible Relations {https://alpennia.com/lhmp/lhmp-313c-wahl-1999-invisible-relations-part-2...} discusses French gallant culture. Manley’s The New Atalantis {https://alpennia.com/blog/lesbian-historic-motif-podcast-episode-30d-new...} refers to “The Gallant Quarter” of a city where one went in search of sexual adventures. In The General History of the Pyrates, {https://alpennia.com/lhmp/publication/6935} Rackham is described as “the lover and gallant of Anne Bonny.” In Mary Wortley Montague’s 18th century letters, {https://alpennia.com/lhmp/lhmp-416-montagu-1763-letters-right-honourable...} she speaks of a lady’s “gallant” in a context that clearly refers to an extra-marital lover.

All of this is to say that “intrigues and gallantries” is a blinking neon sign that this tract is concerned with gossip and sexual scandal. Just not the specific scandals I’m researching.

# # #

As this publication isn’t directly concerned with same-sex relations, I’ll only be summarizing and quoting a few pertinent details. In general, the work is a hit piece on Christina, alleging all manner of immoral and criminal behavior, with as great a salacious spin as possible. While Christina was capable of autocratic and violent behavior, I’d hesitate to put credence in any specific detail given here without corroboration. Nevertheless, it speaks to the types of opinions floating around. The claim in the subtitle that it is “rendered into English from the French original” is fiction. I believe the best current scholarship is that the work was originally written in German. Nor is there any confirmable truth in the text’s assertion that the original text was in Italian.

The text asserts that the primary reason for Christina’s abdication was falling in love with an inappropriate man and the desire to “give herself up to her own fancies,” whereas more reliable evidence points to her conversion to Catholicism and a stated belief that she was not suited for marriage.

There are regular references to romantic encounters with men (though it is less explicit whether these are claimed to be sexual), such as the Duke of Guise and the Marquess Monaldeschi, a cardinal in Christina’s household, whom she did, in documented fact, have murdered for some indiscretion. Then in Rome, she is asserted to have returned the advances of Cardinal Azzolini, who had been appointed as something of an advisor and household manager for her by the Pope. [Note: There is an inescapable anti-Catholic flavor to the whole text, in accusations of sexual impropriety against church officials, as well as motivated by Christina’s conversion. This isn’t to say that Catholic officials of the 17th century werent having sexual affairs right and left–only that there is a somewhat delighted emphasis on these things.]

During travels away from Rome, there are several mentions of a woman named Fanchon Laudini “a she-favorite of the Queen” who had access to her personal correspondence. Christina is said to have taken her into service “for her talkativeness and because she was tolerably handsome and very handy in whatsoever she did.” She was made a woman of the chamber and given in marriage to one of Christina’s household staff. There’s no particular implication associated with the reference to Laudini’s attractiveness and, in fact, this is followed by a claim that Laudini became mistress to another man in the household and pregnant by him. But evidently Christina liked her well enough to forgive this.

A reference to Christina cross-dressing comes when she is traveling in Hamburg and needs to escape a mob, infuriated by her public performance of Catholicism. The passage simply notes that she was “in men’s apparel.”

Another reference to women being appreciative of another woman’s appearance comes when an Italian noblewoman escaping ill-treatment by her husband begs Christina’s protection. “Her majesty, seeing a woman is so fine, well shaped, and of considerable quality, had all the consideration and regard for her possible.” Christina did, indeed, go to some trouble to protect her. [Note: I included these references to Christina admiring other women’s appearance specifically because the text doesn’t attribute any homoerotic context. Although it’s clear that the author was focused on heterosexual indiscretions (despite presumably knowing of Christina’s reputation otherwise), same-sex admiration is depicted as ordinary and expected.]

The text’s emphasis on Christina’s connections with men also appears in a passage discussing the Duchess of Poli becoming “first lady of honor to the Queen” which notes that she had few duties as such “for besides that her Majesty had other ladies and damsels, she had so little inclination for her sex, at least in the beginning, that women were seldom seen with her, and when she went abroad, she had never any followed her.”

Some interesting gender-bending appears in a passage about a valet in the Queen’s household who is dressed up as a woman as part of a masquerade entertainment, at which the Queen “took great pleasure in seeing him in this habit” and afterward employed him as a spy in women’s disguise on several occasions.

There is one ambiguous anecdote regarding a woman referred to as “the fair Riga,” mistress of the Marquess Del Monte. And operatic entertainment was arranged by Del Monte which Riga, along with other ladies, joined Queen Christina in viewing boxes in the Queen’s great hall. The text then says:

“The Queen was pleased to the highest point, that her opera succeeded so well, commended the Marquess before his face, and withdrew very late; and the scandalous chronicle said, that she went to abandon herself with the fair Riga.”

If this is, indeed, a reference to Christina and Riga having a sexual encounter–something hinted at by the reference to a “scandalous chronicle” as the source–it is glossed over with little fanfare. It’s interesting, perhaps even significant, that this detail is attributed to a different source, thus retaining the author’s focus on heterosexual scandals.

In sum, this is a curious tract. It has a clear intent to besmirch Christina’s reputation, yet in sexual terms, primarily does so by detailing the intrigues of her household and male friends. It mentions cross-dressing but only in the most pragmatic context. It notes her admiration of specific women but also claims she had little interest in female attendants. And it hints only once at a possible erotic encounter with a woman, but undermines it by attributing it to a “scandalous” source and failing to make any substantial commentary. So if we want to find gossip about Christina’s same-sex affairs, we need to continue looking.

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Wednesday, June 3, 2026 - 16:00

This article makes a useful contrast to yesterday's, as it illustrates that people working on the same time and place can interpret the data differently.

Major category: 
LHMP
Full citation: 

Peakman, Julie. 2004. Lascivious Bodies: A Sexual History of the Eighteenth Century. Atlantic Books, London. Chapter 8 “Tribadism: ‘A New Sort of Sin’”

While most of the articles I summarize focus on specific topics, sometimes there is a publication that provides an excellent overview for a particular era or place. The last one I blogged that fell in this category was Goiwng 2006. Peakman is another such article that provides an excellent overview of the themes and sources relevant to a specific context.

This is a general survey of sexuality in the 18th century. This summary only covers chapter 8 “Tribadism: A New Sort of Sin.” It opens with a quatrain from the satirical poem “The Adulteress” which unambiguously uses “tommy” in reference to sex between women, then move on to a summary of the life of Catherine Vizzani. The Vizzani text represents a medical view still focused on the one-sex model and the interpretation of lesbianism as a form of hermaphroditism.

Other examples are quoted that demonstrate a belief in spontaneous sex-change from female to male. Other quotations reference the belief that masturbation or sex between women could result in clitoral enlargement, which could then be used for penetrative sex. But in contrast, medical opinions were appearing that recognized variation in female anatomy and denied the existence of “true hermaphrodites.”

The article surveys vocabulary used for women who loved women, including tribade, sapphist, and more rarely, lesbian. There is a survey of references to sex between women in literature, including Manley’s The New Atalantis and Fielding’s The Female Husband.

Moralistic literature criticized sex between women, though sometimes attributing it to foreign lands, as in Satan’s Harvest Home, or specifically linking the practice with Sappho. Esther thrills gossipy condemnations are mentioned. [Note: I believe there is an inaccurate implication in the author claiming that Anne Damer “adopted men’s garb,” as the description I’m aware of refers to her wearing a man’s hat, shoes, and jacket, whereas “men’s garb” implies complete cross-dressing.]

On the whole, however, although anxieties and criticisms of lesbianism are common in the documentary record, this didn’t veer into ostracization. It was transgressive, but more serious condemnation was reserved for passing women who lived as men. The distinction in treatment is seen in that the female partners of passing women were less condemned.

Several more detailed case studies are summarized: Benedetta Carlini, Catherine Linck, and Mary Hamilton (though the article is much too credulous of Fielding’s fictional biography). The norms and situation of intimate female friendships is discussed, followed by a summary about Eleanor Butler and Sarah Ponsonby, and a discussion of Anne Lister.

The legal situation of lesbianism in England is discussed, noting that prosecutions were limited to “female husbands,” and those typically when some other complaint brought the matter to light. The more difficult legal situation in Holland and Germany is noted, where sex acts alone might be prosecuted. Variety of lesbian archetypes is noted, with differences in how they were viewed by society.

The next section discusses the treatment of sex between women in erotic literature, originating with French texts, but then appearing in English translations and editions. Erotica blurred the line between masturbation and lesbian sex, including the use of dildos.

The chapter ends with a summary of the main themes discussed above, emphasizing the variety of ideas, images, and practices associated with sex between women in the 18th century.

Time period: 
Tuesday, June 2, 2026 - 08:03

When I work on the chapter for the book version of the Project that explains the various models of sex and gender, one of the hard parts is sorting out the chronology. Every author who works on this subject appears to have their own notion of when the changes happened and how they were promulgated in society. The simple fact is that social theories overlap each other, with multiple contradictory ideas of how human beings function occurring in parallel, even believed by the same people. The easiest way to demonstrate this is to consider all the different ideas and theories people have currently about the nature of gender and sexuality. There is no one uniform idea within a given culture. And yet our ideas shape how we interact and react to each other around the concepts in question.

Major category: 
LHMP
Full citation: 

O’Driscoll, Sally. 2003. “The Lesbian and the Passionless Woman: Femininity and Sexuality in 18th century England” in The Eighteenth Century: Theory and Interpretation 44.2-3. p.103-31

I’m not sure why I haven’t done this article already is it gets cited a lot. There’s an interesting contrast between the conclusions of O’Driscoll and of Peakman 2004, which I’ll cover next. O’Driscoll concludes that the shift to the two-sex model begins early in the 18th century, while Peakman provides evidence that the older one-sex model was still prevalent through much of the century. Similarly, Peakman offers source material for a wide variety of models of lesbianism during the century while O’Driscoll focuses much more strongly on the Image of the masculine woman. All this is to say that one should never rely on a single source for interpreting a particular era, as each researcher may be looking at a different set of sources and viewing them from a different lens. A number of historians focus on the transition from the one-sex to the two-sex model and each has their own opinion about the timing and nature of the shift.

# # #

The motif of the passionless woman was invented by medical writers in the 18th century in England and then promulgated more generally initially via fiction. This totally upended the previous idea of female sexual desire, envisioning women’s sexuality as entirely distinct from men’s. This reversal can be seen especially sharply in realist novels, where early 18th century texts acknowledge the sexual desire of the heroines while novels later in the century develop the domestic novel genre that promulgates an image of female modesty that prevents both the experience and the expression of desire in women. But this image of the passionless woman was necessarily accompanied by two other literary types, although they were less featured in the texts: the masculine lesbian and the femme.

The passionless woman was not a natural emergence from British culture but was entirely a creation of medical theory in the context of the two-sex model. Medical discourse then infiltrated more popular literature such as moral tracts and anti-masturbation literature which incited specific anxieties about women’s sexuality. The idea that women were (or should be) naturally devoid of sexual desire needed to account for the feelings and behaviors of actual women by pathologizing it. Where earlier centuries would have assumed that women’s unlicensed desires would express themselves in fornication or adultery, now the fear was that it would manifest as private activity, including sexual activity with other women. If society pressured women to behave as if they had no heterosexual desires, then the remaining outlets for sexual activity were necessarily those that did not involve men.

Lesbianism was conceived in two conflicting ways: as mutual masturbation, that is, a reflexive and parallel activity between two women; or in the form of the masculinized lesbian who represents desire in a female body directed toward another woman who herself fits the passionless model. The femme partner in this last version points out the contradictions in the system as she is both “normal” woman and a participant in deviant desire.

[Note: Although this article talks about social changes in the 18th century, much of the evidence in that century can be considered the propaganda that tries to drive changes in everyday attitudes, with the general spread of those attitudes falling more in the 19th century.]

The next section of the article extensively reviews the historical theory around the shift from a one-sex model to a two-sex model and the associated changes in theories about sexual experiences and anatomical functions.

The change In theory necessitated a change in conduct literature aimed at women. Previously, control of women’s sexuality focused on lecturing women to control their sexual behavior, assuming that sexual desire was the baseline. But under the new model that assumed women were modest by nature, there was no need to impose modesty, rather the focus turned towards framing immodesty as unnatural and unwomanly.

Although literature was one instrument in spreading the new image of the passionless woman, it existed primarily in literary texts such as the domestic novel, while more popular forms of literature continued to include a wide range of images of female sexuality. [Note: It seems to me that this could be viewed as a class divide rather than a literary divide.]

The next section of the article focuses on the social panic over masturbation. Previously masturbation had been viewed as a moral issue in being a form of non-procreative sexual activity. The new model viewed it more in the context of medical and health issues, as might seem natural given that the whole idea derived from medical theories. While some early 18th century medical manuals allowed for positive uses of female stimulation to relieve certain medical problems, the genre of anti-masturbation literature was already arising and treating the act both as a cause and effect of mental and physical disease.

Anti-masturbation literature saw no clear distinction between solitary masturbation by women and mutual masturbation, that is, lesbianism. Female masturbation could be viewed both as a result of some bodily abnormality and as causing both physiological and medical abnormal conditions. The image of clitoral enlargement and clitoral penetration, which had begun circulating among medical discourse of the 17th century, now appears in masturbation literature as an accepted fact.

There is now created a causal chain whereby female sexual enjoyment is defined as masturbation, masturbation is tantamount to lesbianism, and therefore all female eroticism is pathology. Two ideas were promulgated that were in direct contradiction to the theory that women were naturally passionless. The first was the problem that if a directed campaign was necessary to discourage and eliminate masturbation this was in complete conflict with the idea that women were naturally passionless. They could not simultaneously experience no sexual desire and yet be addicted to masturbation. The second issue was the focus on female anatomy as the site of female eroticism and the insistence that sexual activity would revise the body into masculinity both physiological and psychological. That is, female sexual experience naturally creates lesbians.

While the 17th century had developed medical theories of the macro-clitoral tribade, the 18th century borrowed part of that idea, but rearranged cause and effect, such that rather than anatomy causing lesbian desire, it is the practice of lesbianism that causes aberrant anatomy.

Accompanying these changes in theories about desire and sexuality, are social changes in ideas about marriage and heterosexuality. When it was assumed that desire was not restricted by gender, then the controls on the expression of desire were largely moral. With the rise of the idea of companionate marriage and the restriction of authorized desire to that which occurred within marriage, there was a revision in the boundaries of what counted as sexual acts. Where heterosexuality had previously required mutual desire between male and female, now it only required male desire and female acceptance. Female desire had been redefined as inherently unnatural and unfeminine.

The 18th century realist fiction that served as propaganda for the passionless woman didn’t exclude lesbian figures, although it rarely explicitly identified them as such. Rather, the lesbian character serves to represent inappropriate female desire, which is to say any expressed female desire. She represents dangerous sexuality that must be rejected and punished. But at the same time this article points out that the lesbian character has also been domesticated. She belongs within the British setting of the novel rather than representing a foreign figure or one displaced in time to the classical era.

In literature, the ideal passionless woman can never desire the male character. Therefore she represents the fear that women will always choose women. And yet the femme character—the feminine woman who chooses a masculine woman as the object of her desire—presents an inherent contradiction. She appears everywhere in literature as the foil of the masculine lesbian: the wife of the female husband, the heroine enticed by the transgressive mannish friend. And yet she is culturally illegible. Given that she is not permitted to experience desire on her own, the object of her desire is illogical. Conversely if she does experience desire, then she is unfeminine and must become the masculine lesbian instead of desiring her.

The final sections of the paper examine the autobiography of actress Charlotte Charke and the fictionalized version of the trial of Mary Hamilton and how they fit in with this motif both as a literary works and as biographies.

In conclusion, the paper re-emphasizes that the idea of the passionless woman was an invention—one that needed to be imposed and propagandized in order to become normalized in society. At the same time, it was an idea that required the existence of a masculine lesbian figure and a nearly invisible femme figure in order to accommodate the ghost of female desire that had been banished from normative society.

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Monday, June 1, 2026 - 08:45

Usually I make an effort to make an LHMP post of some sort every day during Pride Month. That may be a bit trickier this year than usual given that (as noted in the most recent podcast) I have a broken arm, which slows down typing considerably. As with the subject of today's article, gardens were involved. Specifically my strawberry bed, where I was working when I tripped over my own feet and fell on the concrete walkway. I now have a titanium plate and nine screws in my left arm. But recovery is proceeding. Yesterday I felt well enough to spend the day selling books at the Bay Area Book Festival, and I have two more specifically Pride-related book events in the next two weeks.

Blogging books and articles may be the least impacted activity for the Project. Unless I'm working with a physical book, my workflow involves highlighting and taking notes on my iPad. Usually I'd type those up directly, but currently I'm writing them up longhand, then using Apple's speech-to-text function to sidestep the majority of the typing. (One-handed hunt-and-peck typing also involves more typos than usual. While I'm trying to be careful about proofing, please be forgiving.) Doing the research and writing necessary for new podcast scripts is much more work, so I'm doing re-runs for a couple months and will try to catch up with the new releases later.

All in all, things could be worse. I could be trying to work a day-job in this condition! And I have excellent and affordable healthcare, thanks to Medicare Advantage and Kaiser Permanente. And I'm trying to allow myself to kick back and not overdo the everyday tasks. But it's all so frustrating and I'm angry at myself for thinking that I still have the reflexes and agility of a 50-year-old. (No, wait. The last time I tripped over a curb and broke an arm I was in my 40s. I'd have to go back further than that.)

Major category: 
LHMP
Full citation: 

Moore, Lisa L. 2005. “Queer Gardens: Mary Delany's Flowers and Friendships” in Eighteenth-Century Studies Vol. 39, No. 1 (Fall, 2005), pp. 49-70

Moore examines the life of 18th century English artist and aristocrat Mary Delany, particularly with respect to her relations with other women. As an artist and writer, Delany’s work has often been overlooked due to focusing on “feminine” genres and media, creating domestic ornaments rather than works in more traditionally “serious” genres. She was known in particular for her highly-realistic botanical illustrations created as cut-paper collages that were renowned for their realism.

While women’s artistic accomplishments were typically interpreted as intended for male attention, Delany worked within a “self-conscious community of intimate women friends” both in London and Dublin, where her work can be viewed as intended for a female audience. Related to her botanical illustrations, she was a garden designer, with some of her projects intended to create intimate spaces for female eroticism.

Moore specifically notes that Delany’s life should not be interpreted in terms of modern “sexual orientations”. She had two marriages to men and two (or more) long-term partnerships with women, but assumptions about the sexual nature of any of those relationships should avoid preconceptions. In writing about marriage, Delany complained about a lack of love, while providing evidence that love and desire drove her relations with women. If her writings offer little concrete evidence for sexual relationships with women, Moore points out that 18th century understandings of romantic friendship did not treat sex as a crucial distinction in types of relations. Writing about such partnerships both in fiction and gossip could be forthright about a sexual component, while at the same time intensely emotional relationships were treated as ordinary, both by the participants and by their society.

After the death of her first husband left her in somewhat straitened circumstances, Delany lived with an aunt and then with a female friend with whom she traveled extensively. During this period, her correspondence expresses a preference for female friends over marriage, although she did remarry in her 40s. At that time she alternated between renovating their estate in Ireland and visiting in England, especially with Margaret Harley, the Duchess of Portland for whom she did various artistic projects. After her second husband’s death, Delany began living half of each year with the Duchess, when she made her botanical illustrations.

Delany’s extensive correspondence and memoirs show her to be a strong critic of marriage and supporter of women’s friendships. Despite the social and economic pressures for the former, the state had little appeal for her. In contrast, she wrote that only women provided “that happy union of hearts where mutual choice and mutual obligation make it the most perfect state of friendship.” Like others of the era, she envisioned the idea setting for female friendships as an idyllic rural landscape—a “fairy spot of ground”—and her garden designs strove to create such spaces.

In the Irish bluestocking circles that Delany and her first long-term companion Anne Donellan traveled in, various women appear as an ambiguous blend of rival and object of admiration. The interactions of these encounters with her partnership with Donellan provoked expressions of jealousy along with admiration, but among the friends she cataloged and ranked, Anne Donnellan was “so far above the rest as to be ‘out of the question’.” Her writings also document similar romantic friendships between others women in her circle. Although such relationships were considered ordinary, individual women might desire a level of discretion, with one of Delany’s associates noting that her own particular friend was hesitant to make an introduction to Delany, preferring to “preserve decorums” and worried about people commenting on their (the friend’s) relationship. So we can see that the public acceptance of women’s intimate friendships included a variety of attitudes and levels of self-consciousness.

Delany’s proto-feminism included political activism, as when she and a group of other aristocratic women protested being excluded from the public gallery of the House of Lords during debates over possible war with Spain.

Given her opinions, Delany’s second marriage might seem uncharacteristic, but she apparently found an arrangement with a man who supported her artistic endeavors, gave her a garden to work in, and didn’t interfere with her social activities and travels. (Neither of her marriages produced children and the second, at least, seems to have been companionable rather than passionate.)

The article continues with an extensive and detailed discussion of Delany’s garden design projects, especially the creation of a grotto at the Duchess of Portland’s estate which was a joint project between them. (I’m not summarizing this part, which also includes a discussion of 18th c politics.) The grotto, as well as another garden element, were decorated with seashells and was created as a private space for the two women.

The next section of the article goes into detail about the paper-mosaic botanical illustrations.

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Saturday, May 30, 2026 - 07:00

Lesbian Historic Motif Podcast - Episode 343 – Salt for the Unmarried by Khayelihle Benghu - transcript

(Originally aired 2026/05/30)

Before introducing the episode, I have a logistical announcement. I recently broke my arm, which is going to get in the way of extensive typing for a couple of months. Therefore I’m going to be re-running some favorite episodes from the past until I’m back in action. I hope that will tide you over in the mean time.

Our fiction episode for this quarter is set in early 19th century Ghana in West Africa. The intersection of colonialism and female solidarity brings out a gentle, poetic love story.

The author, Khayelihle Benghu, is an emerging author, poet, essayist, and dedicated nurse based in Johannesburg, South Africa. Her work blends practical care with creative expression, drawing inspiration from everyday rhythms and the natural world. Khayelihle’s poems have appeared in Eyes to the Telescope, Person of Interest, and Ake Review. She writes across poetry, fiction, and hybrid forms, often exploring themes of memory, resilience, communal love, and hope.

I will be the narrator for this story.

This recording is released under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International Public License. You may share it in the full original form but you may not sell it, you may not transcribe it, and you may not adapt it.


Salt for the Unmarried

By Khayelihle Benghu


The salt pans shone like broken sky. Ama Nyarko walked barefoot across the hardened mud, her feet knowing the path without thought. She carried a shallow basket against her hip, already crusted white. The air burned. The sea breathed in and out beyond the low ridge, patient and untroubled by human arrangements.

Behind her, someone cleared their throat.

Ama did not turn. The salt punished distraction. It required attention the way fire did.

“I was told you would guide me,” the woman said.

Ama straightened slowly. She wiped her hands on her cloth and faced the speaker.

The woman was dressed badly for the coast: boots too tight, sleeves buttoned despite the heat. Her skin was pale but not English-pale, her hair dark and braided close to her head. She held a leather-bound book like a shield.

“I do not guide,” Ama said. “I harvest.”

The woman swallowed. “I only need to observe.”

Ama considered her. Another clerk, then. Another mouth sent by men who never stepped into the pans themselves.

“You may stand there,” Ama said, pointing to a strip of shade near the salt sheds. “If you step into the pans without knowing, you will ruin weeks of work.”

“I won’t,” the woman said quickly. “I’m Elizabeth Hartwell.”

Ama nodded once. Names were exchanged lightly here, like greetings. “Ama Nyarko.”

Elizabeth smiled, then seemed to remember herself and smoothed her expression into something official.

They worked in silence for a while.

Elizabeth’s pencil scratched. Ama’s basket filled and the sun climbed. Gulls argued overhead. The salt hissed faintly beneath the sun’s weight, a sound like breath caught in the throat.

“What happens if it rains?” Elizabeth asked at last.

Ama paused. “Then we wait again. Salt is patience made visible.”

Elizabeth nodded, writing. “The Governor wishes to understand production methods.”

Ama laughed once, sharp. “The Governor wishes to own them.”

Elizabeth did not deny it.

She had not expected the salt to be so alive, not just the crystals, but the women who coaxed them from the earth. She had imagined a process, a system, something she could chart and quantify. But here, the work resisted her categories. It was not a factory but something closer to a rhythm. — a pulse that refused to be reduced to machinery. Each gesture carried memory, each repetition a difference, more like song than system.

That night, Ama dreamt of water rising through the pans, washing everything back into the sea. When she woke, she found Elizabeth waiting near the fire, rubbing oil into blistered hands.

“You didn’t listen,” Ama said.

Elizabeth winced. “I thought I could help.”

“You cannot help salt by touching it.”

Elizabeth looked up. “Can you teach me?”

Ama should have refused. She did not.

The days folded into one another.

# # #

Elizabeth learned where to step, how to skim without breaking the surface, how to read the wind. Her hands toughened and her speech loosened. She stopped writing so much and began to hum as she worked, low and tuneless, the way the other women did.

They ate together. They argued about measurements. Elizabeth spoke of ledgers and quotas; Ama spoke of tides and seasons. Neither convinced the other.

At night, Elizabeth stayed in the compound, her presence drawing quiet looks. Ama ignored them.

It was not unusual for women to share space, to sleep close, to work together. It was unusual, perhaps, for Ama to notice the weight of Elizabeth’s arm across her waist, the warmth of her breath at the nape of her neck.

She noticed anyway.

One evening, Elizabeth brought a mango from the market, overripe and dripping. They shared it in silence, juice sticky on their fingers. Ama licked hers clean without shame. Elizabeth watched her, eyes dark and unreadable.

One afternoon, a soldier arrived with papers. Ama could not read them, but she knew the shape of seizure when she saw it.

Elizabeth read aloud, her voice steady but her hands shaking. “Crown administration of coastal salt resources. Compensation to be determined.”

Ama listened without interrupting.

“They will fence the pans,” Elizabeth said quietly, once the soldier left. “Regulate output. Tax distribution.”

“Who decides compensation?” Ama asked.

Elizabeth did not answer.

That night, Ama did not sleep.

She met with the elders before dawn. Plans were made. Messengers sent inland. Salt could disappear as easily as it appeared, if one knew how to break a pan without leaving evidence.

Elizabeth watched Ama prepare baskets with a careful slowness.

“You can’t stop them,” Elizabeth said.

“I can make it difficult,” Ama replied.

Elizabeth hesitated. “They will ask who helped you.”

Ama looked at her then. “Did you?”

Elizabeth’s mouth tightened. “I wrote what I was told to write.”

“Then you have already chosen,” Ama said.

The words landed harder than Ama intended.

Elizabeth reached for her. Ama stepped away.

That night, the air was heavy with coming rain. Elizabeth came to Ama’s mat without asking. They lay facing each other, close enough to share breath. “I do not have words for what I am to you,” Elizabeth said. “But I know what it will cost me.”

Ama studied her face  the fear, the resolve. “Words are not required.”

Elizabeth touched Ama’s hand, tentative, reverent.

Their bodies came together without ceremony, without promise. An embrace  was not the joining of futures. It was an acknowledgment  of labour shared, of risk taken, of something precise and fragile in a world built to erase it.

In the morning, the pans were broken. Rain fell hard and sudden, flooding the shallow beds, carrying salt back into the sea.

The soldiers arrived two days later. They found damage, confusion, resistance. They found Elizabeth gone. Ama learned later that Elizabeth had resigned her post, citing illness. She left with a small trunk and no recommendation.

# # #

Months passed, some pans were reclaimed and others were lost. Life continued unevenly, as it always had. On certain mornings, Ama tasted the salt and thought of hands that had learned patience beside hers. The sea did not remember Elizabeth Hartwell but Ama did. And that, she decided, was enough.

Sometimes, when the wind came from the west, carrying the scent of brine and distant rain, Ama would pause mid-harvest and look to the horizon. Not in longing, but in recognition. As if somewhere, across the water, someone else was remembering too.


Show Notes

This quarter’s fiction episode presents Salt for the Unmarried by Khayelihle Benghu, narrated by Heather Rose Jones.

Links to the Lesbian Historic Motif Project Online

Links to Heather Online

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LHMP

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