August 28, 1875

Under Oriental Skies

One of the joys (but does that mean that there are sorrows as well?) of being married to James is that he does not object to my habit of poring over books of which he, being a bibliophile himself, has a ready and liberal supply, ranging from the times of the classical Greeks to the mediaeval Europeans to the Britain of our own times. Thus over the last three years I have frequently returned to my childhood fascination with the great topic of War, and more especially with the question of why it is always men who believe that the spilling of blood is an act of glory and honour to the Nation. I come back time and again to Thermopylae, the Peloponnesian War, the Punic War, the Battle of Actium, Constantinople, Crecy, Xerxes, Alexander the Great, and down to the Afghan War of our own times.

This is a most fascinating question, and I am not sure if my solution to it is the correct one. I must say that I dare not talk about this with anyone, for oftentimes it seems to me, if I may indulge myself for a few moments, that I am a woman ahead of my times and that consequently the men and the women around me shall not understand what I have to tell them. And yet, I wonder if this is a form of self-flattery, for how could any individual extricate oneself from the meshes of history and pretend to have access to the truth that is beyond time?

These are indeed ponderous matters, and I cannot claim that my feminine frailty is strong enough to meet them in their full force. Perhaps it requires the tenacity of an intensely masculine mind to explore its labyrinthine complexities. But no, let me not digress here now. Blood. Yes, blood. What is it about blood that drives men?

If, my diary, you shall be so patient as to listen to me, let me unfold some of the deepest thoughts from my heart. I believe that men have an external relationship with blood, so that for them blood is a source both of horror and of a mysterious charm. But for us women, blood is a much more intimate reality of our monthly, if not daily, existence, and, as a consequence, we do not experience bloodiness the way men do. Unlike men who are driven to opposite poles by the sanguis that flows through our common veins, we women learn, through painful experiences, to make our peace, even if it is but an uneasy truce, with blood.

Thus there are, I seem to believe with a conviction that grows deeper within my bosom every passing day, two kinds of men when it comes to blood to which we women, by some curious whim of old Mother Nature, are so inextricably bound. One type is so terrified of blood that it rejects everything feminine as bloody, messy, polluted, profane, impure, and corrupting and runs away to the transcendent heights of the sacred mountains, giving the name 'religion' to this great denial; and the other is so enamoured of it that wanting to become one with it believes it to be an act of heroism to spill it through murder and violence.

Thus what the writers of the books I have been reading call the attitudes of world-affirmation and world-renunciation are ultimately two orientations that men possess towards our feminine blood : those who hold the former are charmed by it and those who hold the latter are terrified of it.

I must now stop, for how rapidly my heart beats as I write these words!

Reading what I have written above, how hollow they seem to me already. Does it all revolve around blood? Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps I need to talk to James about it. He is a physician, literally a man of blood, and he should know better.

Or perhaps even David. But no. For I seem to think (oh, how easy it is sometimes to predict his moves) that I know how he will react to my question. He will reply : 'Perhaps. Perhaps you are right. No, I must say something more than that. I must indeed thank you for putting my own words into your diary. But then, which type of a man am I myself?' And with an anaemic smile, he will stare at me for a while, like one of his beloved dogs will scrub the ground under his feet with his shoes, and then will slowly walk away into the garden shrouded with mist.

Oh, I must stop now! There seems to be a commotion downstairs. But I shall return to you soon.