When women were tough

The other week, I came across a review in the Weekly Standard of a book, “Good Girl Messages: How Young Women Were Misled by Their Favorite Books.” Gina Dalfonzo criticizes the author, Deborah O’Keefe for wanting to persuade us that “many girls were damaged by characters, plots, and themes in the books they read and loved,” because in these books “female virtue” is invariably bound up with “sit-still, look-good messages.”

Dalfonzo sees O’Keefe as viewing women of her own generation as passive and pliant, insisting that until about 1950, a vast literary conspiracy was trying to suck the brains and spirits out of little girls. “On the contrary, argues Dalfonzo, why, the “great girls’ books of the 19th and early 20th centuries are filled with active, vibrant young women notable for their moral strength.”

And to support her case, she cites books like “Anne of Green Gables,” “Heidi,” and “Little Women.” Yuck and double yuck. Those titles suddenly brought back to me the revulsion I felt as a pre-teen when local – no doubt well-meaning – librarians would attempt to foist such works on me. “This is a book little girls really like to read.”

I indignantly rejected such offers. Precocious creature that I was, I’d more or less taught myself to read by the time I was around four, and was gobbling up everything I could find in print. Hawthorne’s “Tanglewood Tales,” the re-telling of the Greek myths, was a particular favorite. I always identified with the heroes – Perseus, especially, I remember, although I wondered why he had to pay so much attention to Andromeda.

But the female I most admired – although I can’t say I actually liked her – was Milady de Winter, the wicked and beautiful antagonist of “The Three Musketeers.” My older – by 18 years – brother gave me for Christmas a child’s version of Dumas’ swashbuckling tale with great illustrations by N.C. Wyeth when I was eight or nine. I read it through at one sitting right on the spot

I soon discovered the grown-up version at the local branch library. And, joy of joys, found there was a sequel, “Twenty Years After.” And that there was even a sequel to that, “Ten Years Later” or “Le Vicomte de Bragelonne.” The local library didn’t have an English translation, so boldly, bravely, I took it out in French, and set out to pick my way through the alien tongue.

But Milady. Now there was a woman for you. Beautiful, strong-willed. Definitely wicked. I shuddered along with D’Artagnan as he overheard her telling her maid, Ketty, that she didn’t love him. “Love him? Why, I hate him. A fool who held the life of Lord de Winter in his hands and didn’t kill him, making me lose three hundred thousand in yearly income.” How I thrilled at her boldness, when feeling momentarily faint fearing her secret may have been discovered, she thrusts her maid aside. “Why are you touching me?”

“I thought Madame wasn’t feeling well and I wanted to help her.”

“Not feeling well? Me? Do you take me for a weak woman? When I’m insulted, I don’t feel ill, I avenge myself, do you hear me?”

And how about the way she did avenge herself on D’Artagnan? In the convent at Bethune, she discovers Constance Bonacieux, beloved of the young Gascon, pretends to befriend her, and when she realizes the musketeers are coming to rescue Constance, she tells her instead they are the Cardinal’s guards. Constance is near to fainting.

Quickly Milady pries open her ring, shaking its contents into Constance’s wine glass. “Drink up, the wine will give you strength.” “Ah,” said Milady to herself, setting the glass down. “This isn’t exactly how I wanted to avenge myself, but, my faith, you do what you can.”

Definitely not a very nice lady, but strong. Definitely strong Yes indeedy, one strong woman. At eight or nine, I thought Milady was really just great. This was what a woman should be like. Preferably without poisoning anyone, of course – if you could help it.