The Resurgence of the Fan



Nancy with parasol at Colosseum

 We went to Europe this summer, and one of our stops was Italy.  I adore Europe and have visited a dozen times, but they don't do air conditioning the way we Americans are used to air conditioning.  I know we're spoiled.  I admit it.  And actually, much of the time we weren't inside, but outside.  Walking around Rome or Venice or Florence in 103-degree heat made us melt like gelato on the pavement. 



I don't do heat.  My favorite temperature is 60--with clouds (I should live in Seattle.)  Other than searching for a breeze, or hunting out shade, I discovered two things that saved me.  A parasol and a fan.  Fantastico!

 

Honestly, I cannot imagine walking around any American city with either, but in Europe I didn't feel foolish at all.  And strolling through Rome's Forum, or waiting to ascend the Eiffel Tower, they helped me survive the heat. 

Woman with Parasol by Renoir



It made me wonder why we've abandoned the parasol and fan.  The parasol probably went by the wayside because we now embrace having a tan.  But a hundred years ago, having porcelain skin revealed breeding.  Only people who worked for a living had tanned skin.  So I'll surrender the parasol--even though I don't do tans either.



But... the fan... 

 

Lady with a Fan by Aviat



Being a woman of a certain age, who goes through her own personal heat waves, I've started using one of two pretty fans I bought in Florence and at Ford's Theatre in Washington D.C.  Yes, I receive a few odd looks, but I don't mind. It's far more elegant than fanning my flash with a menu or page of coupons.

In my research, I learned there was a Language of the Fan, where women could say secret things to the men in their lives by the flip of their fan.  Fanning with the right hand in front of your face meant "Follow me." Fanning with your left hand meant, "Don't flirt with that woman." Slowly fanning yourself meant, "Don't waste your time, I don't care about you."  While quickly fanning yourself meant, "I love you so much." 

Lady with a Fan by James Tissot

Yikes, would I be in big trouble!  Because I tend to fan with both hands (as one hand gives out) and at different speeds depending on the outer--and my inner--thermometer.  Any man who was trying to understand my fan-language would run in the other direction--with good cause. No wonder men complain that they can't understand women.

Which leads to a bigger question:  did men really understand this special, intricate language?  Not to disparage the other sex, but I've noticed that most men I know don't pay attention to what a woman is wearing, if their hair is worn up or down, or even if they wear glasses, much less notice whether the woman runs her fingers over the fan's ribs (meaning "I want to talk to you") or carries the fan closed with the left hand (meaning "I'm engaged.")  Sorry, but it ain't going to happen.  


Lady with a Fan by Mary Cassatt



Either men have changed drastically over the centuries, or the whole Language of the Fan is something women created and talked about amongst their friends, while the men never caught on.  Or if a rare one did . . . I bet he was very popular.

  

Also, there's the secrecy thing... why did they feel the need to be secret?  For instance, if you wanted to say goodbye to some man, why not go up to him and say goodbye, or even wave from across the room.  But saying goodbye in fan-speak, by placing the fan behind your head with a finger extended . . .  Goodness sakes. 

Besides, if every lady in the room knew the language, there wasn't much secrecy in it.  Imagine a room full of women all gesturing with their fans.  It would be like an opera when everyone sings their own line at the same time. Or the sideline of a football game, when the coaches are all gesturing frantically to get their play in.  Ha.  Women with fans were certainly getting their play in!

There is one message I could use on occasion: passing the fan from hand to hand means, "I see that you are looking at another woman."  But I've found that clearing the throat, or an elbow in the ribs works just as well.

For cooling purposes, and even as a fashion accessory, I'm all for the resurgence of the fan.  But for everyone's sake, let the language die.//Nancy

How Do I Love Thee?

In this month devoted to romantic love, I want to share a love story that was as unlikely as it was destined…



Elizabeth Barrett



Elizabeth Barrett was the oldest child in a family of twelve children. Her father had sugar plantations in Jamaica (which used slave labor) but chose to live in England. He built a whimsical house for his family in Herefordshire and called it Hope End. It was very isolated, and in retrospect, it seems like he enjoyed being the end-all to his family, and keeping them from mingling too much in society. The family was happy—if not eccentric. The children were schooled at home and even the girls were encouraged in their studies—rare in the 1820’s. Elizabeth (known as “Ba” to her family) was delicate and struggled with her health, but she was gifted in regard to poetry. All was well until her mother and brother died.

Those tragedies changed everything, and the family moved to Wimpole Street in London, where the tone of their lives became constricted and even oppressive. Their father proclaimed that none of his children could marry.

For the most part, the children abided by his wishes, and remained loyal, though not always complacent. The power he had over them was unhealthy and rather frightening.

Robert Browning



In London, Ba took up residence in the top floor of the house amid her books, her pen, and her beloved spaniel, Flush. She had literary success, getting many of her epic poems published, and had a close group of writer friends who came to call, sharing their work, their ambition, and their inspiration. Virtually an invalid, Ba contented herself with this odd life, hidden away from the world beyond her family.

That is, until she received a letter from a younger author, Robert Browning: “I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett...” So began a correspondence that led to much more. Much, much more. At the mature age of 38, Elizabeth Barrett, a woman who never imagined romance, found herself in love with a man who adored her. Her love for Robert flowed from her pen:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints—I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

The poem, whose first lines are still known today--150 years after they were penned--was not written for publication, but simply as an emotional release. That fact alone, gives the words special meaning.

And yet, because of this love, because of her father’s oppression, Elizabeth's love of Robert had to remain a secret. And yet, because of the strength of their love, Elizabeth gained the courage she needed to break free.

But the cost was great...

Isn’t that the way of all great love? To love is to sacrifice, is to choose we instead of me. To love is to risk everything, for there are no guarantees. Loving is hard. It’s a decision. It’s surrender. But as the Bible says, “Three things will last forever--faith, hope, and love--and the greatest of these is love.” (I Corinthians 13: 13.) What God has joined together, let no man put asunder . . .

If you’d like to read a novel about Elizabeth’s life and love, read my biographical novel, How Do I Love Thee?   Their love story is ever so poignant, even moreso because it was real.//Nancy Moser