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Women Classical ScholarsUnsealing the Fountain from the Renaissance to Jacqueline de Romilly$

Rosie Wyles and Edith Hall

Print publication date: 2016

Print ISBN-13: 9780198725206

Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: November 2016

DOI: 10.1093/acprof:oso/9780198725206.001.0001

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Introduction

Introduction

Approaches to the Fountain

Chapter:
(p.1) 1 Introduction
Source:
Women Classical Scholars
Author(s):

Edith Hall

Rosie Wyles

Publisher:
Oxford University Press
DOI:10.1093/acprof:oso/9780198725206.003.0001

Abstract and Keywords

This chapter introduces the volume by explaining its genesis in a conference in London in 2012, and the commissioning of new essays to supplement the original papers. It describes the scope, aims, and methodology of the book. It is a collection of essays on important women classical scholars born before World War I, who worked in Britain, France, Portugal, Italy, Denmark, Russia, and the USA. It surveys the history of scholarship on women experts in the classical languages and literature, both in relation to women’s education and women’s publishing and similar works in analogous fields. It reviews the contents of the essays, sets them in historical context, and supplements them with brief discussions of many other learned women, especially those in the former Eastern bloc and in German-speaking countries. An Appendix provides details of numerous other women classicists in the hope of encouraging further research in this field.

Keywords:   Women, Classical scholarship, Education, Translation, Latin and Greek

  • ‘O lift your natures up:
  • Embrace our aims: work out your freedom. Girls,
  • Knowledge is now no more a fountain sealed’.

Alfred Lord Tennyson, ‘The Princess’

It is more than a century and a half since Princess Ida, with the inspirational words quoted as our epigraph, welcomed new recruits to the revolutionary university for maidens in Lord Tennyson’s ‘The Princess’. This long poem was itself partly a response to the opening of the pioneering Queen’s College for girls, established by a group led by F.D. Maurice of King’s College London, on Harley Street in 1847.1 Although many have questioned the seriousness with which Tennyson himself supported women’s education, his poem, especially after it was turned into the comic opera Princess Ida; or, Castle Adamant by Arthur Sullivan and W.S. Gilbert in 1884, became embedded in the public imagination. It continued to inform arguments around the establishment of schools and colleges for women until at least the Edwardian era.2

(p.2) It is also a long time—nearly half a century—since Edith Hall, as a teenager on a grammar school scholarship funded by a direct grant from the British government, was intrigued by the same quotation. She read it every day during compulsory school prayers, for it was inscribed under the head of Minerva on a large plaque in the assembly hall of what was then Nottingham Girls High School GPDST, founded in 1875.3 [See Frontispiece] The quotation had been adopted as the motto of GPDST in 1872.

But sometimes our task of excavating the history of women’s achievements in classics has made it depressingly clear that there has been no simple, linear narrative of progression towards the unsealing of that fountain at some moment in the late nineteenth century. In the seventeenth century it was strongly felt, for example by Mary Astell, that women’s education had been in decline for a century. In Queen Elizabeth’s day, she lamented, Greek and Latin had been positively fashionable for women, ‘and Plato and Aristotle untranslated, were frequent Ornaments of their Closets’.4 The tuition received in the early twentieth century by aristocratic girls like the six English Mitford sisters, under-educated at home and expected to do little with their lives but enter advantageous marriages, was vastly inferior to the curriculum studied by many of the Renaissance and Early Modern women discussed in the next three chapters of this book by McCallum-Barry, Frade, and Wyles.5 Moreover, women’s access to education still remains, internationally, a political hot potato. Even in Britain, where women now hold a significant proportion of university posts, at least in Arts and Humanities, there are still few in senior positions or with salaries and executive power equivalent to their male counterparts.6 Worse, so many people prominent in (p.3) public life were educated at exclusive all-male schools that women’s access to the highest echelons of education remains an unrelentingly topical issue.

Most of the chapters include portraits of the scholars discussed, which our contributors have gone to sometimes extraordinary lengths to procure from archives where they have lain buried for decades. They are intended to form part of our argument: how many of us have been saddened by the dearth of portraits of women in the long galleries of learned ancestors lining the walls and staircases of our colleges, universities and libraries? We hope that Women Classical Scholars, by investigating the history of earlier women’s engagement with the ancient Greek and Latin Classics, will encourage men and women to enjoy the study of these inspirational texts. The intention is to come to a clearer understanding of the difficulties women have faced over the past five hundred years in acquiring right of entry to these Classics (often historically seen as the most prestigious and exclusive of cultural and intellectual properties), and of the strategies by which a few of the most able and indefatigable women have succeeded in surmounting them.

The volume results from the excitement engendered by a two-day international conference ‘Women as Classical Scholars’, run by the Department of Classics at F.D. Maurice’s college, King’s College London, on 23–24 March 2013. The international gathering of mostly (but not exclusively) women delegates was convened as a celebration of the centenary of the birth in 1913 of the most famous female French scholar of the twentieth century, Jacqueline de Romilly. Her life and work were the subject of one of the keynote lectures, delivered by Ruth Webb, which appears here as our final chapter. The original versions of most of the other essays printed here were delivered at the conference, supplemented by this Introduction and specially commissioned contributions.7

(p.4) The task of putting the volume together has been arduous intellectually and also emotionally. It is important but not easy to remain dispassionate when reading histories of exclusion, marginalization, exploitation, and often personal loneliness, frustration, and misery. As we completed the book, it was satisfying to see the belated acknowledgement of the instrumental role played by the obscure Dr Alice Kober (1906–1950), a lecturer at Brooklyn College, in the decipherment of Linear B. She died far too young, and despite the considerable progress she had made during patient years of comparative assessment of the examples of the Mycenaean script, all the credit at the time went to Michael Ventris.8 Another tragic example is provided by the Viennese Eva Sachs (1882–1936). She matriculated at the Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität, Berlin, in 1904. Ten long years later, after taking innumerable courses (far more than were expected of her male counterparts), she defended her dissertation. It had been supervised by the titan of Prussian classical philology, Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff himself. Sachs’ dissertation reconceptualized the relationship between Theaetetus the mathematician and Plato. An expanded version was published in 1917, and ‘has remained authoritative in its field’.9

Although Sachs’ contribution to Wilamowitz’s thinking in his famous two-volume study of Plato, published in 1919, has occasionally been acknowledged, the full extent of his debt to dialogue with her has never been investigated. Yet Wilamowitz did not even believe that women should receive higher education at all. Although he eventually agreed to admit Sachs to prepare for the post-doctoral thesis or Habilitation, it was with great reluctance.10 Regardless of his patronizing treatment of her, and his emotional brutality, of which she was certainly aware, Sachs, who had been orphaned as a little girl, fell violently in love with her eminent supervisor. Her affection was not reciprocated. Before ever having a chance to complete that Habilitation, she went mad and died ‘in an insane asylum, speaking ancient Greek and believing “she could save Socrates if she got there in time.”’11 And even today she is only (p.5) discussed as the source of evidence for Wilamowitz, rather than as a fascinating figure in her own right.12

Joanna Russ writes neither about scholars in general nor classical scholars in particular, yet we have learned much, while laughing heartily, from her brilliant study How to Suppress Women’s Writing (1983). Russ wittily identifies a range of ways in which writings by women have been concealed and derogated over the centuries. They include exclusion from the canon, allegations that they were mostly written by a male helper, and wives actually writing their husbands’ books for them and then putting the man’s name on the cover. Indeed, amongst Russ’s categories, the semi-concealment of a female scholar behind her more famous husband’s name is the one we have most often encountered in the course of this research.13 It seems connected with the supposition, expressed by Franz Cumont in relation to the dazzling classicist Ada Adler, that women were very good at assembling details,14 with the unspoken corollary that they could not see ‘the big picture’ or conceive incisive, penetrating arguments which illuminate a general field or tendency.

One example is the brilliant epigraphist Jeanne Robert (maiden name Vanseveren), born in 1910, who indefatigably supported her prolific husband Louis Robert (author of more than thirty-five volumes) both on excavations and in the publication of inscriptions.15 Eminent Greek Homerist Ioannis Kakridis’ career and publications also benefitted from his wife’s intellect and education; Olga Komninou-Kakridi (1901–1975) did however publish two books on Homer under her own name and tirelessly promoted classical studies in Greece.16 Louise Youtie (1909–2004), who was married to the much more celebrated papyrologist Herbert Youtie, was still being described in her obituaries as ‘Herbert’s (p.6) ultimate assistant’, even though he had extreme difficulty in editing any text which she had not transcribed for him first.17

Agathe Thornton (1910–2006) even managed (eventually) to emerge from her husband’s shadow altogether. Born in Germany, she married Harry Thornton, who was appointed to a lectureship at the University of Otago in 1948. At that time the university had a rule against employing married women with children, but Agathe Thornton challenged the rule and was eventually awarded a personal chair. She is doubly remarkable, because in addition to joint publications with her husband (where her name unalphabetically follows his), and her own books on Homer and Virgil, she became an expert on Maori culture and published comparative studies of classical and Maori literature and myth.18

Not all the women discussed in this volume, just because they attempted to encroach on the masculine field of Classics, faced such extreme misery as Sachs or have suffered such near-erasure from the record as Kober. But they have still remained neglected as notable figures in intellectual history in their own right. This is puzzling. In some academic fields, for example in literature in English and in science, the historical contribution of ‘foremothers’ within the fields of scholarly endeavour has been the subject of significant academic research for more than two decades. The works on feminist literary history and on retrieving forgotten women writers which have most fundamentally informed our own practice were both originally published in 1988: Janet Todd’s Feminist Literary History, and the anthology Kissing the Rod, edited by a team led by Germaine Greer.19 Two of the publications that inspired us actually to organize the conference were The Biographical Dictionary of Women in Science edited by Marilyn Ogilvie and Joy Harvey (2000), and Mary Brück’s Women in Early British and Irish Astronomy (2009). It is not that there has been no interest in some of the exceptional women who have historically contributed much to the (p.7) public understanding of the ancient world, such as Lady Hester Lucy Stanhope (1776–1839), the British adventurer who visited ancient Palmyra (Tadmor) in the Syrian desert. Her self-identification with Zenobia, Palmyrene queen in the third century CE, did much to promote interest both in ancient women and in the eastern Roman empire;20 Grace Macurdy, the subject of the chapter in this volume and of a forthcoming biography, both by the late Barbara McManus, was fascinated by Zenobia.21 But our point is, rather, that women’s contribution specifically as scholars, to academic classical studies, has almost completely fallen off the radar.

There are a few specialist exceptions. They include a seminal collection of profiles of six North American women classicists edited by William Calder and our contributor Judy Hallett, and Jeffrey Murray’s excellent examination of the women who taught and took the arduous classical course at Huguenot College, Wellington, in the Western Cape of South Africa in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.22 Chris Stray has recently thrown unprecedented light on the experience of nineteenth-century British women in relation to Higher Education, especially at Oxford and Cambridge, and Edith Hall has published a study of the several classically educated women involved in the early days of the UK Independent Labour Party.23 A handful of women classicists, such as Madame Dacier in early seventeenth-century France, were so famous in their own day as cultural icons and celebrities that they have individually been the subjects of a biography or two,24 or even a novel; the celebrated Spanish author Carolina Coronado wrote a fictionalized life of Portuguese Renaissance sensation Luisa Sigea, discussed in our volume in Frade’s chapter, in the mid-nineteenth century, while the seventeenth-century famed polyglot Anna Maria van Schurman, discussed in our volume in Wyles’ chapter, has recently inspired a novel by Brigitte Hermann.25

A few women discussed in this collection are already familiar from more general studies on female access to education.26 The one who has (p.8) attracted an unrivalled amount of attention is the prodigious late Victorian/Edwardian Cambridge ‘ritualist’ Jane Ellen Harrison; on top of an outstanding intellect and a cogent writing style, Harrison possessed a phenomenal talent for self-publicity, expressed, for example, in publishing an autobiographical study of her student days.27 This has undoubtedly contributed to her continuing fame: she has been the subject of several biographies, including one, appropriately, by the most celebrated female classicist in Britain today.28 In this book we have avoided reduplicating this sometimes hagiographic material, and instead commissioned an article from Liz Gloyn on some of the other extraordinary women classicists at Newnham College, Cambridge in its early days.

The need for our volume at both undergraduate and graduate level became clear through direct experience. In 2011, Rosie Wyles taught an undergraduate course on ‘Female Classicists from the Renaissance to 20th century’ at the University of Nottingham, and found that a book offering a thematic overview of the issues involved in the subject, let alone basic biographical details or specific case studies, was lacking.29 We await eagerly Brill’s Biographical Dictionary of Women Classicists, edited by Judith Hallett and Graham Whitaker, both of whom were present at our conference. But Ward W. Briggs’ Biographical Dictionary of North American Classicists (1994) and Robert B. Todd’s Dictionary of British Classicists (2004) are indicative of the state of play in the field: they have only a very limited number of women amongst their entries and are therefore unable to offer a sense of the network of support or role models which defined each woman’s experience. The form of these books draws attention to another limitation of the existing scholarship in this area: the tendency to consider countries in isolation when, of course, networks of communication between women crossed land and sea and established influences between countries.30 By contrast, the field of archaeology is twenty years ahead of classical philology in (p.9) recognizing the value of contextualizing individual women’s experiences through collected studies.31

Equally, in her research on Mme Dacier, Wyles found that a volume to help her contextualize Dacier’s experience and accomplishments within the history of women’s classical scholarship simply did not exist.32 Who were her forerunners, peers, and descendants? Similarly, two years before our conference was arranged, Hall became aware of the large number of significant women classicists who had taught or studied at London’s original Higher Education establishment for women, Bedford College (founded in 1849, long before any women’s college at Oxford or Cambridge, and where George Eliot probably learned her Greek),33 and at Royal Holloway (founded in 1886). The two institutions merged in 1985. But in 2011, the very future of the Classics Department came under threat from a new Principal, and excavating and publicizing the foremothers who had taught and studied Latin and Greek at these institutions became part of the campaign which successfully saved the Classics Department at Royal Holloway.34

Out of the Bedford and Royal Holloway archives leapt Anna Swanwick (1813–1899), writer, social reformer, and brilliant Hellenist. Besides Goethe and Schiller, she translated the complete Aeschylus. She was a pillar of Bedford and supporter of the Higher Education of women and the poor. She signed John Stuart Mill’s parliamentary petition for a woman’s right to vote (1865) and made her first political speech, on women’s suffrage, at the age of 60.35 Sarah Parker Remond (1826–1894), on the other hand, was an American abolitionist. She studied Latin at Bedford College with enthusiasm, having earlier in life been forced by racists out of her Salem school. She became a prominent anti-slavery lecturer in the US and Britain during the American Civil War and fundraised for freed black Americans after it.36 Hall also came to (p.10) appreciate Dorothy Tarrant (1885–1973), the first woman to hold a university chair in Greek in the UK; she edited the Platonic Hippias Major, taught at Bedford College for four decades, and regularly lectured on classical subjects to women’s groups and at Holloway women’s prison.37 Hall’s research interest in the area and awareness of the need for this volume in fact goes even further back, to research into Lucy Hutchinson and Elizabeth Carter’s translations (discussed in this volume by Hall and Wallace in chapters 6 and 7), presented in the form of a much earlier version of the chapter she offers here. It was first delivered more than a quarter of a century ago at (what in hindsight was) a path-breaking Oxford University interdisciplinary Women’s Studies seminar organized by Roman historian Barbara Levick and Hellenist Richard Hawley, in the spring of 1990.

IntroductionApproaches to the Fountain

Fig. 1.1 Etching of Birgitte Thott by Haelwech. Reproduced courtesy of the Royal Library, Denmark, The Collection of Prints and Photographs.

In one sense our volume, although virtually without precedent in Classics, is part of a longstanding literary genre. The first known use of the word ‘foremother’ occurs in a context which celebrates the social contribution made by educated women as a collective, Thomas Bentley’s Monument of Matrons (1582). This is the earliest printed collection of English women’s writings, which coincided with the emergence of the public image of Elizabeth I as perpetual virgin; it contains prayers and devotional works by the Queen and other contemporary women, conceived as fulfilments of the sayings or deeds of prominent Old Testament heroines—Judith, Esther, and Deborah.38 Bentley envisages both his contributors and his female readers using the book as ‘a glasse of the holie liues of their foremothers’.39 The topos of the catalogue of illustrious ladies is of course much older even than this: lists of heroines of myth and history who did their peoples service, besides having ancient roots in Hesiod’s Catalogue of Women, Plutarch’s On the Virtues of Women, and Valerius Maximus’ Memorable Deeds and Sayings, were resoundingly established by Giovanni Boccaccio’s De mulieribus claris (1374). Some of the women in Christine de Pizan’s Book of the City of Ladies (c.1405) are renowned for learning as well as piety and patriotism, and by the time that the English Puritan scholar Bathsua Makin put her extraordinarily detailed roll-call of educated women together in the mid-seventeenth century (see pp. 110–11), women were supporting their own demands for (p.11) classical education by citing the examples of scores of known names of learned females. They traced their cultural ancestresses back to Hortensia, to the mother of the Gracchi, and to Hypatia of Alexandria; the path forward led through the Byzantine Anna Comnena, the medieval Hildegard von Bingen, and the Renaissance Marguerite de Navarre and Elizabeth I to their perceived Early Modern descendants, van Schurman and Dacier.40 Closely allied to this tradition, and an important strand in the history of female classical scholarship, is the strong relationship between advanced classical learning by women and their advocacy of women’s rights. An outstanding example of a classical scholar and voice for women is Birgitte Thott (1610–1662), who produced the first complete Danish translation of a classical text (Seneca’s Philosophus) in 1658 [FIG. 1.1]; another, of course, is van Schurman (discussed in Wyles’ chapter).41

In writing about a favourite foremother or group of foremothers, we are also, as we discovered in the course of our research, following in what amounts to a minor tradition of women classicists investigating their predecessors. Female classicists have had their own communities, and been partly responsible for constructing their own matrilineal family trees. These can take a pedagogical form. Rosie Wyles’ doctorate on Euripides was supervised by Edith Hall, who learned her Greek metre from Laetitia Parker, who was supervised by A.M. Dale. Matrilineal consciousness can also be manifested in translation and research. Betty Radice pointed in her translation of Terence that Madame Dacier had translated him too (see Fowler’s chapter, p. 357). The great Italian scholar Enrica Malcovati published an important biography of Dacier as well as a study of the reception of Sappho in Latin authors.42 Several female classicists studied earlier women in specific national traditions, for example Carolina Michaelis de Vasconcellos (1851–1925). Although German by birth, she was the first woman to teach Classics in any Portuguese university, and published a ground-breaking study of the classically educated women in Portugal during the Renaissance.43 Our (p.12) contributors have chosen the woman or women to feature in their chapters for different reasons including but not limited to shared nationality: these reasons include an interest in the reception of a particular ancient author (so Hall on Fielding’s Xenophon and Fabre-Serris on Sappho), a specialist knowledge of a particular chronological period (so McCallum-Barry on the Renaissance and Wallace on the eighteenth century), social or institutional context (Ronnick on African American women classicists shortly after Abolition, Hallett on Yale, Fowler on publishing history), a perceived personal intellectual debt (McManus on Macurdy, Parker on Dale), or unique access to archival material (Braginskaya on Freidenberg). As editors we have asked all the contributors for basic biographical data about their subjects, an estimation of their scholarly achievements and a consideration of how they managed, or failed to manage, the relationship between their personal/domestic and their intellectual/professional lives. But beyond these basic constituents, we have (p.13) allowed our contributors an unusually free hand in choosing what to include in what are in most cases deeply felt personal assessments of their subjects.

The volume’s earliest study begins in the mid-fifteenth century and the final chapter draws it to a close with the analysis of Jacqueline de Romilly (1913–2010). The women discussed were all born before the outbreak of World War I, and are all dead. Requirements of space necessitated these somewhat arbitrary cut-off dates, but they have not been unproblematic. They meant, for example, that we could not include the resilient and brilliant Iza Bieżuńska-Malowist (1917–1995) of the Warsaw Institute of History, and a world-leader on the topics of ancient women and slaves; she was especially interested in the evidence for these ancient oppressed groups in the papyri of Ptolemaic Egypt.44

We decided for the purposes of the volume to narrow the definition of ‘classical scholar’ (the term we used for the conference) to ‘philologist’, meaning scholars whose training and main focus addressed the languages and literatures of the ancient ‘classical’ Greeks and Romans. Our decision to focus on philology was made partly in recognition of the advances already made in the field of the history of women in archaeology (see above). But we were also alive to the fact that the field of philology has, since the Renaissance, often offered the first point of contact for women with Classics, despite being the most challenging, in comparison with history, art, or archaeology, in terms of establishing a career.45

The boundaries of this category are, however, not easily maintained; some of our philologically trained women did produce, amongst others, specialized publications in what might now be categorized as ‘Ancient History’ (Macurdy) or ‘Ancient Philosophy’ (Fielding, Carter, Freeman) or Theology (van Schurman). The history of women specialists in ancient philosophy, mostly omitted here, is extremely rich and fascinating and (p.14) certainly needs scholarly attention: Clémence Ramnoux (1905–1997), for example, wrote several important studies of the Pre-Socratics, taught at the University of Algiers between 1958 and 1963, and then helped to found the University of Nanterre alongside Paul Ricoeur and Jean-François Lyotard.46 We have also excluded the poet, journalist, translator, and playwright Helen Waddell (1889–1965), because, although she was a peerless Latinist, and her translations were influential, the Latin verse that most interested her was medieval rather than classical.

There are several other august figures in the intellectual domain broadly defined as ‘Classics’ whom we have omitted, albeit with great reluctance. The reason is that in a field as open and inherently interdisciplinary—or transdisciplinary—as the study of people who spoke Greek and Latin in the ancient world, it is inevitable that some famous names are primarily associated with fields other than languages and literature, for example with ancient art and archaeology, even though their impact was profound on philological studies as well. One is the great Margarete Bieber (1879–1978), forced as a Jew to move from Giessen University to Barnard College, New York, in 1934. Her archaeological work, amongst other things, changed how we understand the performance of ancient theatre scripts.47 Lily Ross Taylor (1886–1969), the fourth female Fellow of the American Academy in Rome, devoted most of her career to building the prestigious department of Classics at Bryn Mawr, where she supervised other outstanding women (including the Silver Latinist who arrived from Switzerland, Berthe Marie Marti (1904–1995)). Although Taylor was Professor of Latin, and her books read by everyone interested in Roman culture, her research interests were profoundly historical in their focus on Roman religion and politics.48 Much the same applies to her close friend and Bryn Mawr colleague Agnes Kirsopp Michels (1909–1993).49 Another scholar who certainly deserved her own chapter is Margherita Guarducci (p.15) (1902–1999), who made epigraphy and archaeology her speciality, but whose publications had an impact across the entire discipline of Classics. There is a long list of other significant women classicists born before de Romilly of whom we have been unable to include any extended discussion, but who we hope will become the subjects of future research: see the ‘Appendix’, pp. 23–8.

Some themes emerge time and again, such as the importance of letter-writing between women scholars,50 and the question of which ancient authors seem by some unconscious consensus to have been perceived as more or less suitable for women to attempt to study: amongst the Greek historians, for example, at least until the daring de Romilly, the ‘accessible’ Xenophon and ‘chatty’ Herodotus feature much more regularly in connection with the work of female scholars than do the ‘rigorous’ and ‘austere’ Thucydides and Polybius.51 Another recurrent topic is the boredom of academically inclined girls and women, driven to prop up Classics books on stoves and ironing boards. Ronnick’s chapter describes Charlotte Hawkins Brown (1883–1961), the granddaughter of slaves, spotted while pushing a pram when she was working as a babysitter; with the other hand she was holding open her Latin book to read the Aeneid.52 But besides the African American classicists whom Ronnick discusses, and the exceptional Grace Macurdy, an impoverished carpenter’s daughter, most of the women featured in this book were middle-class or above. A personal fortune has always allowed women the freedom to throw themselves into intense study, as in the case of Ada Adler, discussed in the essay by Roth. Elizabeth Carter set out with determination to acquire the independence that would allow her to buy her own house and live the life of a full-time ‘Bluestocking’ without domestic responsibilities, as Wallace’s chapter reveals. But many of our subjects found themselves teaching Classics or publishing translations because, although nominally middle-class, they desperately needed the money—Bathsua Makin and Sarah Fielding in particular.

Many of our scholars were born into intellectual Jewish or Protestant families with advanced views on female education. Several Hellenists were (p.16) actually, like Hall, the daughters of protestant priests. Many had brothers with whom they were educated, or whose education they somehow succeeded in ‘overhearing’ sufficiently to absorb. Just as our volume contains just one essay by a man, Roland Mayer (who has always fostered the careers of women), so the names of certain individual men recur as loyal friends and supporters of women. They include the American Tenney Frank,53 George Warr, Professor at King’s College London, who campaigned tirelessly for women’s access to Higher Education,54 and the Australian who made his home in Britain, Gilbert Murray.55 Some women classical scholars seem to have chosen or been forced to tolerate personal isolation, neither marrying nor having children; in the case of some of the ‘spinsters’ in this volume, however, remaining single seems to have been a deliberate choice, happily taken, whether because they were self-aware lesbians or simply did not want to give up their freedom to take up the limiting roles of wife and mother. Others had numerous children, in whom they appear to have delighted even while complaining about the drudgery of childcare and endless hours away from their books.

Whether these female scholars married or remained single, they were equally faced with the task of ‘negotiating’ their gender in managing perceptions, and often judgements, of their scholarly activities. Modesty, and the acknowledgement of female inferiority, is a recurrent rhetorical topos, crossing centuries and countries, in the classical scholarship and translations produced by these women. Assertions of femininity are also a leitmotif running through the academic lives of many of them; they are used by the female classicists themselves in the complex strategies by which they justified their position as well as by their male supporters and detractors. Such assertions attempt to ‘normalize’ these female philologists; notorious examples are Samuel Johnson’s claim that Elizabeth Carter was able to make plum pudding as well as translate Epictetus (p.17) (see Wallace’s chapter, p. 150) and Saint-Simon’s double-edged comment that Anne Dacier was perfectly capable of conversing, like an ordinary woman, about fashion and hair styles (see Wyles’ chapter, p. 75, n.73). Belonging to the same category are the press photographs taken to record the event of Jacqueline de Romilly (then David) winning first prize for Latin translation and second prize for Greek in the national competition (Concours général), aged 17 (see Webb’s chapter). The potential threat posed by her astounding success was, arguably, mediated by these glamorous press photographs; see FIG. 19.1.56 De Romilly herself would choose to assert her femininity on her prestigious election to the Académie Française by requesting a modification of the traditional (male) uniform—replacing the trousers with a skirt and the sword with a handbag; see further Webb’s chapter, p. 378. As with almost all these assertions of femininity, the gesture remains insistently ambiguous. In fact, the analytical challenge presented by these assertions exemplifies the complexity of the subject as a whole.

IntroductionApproaches to the Fountain

Fig. 1.2 Etching of Clotilde Tambroni, dated to first half of the 19th century. Designed by Lodovico Aureli, etched by Angiolini. Courtesy of the Biblioteca comunale dell’Archiginnasio, Bologna.

Before the later nineteenth century, women had virtually no access to Classics teaching or careers as institutionalized in schools and universities. Learned women who spout classical quotations are regularly mocked in popular eighteenth-century literature, as they were in Juvenal’s misogynist sixth Satire, prompting Samuel Richardson’s friend Anne Donnellan to ask him indignantly, ‘Must we suppose that if a woman knows a little Greek and Latin she must be a drunkard, and virago?’57 The exception who proves the rule is the prodigious Clotilde Tambroni (1758–1817), who achieved institutional recognition long before women in most parts of the world could even attend university, in 1806 being appointed to the Chair of Greek Language and Literature at Bologna. In her long and eloquent inaugural address, which suggests her interest lay in ancient philosophy and science, she calls attention to the unique honour she has been paid as a woman in being institutionally recognized by a university. On the first page, she cites Hypatia of Alexandria as her (p.18) own ancestral heroine.58 She even composed verse in Greek, which was generally believed to be beyond the capacity of even the most erudite lady [FIG. 1.2].59

IntroductionApproaches to the Fountain

Fig. 1.3 Sketch of female students from St. Margaret’s, Glasgow, by William Hanks, published under the pseudonym Madge Wildfire, in the magazine of Glasgow University, no. 5, Vol. III, 14th January 1891.

But when our narrative arrives at the mid-nineteenth century, the importance of institutions dedicated to women’s education becomes overwhelmingly obvious, especially in the case of the African American women scholars discussed by Ronnick. They of course faced double the obstacles, placed in their path by both their race and their gender. Once women’s colleges were established, however, the battle was far from over; women scholars were everywhere ridiculed in the cartoon press. See, for example, this sketch by William Hanks, published under the pseudonym (p.19) Madge Wildfire, in the magazine of Glasgow University. It provides its male readership with an illustrated guide to the women to pursue and avoid at Queen Margaret College for Women at the moment the institutions merged in 1891. The pretty one has a book labelled ‘Music’ and is sketching. The ugly one has books labelled ‘Plato’, ‘Aristotle’, and ‘Sophocles’ [FIG. 1.3]. Gloyn shows in detail how difficult it was, moreover, for women dons at Cambridge to wrest the more prestigious teaching from the hands of the men. But in the early days of women’s Higher Education in Classics, and the emergence of a class of professional women scholars after the social upheavals and consequent opportunities for women caused by World War I,60 a crucial role emerged for networks between colleges where women could study Classics, revealed not only in the essays by Ronnick and Gloyn, but those by Hallett, McManus, Mayer, and Parker.

(p.20) Achieving a tenured post at a university, or having a thesis accepted for publication, has never been the final obstacle faced by women classicists. They have suffered routinely not only at the hands of prejudiced, misogynist and/or priapic males but all too often from being undermined by other women, envious of their achievements. Some have been prepared to use most unsisterly means to impede their rivals’ careers (see especially the feud which Abby Leach ran against Grace Macurdy at Vassar College, analysed in the chapter by McManus). Women classicists’ performance has always been subjected to especially intense scrutiny, which has meant that they have had to be twice or three times as good at what they do as their male equivalents, just to win equal rewards. Patriarchal societies suffer from a mass delusion that information imparted by women is unreliable—the delusion which philosopher Miranda Fricker calls ‘epistemic injustice’ against women.61 Doubting women’s authority remains an international menace. At its most extreme, under Sharia law, women’s evidence is officially worth half or quarter of a man’s, if admissible at all. At the other end of the spectrum, it has merely impeded women’s progress in professions where custody of the truth is central—the church, the law, and undoubtedly academia.

When publications by women are reviewed, especially if they have dared to encroach on such traditionally ‘rigorous’ territory as textual criticism, metre or ancient science, the vocabulary used, at least by some men, has often been demonstrably different from that applied to books by men. Take the review by ‘heavyweight’ Hellenist Friedrich Solmsen of Kathleen Freeman’s Ancilla to the Pre-Socratic Philosophers (see Irwin’s chapter in this volume), which sounded the first notes of warning that someone without a Y chromosome had dared to essay the fiendishly problematic fragments of early Greek philosophy. Solmsen grudgingly admits that the Ancilla will have ‘a certain usefulness’ and concludes that it is ‘clear, straightforward, and also—generally—accurate’. But in between, his vocabulary suggests that it is completely inadequate. Freeman’s translations are ‘dangerous’, ‘misleading’, ‘stultified’, ‘over-emphatic’, ‘vague’, and ‘inappropriate’.62 The critical analysis of the use of language relative to gender in reviews of classical scholarship would be a most fruitful direction (p.21) in which to take future research into the historical experience of women in our discipline.

One of the reasons why Freeman was often denigrated by men at the centre of the Classics power networks, in terms of money, influence over appointments and so on, was that she was not only skilled at communicating with the public, but felt it was her duty, as a scholar, to do so. This conviction was shared by Betty Radice, whose towering achievements in publishing are assessed here by Rowena Fowler. It underpinned the work of Edith Hamilton, as Hallett explains in chapter 11, and of Simone Weil, about whom Barbara Gold writes in chapter 19. We have included Weil, even though neither she nor her contemporaries would have defined her as a ‘classical scholar’, because her essay on the Iliad has had such a lasting impact on that epic’s interpretation both in and beyond the academy.

Many of the women discussed in this volume have shared these women’s talents for writing for the public. Paradoxically, the person who did most to promote the study of ancient Greek drama in English-speaking countries knew scarcely a word of Greek herself. Charlotte Ramsay Lennox, like Elizabeth Carter, was a member of Samuel Johnson’s circle. She was much admired by distinguished male contemporaries: Garrick produced her plays, Reynolds painted her portrait, and Fielding and Richardson both admired her novels. She was not popular amongst the other women in the coterie, probably because Johnson seems to have regarded her as by far the most intellectually gifted.63 She is best known for her novels, but she also played the leading role in the multi-authored English translation of the single most influential work on Greek drama in the eighteenth century, Pierre Brumoy’s three-volume Le Théâtre des Grecs (Paris 1730).

Brumoy (1668–1742), from Rouen, was a Jesuit Humanist. His magnum opus on Greek drama excels not only in terms of the quality of his translations from the Greek, but the acuity of his critical insights. If it was Lennox herself who first conceived the plan to translate it into English, then this is an index of her grasp of the innovative publications issuing from France during the Enlightenment, as well as her sense of the yawning (p.22) gap in the market for an authoritative English-language study of ancient Greek drama.64 Her translation appeared as The Greek Theatre of Father Brumoy, Translated by Mrs Charlotte Lennox, in 1759. It contains translations of several ancient Greek dramas by the tragedians and Aristophanes, and plot summaries of all of them. At this time most of Aeschylus, Euripides, and Aristophanes remained untranslated into English altogether; of the four great classical Athenian playwrights, only Sophocles had ever appeared in complete English translation. The Brumoy/Lennox translation was therefore an exceptionally important publication in the history of accessibility of ancient drama in the English language.65 Its popularity almost certainly hastened the provision of translations of the complete plays of both Aeschylus and Sophocles in the 1770s, and of most of Aristophanes over the ensuing decades.66

Lennox herself translated several of the plays, synopses, and almost all the commentary from Brumoy’s French. But she was assisted by several friends whom she approached to take responsibility for parts of the work. These collaborators included the fifth Earl of Cork and Orrery, Gregory Sharpe (a good Hellenist who used his Greek as well as his French to produce the translation of Aristophanes’ Frogs), and Samuel Johnson, who translated the chapter on Greek comedy. As Small says, that Lennox could summon such distinguished accomplices shows that she enjoyed not only fame but also ‘a solid literary respectability and approbation’.67 Among the others, however, was a mysterious, extremely competent, and anonymous ‘young gentleman’, who was responsible for Aristophanes’ Birds and Peace. We may even be dealing with a concealed female classicist here; Schellenberg suggests that ‘he’ was actually Mrs Sarah Scott the novelist, Charlotte Lennox’s close colleague at the time. The two women were both impoverished, and members of extended networks of women forced to earn their living by their pens.68

Yet Lennox was acutely aware of the chasm between her intellectual potential and the literary arena in which, as a woman, she had been (p.23) confined. Arabella, the heroine of her most famous novel The Female Quixote, has had her brains addled by reading too many French romances. But she is also disputatious. She argues with Mr Selvin about the springs at Thermopylae and holds philosophical discussions.69 Lennox therefore both personifies and also, by her life’s work, implicitly undermines the eighteenth century’s polar thinking on gender and genre explored further in the chapter by Hall in this volume. This ideology decreed that women could only understand fiction and that only men could understand the Classics.

Our volume seeks to challenge such constructs, by revealing them to be exactly that—constructs. It unearths the empirical counter-evidence for female achievements in a dazzling range of philological areas. It is, for example, irrefutable (though easily overlooked) that some of the first complete vernacular translations of classical texts were made by women.70 These hard-won and important contributions, against the odds of prejudice, educational disadvantage, and limited institutional support, deserve to be celebrated not only as achievements in themselves but for what we might learn from them about the operation of history and the making of the historical record. The excavation of a selection of female classical scholars whose contribution to the classical tradition and whose reputation has fallen, unfairly, into obscurity, is intended as a starting-point and invitation to others to develop the re-telling of that history. We hope that this volume will offer a framework for future research in this area, a few leads for which are offered in the Appendix. Over a century and a half after Princess Ida’s exhortation, it’s time to begin unsealing the fountain of knowledge about the history of women classicists.

Appendix

The women classicists discussed in our volume worked in Italy, England, France, Germany, Holland, Portugal, Denmark, Russia, and the United (p.24) States. We regret not having included essays devoted to two scholars in particular. One is Marie Delcourt (1891–1979), the Belgian philologist, and passionate feminist, who gained her PhD at Liège in 1919, and became the first woman to lecture in ancient languages there. A specialist in ancient religion and Greek tragedy, she edited Euripides and published prolifically, as well as being an expert on cookery and Thomas More.71 The other is Mary Estelle White (1908–1977), Toronto professor, a pillar of Canadian classics, and editor of the premiere Canadian Classics journal The Phoenix.72

There have been many whom we would like to celebrate because they were so important to their pupils and students, but who published little or nothing: two examples here will suffice. Ethel Mary Steuart (1875–1960) was headmistress of Bootle High School for Girls and later lectured in Latin at both University College, Cardiff and Edinburgh. She led a long, full and fascinating life, conducting research in Paris and Rome. But she did publish just one slender tome which no specialist in Republican Latin can even now avoid consulting, her exceptionally detailed commentary on Ennius’ Annales (1925). The Aristotelian expert Edith Farr Ridington (1912–1991) worked all her life in the shadow of her husband Bill, a professor of Classics at the University of Western Maryland; she was given an adjunct professorship and raised their four children. But she published some insightful reviews of children’s books using classical literature, tested on her own infants, which still make interesting reading today.73

These women are hardly the only ones whom it seems invidious to have omitted from extended consideration. With the help of a transnational classics community who replied to us after we posted a request in 2015 on the Facebook group ‘Classics International’, we have been able to identify a sizeable number of other foremothers, each of whom deserves scholarly attention. We simply supply the names and basic information here in the hope of encouraging further research by those best placed linguistically, institutionally, and in terms of access to archives to carry it out.

(p.25) There were many distinguished women classicists who worked, often in difficult circumstances, to keep the study of Latin and Greek alive in universities of the Soviet bloc. Ruska Gandeva (1911–2001), lecturer at Sofia University, and subsequently appointed the first female professor of Classics in Bulgaria, published books on Latin poetry, some of which were translated into German. She also co-authored the first concise Latin grammar written in Bulgarian.74 The most famous Georgian woman classicist was Nino Matiashvili, born in 1907, a favourite pupil of the prominent Georgian scholar Grigol Tsereteli and notable Russian classicist Sergey Sobolevsky. She became the first female lecturer in Ancient Greek and Latin at Tbilisi State University.75 In Poland, Leokadia Małunowiczówna (1910–1980) was a renowned specialist in early Christian antiquity; Zofia Abramowiczówna (1906–1988), a Hellenist known for her translations from Greek and Latin, was most famous for her Greek-Polish Dictionary. Daniela Gromska (1889–1983) translated Aristotle. Janina Niemirska-Pliszczyńska (1904–1982) was an authority on Pausanias and Plutarch, and Lidia Winniczuk (1904–1993) published numerous academic and popular books on antiquity.76

At Tartu State University in Estonia, Lydia Pintman (1896–1951) was Senior Lecturer in Latin in the Classical Philology Department, while Lalla Gross (1912–2008) taught Latin and Greek there for forty years to hundreds of students of philology, history, medicine, and pharmaceutical science. She also held classes of Ancient Greek for those interested. She published several Latin language textbooks and was one of the compilers of the 1986 standard Latin-Estonian dictionary (Ladina-eestisõnaraamat = Glossarium Latino-Estonicum).77 Translation has often been an activity where women have been able to exercise their classical accomplishments when neither institutional employment nor access to advanced research resources has been available: Maria Grabar-Passek (1893–1975), the (p.26) daughter of the rector of Tartu University, Evgeny V. Passek, was a significant ‘freelance’ literary figure, who published novels, columns and theatre criticism as well as specialist studies of ancient epistolography and translations of Plato and Isocrates.78

Anica Savić Rebac (1894–1953), a Serb from Novi Sad in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, was a child prodigy who translated Pindar at the age of ten. She was regarded by her Vienna Professor Ludwig Radermacher as his ‘best student ever’. She was unable to receive her PhD at Vienna because of the war and registered instead at the University of Belgrade, which awarded the degree with the highest distinction. But she was never allowed to teach there until after World War II, spending her earlier career as a school teacher after her marriage to a Muslim shocked her family’s elite social circles. The couple were forced to move to Skopje. Her academic interests included modern as well as ancient literature, philosophy and myth, especially aesthetics, tragedy, Herodotus, and Plato. She also translated Lucretius.79

Romania has its distinguished classical foremother, Maria Marinescu-Himu (1907–1995), although she was born to a Greek mother and a father with both Greek and Romanian blood. She graduated in Classics from Bucharest University, and after three years as a librarian began teaching in both local schools and the university until 1972. She moved to Athens in 1978. Her publications include translations into Romanian of Xenophon and Pausanias, and a study of early Greek philosophy, as well as numerous works on medieval and modern Greek literature.80

German-speaking scholars represent a most unfortunate lacuna in our volume, caused partly by the sudden and in one case very late withdrawal from our project, for personal reasons, of two separate scholars who had agreed to contribute. While Hilary Brown has brilliantly explored the activities of Luise Gottsched, Fräulein von Erath, and Ernestine Christine Reiske, as eighteenth-century female translators into German of classical texts, much work still remains to be done on nineteenth- and (p.27) twentieth-century female classical scholars in Germany.81 Too late we discovered Emilie Boer (1894–1980),82 a classicist who specialized in the history of astronomy, especially Claudius Ptolemy. Trained in Heidelberg, in the GDR she was appointed to a fellowship at the Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften in Berlin. The Austrian scholar Gertrud Herzog (1894–1953) studied Classical Philology, German, and philosophy in Vienna and Berlin, attending lectures and seminars by, amongst other famous figures, Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff and Ludwig Radermacher. In 1917 she passed the Lehramtsprüfung and worked as a teacher in a girls’ high school. But she continued to conduct research, authoring many articles for the Realenzyklopädie, and in 1932 passing her Habilitation, the first woman to do so in Classical Philology at Vienna University. As a Jew, married to a non-Jewish critic of the Nazi regime, she lost her directorship of the girls’ school and fled in 1939. Although they returned after the war, and she was awarded a non-stipendiary Associate Professorship at the university, her career never recovered. Her publications included editions of Greek and Latin texts as well as several monographs. One was a study of ancient Greek religion; the last, poignantly, was a significant work on women in Greco-Roman antiquity, published after her death, in 1954.83

Post-Renaissance Italian women deserve a whole chapter, indeed a whole book, to themselves. Enrica Malcovati (1894–1990) graduated from the University of Pavia in 1917, and taught for many years at her own High School in that town, before being appointed to the Chair of Latin at Cagliari in 1940 and subsequently a Chair at Pavia. She was Dean of Faculty and Rector of the college for women. Although specializing in Republican and Augustan Roman literature, and best known for her edition of the fragments of the Roman orators (first published in 1930), her vast output included studies of Greek oratory as well.84 Luigia Achillea Stélla (1904–1998), University Professor at Trieste from 1936, (p.28) published significant books on Homer, the Palatine Anthology, and Aeschylus.85

Women have certainly made their mark in papyrology, especially in Italy and the US; Trieste-born and Jewish, Medea Norsa (1877–1952) was a phenomenally talented papyrologist and palaeographer, trained in Vienna and Florence; despite becoming director of l’Istituto Papirologico, she struggled to make a reputation separate from that of her male mentor and collaborator Girolamo Vitelli, and was never appointed to a university chair. La Papirologia (1988) by Orsolina Montevecchi (1911–2009) is a canonical textbook.86 The Belgian Claire Préaux (1904–1979) was a professor at the Université Libre de Bruxelles and a world-renowned authority on ostraca and Hellenistic papyri. Her 1959 study of the status of women in Hellenistic Egypt remains fundamental in the field.

Notes:

(1) Tennyson (1847) II, lines 74–75. Maurice’s plan for the college was described in a public lecture published as Maurice (1848). See also Tweedie (1898) and Grylls (1948). For the curriculum taught there, see Gordon (1955).

(2) The ideology of the poem has been regarded as fundamentally sexist and reactionary by several feminist scholars including D. Hall (1991); see also Fasick (2008). But it was extraordinarily popular and achieved deep cultural penetration: see e.g. Kooistra (2007).

(3) On the history of the Girls Public Day School Trust, which began in 1872 as the the Girls’ Public Day School Company, and was essentially a response to the condemnation of the lack of rigorous education for girls in the report of the 1864 Schools Enquiry Commission, see Magnus (1923) and Kamm (1971).

(4) Astell (2002 [1694]) 79.

(5) Norbrook (2011) 212. On the Mitford sisters (Nancy, Diana, Pamela, Unity, Jessica, and Deborah) see Lovell (2001).

(6) A gender survey of the Professoriate, reported in the Times Higher Education in 2013, revealed that on average in the UK only one in five professors is female, and some institutions’ statistics are well below this; see https://www.timeshighereducation.com/news/gender-survey-of-uk-professoriate-2013/2004766.article (accessed 18 September 2015).

(7) The other keynote was delivered by Michele Ronnick and appears here as Chapter 9. We also extend our thanks to Ineke Sluiter, Smaro Nikolaidou-Arabatzi, Eleanor Leach, Jesús D. Cepeda Ruiz, and Tyler Jo Smith, for their papers on (respectively) Anna Maria van Schurman, Jane Ellen Harrison, Lily Ross Taylor, women in the British School at Athens, and Lillian B. Lawler. Their papers made wonderful contributions to the conference and have been instrumental in shaping our thinking. We are also grateful to Reena Perschke for sending a conference poster of her research on pioneering women archaeologists and to Russell Goulbourne for sharing with us his unpublished paper on women translating Horace in eighteenth-century France.

(8) See Fox (2013).

(9) Calder (1988) 206.

(10) See his remarks in Kirchhoff (1897) 222–5 with Calder (1988) 208.

(11) The recollection of Sachs’ cousin Vera Regina Lachmann (1904–1985), a professor of classics at Brooklyn College, as reported in Calder (1988) 207.

(12) The aim of Calder’s article (1988) is principally to ask what the scanty records left by Sachs can tell us about her supervisor.

(13) It is heartening to note, however, that in some cases women could actually exploit the model of ‘helpmate’ to husband as a way of facilitating their own career; see, for example, Brown (2006), esp. 359, on the eighteenth-century German translator of classical texts, Ernestine Christine Reiske. In the seventeenth century, Anne Dacier used her status as daughter of a classical scholar to justify her publication of an edition of Callimachus (published 1675): see Farnham (1976) 50.

(14) See Roth’s chapter, p. 276 n. 9.

(15) Thanks to Giusto Traina for pointing out the collaboration of Jeanne and Louis Robert.

(16) Thanks to Stella Papastamati for information about Komninou-Kakridi.

(17) See the diplomatic and nuanced remarks in Koenen (2004), a speech delivered during the General Assembly of the AIP gathered in Helsinki on 7 August 2004. Louise Youtie’s own work on the Michigan Medical Codex was eventually published in book form as Youtie (1996). Thanks to Jennifer Sheridan Moss for drawing our attention to the Youties.

(18) Thornton and Thornton (1962); Thornton (1970), (1976), (1984), (1987), and (2004). Thornton is to be the subject of a forthcoming study by Simon Perris.

(19) For the British scene, Lonsdale (1989) and Wilcox (1996) have also influenced us considerably. Todd (1987) has provided orientation in North American literary history.

(20) Childs (1990), Gill (2005), Ellis (2008). Thanks to John Berkeley Grout for information here.

(21) McManus (2016).

(22) Calder and Hallett (1996–1997); Murray (2014).

(23) Stray (2013); Hall (2015).

(24) On Dacier see Malcovati (1952), Farnham (1976), and Itti (2012).

(25) Coronado (1854) and Hermann (2003).

(26) See, for example, Timmermans (2005) or the studies of women’s writing in discrete historical periods by Summit (2000), Salzmann (2006), and Staves (2006).

(27) Harrison (1925).

(28) Beard (2002). See also Stewart (1959), Peacock (1988), and Robinson (2002).

(29) With the exception of the excellent study by Winterer (2007), although her primary focus is the US.

(30) Female scholarly networks have been investigated more generally by van Dijk et al. (2004) and Campbell and Larsen (2009) and also, specifically in the case of Anna Maria van Schurman, by de Baar (2004).

(31) E.g. du Cros and Smith (1993), Claassen (1994), Díaz-Andreu and Sørensen (1998), Cohen and Joukowsky (2004), and Fries and Gutsmiedl-Schümann (2013).

(32) This research was undertaken as Leverhulme Early Career Research fellow at University of Nottingham (2009–2011); see also Wyles (forthcoming).

(33) On Bedford see Tuke (1939), Crook (2001), and Brown (2011).

(35) Swanwick (1873); Bruce (1903).

(36) There is a short film about Remond made by Justine McConnell and Henry Stead on the ‘Classics and Class’ website, available to view online at http://www.classicsandclass.info/tag/sarah-parker-remond/

(37) Tarrant (1928).

(38) See the insightful discussion of King (2005).

(39) Bentley (1582) ‘Preface’.

(40) See further in this volume pp. 61–102.

(41) On Thott and other learned Scandinavian women in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, see Alenius (1991).

(42) Malcovati (1952) and (1966).

(43) Discussed in Frade’s chapter, p. 53. We would like to thank Fábio Cairolli for drawing our attention to Carolina Michaelis de Vasconcellos’ own achievements as a classicist as well as intellectual historian.

(44) Her very survival of the Nazi occupation of Poland was astonishing: born into a Jewish family, she lost her parents and twenty-one other members of her immediate family. She also ran great personal risks, working for Zegota (the code name of the underground organization Rada Pomocy Zydom, or Council for Aid to Jews). Several of her works made an impact far beyond Poland through being published in or translated into French and Italian. In English, see Bieżuńska-Małowist (1965), her account of the study of the ancient world in post-war Poland.

(45) We are grateful to Chris Stray for pointing this out.

(46) Thanks to Charles Delattre for information on Ramnoux, whose books include important studies of Heraclitus (1959) and Parmenides (1979). For a short biography, see Delholme and Sinapi (n.d.).

(47) Thanks to Vera Binder for rightly insisting that we honour Bieber in this Introduction. There is a full bibliography of her works in Bonfante and Winkes (1969). Further information about her can be found in Bonfante and Recke (1981), Harrison (1978), and Obermayer (2014).

(48) See further http://www.brynmawr.edu/classics/history/RossTaylor.html (accessed 18 September 2015).

(49) See Linderski (1997).

(50) On this we have learned much from Campbell and Larsen (2009).

(51) See Hall (forthcoming a) and (forthcoming b) and e.g. the edition of Herodotus book VII by Agnata Butler, neé Ramsay (1892).

(52) See Ronnick’s chapter in this volume, p. 182.

(53) Tenney Frank (1876–1939) taught at Bryn Mawr between 1904 and 1919, and remained a loyal supporter of the women scholars there throughout his life. See Taylor (1939). One of his many protégées was Evelyn Holst Clift, author of an important book on Latin pseudepigrapha (1945).

(54) Macintosh (1997) 292–4; Hall and Macintosh (2005) 464–76.

(55) Murray was a strong supporter of women’s suffrage and of classics at Somerville College, Oxford. He promoted the work of Somervillians including Homeric archaeologist Hilda Lorimer and ancient historian Isobel Henderson. Thanks to Luke Pitcher for information on these women.

(56) The press interest was apparently headed up by Pierre Lazareff, journalist and later film producer, on whom see Delassein (2009). The photograph published in Paris Soir (Sunday 6 July 1930) demonstrates the feminizing glamour of these shots even more clearly, since it shows de Romilly posed lounging (almost lying) on a wall.

(57) See p. 106.

(58) Tambroni (1806) 1. Many thanks to Henry Stead for helping us track this text down.

(59) See Cavallari Cantalamessa (1907), Tosi (1988), Tosi (2011), and Tambroni (1806). Thanks to Enrico Emanuele Prodi for help here.

(60) For context see Eschbach (1993).

(61) The title of her brilliant book (2008). See also the provocative study by Le Doeuff (2003).

(62) Solmsen (1950).

(63) After dining with Elizabeth Carter, Fanny Burney, and Hannah More on 14 March 1784, Johnson announced that ‘Three such women are not to be found; I know not where I could find a fourth, except Mrs Lennox, who is superior to them all’ (Boswell (1791) vol. 2, 75).

(64) That this was her own idea may be suggested in her letter to Dr Thomas Birch, 16 March 1759, Sloane MSS 4312, BL. But see also Small (1935) 25.

(65) Hall and Macintosh (2005) chapters 1–7.

(66) Hall (2007).

(67) Small (1935) 17. See also the detailed account of Gray (1985).

(68) Schellenberg (2011) 245; on the networks, see Carlile (2011) and Gallagher (1994). Compare the nineteenth-century translators discussed by Stark (1999).

(69) Lennox (1752) 265–6; see Hamilton (2011) 111. The influence on Lennox of Mary Astell’s A Serious Proposal to the Ladies (1694, 1697), on which see further Hall’s chapter, p. 116, has been proposed by Hamilton (2011) 127 n.53.

(70) Lumley (on whom see McCallum’s chapter); Thott (see above), and Dacier (on whom see the chapters by Fabre-Serris and Wyles) constitute just a few examples.

(71) Thanks to Gabriel Nocchi for information on Delcourt. For further bibliography see Delforge, Destatte, and Libon (2000) vol. 1, 437.

(72) White (1966), White (1974), Rubincam (1996–7).

(73) Ridington (1963) and (1965); see further Hall (forthcoming c).

(74) We owe the information about Gandeva to Dimitar Dragnev. Gandeva’s influential book on Horace, for example, received a German translation (Gandeva (1992)).

(75) Thanks to Irine Darchia for details about Matiashvili. We are also grateful to her for details about Tinatin Kaukhchishvili (1919–2011), who studied philology at Tbilisi State University (TSU) and was appointed Professor of Classics there in 1968. Her publications included important work on Greek inscriptions in Georgia. Though Kaukhchishvili was born just after our cut-off date (before the outbreak of World War I), we offer this lead to those whose studies may extend beyond this.

(76) Thanks to Aleksandra Klęczar for supplying these details.

(77) Thanks to Ivo Volt for this information.

(78) Thanks to Nikolai Grintser for drawing our attention to Grabar-Passek.

(79) Many thanks to Goran Vidović for drawing our attention to Savić Rebac. Many of her works were published in the 1960s to 1980s, but the Yugoslav Wars of 1991–2001 put a stop to this activity. For an excellent short account of her life and academic contribution, in English with further bibliography, see Slapsak (2010).

(80) Thanks to Theodor E. Ulieriu-Rostás for telling us about her. Marinescu-Himu (1964, 1967, 1974–1982), Marinescu-Himu and Piatkowski (1972).

(81) Brown (2006) and on Gottsched specifically, Brown (2012).

(82) Hübner (1980). Thanks to Ortwin Knorr for help with Boer.

(83) Herzog-Hauser (1954). There is a full bibliography and interesting information about the recent rediscovery of Herzog-Hauser in the biography by Korotin and Schrodt (2009). Thanks to Peter Kruschwitz.

(84) See further the essays in Malcovati (1994). Thanks to Rita Pierini for help on Malcovati.

(85) Thanks to Gennaro Tedeschi for further information on Stélla.

(86) We owe gratitude here to Jennifer Sheridan Moss and Silvia Barbantani. On Norsa see the Introduction to Capasso (1993) and the biography by Criscuolo (2004) on the Women in Old World Archaeology website hosted by Brown University; on Montevecchi see further Pizzolato (2009).