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Born Eileen Mary Challans in London in 1905, Mary Renault wrote six successful contemporary novels before turning to the historical fiction about ancient Greece for which she is best known. While Renault's novels are still highly regarded, her life and work have never been completely examined. Caroline Zilboorg seeks to remedy this in The Masks of Mary Renault by exploring Renault's identity as a gifted writer and a sexual woman in a society in which neither of these identities was clear or easy.
Although Renault's life was anything but ordinary, this fact has often been obscured by her writing. The daughter of a doctor, she grew up comfortably and attended a boarding school in Bristol. She received a degree in English from St. Hugh's College in Oxford in 1928, but she chose not to pursue an academic career. Instead, she decided to attend the Radcliffe Infirmary in Oxford, where she trained to be a nurse. With the outbreak of the Second World War, she was assigned to the Winford Emergency Hospital in Bristol and briefly worked with Dunkirk evacuees. She went on to work in the Radcliffe Infirmary's brain surgery ward and was there until 1945.
It was during her nurse's training that Renault met Julie Mullard, who became her lifelong companion. This important lesbian relationship both resolved and posed many problems for Renault, not the least of which was how she was to write about issues at once intensely personal and socially challenging. In 1939, Renault published her first novel under a pseudonym in order to mask her identity. It was a time when she was struggling not only with her vocation (nursing and writing), but also with her sexual identity in the social and moral context of English life during the war.
In 1948, Renault left England with Mullard for South Africa and never returned. It was in South Africa that she made the shift from her early contemporary novels of manners to the mature historical novels of Hellenic life. The classical settings allowed Renault to mask material too explosive to deal with directly while simultaneously giving her an "academic" freedom to write about subjects vital to her—among them war, peace, career, women's roles, female and male homosexuality, and bisexuality.
Renault's reception complicates an understanding of her achievement, for she has a special status within the academic community, where she is both widely read and little written about. Her interest in sexuality and specifically in homosexuality and bisexuality, in fluid gender roles and identities, warrants a rereading and reevaluation of her work. Eloquently written and extensively researched, The Masks of Mary Renault will be of special value to anyone interested in women's studies or English literature.
Among Mary Renault's papers, there is only one letter to a child. Although she never wanted children any more than she wanted marriage, Renault vividly remembered what girlhood was like, and the letter to young Oriane Messina is both charming and revealing:
Your school uniform is very pretty. When my mother was at Kensington High School uniforms had not started. When she was in one of the middle forms, she wanted to be smart so she made up a bustle, though her mother said she was too young to wear it. A bustle was like a cushion you tied on over your bottom, to make your skirt stick out at the back, which was very fashionable at the time, for grownup people. My mother's was home-made and she put it on just before she went out, when no-one was looking. Only she didn't tie it on tight enough, so it fell off, and the next thing she knew, a little boy was running after her waving it and saying, "Clemmie, you've dropped your bustle!" She never tried one after that till she was grown up, and then they were out of fashion, so she never wore a bustle in the end.
This amusing anecdote suggests the author's sensitivity to the interests and language of a young child, but Renault's humor and simple syntax obscure the tale's significant implications. This story, confided to Renault by her mother and then passed on gratuitously by Renault to Oriane, seems a cautionary woman's tale about conformity and difference, femaleness and sexuality, about what is hidden that is suddenly revealed asirregular—to the male, who draws attention to it; to the female, who is shamed. As a result, she never has the chance to claim this feminine distinction, this concealed difference, this pronounced self-assertion, this independently fashioned identity.
Born Eileen Mary Challans in London in 1905, Mary Renault, called "Molly" at home, seldom aligned herself with her traditional mother; throughout her childhood in London's East End, where her father was a physician in general practice, she always thought of herself as a writer. Her parents' marriage was an unhappy one, and after the birth of her sister Joyce in 1911, Frank and Clementine Challans led increasingly separate lives. Renault saw her childhood as defined in many ways by this awkward union. She wrote to the English author Colin Spencer that she was particularly interested in corresponding with him because of shared affinities she sensed from having read his autobiographical novels. She, too, had had a stormy childhood in large measure as a result of her parents' unhappy lives. Despite a flirtation with "a rather charming waster without a brain in his head," her mother had been "carefully segregated" until meeting her father. Renault commented with characteristic insight and acerbity,
That they were engaged for four years without finding out that they were totally incompatible mentally (naturally they did not have the chance to discover the sexual aspect) is one of those things you would not believe if you read it in a book. My father was a militant realist, my mother liked everything nice. He thought (though often mistakenly) that he was a logical person; my mother thought logic was some sort of materialistic philosophy which should be stubbornly resisted. He had a bitter tongue, and could always win an argument; she of course revenged herself by making it personal, and he could beat her at that too. I can never remember, though I was born within a year of their marriage, a time when they seemed to me even to like each other.
In constructing here a brief autobiography, Renault places herself within a literary context: she infers Spencer's unhappy past from his novels; she recreates for him in a letter a vivid, almost novelistic account of the atmosphere surrounding her own childhood, which "you would not believe if you read it in a book." Renault also sees herself as developing within the context of her parents' relationship, a triangle that she will repeatedly explore in her fiction through the creation of stormy childhoods made believable through Freudian psychology, an analysis of gender and political power, and the use of factual evidence. She is reading her own life for Spencer, aware that it is a reality shaped by experiences unbelievable in literature while simultaneously giving it literary expression and credibility in a letter. Writing, in other words, communicates through a transformation of reality that is a strategic distortion without which one could not communicate the truth of experience.
The idea of the hidden and the revealed becomes central for Renault both as a motif that suggests how her own writing works (in what it hides, in what it reveals) and as a motif within her work. She continues perceptively in this important letter to Spencer: "Do you know that I still, quite often, find myself going out of my way through several open doors in the house, rather than open a closed one? ... I realise now that I do it for no practical reason whatever. It is because of those closed doors at home behind which a frightful row was going on." What is hidden, even forbidden, to the self by the self, is not the unknown but in fact the known, the "frightful row" behind the closed doors, the parental discord, which is wrong and which excludes the child, which begot the child but provides no place for her except the shut-out spaces of exterior corridors and empty rooms.
Renault came to see herself as a pawn in her parents' unhappiness as her mother "confided" in her and as each parent elicited her loyalty. Never one to indulge in self-pity, she concluded with characteristic generosity:
Of course there were faults on both sides but neither wanted me to admit this. I think either of them could have been reasonably contented with someone else. It is odd to think that if my mother, who had no intellectual interests at all, had married her old sweetheart, who apparently had none either, she would probably have kept him off the bottle and had several nice extroverted non-intellectual children, and I would have been one of those unrealised genetic potentialities which exists in their countless millions of millions wherever there are people. Human identity is a great mystery.
Renault confesses here her own not-so-nice, introverted, and intellectual personality, attributable to genetic chance as well as to her early home environment. She is, as it were, as much Elsie in The Friendly Young Ladies (1944) as she is her older sister Leo. In this, Renault's third novel, the focus is finally on the bisexual "friendly young ladies"—it is Helen, the former nurse turned illustrator, and the work's protagonist, the conflicted writer Leo, who are the title figures—but the novel begins as Elsie's story, the story of an infantilized young woman who is the victim of her parents' bad marriage. Like Renault, Elsie is trying to escape from home and all that it represents, and the metaphor is domestic geography. The novel begins: "Very quietly and carefully, hardly moving her thin young neck and round shoulders, Elsie looked round the room, first at the french windows into the garden, then at the door, measuring distances. Her calculations were instinctive, like those of a mouse; she had been making them since she could crawl. There was hardly any need to look this time; the way to the door lay flat across her father's line of vision." Elsie tries to negotiate an exit while her parents argue, but she lacks her older sister's bravura, is noticed and drawn by her parents into the altercation, feels "Guilt and shame," sees herself as "inferior and inadequate," and escapes into the damp Cornish chill only when her father tells her she can go.
Renault was never the mouse that Elsie is; she was never the naive and unreflective child whom she depicts in this book—but Elsie's desire to escape from the physical confines of home and from the parental arguments that the house represents is certainly Renault's own struggle from earliest childhood (perhaps "since she could crawl") to separate herself from her parents, to assert her unique intellectual and private self on her own terms, to escape unseen, unacknowledged, unrevealed, without opening a closed door. Reflecting more generally on having grown up in London, a metaphor here for her life within the confines of her family and, by extension, within the confines of both gender and conventional heterosexuality, she wrote eloquently to the American author Jay Williams: "I was born there and spent most of my childhood in it, and I can't remember a time when I didn't want out—as soon, whenever it was, as I discovered that out existed."
In 1911, the same year her sister was born, "Molly" began her formal education at Romford House School, a small, private, coeducational institution in Forest Gate, not far from her home, and soon after discovered the world of literature. Her father encouraged her reading, sharing with her the books in his library, among them the standard Victorian and Edwardian fare, including all of Dickens and Kipling. Molly spent most of the Great War with her mother and sister in London, but from its start in August, 1914, Frank Challans was eager to enlist. It seems likely that he was stirred by the wave of patriotism that swept the country, but it is possible that he was also eager to escape a cloying marriage. Rejected initially because of poor eyesight, by 1915, with the decimation of "Kitchener's Army," the military was eager for recruits. Dr. Challans joined the Royal Army Medical Corps and was posted to India, where he remained until demobilized in early 1919.
In 1916, at the age of eleven, Molly was a star pupil, coming in first in class examinations and receiving a copy of Kingsley's Heroes as a prize. To escape the danger of bombing raids, in June of 1917 Molly and Joyce were sent to Whiteleaf, a Buckinghamshire village, where they stayed for nearly a year and attended the local village school. When they returned to London, Joyce went happily back to her former classmates. Molly, however, would remain in a kind of limbo; she returned to Romford House School but seems to have devoted herself to independent reading while the choice of a secondary school was deferred until after the war. When she and Joyce became ill with flu in 1918, her father did not inform them of the severity of the epidemic, but Renault recalled his stories of attending patients in houses "where the door stood open with a note pinned on it saying DOCTOR COME UPSTAIRS, because there was nobody fit to open the door." Finally, in 1920, at her Aunt Bertha's urging, Molly was sent away from home to Clifton School for Girls in Bristol.
At fifteen, Molly was the oldest girl in her year. She took the standard variety of subjects, excelling particularly in French and doing well in English (both literature and writing), geography, science, and Latin. In history her performance was adequate; in math only "fair." Here, as at home, Molly appears to have gone her own way, finding, like many adolescents, that what was really important seemed to be experienced outside the classroom, and for the first time she developed friendships with other girls.
Before leaving home, she had thought of herself as a tomboy and had joined in boys' rather than in girls' games, recalling years later that "I used to climb trees and all that sort of nonsense." In fact, she wanted to be "a cowboy": "I trained for that very rigourously: I practiced with my lasso, which I made out of a clothes line—and then I confided this ambition to my mother, who told me that if I went out West, I would have to darn cowboys' socks and cook, so I forgot about that. And then I wanted to be a boy scout, and my mother said, `Well, you can't be a boy scout, but you can be a girl guide.'" Yet when Molly visited a session, the girl guides seemed petty, competitive, and juvenile, so she was put off and never joined. The fantasy of being not a literal boy but "a cowboy," a dashing young male hero of the sort she had read about in Kipling and in other "boys' adventure stories," captured her imagination while it contrasted starkly with the reality offered to her by her mother. Revealing her early resistance to conventional gender roles, Renault admitted, "I always identified with the boys and I always thought the girls are always somehow tagging on...."
At Clifton, however, Molly became one of a group of six or seven girls and found a female friend, a best friend, in Beryl Lewis, a day student with whose family Renault lived after her first year. Julie Mullard, Renault's partner, reflecting on the information and feelings Mary had shared with her, has emphasized Beryl's importance in Mary's life during their school days: It was Mary's first experience of a close friendship, and Beryl's integrity and affection must have seemed marvelous to her. Holiday visits to her schoolmate's loving family offered a sharp contrast to the unhappiness of Mary's own home, while her friendship with Beryl was helpfully undemanding. Julie has also pointed out that, although conventional herself, Beryl accepted unconventionality in others. Yet young Molly was not especially unconventional; her greatest distinction was probably her energy and intellectual promise combined with a marked lack of mental rigor. She tended to be a leader, but also a girl who enjoyed the solitude and independence necessary for extensive reading. Sexually she was naive, ignorant of all but the biological facts, and certainly as physically inexperienced as most young women of her class and age would then have been. If she was already certain that she did not want to marry, she had formed her conviction on the basis of her parents' union, the only marriage she knew, and not on the basis of any possible alternative partnership or transgressive desires. In contrast, Beryl, who would go on to train as a secretary, "knew exactly where she was going: to marriage and a family."
Encouraged by her teachers, Renault entered Oxford after completing the qualifying exams at Clifton. It was a dramatic step for a woman of her time to go off to a university, but nowhere near so unusual an event as it had been for the previous college generation, which included Vera Brittain, Dorothy Sayers, and Winifred Holtby, women whose experiences were defined by the Great War and the struggle not only for the vote but for the right to receive university degrees, a battle waged and won at Oxford by the time Renault arrived at St. Hugh's College in October 1925. At twenty, she was again chronologically older than most women in her year, but she was in many ways intellectually and emotionally younger; she was still Molly Challans and not yet "Mary Renault." Looking back at this period, she characterized herself to a university classmate, Kathleen Abbott, as "an exceptionally late developer" and "completely adolescent." To fellow writer Jay Williams, she reiterated, "... looking back I realise that all the time I was at Oxford I was a sixth-former in mental age, and had to start all over again later, educating myself when I was at a stage to take it in."
Her education, despite the demands of a challenging program at Clifton High School, had been haphazard and undisciplined, preparing her neither for a specific career nor for the kind of learning she was expected to do at a university. Joan Hussey, a St. Hugh's classmate who went on to become a historian at the University of London, commented on the impression Renault made: "Molly Challans stands out in my memory as an uncommonly vivacious, lively individual with a bush of black hair, standing on edge simply sparkling and indeed positively sizzling with energy, with boundless and frequently changing enthusiasms, determined, but not then possessed of the capacity for sustained application, somewhat undisciplined, experimental, very right wing and pro-colonial and imperial, attracted to the less usual...." Hussey added perceptively: "I myself was turning into a dedicated medievalist and had been taught from early years how to work and I came from a satisfying home circle with brothers overlapping with me at Oxford. I don't think Molly Challans had any of these advantages and she never fitted into what I would call normal academic life and this, combined with her passionate desire to express herself in writing, led her to run before she could walk."
While Renault invariably defined herself in terms of her own independent intellectual life—her research in classical history was consistently a private and individual effort—she always felt grateful for having had a formal education, for having experienced the structured and rigid pattern of learning outside the home, which until her generation was often reserved solely for boys and men. Responding to Williams's reservations about institutionalized education, she declared:
I am sure that psychologically we were often grossly mishandled (when have children not been since the world began?) But it taught me French, and some German and some Latin, as a result of which though I never learned Italian I can have a good guess at it; and it grounded me in Greek myth so that I have known something about it since I was twelve years old; the kind of core to which curiosity and further knowledge sticks.... But for my school library, where when senior we were allowed to browse, I would not have read Plato at eighteen, which is I suppose about the age Plato would have wanted one to start on him. I wouldn't have discovered Malory; I might even love The Once and Future King instead of puking. I wouldn't have lived with Shakespeare and the Border Ballads and Campion and Lovelace and Byron. My father's library, though good of its kind, covered hardly anything but from about 1880-1924. The only exception I remember was an early Culpeper from which I learned where babies come from. No, honestly I think I'm quite glad I went to school, though of course I suffered agonies like everyone else.
Renault's feelings about formal education remained a curious mixture. She very much valued the intellectual matter that was taught or purported to be taught in schools, while she felt deeply skeptical about the women in authority who, in her experience, were relegated to teaching girls and young women. She did not question their competence—their knowledge or skills—but was invariably disappointed in their limited experience of the world and in their inability to communicate to her enthusiasm, excitement, passion for their subjects. Thus she remembered not particular teachers but particular achievements—in this case, in languages—and particular authors, discovered not so much in the classroom apparently as in the school library. The exception is "an early Culpeper," a technical and explicit medical text from her father's library by an eighteenth-century herbalist, which like her own later nursing career would be at odds with her formal education.
Renault had exorbitant expectations of her schools and teachers, whom she tended to romanticize well into her thirties. For her, educational institutions and individual women were initially idealized as the counterpart to home with its domestic tensions and intellectual vacuity. Thus when one of the dons invited her to dine at high table at St. Hugh's while she was training in the 1930s as a nurse at the Radcliffe Infirmary just down the road, she was disconcerted to find the experience dull:
I went thinking hopefully how nice it would be after the rather down-to-earth conversation of the hospital dining-room to breathe a more rarified air. It was quite a shock to me, having vaguely supposed I think that we should talk books and plays over the coffee, to find just as much small-talk as I had been hearing, only without the racy personalities and fundamental life-and-death considerations which keep hospital talk at least from being dull. Men do seem able to acquire the noble virtues of scholarship without being engulfed in that damp mist of gray good taste. Well, perhaps women do by now, I wouldn't know.
Academic life, Renault fantasized, would provide the "out" she had sought for as long as she could remember, and she resented what she felt were its failures: superficiality, tedium, and finally the "damp mist of gray good taste" which must have recalled for her her mother's insistence on what was "nice" in contrast to her father's emphasis on what was logical and real. Renault never regretted having rejected an academic career as a scholar-teacher, a career for which a degree in English at Oxford would logically have qualified her. She felt saved from what she saw as the fate of the St. Hugh's don and others like her by both her nursing and her writing, and could be quite bitter in her mockery of individual scholars, particularly women in her own fields of literature, history, and classical studies. Thus she imagined "Poor Jane Harrison [the pioneering classical anthropologist] stifling among the antimacassars and dreaming of nights on the bare mountain. I wonder how she would have felt if she could have been transported in a time machine to look on at a real orgy. My bet is that she would have rushed behind a bush and been very sick." Renault finally saw academic life for women as pathetically insulating, although not necessarily so but only because of social conventions, which she always hoped would change. Her own experiences at Oxford had been stimulating and great fun, but she felt that a career in academe after graduation would have been deadening.
She had fond memories of her three years at St. Hugh's, although the most wonderful bits occurred outside the classroom and were marginalized experiences. To Kathleen Abbott, she wrote of Oxford in the early spring: "No doubt they are sailing on Port Meadow and once again `the river is in high flood and all the weirs are drawn.' Do you remember how we paddled among the pollard willows? I suppose it was rather mad of us, but wasn't it a lovely day?" She also recalled "long arguments ... about Milton and Byron," the latter a writer whom, with Malory, she would admire all her life. Her friendships with other young women were also important to her, and Kathleen was her closest companion. She and Renault got to know each other when, in their second year at St. Hugh's, they each had a room in the same college house on Woodstock Road some distance from the college itself. Placed together in tutorials, Renault, Abbott recalled, was the bolder student, and generally "the leader and pranker." Both young women were keen on acting, and Renault took on starring roles. When she excelled as François Villon in a play about his life, a notice in one of the men's college reviews amused them both by praising Renault as "an extremely beautiful girl." Abbott remarked, "She had in fact very much of a Rossetti look. I believe it was through her that I first fell in love with the Greek world, at least we were drawn together by our love of it, as we were, too, in fact, over the `romantic' middle ages." But a shared interest in the ancient world really developed later, after both women had left Oxford; during the years together at St. Hugh's, it was medieval France, animated for Renault through various sorts of dramatic performance, that captured their imaginations. Abbott admits that in college "Mary showed no particular interest in the Greeks. She was much more excited by the legends and stories of the medieval times (via Malory, etc.) In fact, this was a kind of romantic passion. She collected swords and had them hanging in her room, and she wrote poems expressing this love. She loved acting and always chose the plays." Performance finally became the defining element of Renault's circle: "The little group who acted together were all friends from the beginning; they had cocoa together in each others' rooms in college in the evenings, and later in Woodstock Road they met frequently to discuss, among other things, the plays they acted. Mary was the main instigator of all this; she was generally popular and a leader."
The nature of these friendships, however, was conventional and while affectionate was in no way intimate. Just as Julie Mullard was careful to stress Beryl Lewis's traditional heterosexuality, Frances Aubrey-Smith, the cousin with whom Kathleen Abbott lived later in life, insisted that "There was no suggestion of homosexual relations between any of them.... Mary's and Kathleen's friendship was a perfectly normal one based on the enthusiasms which they shared. Much later, when Kathleen read one of Mary's first books, she was quite surprised at the tone generally; Mary seemed to have changed in outlook." It would seem that Mary's sexuality was primarily or exclusively heterosexual during her college years, but the important point is that her sexuality was conventional at this time in that it was private and probably as yet unexamined. Certainly it remained unexpressed except in traditional social terms—she shared the national passion for the Prince of Wales, for example. This conventionality is not really surprising, given contemporary attitudes towards sex in general and women's sexuality in specific. In England in the 1920s, there was no accessible and appealing lesbian or bisexual identity that Renault could have claimed, even if she had wanted to, no transgressive identity of which she was aware that accurately reflected the vivacious, good-humored, and generally conventional young woman she seemed to be both to her contemporaries and to herself. Julie confirms Frances Aubrey-Smith's impression: Kathleen Abbott "was surprised at some of the experiences which Mary included in her novels and was particularly surprised at her interest in homosexuality. She never seemed interested in the subject at college, and girls' boarding schools did not seem to foster the same sort of relationships as boys' schools." Indeed, like most other young women at Oxford, Renault had "men friends," although no one in particular.