Poem of the Week: The Apology by Anne Finch, Countess of Winchelsea | hair

Apology

“That’s right, I’m writing; And tell me what ruling
I alone am forbidden from playing the fool,
To follow the orchards of the wandering Moses
And artificial thoughts for my pleasure choose?
Why should there be a mistake in my pen,
While Mira draws her face to sketch an idea?
While Lamia to the manly bumper flies,
And borrowed souls sparkle in her eyes,
Why should there be something so vain in me?
To warm up my cold mind’s hair?

But I write badly, and therefore I must abstain.
Does Flavia stop now in her fortieth year?
Everywhere to let this face be seen
Who was rejected by the whole city at fifteen?
Every woman has her weak point; Mine really
He still writes, although desperate for success.
This is not easy to find for men;
It is present in most works that abound with wit
(They’re all so weak since our first breach with Heaven)
There is nothing less praiseworthy than tolerance.

This week marks a return visit to Anne Finch, Countess of Winchelsea (1661-1720), whose Nocturnal Daydreams was set here several years ago. Finch was a versatile poet, whose talents embraced a variety of forms and genres, including satire. In her book The Apology, she deals with in a lively way what was considered essential material for a female poet of her time: defending her audacity to pursue the male profession of poetry.

Powerfully crafted in heroic couplets, the poem begins with the self-mocking confession “It’s true, I write,” and goes on to discuss her claim to being a poet—a fictional character seen as “playing the fool” and chasing inspiration in an idyllic pastoral setting. This satirical portrayal is made interesting by the concept of “artificial ideas.” The phrase debunks the myth: poets, including women, are capable of imagination and reflection, and they enjoy those challenges. Finch claims this art and its dangers, while insisting that it is one of her “pleasures”—the “pleasures” representing a concession to the diminished view of women’s capabilities.

A duo of female characters are called upon to help illustrate Finch’s point: Myra, who “paints her face” rather than an “idea,” and Lamia, who seems to draw her inspiration from a “manly fender” of powerful spirits. Myra is the disapproving lover in Fulke Greville’s Caelica 22; Lamia may have been a Libyan queen.

It will be interesting to know whether these bright and interesting characters briefly hide the living women in the countess’s circle of friendship.

Unlike Mira and Lamia, Flavia is identified, in the second stanza of the poem, as Finch’s close friend Catherine Fleming. After the first self-deprecating line, Flavia is called upon to aid Finch in her argument to continue writing despite her lack of success. A subversive joke about a woman, who confidently appears at 40 despite her early eviction by “all the town”, would no doubt be a joke the two best friends enjoyed sharing.

While there was a tradition for women writers of the period to express their feelings of modesty and boldness in their attempt at poetry, Finch’s apologetic references to a failed career and poor skills cannot be taken entirely seriously. At the same time, they cannot be completely excluded. She was not without her supporters, and benefited from the encouragement of her husband, Hennig Finch. Her Pindarian poem The Spleen was published in Gildon’s Miscellanies in 1701, and her collection of poetry, which also included a tragic drama, appeared in 1713. But her work deserved greater exposure than she achieved during her lifetime, and her author must have been affected at times by the reception of the male literary establishment.

While the apology ends with a defiant attack on male achievement, Finch displays a sense of balance. Her final quatrain declares that since “our first breach with Heaven” (the Fall) brought imperfection to the human race, masculine intelligence also produces work for which “nothing is more worthy of applause than toleration.” By confining her criticism to young, self-consciously admiring, intelligent writers from the city, she is perhaps not passing too harsh a judgment.

The Apology appears to be an early poem belonging to the Folger manuscript of 1702. I have based the text on a modern version of the poem, except for a minor change in the eighth line of the second stanza, where, for the sake of rhythm, I have respelled “even” as “e’vn.” The original can be read in Finch’s collection of works here.