It's Not About Chocolate

We were sitting on the village green of Brunswick and waiting for her to arrive. It was a balmy early summer day, although Maine rarely has weather that could be classified as balmy. It was mid-afternoon and the sunlight was perfect in a way only coastal sunlight can be. We were ready and were convinced that this was going to be a very big deal, because, well, for a lot of reasons. I guess the easiest way to tell you what we were there for is by describing our conversation, how our voices were like a chorus. You need to know how we had gotten to the point of gathering on the green, what had driven us to go there and wait. Wait for the woman.

Dana, Andrea, Jon, Logan, and Nicky were my friends, but none of our group were a couple. We had been friends for years. It was a bit odd for that many people - if you just counted the names, you know there were six of us - to remain close for as long as we had, but we did not take our relationship for granted. We knew we were fortunate. We probably got along so well because we had such different takes on things, from ice cream to beer to the person who sold the best lobster roll. These examples don’t mean we had no interests besides food; they’re just the first ones that came to mind. 

The five of them, despite their good qualities, weren’t always savvy about certain things. They hadn’t done some of the things I’d done and hadn’t been to some of the places I’d been to. My perspectives were frequently the most jarring or conspiratorial or dissonant of the group, but they still loved me, I knew. Plus, I was right a lot of the time - please don’t think ill of me for saying that - , so they would listen, perhaps argue a little bit, then we’d come to a consensus. 

I had brought them to the Brunswick green on this gorgeous day because I wanted to wait for the lady to arrive and was sure my friends would enjoy seeing her, too. My invitation had been accepted and everybody had gathered by the steps of the gazebo on the end of the green close to little Spanish-American War plaza. (Most people in town didn’t know about that little memorial commemorating the war that was started by the blowing up of the ship called Maine, but I was. It was one of my quirks, you know, reading about events long past and pondering them for long periods of time. I just couldn’t let go of something that intrigued me. It might be a battle, a discovery, the effects of a volcanic eruption in the nineteenth century, a mass migration. I read about them all, the catalogued them somewhere in my brain for the time when I needed to pull them out and think about them again.)

Once we were all together, I suddenly felt nervous. We had to talk about the woman, but I figured we should ease into it. This was because I knew it was going to take some effort to bring them up to speed regarding the person we were waiting to see. In my mind it was already worked out, but they had a right to offer input.

I got to work preparing my friends, fingers crossed that they could rise to the occasion and not get sidetracked with any side comments or leering. I was of the conviction that we would have to be on our best behavior or the woman was not going to show up. We had to lay out the rules of the encounter very carefully. I advised everybody of that. The two vagabonds in Beckett’s Waiting for Godot did not do that and so they kept spinning their wheels. They just kept expecting Godot to show up and as everybody knows, Mr. G had the last laugh on Estragon and Vladimir. I personally surmised they would still be there, hanging around that tree, hoping Godot will put in an appearance. Like the hobos, we didn’t want to miss our woman, but we also didn’t have all the time in the world the way the fellows in Beckett’s play had. We had classes and jobs. We had one shot at this.

We were not waiting for Godot (who has the pair of bums doing that for him, waiting). We were not waiting for Gauguin, either. Furthermore, we were not waiting for anybody, any man, named Godfrey, Gomer, or Gordon. We had our sights on a woman, and her name was Godiva. The same Godiva the chocolates were named after, who is the renowned Godiva who supposedly rode her horse down the street of medieval Coventry in a state of complete undress. That Godiva.

There were some issues we had to tackle straightaway, because we had to wait respectfully. We couldn’t start making lewd comments or joking about what sort of woman would even want to ride a horse naked. To that end, I had brought some information for everyone to read. They needed to know I wasn’t just making things up. Subsequently, everybody got filled in on when Lady Godiva lived (990-1067), where (Coventry?) and with whom (her husband Leofric and their nine children), plus why she decided to ride the way she did. In her birthday suit, just veiled by her hair, which wasn’t all that useful as a veil.

Our discussion became more intense when we read that the reasons given for the famous ride were several. One view said she was protesting her spouse’s high taxation of the poor. Another said he had already repealed most of the harsh taxes and had left only the one on horses, which he eliminated after his wife took him up on his dare to ride butt naked. Another said Leofric agreed to repeal the horse tax (not the rest) if Godiva rode in the buff. Yet another theory was... well, suffice it to say there were more. 

“It could have been mere exhibitionism,” suggested Logan.

“Or some sort of penitence,” mused Dana.

“Did her husband want to humiliate her for some reason?” asked Jon. We liked gentle Jonny, who always tried to think in a feminist manner.

I saw my role, not as provider of answers but rather as moderator of the conversation.The goal had to be to get away from the image of a naked woman on horseback and catcalls all around her, to thinking about why she did it. What follows is a reconstruction of what we addressed.

To think about the why she rode unclothed, we had to concern ourselves with the question of whether Godiva had been acting on her own free will or was being coerced. The modern image doesn’t ask us to consider why, either, so we did a closer examination of the story as it came down through the centuries. (This was the type of thing that thrilled me, and I already had goosebumps.) 

We should be asking for answers about Godiva. Was she in fact an abused wife, forced to have a large brood of children and humiliated by her husband? Or was she a strong woman who demanded economic justice for the people and bargained for it with the bold use of her body? How many women of her time - the eleventh century! - dared square off with their husbands? What evidence do we have in order to select one interpretation over the other? When she arrived, we would need to pose these questions in the right way, if we hoped to get honest responses. We hoped she wouldn’t have any difficulties finding the gazebo. It’s pretty much the only one near Bowdoin campus, as we had described it, so there should be no problem locating our group of six.

We were still waiting for God-iva, so we decided to debate another issue regarding her famous ride. The issue was why did it take two more centuries for the first write-up of the story? We had at least a couple avenues of interpretation. One, because it was the story of a woman, and possibly a very strong one, the story couldn’t be told. Most of the authors back then were men, and they weren’t going to promote a plot like that! Two, because Godiva never existed and was merely a figure created by the popular imagination. Oh, and three, the Lady on Horseback might in reality be the symbol of a pre-Christian goddess of fertility, the May Queen or something like that. I was all for the third interpretation, but managed not to impose my view on the rest.

It was rough. We had to come to an agreement among us as to who Godiva was or wasn’t, which once again was a challenge for us - for anybody - , given the dearth of evidence one way or another. As we waited, we continued to strategize as to how to tactfully query her about being real or fake, or a figment of men’s imagination.

“Stop trying to blame men for everything,” Jon complained.

“We’re not,” some of the group assured him. “We just want to take a broad look at the circumstances. It’s like calling for a retrial, right?”

Jon looked assuaged, but we still had a little more work to do while we were waiting for Godiva. All the accounts of her life portray her (and Leofric) as being very pious. There are numerous sources that chronicle the abundant support the husband and wife gave to religious entities. Piety kind of muddies the picture, because a pious woman may do something for the sake of her faith. I mean, maybe she humbles herself before God, but does that imply she humbles herself before her husband as well? Not at all. We were tempted to get into the whole can of worms about whether a person can be very religious and also a firm feminist. However, we put that question in reserve to address any other remaining areas before returning to it. We also need to find out why a rich, pious man like Leofric would tax his subjects so heavily that his own wife would call him out on it.

We had been waiting for at least an hour and a half, but had lost track of time. A slight wind had blown up and Andrea made a joke about how Godiva would be cold - haha! - but we had no time for jokes, We needed to discuss the Peeping Tom matter. Godiva’s ride supposedly took place after all the townspeople had been ordered to remain in the house with shutters drawn. (Note that if this was so, the case for exhibitionism goes out the window.) Tom was the one fellow (the one they caught, that is) who disobeyed the order, decided to sneak a peek, and paid for his disobedience with either his sight or his life.

Now we don’t know if Godiva had any say in the punishment of poor Tom, if she even cared, or if she even knew. We all could see in the images I’d printed out that Godiva usually is riding with her head tilted forward and her shoulders slumped forward. The way art has portrayed her is problematic, because sources also note how proud she was. So Tom peeps and is caught. Was he really that stupid? If he is caught peeping, what were Godiva’s guards doing? Where did they put their eyes? Were they peeping also, but nothing happened because nobody wanted to rat out a coworker?

By now the majority of the group had gotten tired of waiting. Dana and Andrea said they had to leave. Jon, Logan, Nicky and I were left to put the finishing touches on how we would approach Lady Godiva when she arrived.

Nicky wondered if we would get in trouble for looking, like happened on the first ride Godiva took. It was a good point. That could create a dilemma and it had to be worked out. We could hardly be waiting for her without also looking for her, could we? Logan reluctantly brought up the concern that they might deport us to Coventry for a trial if they didn’t execute us right off. Jon strongly suggested we have some sort of wrap - a coat or poncho - for Godiva when she arrived. That way, if she felt she was being stared at, she could cover herself at least while we talked. Plus, then we couldn’t be charged with peeping. We remembered the issues Vladimir and Estragon had in Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, and we didn’t want to get tangled up in the ways they had. They couldn’t get a foot from shore, or rather, tree. That’s why they waited so long.

Speaking of waiting, about now we realized that we’d been by the gazebo for over two hours and still no Godiva, with or without clothes, on a horse or walking. Something must be holding her up. Jon threw in the towel and went home to make supper and feed his cat. I tried to engage Nicky and Logan in further discussion and strategizing, but they too were beat. They left after another fifteen minutes of rehashing the ideas we’d developed while gathered. (A lot of good it did if they were leaving and weren’t going to be present at the crucial moment.)

That left only me. There I was, still on the green by the steps of the gazebo, not feeling abandoned because I knew my friends and they really did have other things to do. I was glad they had stayed for that long, but now I had to carry the torch. Godiva would arrive and I needed to be there to greet her, and do it properly. Would we even recognize each other, though?

I was really exhausted from waiting and had picked up my backpack to head home, embarrassed at my lack of stick-to-itiveness, when I spotted a figure heading toward me. She might not have known who I was, because my five friends were missing, but she didn’t hesitate. She was not riding a horse (“I didn’t think I could go through downtown Brunswick on horseback, so I left him with a friend.”) She was not naked. (“I know you’ve got laws against indecent exposure.”) She did have very long hair, though, which obscured portions of the soft, rosy beige tunic she wore. 

Godiva then held out a well-manicured hand toward me and thanked me for waiting. I took it and moved closer to hear her, because her voice was as soft as her garment. I had a jacket in my grip which I offered to her, but she waved it aside, more interested in talking. I was eager to hear everything she might say, and wasn’t concerned that her English might be a strain to understand. We were going to get along just fine. Lady Godiva was impressed by my persistence and we were going to have a good conversation. There was no need for strategies - my friends and I had wasted our time trying to do that. 

The next thing I knew, we had moved a few feet up the slight incline of the green toward the the plaque honoring the 1st Maine Volunteer Infantry and its role in the Spanish-American War (for those who don’t know, it was in 1898). That the Infantry did not serve overseas on that occasion was irrelevant. Both Godiva and I were aware that history often invents things - people, events, documents, lots of things. We had all the time in the world. “The Spanish War Square,” tiny as it was, had a bench for us to sit. People never sat there, so we wouldn’t be bothered. I was ready to hear Godiva’s story, not straight from the horse’s mouth, but from the woman, real or imaginary, who had ridden him.