Drag and transgender in the 1900s

Colette’s lover Missy / Max (Mathilde de Morny, the Marquise of Belboeuf) lived most, if not all, of her adult life in drag. Society in the 1900s was still rigidly divided into binaries: male/female, heterosexual/homosexual. Today, we are lucky enough not to have to define ourselves so strictly, but then, blurred boundaries, fluid identities, the rainbow spectrum of gender and sexuality, transgender identities, biculturalism, bisexuality, Adrienne Rich’s scale of lesbian continuum… all of these had yet to be invented.

In “Secrets of the Flesh”, Judith Thurman writes, “It is not clear whether Missy thought of herself as a lesbian or as a man”, but she didn’t like [other] women who dressed as men, and “a lesbian couple, both in drag, offended her.” (pp.152-153). From what I’ve read, it seems that Missy did think of herself as a man; those of Colette’s biographers who recognise their six-year relationship (not all of them do) agree that Missy liked to be addressed as “Monsieur le Marquis” (the masculine version of her correct title, “Madame la Marquise”), and “Max” or “Uncle Max” by her circle of intimate friends (“Colette” by Allan Massie, p.58). If she were alive today, it seems likely that Missy would identify as transgender, and so I’ve become used to thinking of Missy as Max.

However, while reading Colette’s letters to Missy, (“Lettres à Missy” edited by Samia Bordji and Frédéric Maget), I was surprised to find only one instance where Colette refers to Missy as Max. In a telegram dated 15 December 1908, Colette begs forgiveness for writing to “Max”, and explains that she was feverish and will never do so again. It is unclear whether she is begging forgiveness for calling Missy “Max” in a previous letter, or for the contents of that letter.

In the novel I’m writing about Colette and Anaïs Nin, Nights in Paris, I first had Colette addressing Missy as Max. However, after reading Colette’s letters, I’ve changed it to Missy, with Max as a special erotic name. I’ve also kept to female pronouns for Missy, unless she is being Max (again, I’m going by Colette’s letters). I want to be authentic, and for my Colette character to think about Missy as the real Colette did. However, I do think that, if they were living their relationship today, Missy would call her/himself “he” and “Max”. So which is the right thing to do? What would Colette do?

Missy or Max? Tu or vous?

The “tu / vous” distinction is very important in French, as a measure of intimacy between speakers and writers. Traditionally, “tu” was used only by adults to children, between close relatives, intimate friends, and lovers. Nowadays, the rigid distinction is easing, and many young people instantly use “tu” with each other, dispensing with that awkward step in a friendship of progressing from “vous” to “tu”. In the “Claudine” novels, the narrator reveals that, although she scandalizes polite society by saying “tu” to acquaintances, she never uses the familiar “tu” with her husband. In this way, the formal “vous” is a sort of erotic linguistic caress between the couple (Claudine en Ménage / Claudine Married).

In her letters to her lover Missy (also called Max) (“Lettres à Missy” edited by Samia Bordji and Frédéric Maget), Colette uses both “tu” and “vous” — often veering from one to the other in the same letter, or even the same paragraph, in a haphazard fashion. She wrote many of her letters late at night, exhausted after an evening’s performance in the mime play “La Chair” (Flesh) and just before going to bed. Most of the letters begin with her using “tu”. Perhaps Colette was so tired that she used “vous” by accident, but that’s an odd mistake to make with a lover — wouldn’t you always use “tu” for a lover, and always think of them (and write to them) using “tu”?

Similarly to the “tu / vous” distinction, in French you have to decide whether to use a feminine “you” or a masculine “you”. If you want to call someone “my darling”, you can say “ma chérie” my (feminine) darling, or “mon cheri”, my (masculine) darling. Unfortunately, the French language allows for no comfortable gender ambiguity, as there is in English!

In the same way that she uses both “tu” and “vous” to Missy / Max, Colette addresses her masculine lover, for whom drag was a way of life, in the feminine, and calls her “ma chérie” most of the time. However, she does write “mon cheri” now and then, and sometimes even uses both “ma chérie” and “mon cheri” — addressing Missy / Max both as a woman and as a man — in the same letter. It seems clear that Missy / Max would identify as transgender, if she were alive today. But does this mean that Colette thought of Missy as a woman most of the time, and only occasionally as Max / a man? I wish I could ask her. More musings on the mysterious Missy /Max in the next post!

The Pure and the Impure — Colette in drag

I’m looking at a famous, gorgeous photograph of Colette in drag. She is very debonair with her cropped hair, and wears a black jacket and trousers, and silk tie. She has a finger in the pocket of her striped waistcoat (is she being suggestive, or searching for her pocket-watch?), smokes a cigarette and looks directly, perhaps challengingly, at the camera. The photograph is on the cover of Colette’s memoir-novel, Ces Plaisirs (These Pleasures), later renamed Le Pur et l’Impur (The Pure and the Impure).

The photograph was taken circa 1910, when Colette was in a relationship with Missy (also called Max) (Mathilde de Morny, the Marquise of Belboeuf). However, these are rare: most photographs of Colette show her in conventionally female clothing. Missy / Max lived her life in drag, but for Colette, dressing up in men’s clothing was a fleeting pleasure rather than a lifestyle.

The Pure and the Impure, first published in 1932 when Colette was 59, is a fascinating account of subversive society in 1900s Paris — prostitutes, opium dens, transvestism and homosexuality. (And a description of the poet Renée Vivien, including her anorexia, in what is perhaps one of the earliest accounts of that illness.) In her memoir-novel, Colette recalls her much younger self, and describes how she would wear “a mannish necktie” and walk around “looking as much as possible like a bad boy” (p.61).

Drag was not a way of life for Colette; I have not seen any photographs of her dressed in a suit after her relationship with Missy / Max ended. Missy / Max’s masculinity was a major part of her self-image, and it is likely that today, she would identify as transgender. However, for Colette, dragging up was not serious: it was playful, exciting, adventurous, sexy.

Colette suggests that, although conventional femininity was not really her, boyishness wasn’t really her either: “How timid I was, at that period when I was trying to look like a boy, and how feminine I was beneath my disguise of cropped hair” (The Pure and the Impure, p.61). As a girl, she was “famous” in her village for her incredibly long, beautiful chestnut hair. As a young woman, therefore, perhaps she was bored of being conventionally beautiful, and found androgynous beauty more interesting, more exciting. Today, we are lucky to be able to choose and change our identities daily: one day a ballgown, the next, a suit.

Colette describes the erotic pleasure she takes in watching “mannish women” in suits, admiring their “strong slender hands” and “exciting scent of [the] horses” they loved to ride, (p.65). Colette is seduced by androgynous or masculine women, rather than wanting to be one herself. Colette sums it up perfectly: “The seduction emanating from a person of unknown or dissimulated sex is powerful” (The Pure and the Impure, p.68).

Colette and the exotic 1900s Parisian scene

The Colette chapter of my Nights in Paris novel is flowing along nicely, I am so excited about it and so into the whole daring, exotic, early 2oth century Parisian scene! 1909 wasn’t as daring as 1931 (the Anaïs chapter), of course, but because women were more hidden, in a way they had more freedom. (Obviously, not where it really mattered and not if you weren’t moneyed — real life is never as rosy as it seems to a tourist). I do feel lucky to be a tourist — able to dip in and out of 1909, enjoy all the wonderful parts and bypass any ugliness. Well, not quite bypassed, but you’ll have to read the chapter to see what I mean!

The bit I’m writing now is about Missy — or Max, to more intimate friends. She was very brave and lived in drag, at a time when that was illegal. I’m reading Colette’s ‘The Pure and the Impure’ as research and just love the bit about how horsewomen strut around in their leathers smelling of perspiration and horses, and how wonderfully sexy they are. You can’t get the same thrill from driving a poncy car, Colette says. I’ve never had the chance to get into horses, being a city girl, but she’s certainly persuaded me about the erotic allure of people who ride them!

It must have been quite something, in an era where most bourgeoises would allow themselves to smell only of lavender, lemon verbena or violets, to meet a woman who not only wore trousers and smoked cigars, but strode around smelling of the fresh outdoors and of horses, and was rich enough not to give a stuff about conventional femininity. Meeting someone like that (Missy), would have been exciting, fascinating, and erotic.

I’ve wondered if there was anyone else who should go in the novel, and I thought about Katherine Mansfield and Daphne du Maurier…. I’m not sure, will have to put that thought somewhere and just let it ferment for a while. I have also discovered Kiki de Montparnasse (Alice Prin), Man Ray’s stunning muse. There’s a wonderful photograph of her in the 1920s, resting on a cafe table which is littered with cigarettes (Gitanes?), a bottle of wine and half-filled glasses. But she was a model and artist, not a writer, so I must stop myself from getting carried away. If I weren’t limiting myself to writers, I would love to write about Josephine Baker, Lee Miller, and a hundred more, equally fabulous women!