Of courtesans and the long arc of desire

Long before the word 'escort' carried its modern, slightly tabloid weight, there were the hetaerae of ancient Greece — educated women who moved through the symposia trading not only company but philosophy, poetry, and political opinion. Aspasia, Pericles' partner, was credited by some ancient writers with helping to shape his speeches. Plato put her in a dialogue.

Rome had its own version. The demi-monde of the late Republic and early Empire was full of women who lived outside the rigid grid of matrimonial life — and who, precisely because of that, often had more autonomy, more education, and more access to power than their married counterparts. They were not invisible. They were, frequently, the most visible women in the room.

Then came Venice. The cortigiane oneste — the 'honest courtesans' — were trained in music, languages, classical literature. They held salons. They published poetry. Veronica Franco, my favourite namesake, wrote sonnets sharp enough to make a senator blush and defended herself in front of the Inquisition with the same composure she brought to a dinner table.

Paris had its grandes horizontales in the nineteenth century. London had its actresses-who-were-not-only-actresses. Every great city, in every century, has quietly understood that there is a particular kind of refined, openly arranged companionship that has nothing to do with shame and a great deal to do with civilisation.

I am not claiming a lineage. I am only saying: this is older, and more cultivated, than the internet would have you believe. There is nothing modern about the assumption that an interesting woman might be paid, gracefully, for her time and her attention. What is modern, perhaps, is the embarrassment around it.

I prefer the older view.