A Brief History of the Pearl

I wrote the following as a submission for a writing competition – the Cassandra Jardine Memorial Prize 2021 – run by the Telegraph.
Note: I don’t particularly like the title – suggestions welcome.

“The pearl is the queen of gems and the gem of queens”

Grace Kelly

Today is the first of June – the start of summer. Weddings and Wimbledon come out in full force; everyone rushes outside, eager to chase the unusually warm sun before the weather recedes back to grey again. Those who are born this month are lucky for many reasons, not least because June’s birthstone happens to be the pearl. The coveted “accidental” gemstone gently gleams throughout history, donning the ears, necks and torsos of ancient leaders, warriors, royalty, movie stars etc. With the revival of the pearl in street-style fashion this year, let us remember its origins and the surprisingly significant part it has played throughout human history.

When we think of pearls, we may imagine flawless white spheres strung across the décolletage of a wealthy older lady who might clutch them in times of distress. Arguably the classic archetype, this well-to-do image has been sustained over the last one hundred years or so though the origins of pearls’ exclusivity goes back much further. Their popularity and accessibility flourished when Kokichi Mikimoto, known as “the Pearl King”, successfully produced the world’s first cultured pearls in 1893. His ambition was for his creations “to adorn the neck of all women around the world.” Before this, only natural pearls were available, each one individually harvested by fearless deep divers in eastern seas, making them extremely rare and very expensive. Their availability was sequestered to those only at the apex of ancient society. In the wild, less than one in a thousand oyster-shells may produce a pearl during their lifetime. The largest natural pearl in existence is known as the Pearl of Lao Tzu, found in the Palawan Sea in the Philippines by a Filipino diver. This non-nacreous, lumpy whopper was discovered in a giant clam, coming in at 24cm in diameter and weighing nearly 6.5kg, it has previously been valued at $93,000,000 (2007).

For centuries, the pearl has been idolised for its wholesome beauty, a tangible metaphor of triumph despite adversity through its own, natural process. A pearl is created when a parasite or piece of grit enters the shell of an oyster, clam or mussel. In response, layers of aragonite and conchiolin are produced, the same materials that also make up its shell. This leads to the creation of a material called nacre, more commonly known as mother-of-pearl, which encases the irritant and protects the mollusc from further damage. The thickness of the nacre determines both the pearl’s lustre and how long it will last in the outside world. When pearls are cultivated commercially, the irritant is manually inserted and consistently monitored to encourage the production of nacre and define the desired shape. The existence of coloured pearls depends on the shade of the mollusc’s shell or if the nacre is pigmented, allowing for black, green, pink, yellow etc. variations. Much like gemstones, the monetary value of a cultured pearl is determined on its size, shape, colour and lustre.

Pearls have been splendidly prevalent throughout history. As early as 2300BC, they were presented as gifts to Chinese royalty to symbolise the wealth and purity of the wearer. According to legend, Cleopatra had crushed pearls added to her wine goblets to prove to Marc Antony that she could give the most expensive dinner in history. During the Dark Ages, knights wore white pearls on the battlefield, believing they would keep them safe from harm.

The fifteenth and sixteenth centuries have been deemed “The Pearl Age”, largely thanks to Queen Elizabeth I and her love for them (wishing perhaps to compare her own pallid purity with the lavish jewellery pieces she owned). We need only look to her famous portraits to see her admiration for pearls as they crown her fiery hair, protrude from the bulbous sleeves of her gowns, and drape in great swathes around her neck. In 1581, Elizabeth decreed the “Order of the Pearl”, “for the protection of the Pearl and her magic”, solidifying her affection for the natural, iridescent miracle. Keen to match with the trends of royalty, noblemen and women exhausted the desire for pearls in Western Europe. Due to this nationwide infatuation, oyster populations had dramatically declined by the nineteenth century. Luckily, Kokichi Mikimoto and his ingenious cultured pearls soon came into effect and were very well received the world over. One might say that the rounded pearl we know and think of today pointedly brings the natural world and the manmade world into harmony. Yet pearls have not floated through the centuries unscathed by scandal as their demure image might denote.

In 1913, “The Mona Lisa of Pearls” was stolen from jewellery trader, Max Meyer, in London’s Hatton Garden. The great pearl heist involved the theft of a necklace made up of 61 blush-pink pearls (worth an estimated £17 million in today’s money), a masterpiece which had taken ten years of work, matching and assembling each sphere. At its centre, a large drop pearl that had belonged to the Portuguese royal family resided. Reading more like an Agatha Christie novel, the reports state that Meyer had lent the piece to a Parisian dealer only for the deal to fall through. The necklace was returned to the trader by registered post, the package secured with three undisturbed monogrammed seals. However, when Meyer opened the package, he discovered eleven lumps of sugar instead of the precious necklace. Scotland Yard were brought in, and suspicions quickly turned to notorious jewel-thief, Joseph Grizzard. Undercover police arrested Grizzard and his gang, discovering they had stalked the transaction between Meyer and the French trader, closely following the package’s journey. They bribed a postman for access to his bag, replacing the jewels in the package with the same weight of sugar cubes and resealing it with a forgery of the jeweller’s seal. However, there were still three pearls missing. The police later found out that a piano-maker came upon a small package in the gutter a few days after the incident. Believing the contents to be simple beads, the piano-maker gave one to a street urchin to use as a marble before handing the other two over to the police once he was told of their worth. It might be worth keeping your eyes open for the last pink pearl hidden somewhere in the streets of London…

Strands have adorned famous women in fashion and film more recently – the wearer and their pieces collaborating as timeless icons. Coco Chanel is quoted to have said: “a woman needs ropes and ropes of pearls”. The celebrated fashion designer’s infamous, classic pairing of an LBD with a pearl necklace is still imitated today. Elizabeth Taylor famously wore the incredible La Peregrina, gifted to her by Laurence Olivier. One of the largest, naturally symmetrical pearls in existence, it was found some 500 years ago off the island of Panama by African slaves.

The pearl has clearly made a comeback…with dispelled associations of outdatedness.

As mentioned, there has been a resurgence in pearl jewellery in today’s streetwear. Vivienne Westwood’s iconic logo pendant hanging on a string of pearls that has been chosen as an ‘it’ item this year, seen on the likes of Hailey Bieber and many, many other influencers on various platforms. In a refreshing turn of easy-to-wear opulence, famous male stars are also wearing pearls as an exciting fashion choice. To name a few, Harry Styles, A$AP Rocky and Drake have all been photographed in them, breaking the rules of expectation and making such necklaces stylish again – and not just for women. This renaissance revives a classic trend, embracing old-school chic and making it cool again. The pearl has made a comeback, catapulted back onto the high street with dispelled associations of outdatedness.

Looking to art and literature, the pearl represents the convergence of numerous cultures and worlds both old and new. A poignant example of such a conflict may be found in John Steinbeck’s novella, The Pearl (1947). The story is revered for its beautiful telling of the life of a pearl-diver, at the same time exploring the human psyche surrounding the fight between good and evil, interposed by overt greed, sacrifice, and social defiance. Defining its place in art history too, it would be remiss to not mention Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring (ca. 1665). Our eyes are at once drawn to the large opalescent hanging from her ear, representing her femininity along with a subtle suggestion of wealth, elegance and flamboyance that characterises both the portrait and its subject.

Of course, you can buy imitation pearls, and good ones at that. The “bite-test” is a rudimentary way to see if your pieces are legitimate (if the texture of the piece feels rough against your teeth, the specimen is real). But I would argue there is an intangible pricelessness in spending a bit more, if possible, for the real thing. Pearls don’t tarnish of course, but they are soft so be sure to take care of them with a polishing cloth and transport them in soft pouch so they might last for a lifetime. One of the most precious things I own is a necklace of smaller, natural pearls that I was given by my mother, which she had inherited from her late mother some years ago. I hope to give it to my child one day. The idea that the necklace has had front-row viewing of significant moments across all of our lives, means the world to me. I’m not sure I’ve ever expressed how much.

Pearls provide an inheritance of our history, oftentimes quite literally, continuing a collective awe and appreciation of nature’s abilities.The wonder of pearls lives on, more readily available than ever in their extensive history for all to enjoy. They have always been considered the epitome of elegance, femininity and inner strength. After all, diamonds may be made under pressure, but pearls are created through grit and determination.

The Trouble with Translation…

I studied Italian at university and very much enjoyed it considering I chose the subject without any prior lessons or experience. Going in, I was armed with a small phrasebook of basic phonetics revealing how to pronounce fundamental numbers (1-20, the following 10s and 100), and each letter of the alphabet. Admittedly, I was heavily relying on my tutors to dutifully guide me through the labyrinth of language-learning to emerge fluent, attributed with Italian flare.

After two years of studying, my phrasebook was much larger and continuing to expand – included were long, erudite phrases that made frequent appearances in my oral exams over the years. Lectures and tutorials were presented exclusively in Italian to prepare us for our third year spent abroad. We were all anxiously excited to experience life in the land of pasta, pizza and passionate conversation. (I may write another post going into greater detail about my wonderful/tumultuous year spent in Bologna). It was in the fourth and final year of university that we began to delve deeper into the premise of language learning. I took extra lessons and classes regarding the theory of translation – I couldn’t get enough – they were the educational highlights of my week. I found the act of translating excerpts of novels/poetry/adverts both to and from Italian almost like a fun game. Realistically, it was more of a difficult puzzle. I would spend hours doing the homework, carefully choosing the right words almost to obsession so the sentences might sound naturally coherent rather than stilted and amateurish.

In Experiences in Translation, Umberto Eco writes: ‘every sensible and rigorous theory of language shows that a perfect translation is an impossible dream’, sadly I unwillingly agree. Establishing fluent semantic semblance across any two languages is very difficult to achieve. The skill of translation lies in being able to adapt and manipulate the target language, rather than directly converting each phrase in unwavering and absolute accordance. It took me a while to learn this, I felt that I couldn’t much alter the original writing. So…how much rejigging was too much? I don’t want to start changing the story or losing the narrative. I certainly came to appreciate the dedication and skill involved in the practice of good translation.

Additionally, we discussed the art of interpretation in class. In particular, interpreters working in high-intensity environments e.g. those providing live translations between world leaders during summits. It is a super intense multi-tasking activity: without losing any words, they must simultaneously listen to the live feed and give accurate renditions to important, listening ears that could affect life-changing policies.

It is not just a matter of gathering full sentences, however. To convey a faithful translation of the speaker’s words, the interpreter needs to understand the mentality of the client, discovering the context of their forethought and emotional input whilst putting their own feelings to one side. Crucially, they must remain a neutral party, capable of analysing high-pressure situations, and potentially manipulating language (to a certain extent!) to avoid possible dangerous miscommunications (see 2005 thriller The Interpreter starring Nicole Kidman). Broadly speaking, the interpreter is seen as an empty channel through which words are converted, however, there have been incidences over the years when mediators have been at the receiving end of the ‘don’t shoot the messenger’ complex. This can happen when clients become either frustrated due to nonsensical conversions (possibly due to the other party, rather than poor translation work), or with the actual translated content. The mediator/interpreter may then be used as a scapegoat and, consequently, unfairly condemned.

‘Translation is like a bridge…not just regarding meaning but also feeling’

Returning to translating literature…

My dissertation focus (written in Italian) was based around the first novel of the Elena Ferrante series, My Brilliant Friend. It begins the telling of a complicated and lifelong relationship between two girls growing up in restless post-war Naples. Having read the novel in both languages, I thought it might be my best chance to achieve a respectable grade. The original title was something along the lines of: ‘To what extent does the author reveal herself as the main character etc.’, chosen because Ferrante uses 1st person narrative from the perspective of a character with the same first name as her, who also becomes a successful writer. Unfortunately, I discovered that Ferrante was writing under a pseudonym and no one knew who she really was…things were becoming more complicated. The essay eventually laboured around speculation of her identity/why she was hiding etc., and the reasons for the book’s success outside of Italy (pleasingly allowing me to drone on about my favourite subject). The translation by the brilliant Ann Goldstein (who faithfully completed the whole series) allowed for a much wider audience, ultimately causing My Brilliant Friend to be named as a New York Times Bestseller – but not without some issues.

Because the novel is set in the deep south of Italy, the Italian version contains many instances of Neapolitan colloquialisms and rough slang that cleverly form the blazing atmosphere of their environment. Comparing the translation with the original shows that such phrases were either missed out or converted into English slang equivalents. It brought to my attention how sociological and cultural variants play a crucial role in the comprehension and reception of interpreted words. Jokes are often completely left out of translations due to lexical/cultural differences.

As I stated in my diss, perhaps this brings into question the extent to which the translation is still the work of the original author. Does the author’s work lose its integrity after its remoulding by translators? I remember thinking in circles trying to get my head around this question, and then attempting to translate my ramblings into conditioned Italian (it lead to reworking the title the night before the deadline…). It does mean that…but it also doesn’t because it’s not the translator’s original story, they’ve been hired…but it does because there’s no way around inevitable alterations and people are reading the words of another author… but Goldstein worked closely with Ferrante ensuring faithful renditions…does that make it a shared authorship? etc.

I think I comfortably concluded that perhaps it’s up to the reader/listener. It doesn’t take anything away from the original, many won’t even notice the differences or exclusions. For without the translation, we wouldn’t have had the pleasure of reading it in the first place. In fact, many people have chosen to learn a language just to read their favourite novels as they were originally intended – to fully appreciate the work and its nuances (Война и миръ anyone?). Overall, I have come to realise (and appreciate, of course) the important subtleties and potential ethical dilemmas regarding alterations of translated texts.

In the end, I’m glad I followed my instinct to study a language. I eventually developed a discipline to self-study, it upped my confidence in speaking (in English too !), and, more than anything, it cultivated my love of words/awe of language and linguistics, leading to a more defined outline of a career path. Although, I don’t think I’ll ever lose that feeling of frustration when it comes to choosing the right word when writing anything down.

Mother Night, Kurt Vonnegut (1961)

I actually bought this book on a whim whilst browsing in John Sandoe Books – my favourite bookshop. It feels like a welcome challenge to find the book you’re after, likely tucked amongst the packed shelves and tables that balance on warped, creaking wooden floors. You feel triumphant when you do eventually find it and add it to the pile that accidentally but opportunistically formed in your arms (before you ask, I make a point of not asking for help simply for the fun of it). I was intending to buy Rebecca in an attempt to catch up with the rest of the world when I came across a whole stack of Vonnegut.

I have previously read Slaughterhouse 5, his most famous work. I enjoyed the satirical voice, the incorporation of his own experiences in WW2 and the completely wild twists and turns the narrative took, but the Sci-Fi elements threw me. I would still absolutely recommend it, I believe it is fundamental to read things that throw you, it’s good for you.

Anyway, the new-age covers of the Penguin Vintage drew me in and I spent a good while reading various blurbs within the collection. I knew very quickly, however, that I needed to read Mother Night so I took it straight to a cafe feeling very sophisticated with a coffee also in hand.

To do your job right, you’ll have to commit high treason, have to serve the enemy well…

The basic plot revolves around Howard W. Campbell Jr, a renowned Nazi propagandist under Goebbels, currently awaiting trial for war crimes in an Israeli prison. This is his account to prove he is innocent and in fact a double agent. Vonnegut includes an ‘Editor’s Note’ situating the story and bringing a sense of realism (as if we are reading a real case) including the notation about ‘changed names’ to protect identities.

Using an old German typewriter, Campbell writes his confession but claims he was recruited as a spy for the US Intelligence and therefore is not the enemy. ‘Is Howard guilty?‘ is the million-Deutschmark question. Vonnegut cleverly conveys the words to come across as Howard’s own, but we mustn’t completely rely on the character as a reliable narrator of course: he is quite literally writing for his life. There is a feeling of guilt-related honesty from the voice, however. Campbell admits he was very good at his job, responsible for promoting the dogma and converting many to become Nazi sympathisers. Born in America, a young Campbell emigrated to Germany with his parents, and grew to become a respected playwright. Happily married to his beloved Helga, mingling with her family amongst the higher circles of German society, he is suddenly approached and recruited by Major Frank Wirtanen (‘unit unspecified’) as an American intelligence agent. He would be hired and required to broadcast Nazi news to the US, spreading the word, casting a wider net of support. Yet he claims he was told he was also unknowingly sending coded messages of enemy secrets and strategies to listening American intelligence.

The answer as to whether or not he is guilty is not straightforward regardless. Despite his underlying good and useful work helping the allies, he still advocated in favour of Nazism – helping to prolong the problem, creating a ripple effect that cost lives. And yet we hope he is innocent based on his pitiable account. I won’t give away the final conclusion but Vonnegut manages to create a moral/ethical dilemma for the reader: should Campbell be reprimanded for his actions? He was a Nazi official after all.

Much like Slaughterhouse 5, Vonnegut includes moments of his own experiences as a soldier – referring to his time sheltering in a slaughterhouse in Dresden from allied bombing, for example. His satirical, anti-hero attitude to war is eerily prevalent, entertaining, and perhaps the main reason why I enjoyed the novel so much. It simultaneously brings comic irony and heart-breaking melancholy, reminding readers that War is absurd, excruciating, and not solely made up of romantic, lion-hearted men. Vonnegut also doesn’t waste much time with lengthy descriptions, the book remains concise but not wanting, embodying the impassioned tone of a desperate playwright. Impressive, particularly when referencing such a waffled-about subject as the War.

The Spectator wrote of the author: ‘After Vonnegut, everything else seems a bit tame’, and I’m inclined to agree.


Rating: 5 out of 5.