Alexander Borodin and the Education of Women

Posted on August 29, 2026 by Athene Donald

For those of a certain age who remember Chris Tarrant’s Who wants to be a millionaire?’, there was a moment when the contestant had reached the million dollar question which was: What was the composer Borodin’s profession? To me, that was easy. He was a chemist in St Petersburg. Being a composer was very much a part-time occupation, although he wrote some wonderful pieces, ranging from the thumping beat of the Polovstian dances to more reflective music, such as representing a camel train In the Steppes of Central Asia. He met his pianist wife Ekaterina during his studies in Heidelberg, when she was there recovering from tuberculosis. She alerted him to the problematic situation of women’s education in Russia and in due course he followed this up: certain that women would make excellent doctors, Borodin became one of the founders of the School of Medicine for Women in St. Petersburg. To this day, women make up an unusually high proportion of the doctors in Russia.

So, what was the situation for women in mid-late nineteenth century Russia? In the 1860’s there was a spirit of radicalism in the air. Tsar Alexander II enacted the 1861 Emancipation Manifesto, proclaiming the emancipation of the serfs on private estates and of domestic serfs. This encouraged the Russian intelligentsia to think the time was ripe for more progress, including for women’s education.  Turgenev referred to these people as nihilists. They believed strongly in the natural sciences as relevant to progress and the power of education including for women. Science to these people was a way of improving wider society, pushing back the barriers of religion and superstition.

The Government was aware that, to the radical element, science was equated with progress, but they also knew they had to expand science education since there was a great need for technical experts. Recognizing this, they sent many men abroad to study science in German and Swiss universities, including the chemists Dmitri Mendeleev and Vladimir Markovnikov – and Borodin.

Meanwhile back in St Petersburg in the early 1860s, women were allowed into lectures as ‘unofficial auditors’, welcomed by the professors and tolerated by officialdom. The St Petersburg Medical-Surgical Academy began to admit women to their courses, unofficially, although they could not obtain degrees. Two key figures were Nadezhda Suslova and Maria Obrucheva (Sechnova upon marriage), who were both closely linked to radical groups. They served to attract other women over the next couple of years, believing the future was opening up for all of them. It was hoped that the ongoing revision of University statutes would formally admit women to all universities in Russia, with the same rights as men. However, the Tsarist Government quashed this plan and by 1864 all universities had clamped down on women’s attendance once more.

As a consequence of this, the most determined women who had sufficient financial resources, left Russia to study abroad, mostly to Zurich, but also Heidelberg and Leipzig, where foreigners could be admitted to the University without formal qualifications  (the attestat obtained in the gymnasia). Suslova obtained a medical degree from Zurich in 1867, the first Russian woman to do so and was subsequently allowed to practice in Russia. Many women followed her in obtaining medical qualifications, and by the 1880s Russia had more licensed women physicians than anywhere else in Europe. Another notable first was Sofya Kovalevskya, who studied in Heidelberg and Berlin and, in 1874, was the first nineteenth century woman anywhere to obtain a mathematics doctorate, in this case from Gottingen.

However, the number of women studying in Zurich did not please the authorities back home, and a proclamation was made stating that any women who remained there after New Year 1874 would be barred from ever being hired by the Government, or studying in the future in any Russian institute of higher education or taking qualifying exams there. Some returned home, but others stuck it out and gained degrees and good careers, despite continuing to be harassed.

But the Government could not ignore the pressure to permit women to study medicine, and by 1872 a course in obstetrics for women was initiated in St Petersburg, leading to a qualification as a ‘learned midwife’, and this was where Borodin came in. He was active in the administrative activities of the Medico-Surgical Academy and, together with a number of colleagues, he helped found this first medical course for women. This quickly became a course of higher medical education for women, with Borodin devoting considerable time to both the administration of the school and to teaching.

However, after the then Tsar was killed in a bombing, he was succeeded by the highly reactionary Alexander III.  Under Alexander III the Medico-Surgical Academy was renamed the Military Medical Academy and placed under the control of the Ministry of War. This ministry refused to allow the use of the military hospital as an academic base for the women’s medical courses. For the next three years, 1882-1885, Borodin and others were able to restructure the course under the aegis of the Ministry of Education, but thereafter it too  was closed by the authorities, greatly affecting Borodin who was said to have burst into tears.

When finally courses for women were reopened, they were mainly steered towards courses in languages or art. The Government clearly felt the association between the natural sciences and medicine and progressive thought was too dangerous to be permitted. Thereafter there was a long period before the situation improved. The short couple of decades when there was a brief flowering of higher education for women in the sciences coincided with a rich period of science for men in Russia too. Borodin was not one of those leaders of science himself, but he was a keen supporter of the women, and for this he was much appreciated. When he died in 1887 his women students had a silver plate inscribed on his burial casket with the words: “To the Founder, Protector and Defender of the School of Medicine for Women.”

Source Material for this post mainly came from:
Ann Hibner Koblitz, Science, Women and the Russian Intelligentsia: The Generation of the 1860s in History of Women in the Sciences, ed Sally Gregory Kohlstedt, University of Chicago Press 1999

And Medicine, molecules and music: Alexander Borodin (1833-1887) – surgeon, scientist, composer, educator, women’s rights advocate, Broadway award winner, Brooklyn Transplant blog by Stephen Keller, September 26 2014

 

 

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Mentors in Passing

Posted on August 23, 2026 by Athene Donald

Recently I was approached by a young woman after a talk, requesting we met so I could give her some advice. In fact, I suspect she didn’t actually want advice, so much as reassurance that what she had in mind to do was sensible and likely to achieve her aims. Mentoring comes in many forms, from long term over years – during which the relationship may change to be much more that of equals, each finding the other a helpful, objective voice – to a single meeting at a critical juncture. There is also the not unrelated but distinct persona of sponsor that may be valuable at different stages, someone who puts you forward for a prize or a promotion, often without even telling you they’ve done so.

I have been fortunate in having some great mentors in my life, some of whom I’ve written about on these pages, even if sadly at a point when they have just died (Ed Kramer and Sam Edwards in particular), but other people in the field have supported me at different times in ways for which I’m permanently grateful. But here I want to celebrate someone whose name I don’t know, perhaps never did, and whom I only met once, but who shared wise words with me at a critical point in my career.

I met this woman by chance, when travelling from Ithaca (where I was a postdoc at Cornell University) to New York City to visit my husband, who was living in Manhattan at the time, working at the Rockefeller Institute. It’s about a 5-hour journey by Greyhound bus, and we were sitting next to each other. For whatever reason we started talking, although I’m not a great one for engaging in conversation with strangers, particularly if you are trapped next to each for several hours. It turned out she was an academic from nearby Ithaca College, not, I think, a scientist, but established in her career unlike me.

The critical juncture I was facing at this particular point was that I was about to apply for a faculty position in my department (Materials Science and Engineering) at Cornell. Nothing unusual there for a postdoc to try to secure a permanent, or at least tenure-track, position. However, by this point I was in my third year as a postdoc in the department, and my first two had been an unmitigated disaster. I had not enjoyed the project, not put any substantial effort into it, my experiments had not gone well and the relationship with my then supervisor had remained civil but was hardly cordial. An unsurprising response, given how unsuccessful I had been. At that point, at the end of two years of dreary unenthusiastic toil, no one would have thought for a second a tenure-track position might be on the horizon.

But…things had changed for me essentially instantaneously when I switched from grain boundaries in metallic bicrystals (the topic of my first postdoc) to working with Ed Kramer on the failure of polymers. Suddenly, I came alive. Whether this was for the stereotypical reason that as a woman I couldn’t think in three dimensions in the way studying the join between two misoriented crystals required, but  for whatever reason amorphous polymers engaged me in a way my previous project never had. Perhaps it was simply that I was fed up with being fed up and threw myself into the new project with renewed enthusiasm. Certainly  Ed was a very different kind of person from my first supervisor (Steve Sass), with whom it was apparent there was some kind of rivalry within the department, both being much of an age and seniority.

Be that as it may, for whatever reason, my first year working on polymers was a total transformation so that, by the start of my second year, I had become a plausible candidate for a faculty position. But, my problem was, how did I make a case I was a good choice when the whole department (I assumed, though possibly inaccurately) would know of my utter failure during those first two years, even if I was now transformed into an industrious and successful postdoc with Ed?

What this amazingly kind woman did for me on the bus, was to reassure me that if she were on an appointments committee, she would not simply rule me out for my two wasted years. That I had to own my failure and explain why things were different now. Over the course of those five hours trapped next to each other, she must have explored a lot of options with me, as well as discussed wider academic life. Her advice: that I should write a clear statement stating my position and owning the mistakes of the first two years at Cornell. She provided me with a framework to make my previous failure seem more explicable to the faculty, however ‘unfortunate’, and to make a case for why I was worth taking a punt on now. The details of that advice are long since lost to me, but I got off that bus feeling far more excited and positive than I had got on it. I turned up in New York feeling confident that I could write a covering letter which dealt with my lost two years in some plausible way.

This all happened nearly half a century ago (!), but the kindness and wisdom of this woman remains with me as someone who, in passing, made a big difference to me. I know that when thinking about mentoring, it is the long-term relationship that people tend to think about. But I am also aware that single conversations can be amazingly effective at some crucial moment. Individuals have told me how, some conversation with me made in passing, made such a (positive) difference to them, and it is always heartening to know that, even if I barely recall the interaction.  One doesn’t always know that someone is going to take a casual comment to heart, and it is also quite possible they may have some much more unfortunate and unintended consequence which one probably never hears about. Words matter, however carelessly they may be tossed out. Being kind to people when they’re feeling vulnerable is always important.

 

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Steamboat Ladies

Posted on August 14, 2026 by Athene Donald

The University of Cambridge has not had a very good week or two in the media. I’m not going to enter that fray given how much has already been written and I’m a long way away from the details of the crises, but I’ve had another blogpost in mind about a historical story relating to (lack of) diversity in the University. Having given two talks recently to, predominantly non-academic audiences, about the history of women at the University, the question of ‘Steamboat Ladies’ is much in my mind. So, here goes….

I’m an alumna of Girton College, the first women’s College in either Oxford or Cambridge. It was initially founded in Hitchin in 1869, before moving to its current site in 1872, safely up the (only) hill and a mile or two away from the haunts of male undergraduates. For many years I was a Fellow of Robinson College, founded in 1977, the only Cambridge undergraduate College to be founded as a mixed college. And from 2014-24 I was (the first female) Master of Churchill College, the first, formerly male College to vote to admit women, taking its initial mixed cohort in 1972, along with Clare and Kings. So, my personal history feels closely intertwined with the way women have become ‘mainstreamed’ within the University. I may have views about how successfully gender equality has been achieved at all levels; I may lack confidence the progress I’d like to think we made on this front some years ago (naturally I believe we did when I was the Gender Equality Champion and had a highly supportive PVC to work with in Jeremy Sanders), but formally there are no barriers for women now.

Not so, back in the early days of Girton and its companion women’s college Newnham, founded shortly afterwards. Women were tolerated, but they weren’t ‘real’ members of the University. Were women capable of serious study? Would it impact their reproductive capabilities (yes, really, people thought wombs might shrivel up if women studied too intensely)? Even amongst those pushing for women to be admitted to the university, there was disagreement about what the aim should be. Whereas Emily Davies (Girton’s founder) wanted women ultimately to pursue the same curriculum as men, initially Henry Sidgwick and Millicent Fawcett (Newnham’s founders) thought this was asking too much.

Over the next decade women were allowed to attend lectures, if the (male) lecturers permitted it. Not all did. In 1881 the University did agree that women could sit the same degree exams. However, their names appeared on a separate list from the standard results list and, worst of all, this did not mean women were admitted to degrees. They could not put the crucial letters BA after their name (note that in Cambridge, everyone gets a BA; no BSc’s are available). It was embarrassing when, in 1887 Agnata Frances Ramsay gained higher marks in the Classical Tripos than any man – but was not entitled to claim a Cambridge degree. A few years later in 1890, Philippa Fawcett (Millicent’s daughter) came top in the Mathematics Tripos. Normally, the student at the top of the maths tripos list could claim the title of ‘Senior Wrangler’, but not in her case as she wasn’t on that list at all, but on a separate one where her position was described as ‘placed above the Senior Wrangler’.

You might have thought, evidence such as this would have put the nay-sayers to shame and women would swiftly proceed to being admitted to degrees and treated just like the men, even if carefully segregated in their women’s only colleges. Sadly, not so. Although women were receiving degrees from other universities around the country, Cambridge was not willing to move with the times. In 1897 the matter was put to a vote – which had to be done in person in the Senate House, the administrative hub of the University. Anyone with an MA could vote and special trains were put on from London to bring people, sorry, men, to vote. (They were all men because anyone could claim a Cambridge MA six years and a term after first entering the university, but obviously that was only men.)  The vote was 1707 against the proposal, and only 661 in favour. The majority of men were totally opposed to letting women get degrees, not least because that would then mean they would be able to participate in the governance of the University, as well as borrow books from the University Library and other such ‘perks’.

This is where the Steamboat Ladies come in. Not being able to claim to have a BA was a substantial disadvantage for women, particularly for those wanting to enter a career such as teaching. They appeared to be unqualified, despite their years of study. Other universities, from Aberdeen to London, already allowed women to proceed to degrees, so the Cambridge women were disadvantaged.  For a brief period, 1904-7, Trinity College Dublin (TCD) allowed women who had passed Cambridge (and Oxford, which was in the same position) degree exams, to take a Dublin degree. Around 700 women (including Philippa Fawcett) availed themselves of this opportunity, probably rather more than had been expected. They became known as Steamboat Ladies because of their mode of travel on a steam ferry to reach Dublin. TCD did not let this state of affairs last long. As the women who studied at TCD (starting in 1904) proceeded to complete their own degrees, the offer to Oxbridge women was rescinded, sadly for them. The money that had been raised from the fees the Oxbridge women had paid for the privilege were put to creating a hall of residence for TCD’s own women students.

 

Steamboat Ladies

Following the admittance of women to degrees in Trinity in 1904 a request came from women in Oxford and Cambridge to have Trinity degrees awarded to them ad eundem gradum at a time when their own universities refused to confer degrees upon women. From TCD exhibition. This photograph shows these graduands in 1906 in TCD. (‘Eundem gradum’ comes from the Latin form of admission to degrees, meaning ‘to the same grade’, implying these Oxbridge women were being admitted on the same terms as those from TCD.)

However, Cambridge was still not willing to grant them degrees itself. It might have been thought that after the First World War, as the first women were granted the right to vote not least in recognition of all they had done for the war effort, the University would change its position. Or indeed, the embarrassment of realising Oxford had already taken this step in 1920. Not so. Another vote was called in 1921. The vote was less emphatically opposed to women being granted degrees, but it was still a firm ‘no’, with the victors ‘storming the gates’ at Newnham in celebration, thereby causing substantial damage.

Not till 1948 were women finally admitted to matriculate and take degrees, disgracefully long after every other university in the country had done so. This was long after women had been appointed to the various faculties; indeed by then, some had become professors in the University (although they still couldn’t borrow books from the University Library). Despite this, women were not entitled to put BA (or MA) after their name, nor participate in University governance, until 1948. Steamboat Ladies were a sadly short-lived phenomenon, but for those who managed to get to Dublin during those three years, highly significant.

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How did we manage before the Internet?

Posted on July 20, 2026 by Athene Donald

If you’ve read George Eliot’s Middlemarch (the Guardian’s recent choice as the best novel in the English language), you will recognize the problem Mr Casaubon faced in trying to write his magnum opus, relying on multiple books in a range of languages. It is no wonder that he never completed his Key to all the Mythologies, and even if Dorothea had been allowed to help him (and had been educated enough to know all the languages which he felt he had to be able to read), it would have been a nightmare of a challenge. Any researcher knows the challenge of (re)finding the right reference or quote to insert into their own work. Yet now, how different life is from Mr Casaubon’s. A few clicks on a computer and the world is (almost) at your fingertips. Many e-books are available to me, at least to read, through my own university library. Many archived papers can be found on JStor, or on the publication’s own pages. Unlike my predecessors, I don’t have to get a ticket to the British Library Reading Room in order to access obscure journals (or, at least, I have never felt the need so far in my life).

Reading a book by an American Catholic priest and Vice President of Notre Dame University, written in 1913 about women in science, reminds me how different access to information was for him. HJ Mozans was the pen name of the Jesuit scholar John Augustine Zahm, 1851-1921. (He also wrote about Darwinism, for which he got censured as a Catholic priest). His book, The Story of Women in Science: From Ancient Greece to the Early 20th Century (also referred to as Woman in Science in the Gutenberg edition) uncovers a wide range of women whose names were previously unfamiliar to me. It is, of course, ‘dated’ and yet it strikes me as far ahead of its time, written before either Oxford or Cambridge – let alone Princeton or Yale – had admitted women fully to degrees. He seems to have been prompted to write it when travelling around Greece, in particular considering the absence of recognition of the site of the ‘salon’ of Aspasia, consort of Pericles in the fifth century BCE. She was a courtesan and not an Athenian and therefore – unlike Athenian matrons – allowed to consort with men and circulate outside the home. This she did with great skill and effect. Contemplating this woman, he

‘began to realize, as never before, that women of intellectual eminence have received too little credit for their contributions to the progress of knowledge, and should have a sympathetic historian of what they have achieved in the domain of learning.’

Hence, over many years, he laboured over this book.

It must have been a startling revelation to those who read it, long before Margaret Rossiter pointed out how women had been systematically excluded from the scientific narrative, and coined the phrase, the Matilda Effect, for the way men appropriated the ideas of women. But how did he uncover the names of all these women when there was no internet? It is a puzzle. Many of them are still names that don’t turn up very often in discussion, and searching the web today often provides scant information about them. I did not previously know, for instance, that abbess Hildegard of Bingen (ca 1098-1179) – whose plainsongs turn up quite regularly on Radio 3 these days – wrote two ‘scientific’ books, one about healing and the aetiology of disease and the other concerning the natural world.

Or, from a much later period, I had never come across the name of Janet (or Jane) Taylor, 1804-1870. She became an expert navigator and astronomer, and was the first to recognize that the Earth was spheroidal, bulging slightly at the equator. This discovery changed how people navigated for the better, and she was able to correct locations at sea and recalibrate instruments. Given the name, I can turn up more information on the web easily enough. But for Mozans/Zahm, how did he manage?

We are spoilt for information these days, but inevitably too often these are not primary sources. That AI summary at the top of a Google search – is it accurate (and of course the answer is often not)? Does it give the original source so that one can check it and expand the information. Again, often not. But how much easier it is for me now, than for a Mozans, or indeed a Casaubon. I could even, although I’ve not attempted this yet, use a translation programme so that I don’t have to learn Greek to find out about Aspasia, nor use my schoolchild French and German to explore more recent learned women, such as Sophie Germain, Emilie du Châtelet or Dorothea Christiane Erxleben.

So, hats off to Mozans. He is impressive, but inevitably a bit dated. He sometimes slips back into the language of those who want women to be merely decorative and good housekeepers, even while he wants to laud these women from the past. For instance, of Nicole-Reine (also Hortense) Lepaute, an astronomer, who worked with Jérôme Lalande and Alexis Clairaut on calculations regarding when Halley’s comet would return, he says

‘it is also gratifying to be assured that her engrossing work in astronomy in no wise caused her to neglect her home duties or to lost that sweetness of character and delicacy of refinement for which she was noted before she entered upon the absorbing and taxing career of astronomical computer.’

Not many female astronomers would like to be remembered for their attention to home duties these days, however much the reality is they are likely to be doing it with more or less input from a partner. The reality is the chores still have to be done, but we – as women – no longer have to do as Mary Somerville said she felt obliged to do:

“I hid my papers as soon as the bell announced a visitor, lest anyone should discover my secret”,

something which would have been close to Jane Austen’s heart too. We – male or female – can do literature searches from the comfort of our own computer. But, as young women have told me too often, they may still get written out of the narrative of a research team’s endeavours, when a male student is allowed to lay claim to a woman’s research – and which historian of science will be able to track that down, by whatever means?

 

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Team Working and Loneliness

Posted on July 12, 2026 by Athene Donald

Some years ago, the Science Council created a list of ten different kinds of scientists, to showcase the fact that not every scientist does the same kind of work. Ranging from technician scientist to entrepreneur scientist via the more obvious researchers denoted explorer and investigator scientists, it covered many different aspects of the work scientists do. This list was created some years ago, although I suspect the case studies are being regularly updated. However, as someone said to me when we were discussing it recently, it can feel a little outdated. In particular, we were considering explorer scientist which was described as:

The Explorer Scientist is someone who, like the crew of the Enterprise, is on a journey of discovery “to boldly go where no one has gone before”. They rarely focus on a specific outcome or impact, rather they want to know the next piece of the jigsaw of scientific understanding and knowledge.

They are likely to be found in a university or research centre, or in Research & Development (R&D) at an organisation, and are likely to be working alone.

It was that last phrase we took exception to. Few scientists now work alone. Team work and collaboration, possibly across continents, is much more the flavour of the work these days, and implying we still live in the age of the ‘lone genius’ who is putting the jigsaw together on their own, strikes me as misleading and potentially off-putting to a teenager considering a career in science.

That idea of fitting in the next piece of a jigsaw reminds me of a description in Nobel Prize winner Venki’s book Gene Machine, where he refers to his then postdoc Brian Wimberley (at that point working in Venki’s old lab in the US, after Venki himself had moved to the LMB in Cambridge). Trying to place proteins within the so-called 30S subunit (part of a bacterial ribosome) had been ‘so exciting that Brian said it had been like eating crisps. Once he did the first one he couldn’t stop.’ Definitely like putting a jigsaw together; definitely not working on his own. There were many steps required to get to the point where the jigsaw could be completed, done by an array of different (kinds of) scientists on both sides of the Atlantic.

Venki was of course the team leader, and that – as fellow Occam’s Typewriter blogger Jenny Rohn said recently – can be a lonely role. There, one may be on one’s own, trying to make decisions about how the group should be run and funded. When a student turns up feeling lost or stymied by their research, how do you give them confidence, either at a personal or professional level? Indeed, how do you learn what is the right thing to do in such a situation? When group dynamics go astray, who does one turn to to get them on a sounder footing? Group dynamics can go wrong for many different reasons. Where there is a bully, it is the leader’s job to step in and try to effect behaviour change: to rein in the bully. Sadly, such people are often of the variety who ‘suck up and kick down’, so without a victim stepping forward such behaviour may be hard to spot by the head of the group.

That is a hard enough nut to crack. One of the hardest challenges I remember facing was when one of the senior postdocs in the team decided to undermine me because he felt the wider department was not appreciative of his work and therefore it must be my fault. It took me a long time to discover this was going on, because, of course, no one  mentioned it to me. But it became apparent when a more junior postdoc was being pushed to turn against me, even though they were working on a completely different project from the person trying to sway them. Here, I was indebted to the group secretary for drawing this to my attention, who served a wonderful role as a pastoral carer for everyone (myself most definitely included). Sadly, with ‘efficiency savings’, such local support has been phased out of my department, and probably more generally too. Such a vital component of care is lost when everything is centralised and there is no local non-academic present to be a safe pair of ears for anyone in the group.

Preparing students and postdocs, not just for how to work in teams without attempting to hog the limelight, but also how to lead projects and write grants, should be part of their training. Although grant writing is probably a skill most useful if staying in academia, the ability to project manage is likely to be useful in any sphere in which science is at the heart. Yet, too often, it isn’t one that gets much attention. Being taught some relevant skills could be helpful, but it won’t solve the problem of being a lonely leader. The best advice I can give to current and future leaders is to remember to cultivate a circle of trusted allies. These may be academics from a different department/university – be they collaborators or not – with whom difficult group personalities can be discussed without obvious conflicts of interest, or the group secretary (assuming such a person still exists). It could simply be a neighbour who has experience of managing conflict in a very different sector.

This ‘loneliness of the leader’ occurs in any sphere, but is probably as acute in academia as in politics, because competition is inherently always present. Who do you trust with your inner fears? I was lucky to have a school friend who ended up in personnel and professional training (not in academia), who was excellent at taking my rambling concerns, extracting a few key facts from my narrative and then asking the awkward questions I didn’t want to ask myself. In one case this boiled down to ‘ok, you don’t get on with this influential person, but what do you want from him?’, and I realised the answer was quite simple. I wanted their respect. That does not, of course, answer how to go about getting it, but it was a useful insight.

This set of musings was set in train by annoyance with the idea that anyone can still propagate the view that scientists largely work on their own, but there is no doubt that loneliness can still be a key component in a senior scientist’s life.

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