the spelling of her name, the scenes of her
childhood and adolescence, the spelling of her
husband's name, the very existence of her hus-
band, all have been subjects of dispute. It
makes matters ticklish and exciting for her
biographer. Is he to call her Aphra, Ayfara,
Aphara, Aphora, Afra, Apharra, Afara, or,
more fantastically, Aphaw or even Fyhare? Is
he to call her Amis or Johnson? Is he to write
Behn, Bhen, or Behen? Is he to keep her at
Wye or to send her off to Surinam? If he is
to send her to Surinam, is he to send her there
once, or twice? Is he to believe in Van der
Albert and Van Bruin? She lies under a black
marble slab in Westminster Abbey, and cannot
answer these questions.

But let us say straight away that Aphra Behn
is no Shakespeare, the smallest clue to the de-
tail of whose life would be precious and worth
pursuing. The biographer picking his way
through the tangle of dates and facts, pouncing
with delight on some unexpected corroboration,

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