A WOMAN HAS WRITTEN THIS
By MARCELLA HARDY
[Editor’s
Note: The late Marcella Hardy was a gifted writer who loved India and
Indians. She contributed some valuable articles to Triveni. Sri Manjeri
S. Isvaran, who paid a moving tribute to her memory in Triveni for
January 1957, has kindly passed on to us the typescript of the present article,
which was in his possession, for publication in Triveni.]
There
are probably as many women literati today as there are litterateurs, and there
is nothing to distinguish between them as to the quality of
craftsmanship. Nevertheless, a difference exists between the works of the one
and the works of the other, and this distinction is what forms the endeavour of
this little discussion.
No
rule of thumb can be elaborated wherewith to define the distinction; if
ever valid, the assumption that women have a Literary world of their own is no
longer a fact. All those traits which men so willingly attribute to
women as their birthright, are seldom the dominant features in the works of
litteratrices; on the other hand, the characteristics accepted as masculine,
especially as to subject-matter have been dealt with masterfully by women,
especially since the 1914–18 war. We must seek the distinction between women’s
and men’s production in the sort of phenomenon which distinguishes a man’s from
a woman’s voice–it is a matter of vibrations, resonances, of pitch timbre. Even
the time-honoured struggle for equality of the sexes has not succeeded in
wiping out the difference, either of voice or manner; it is there, recognizable
though not concretely definable.
Let
us start this discussion by examining those characteristics whereby women do
not differ from their masculine colleagues; having thus cleared the ground, we
may arrive at some estimation of the difference and where to seek it.
Incidentally, all statements are necessarily very general and subject to the
moulding of exceptions. Also, for obvious reasons, the examples here given are
taken mostly from English writing in preference to any other, since it happens
to be better known here.
Is
there a difference in the choice of subject-matter in the works of men or
women? In this, it might be thought, the person behind the story would most
clearly make itself felt; but no, that is by no means the case, and certainly
not since the last several decades, even if it existed to an appreciable extent
earlier. Bold realism, psychological self-analysis, the clinical examination of
reactions, abstract studies or philosophical, to take one example, have long
not been the monopoly of either Proust or Joyce. Conversely, the anodine, moral
love-story, the triumph of virtue over sin, the rose-water idyl ending in
wedding-bells have never been the private hunting ground of women writers.
Though it is true that a good deal of the typist-into-duchess type of story, or
its equivalent in the various democratic countries of Europe, is owed to a
considerable extent to feminine flair for what appeals to a large section of
the reading-public, not an inconsiderable portion of this type is owed to
respectable fathers of a family who know with equal flair how to write
‘saleable stuff.’ The distinction between the productions of the one or the
other need not occupy us here.
It
is often the serious, speculative, introspective, character-study that has
drawn women into the field of letters; even at a time when there were far fewer
women writers than today, a time when a woman’s more restricted horizons could
well have imposed on their writings an unmistakable limiting stamp, such names
as George Sand, George Eliot, the Brontes show that the woman who writes steps
into a wide world in which she meets man as an equal, Apart from the quality of
tone, the choice of matter cannot be said to be peculiarly feminine, and this
doubtless contributed a good deal to the success of those early women writers,
facing prejudice to reach an unknown but eager public.
Is
it, then, that women understand their own sex better than men do, that they
depict it more truly; just as, presumably, men may be better portrayers of the
masculine character than women? This is not the case, either, for both men and
women have shown as much sensitive insight into the mind of the opposite sex as
they have into that of their own; both have dealt with the mysteries of love
from the other’s point of view, with the common-places of life, with marriage
or celibacy, with equal depth and courage, with similar thoughtfulness and
verisimilitude, Then, is it a greater vigour of expression, a defter
manipulation of language, a closer hold on the reins of eloquence? Not that
either, since women play with as extended a vocabulary as men and
with as much precision as the best. Who can lead a G. B. Stern and not say, as
of an Ethel Mannin, ‘she writes like a man,’ and mean that there is nothing
untidy or loose in language or thought?
Must
one look for the distinction in man’s broader outlook on life, in his faculty
for being impartial, in his reasoned approach to his subject; does he draw less
on his own emotional reactions and more on his study of humanity; does he
analyse better and pursue his thought more thoroughly? Not so, certainly with
the better women writers: Virginia Woolf, for example, has shown the breadth of
a woman’s outlook, a generous humanism, a sense of proportion and fairness
(said to be absent in women), and keen analysis. A good authoress does not, as
used to do the big names of the romantic period all over Europe, persecute her
characters with merciless one-track concentration on proving a thesis, and that
is one of her saving graces. Nor can one seek the distinction in man’s deeper
general learning, certainly not today in the fiction field, and even less so in
the specialised field of science. Some of the best historical novels during the
last several decades, for example, have been by women; not merely novels about
well known incidents in their country’s history, but about episodes and times
that require tremendous research and discrimination as well as interpretation
of data to convert into a human document that is a piece of literature as well.
Names escape me just at the moment, but let Naomi Mitchieson be cited as an
outstanding instance.
Despite
her undoubted sense of humour, woman is not a humorist; she lacks the hard
brilliancy and ruthlessness which produces witticism. The farce and the comedy
are not her way of seeing things, and she has wisely avoided attempting their
writing. Very few women have possessed the verve of a Jane Austen or the
twinkling sense of fun of a Christina Rosetti; it is with men that one finds
that delightful idiocy of a Dornford Yates, of a Wodehouse, of a Leacock, or
the magic touch in the midst of serious thought of a G. K. Chesterton. In
another pre-dominantly masculine realm, the detective-story, Dorothy L. Sayers
and Agatha Christie have proved that induction and reasoning is not a masculine
preserve.
It
is after all in the non-humorous novel, the psychological study, the account of
character or custom, the interpretative biography that women have given their
best; the novel with a problem that should and can be solved
happily. This may perhaps be accounted for by what life demands of woman as a
woman; she is never able to detach herself quite so completely as man, she
takes herself more seriously; she can never be that complete outside observer
seeing ‘the funny side’, because somewhere a string binds her to life’s story.
She has that extra gift of more pity and charity lying in reserve ready to be
called up, which make her strain after the happy ending; whereas man may accept
the unhappy, as being truer to what he observes.
The production of authoresses is, of course, a complement to that of men, similar in so many ways, and yet distinguishable by intimate undertones. Just as we know, when shaking hands with a woman, that it is a woman’s hand, just as we recognize a woman’s voice, even over the telephone, just so does the reader feel, ‘a woman has written this,’ and not be mistaken in his perception.