A Woman Has Written This

[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 toher 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 tothe 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.

Norule 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 sowillingly 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.