The Scheme of Things

Evening Post, Volume CXXVII, Issue 111, 13 May 1939, Page 19

The Scheme of Things

By M.H.&

There are many strange things in the world nowadays apart from the shadow of war or the peculiarities of nations or rulers. The thing which arises quite often is the strange attitude of mind of quite a number of women. Formerly they were people who shrank too much from the realities or ugly things of life, and did not take a sufficiently active part in endeavouring to combat evils which were quite within their province. At least it was only the exceptional women who did so, and they brought odium on themselves and on those connected with them, causing a great deal of unpleasantness to all concerned. Nowadays all this is changed. It is not only changed, but violently so. Women writers appear to come to the fore with the most sordid ideas, many of which are not exploited, or are neglected, by men. A well-known and favourite author in his preface says: "I am a romanticist because I strive to see life as it is, neither more grim, nor less lovely. I have always believed that the first duty of a writer is to tell a story, not to conduct an autopsy. Througn many years I have seen the acclamation of stories false to human nature, stressing the aberrations, and obsessed with aspects of life more suited to the clinical laboratory than the library. The obscenities and the sexual hysteria of many of these masterpieces, not only set a fashion of trans-Channel smuggling, but encouraged a horde of scribes, with equal licence but unequal genius, to write stories (or plays) whose poverty of style and construction was covered by a pretentious stucco of psychology."

This, from a writer of high achievement, is worth considering nowadays. He has produced thirteen most successful books, and is engaged on others, and always has his public with him, the imprint showing that many editions of each book are printed before the cheaper edition comes forth, opening a vista of intellectual pleasure and amusement to a much larger public. What appears strange and most unfortunate is that ever since the Great War women writers have produced the most unpleasant—it might even be said loathsome —matter for publication, either in books or .plays. They appear to have a complex which makes them want particularly to attack their own sex. Some are exceptionally clever in singling out the worst characteristics of other women, and show, them up in a way which does much harm, because, as a matter of fact, there is in every community • a strata of amoral women who cannot be reckoned with in the ordinary way. They have peculiarities which lay them open to this kind of clinical dissection, and because of these it is not possible to entirely discount the books, etc., which take their worst qualities ■•- make the most of them; It is a" most unfortunate practice on the part of writers, specially if they • have talent and are able to place their characters before the world with any sort of semblance of truth.

It was Tennyson who put it poetically that "A lie which is part of a truth is the hardest matter to fight." So it is with these sex-traducers, who, taking the small proportion of the V%vy worst of either sex, write as if xney were the common kind of folk to be met with every day in great numbers and in all sorts of conditions of life. It is very hard on the decent women or, for that matter, decent men, that they should be pilloried in this manner, for "mud always sticks," and there are always people of both sexes who are ready to believe the worst of the other and rejoice in saying "I told you so" when they come across isolated instances of the people portrayed by these traducers. It is a depressing thing, and one that should be combated as far as possible, especially on account of the world difficulties around which add so much to the burden of those who think worth-while thoughts and read worth-while literature. It is hard to struggle against this kind of tfcing, and it should not be thrust upon the people nowadays who have a heavy burden of emotional trouble, quite apart from any personal matters. What seems strange even to those who think most kindly of womenkind is that in plays particularly they are the first to lead the laughter and applause when vulgarities or impiety are expressed from the stage. The same can be said when there is anything very sad, or lovemaking played. No matter how well and artistically it may be done, there is always the high-pitched or raucous laugh. Many years ago, when Brough and Boucicault brought their wonderfully charming and amusing plays to New Zealand, one who knew them well asked if this kind of laughter was not very disconcerting. A smile was the answer, and the reply added was that some people were afraid of showing emotion when anything sad was enacted, and laughed instead, while others always found any kind of lovemaking most amusing. "We take it from whence it comes, and don't mind a bit," was the conclusion,

which was a comforting thought to those who admired their wonderful artistry in all they said, did, or produced. Therefore, it is possible in these days, when the broadest things are "put across" and are received with apparent joy and satisfaction, that people are not so pleased as they appear. It is to be hoped not. The novelist quoted adds that most proselytes to any kind of style or manner of writing have little moderation; their make-up is thick with improbabilities. . . A romantic writer need never widely desert the path of fact, or, at least, never to the degree of the "realist," who seems unable to believe in nobility of human nature, coincidence, heroism, chastity, unselfishness, or simple charm. ... "I have never been able to believe in that realism whose nearness is to Freud and the hospital for nervous diseases,'1 he says. "Sheer romance, I fear, would have no approval from the realist for whom Venice must be a bad smell, and moonshine on an old Italian garden a heavy stage property. 'But have you wine and music still. And statues and a bi-ight-eyed love, And foolish thoughts of good and ill, And prayers to them sit above.' '' This finishes a fine and thoughtful introduction to a delightful book of travel in a lovely country, with just enough romance to make the reader touch with finger-tops "the ivory gates and golden" of a real and fine story of love and adventure. So it can be done, and successfully, without injuring the soul and mind of any person—which cannot be said of all the writings of today.