Noon may not display either genius or much profundity, but it is like a ray of sunshine; it brightens up a life that too many are tempted to find futile and unjust and it leaves no room for pessimism.
Mrs. Dorr’s A Woman of Fifty is about as introspective as an account of a very active king in a chess game might be. It is, in truth, an account of feminism poured into an autobiographical mould by a clever reader of the trend of the day toward that form of literature. There is much in it that is personal, no doubt, but certainly the motive is in the direction of a “movement” rather than toward an analysis of individual reactions to that movement. If Mrs. Dorr’s purpose had been unmixed self-revelation, I have the feeling she would have done it in a more up-to-the-moment manner; in the hair-splitting, soul-dissecting fashion of the hour.
As biography, I don’t think it holds water. As a summing up of the struggle of women toward recognition as entities, it is vigorous, rather dashing, well put together with a perception of essentials, and valuable as a record.
The writer becomes more likeable as the book progresses, but the reader is satisfied that fate has not made his and her paths cross. At times, he wishes she would either get out of the picture or add something vital to it. She has made a “go,” but at the same time, in trying to write a double header, a so-called personal narrative with a purpose that is far from personal, she has now and then failed; the individual gets in the way of the subject up for discussion—feminism. But the book is readable and this is a quality of which not all biographies can boast.
Chinese ladies have had their day in literature. They have served the same purpose as European women in building or destroying Empires when such existed. Reading about them, we do not anticipate that we shall deepen our knowledge of personality, but we know that we shall be convinced anew of the potency of pulchritude; of the inconstancy of man.
Yang Kuei-Fei, who lived in the eighth century, was one of a quartette of famous beauties whose tradition is still alive in the Celestial Empire; one was known for her beauty, another for her patriotism; a third for her virtue, but Yang Kuei-Fei, who was the most beautiful of all, is known to fame for her artfulness. She held, in her lily-white hand, the fate of the Empire, and, aided by her beauty and her ambition, she climbed to the high position of Emperor’s favourite concubine. That she was not successful in steering the ship of state into a safe harbour may have been partly due to woman’s alleged and accepted incapacity in political matters—but the story of her life as told by Mrs. Shu-Chiung shows plainly that it was largely due to her falling in love with a young Tartar. The Emperor loved her—and his love was of the sort that blinds its victims so completely as to make them absurdly credulous—but he was unable to resist the charm of his former favourite and of the sister of Yang Kuei-Fei. Yang Kuei-Fei was in love with the Emperor, because he was Emperor, and incapable of withstanding the ardent love of the Tartar. Orgies and debauches culminated in tragedy, downfall and death—but as in all Chinese stories there must be a tenuous element of dream, of etherealness, of mysticalness—and it relieves the horror of the story and its pathos.
BOOKS CITED
Ariel, The Life of Shelley
an class="hang">André Maurois, trans, by Ella d’Arcy. D. Appleton and Company