A Woman at Forty

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 627, 2 April 1929, Page 5

A Woman at Forty

A WOMAN of 40 to-day is in a more difficult position than her daughter or her mother. Half her life lies behind her, and she is faced with the question of what to do with the remaining half. A profession is seldom a primrose path for a woman of 40. Married women of 40 often find themselves handicapped when competing -with their jmunger rivals in any form of purely intellectual effort.

The world at large has busied itself for some time past in counselling the younger generation. It has discussed the Modern Girl and her problems from every possible and irapos- | sible angle. The Modern Child, with its temperament and its complexes, i has been a favourite theme ever since ! the rise of psycho-analysis. Even grandmothers have had their ! share of attention: they have been told how to avoid being shocked and how to grow old gracefully. But with all this attention directed to the ! very young and very old. it has rather overlooked perhaps the most pressing , feminine problem of all —the problem of the woman of 40. In many ways a woman of 40 to- : day is in a more difficult position than | her daughter or her mother. Her daughter is filled with the first flush of youth’s vigour and confidence; she has all the advantages of a thorough and up-to-date education; and her life, ! lying as it does completely in one age —the post-war age—is relatively straightforward and uncomplicated.

So, too her mother’s life belongs to a single age—the pre-war age—and is too far advanced to be adjusted to new' conditions. The problems of her life have already been solved. But a woman of 40 is astride the dividing line betw'een the pre-war age and the new. She has been educated to fit her for a set of conditions which no longer exist; she has been brought up to believe in creeds and standards of behaviour which are being more and more discredited. Half her life lies behind her, and she is faced, in an age of immensely increased fepiinine activity, w'ith the question of wjhat to do with the remaining half. Small wonder if she feels a little perplexed. Hitherto she has found her life a full one. Her schooldays and early twenties were spent in the spacious, uncomplicated days before the war. Then came marriage—I am speaking generally, of course—children, and twenty years or so during which she was absorbed in the business of motherhood. But now r her children are grown up and able to look after themselves. Some, perhaps, most of them, have gone out into the world. The house is silent and empty: time is apt to hang

a little heavily no longer can she I evade the oft-recurring question: | “What am I to do with the rest of i my life?” She considers her women friends. How are they solving the problem? Some of them seem to be content ; with a purely social life; and interminable round of dinner parties; a monotonous succession of afternoon visits and bridge. Others have gone into some line of business. Out of 306,000 women of 40 in this country, I am told that 70,000 are in business, 11,000 being in commercial occupations. For now that one no longer loses caste by running a teashop or selling hats, I women in every class of sbeiety are i plunging into commercial ventures. Designing and selling dresses is, I should think, the most favourite way of making money—or perhaps I ought to say of losing it. Hairdressing is another very popular occupation at the moment. Several women I know are directing laundries.

I myself have a pharmacy, which calls for a good deal more imagination and resource than you might suppose. You see, it is not merely a dispensing pharmacy. Besides being that, it has lines of special remedies which are unique: it has taken me years to find out the prescriptions and to assure myself of their efficacy. Moreover. it' includes a clinic designed by eminent physicians and professors, and carried on under doctors’ orders, by thoroughly qualified nurses, for violet-ray (artificial sunlight! treat ment, which is given free of charge to poor children suffering from rieTlien, for the few, there is the adoption of a profession, but this is seldom a primrose path for a woman of 40. It may be that in the days of her girlhood she was reading, shall we say. for Medicine, when she fell in love and decided to marry instead. But perhaps her taste for the subject remained, and she stuck to her purpose of returning to it as soon as circumstances- allowed. Now that her children are grown up she has her chance at last. There is still time for her to become a doctor, or whatever else she wishes. But she will need grit if she is to

see it through, for now she finds herself in competition with scores of younger women armed with the invincible confidence of youth, and with all the advantages of an eltiicent technical education. Her young rivals have come straight from school and university with the knowledge of their subject still fresh in their minds. But she has had twenty long years to forget the all too little she once knew. Small wonder if her heart sinks at the prospect of returning to intensive study and exams,! For it may well be that her years of married life have dulled the cutting edge of her brain and left her less fitted for mental concentration. As a rule, married life is more on the emotional than the intellectual plane. Husbands, however intellectual themselves do not usually wish for a highly intellectual home life. When they come home they want relaxation from their mental labours, and they look for it in their wives. They like their wives to be —what shall I say?—a little “fluffy,” and women, being the adaptable creatures they are, fall into the part. So it happens that the married women of 40 often find themselves handicapped when competing with their younger rivals in any form of purely intellectual effort. They therefore turn to other activities in which tact, organising ability, experience of human nature and a knowledge of the world count more than a highly specialised brain. You find them iu charge of various concerns, commercial, educational, philanthropic; you find them engaged in social work and politics and often you find them occupied in some practical connection w'ith children, or at the head of feminist movements.

Whatever they decide to do, it is certain that fewer women of 40 will be content to confine their energies to other homes. There is plenty of work to be done in the world to-day, and it is generally acknowledged now that there are some things which women can do even better than men!

A GUIDE IN PALERMO

l left the tiny Palermo hotel early in the morning, bent on quite independent exploring. I wanted neither a carriage nor a guide, but there he was. rocking iu his very high seat, complete with tall hat, whip and pipe! His brown eyes smiled and, appraising his sturdy little mare, I -wished him good morning and passed on. He whistled softly, and the huge redpainted wheels of his “earozza” clattered on the cobbles. I turned a corner, and so did he. Then I stopped and explained politely that I did not wish to have his carriage. His own courtesy was quite disarming; he hoped I might want it later on! I shrugged and disappeared into a church nearby. The frescoes were uninteresting, and fresh air seemed a necessity. I came out of the church to find him waiting. This time he merely gathered up his reins, and the red wheels clattered on behind me. Followed brief visits to a picture gallery, a shop or two, a cremeria for a hurried cup of coffee, while my unperturbed Jehu waited outside. After about two hours the heat began to pall and, weakly enough, I hailed him. I have nevei regretted it. What this man. didn’t know about his native town wouldn’t be worth remembering. To funny, unfrequented places he drove me, perched sideways, talking either to his mare or to me. As a carozza-driver, he seemed wasted. Buildings and streets took surprising lite from his w-ords. His whip became a magic wand. His friendly brown eyes held such eloquence that I didn’t much care whether his data were accurate or not.

At last, we drove down a remote, narrow street where the grey walls of tall houses seemed all one with the bright sun on them, where children's bare brown feet pattered on the cobbles, where a few odd flower stalls threw out splashes of yellow and crimson glory. He pointed to an ancient house, and halted. His talk rose in majestic cadences. The house story came out. The building was old—ah, so very old—centuries had given it dignity and mellowness, but its greatest honour lay not in mere age. “Did someone live here in the past?” I asked curiously. “You may well ask, signorina,” he answered modestly. “Me—that was born there and still lives there. I love my old house, signorina.” Remembering the enchanting colour of his talk, I merely nodded, without even smiling, and pompously, holding the reins, he drove me back to my hotel. In a way, that house merited notice. For all I know, it was the home of Palermo's greatest storyteller! I.S. The Hon. Mrs. Reginald Fellowes is now acclaimed the best-dressed woman in London —when she is in London, which isn’t nearly often enough. She carries this title lightly, and it is interesting, therefore, to note that she has been wearing lately a black fur beret, a short black fur coat to match it, and a black skirt made of soft wool. Her hat brooch was of the new smoked crystal. The I-lon. Mrs. Fellowes is a Frenchwoman, daughter of the fourth Due Decazes, and a direct descendant of the Due Decazes who was the favourite Minister of Louis XVIII. She was, before her marriage to a son of Lord de Ramsey, the. widow of Prince Jean de Broglie.