Books in Brief: Mata Hari

Mata Hari: The True Story, by Russell Warren Howe (Dodd, Mead, 292 pp., $17.95)

She stood five feet nine inches, and had absolutely no bust. She rarely smiled and was rarely on time. She was a father-seeker in men, but gave her heart to a chap young enough to be her son. She slept with lovers on an “almost industrial” scale, made the striptease acceptable, and, when she was shot by the French in 1917 on charges of espionage for Germany, blew a kiss to her executioners. Is it any wonder that around this Frisian country lass who called herself “The Light of Day” legends have clustered ever since? Is it also any wonder that only a single serious study of her has appeared until now, Sam Waagenaar’s Mata Hari (1965)? Now, however, Mr. Howe, an Anglo-American historian, has produced a fuller account. Through favoritism and luck he penetrated the French military archives and has emerged with a well-written if sardonic biography. Because certain files are still closed or missing, he cannot answer all the questions about “the best-known spy name in the world.” Nor has he disclosed by what magic of personality “she charmed men as infallibly as sugar and arsenic charm flies.” But he has pulled off one of the basic requirements of biography: He made at least one reader—who agrees that Mata Hari was “superficial, supercilious, self-indulgent”—nevertheless feel a pang of response toward this girl.

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Curtis Carroll Davis

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Mata Hari: The True Story, by Russell Warren Howe (Dodd, Mead, 292 pp., $17.95)

She stood five feet nine inches, and had absolutely no bust. She rarely smiled and was rarely on time. She was a father-seeker in men, but gave her heart to a chap young enough to be her son. She slept with lovers on an “almost industrial” scale, made the striptease acceptable, and, when she was shot by the French in 1917 on charges of espionage for Germany, blew a kiss to her executioners. Is it any wonder that around this Frisian country lass who called herself “The Light of Day” legends have clustered ever since? Is it also any wonder that only a single serious study of her has appeared until now, Sam Waagenaar’s Mata Hari (1965)? Now, however, Mr. Howe, an Anglo-American historian, has produced a fuller account. Through favoritism and luck he penetrated the French military archives and has emerged with a well-written if sardonic biography. Because certain files are still closed or missing, he cannot answer all the questions about “the best-known spy name in the world.” Nor has he disclosed by what magic of personality “she charmed men as infallibly as sugar and arsenic charm flies.” But he has pulled off one of the basic requirements of biography: He made at least one reader—who agrees that Mata Hari was “superficial, supercilious, self-indulgent”—nevertheless feel a pang of response toward this girl.