| Author: | Charlotte Perkins Gilman | ISBN: | 1230000193711 |
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing | Publication: | November 1, 2013 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Charlotte Perkins Gilman |
| ISBN: | 1230000193711 |
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication: | November 1, 2013 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
'If I were a man,...' that was what pretty little Mollie Mathewson always said when Gerald would not do what she wanted him to--which was seldom.
That was what she said this bright morning, with a stamp of her little high-heeled slipper, just because he had made a fuss about that bill, the long one with the 'account rendered,' which she had forgotten to give him the first time and been afraid to the second--and now he had taken it from the postman himself.
Mollie was 'true to type.' She was a beautiful instance of what is reverentially called 'a true woman.' Little, of course--no true woman may be big. Pretty, of course--no true woman could possibly be plain. Whimsical, capricious, charming, changeable, devoted to pretty clothes and always 'wearing them well,' as the esoteric phrase has it. (This does not refer to the clothes---they do not wear well in the least--but to some special grace of putting them on and carrying them about, granted to but few, it appears.)
She was also a loving wife and a devoted mother possessed of 'the social gift' and the love of 'society' that goes with it, and, with all these was fond and proud of her home and managed it as capably as--well, as most women do.
If ever there was a true woman it was Mollie Mathewson, yet she was wishing heart and soul she was a man.
And all of a sudden she was!
She was Gerald, walking down the path so erect and square-shouldered, in a hurry for his morning train, as usual, and, it must be confessed, in something of a temper.
Her own words were ringing in her ears--not only the 'last word,' but several that had gone before, and she was holding her lips tight shut, not to say something she would be sorry for. But instead of acquiescence in the position taken by that angry little figure on the veranda, what she felt was a sort of superior pride, a sympathy as with weakness, a feeling that 'I must be gentle with her,' in spite of the temper.
A man! Really a man--with only enough subconscious memory of herself remaining to make her recognize the differences.
At first there was a funny sense of size and weight and extra thickness, the feet and hands seemed strangely large, and her long, straight, free legs swung forward at a gait that made her feel as if on stilts.
This presently passed, and in its place, growing all day, wherever she went, came a new and delightful feeling of being the right size.
Everything fitted now. Her back snugly against the seat-back, her feet comfortably on the floor. Her feet?...His feet! She studied them carefully. Never before, since her early school days, had she felt such freedom and comfort as to feet--they were firm and solid on the ground when she walked; quick, springy, safe-as when, moved by an unrecognizable impulse, she had run after, caught, and swung aboard the car.
Another impulse fished in a convenient pocket for change-instantly, automatically, bringing forth a nickel for the conductor and a penny for the newsboy. These pockets came as a revelation. Of course she had known they were there, had counted them, made fun of them, mended them, even envied them; but she never had dreamed of how it felt to have pockets.
'If I were a man,...' that was what pretty little Mollie Mathewson always said when Gerald would not do what she wanted him to--which was seldom.
That was what she said this bright morning, with a stamp of her little high-heeled slipper, just because he had made a fuss about that bill, the long one with the 'account rendered,' which she had forgotten to give him the first time and been afraid to the second--and now he had taken it from the postman himself.
Mollie was 'true to type.' She was a beautiful instance of what is reverentially called 'a true woman.' Little, of course--no true woman may be big. Pretty, of course--no true woman could possibly be plain. Whimsical, capricious, charming, changeable, devoted to pretty clothes and always 'wearing them well,' as the esoteric phrase has it. (This does not refer to the clothes---they do not wear well in the least--but to some special grace of putting them on and carrying them about, granted to but few, it appears.)
She was also a loving wife and a devoted mother possessed of 'the social gift' and the love of 'society' that goes with it, and, with all these was fond and proud of her home and managed it as capably as--well, as most women do.
If ever there was a true woman it was Mollie Mathewson, yet she was wishing heart and soul she was a man.
And all of a sudden she was!
She was Gerald, walking down the path so erect and square-shouldered, in a hurry for his morning train, as usual, and, it must be confessed, in something of a temper.
Her own words were ringing in her ears--not only the 'last word,' but several that had gone before, and she was holding her lips tight shut, not to say something she would be sorry for. But instead of acquiescence in the position taken by that angry little figure on the veranda, what she felt was a sort of superior pride, a sympathy as with weakness, a feeling that 'I must be gentle with her,' in spite of the temper.
A man! Really a man--with only enough subconscious memory of herself remaining to make her recognize the differences.
At first there was a funny sense of size and weight and extra thickness, the feet and hands seemed strangely large, and her long, straight, free legs swung forward at a gait that made her feel as if on stilts.
This presently passed, and in its place, growing all day, wherever she went, came a new and delightful feeling of being the right size.
Everything fitted now. Her back snugly against the seat-back, her feet comfortably on the floor. Her feet?...His feet! She studied them carefully. Never before, since her early school days, had she felt such freedom and comfort as to feet--they were firm and solid on the ground when she walked; quick, springy, safe-as when, moved by an unrecognizable impulse, she had run after, caught, and swung aboard the car.
Another impulse fished in a convenient pocket for change-instantly, automatically, bringing forth a nickel for the conductor and a penny for the newsboy. These pockets came as a revelation. Of course she had known they were there, had counted them, made fun of them, mended them, even envied them; but she never had dreamed of how it felt to have pockets.
