MUNDANE MUSINGS

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 30, 28 April 1927, Page 4

MUNDANE MUSINGS

JUST A GLOVE! * (Written for THE SUJST.J A few days ago I called on a friend of mine who is a doctor’s wife. While I was there she took me into the consulting room to show me the new colour scheme. Presently her husband came in ... a big, bluff, stupid old dear . . . but a splendid person for all that. I turned to greet him, and caught sight of a little glove lying on the table. It was a shabby little glove . . . made of cheap grey cotton . . . but it consisted almost entirely of tiny, cobwebby darns . . . fine, cateful and intricate. “That,” said the doctor, in response to my look. “Oh, found it on the floor yesterday. Someone must have dropped it.” “Poor little thing,” I murmured, “how pathetic it is.” “Oh, you women,” chuckled the doctor, completely misunderstanding me. “Always putting a price on everything you see. Such mercenary creatures!” “Isn’t it fortunate,” said his wife, “that it’s such a worn old thing. It’s so annoying when one loses a perfectly good glove, but of course that thing doesn’t matter.” “I’d much rather it were a good glove,” I said. “I’m sure its owner can’t afford to lose it. Poor little thing! ” I picked it up, hearing the doctor’s laughter, but missing the anecdote that followed it. The little glove told me its story . . . I listened . . . and then put it gently back on the table . . . where I imagined it lay fatigued for a moment, like a living hand. And the ghost of the living woman who had worn the glove rose up before me. She is poor . . . see how cheap the little glove is. But she is proud . . . how desperately the glove has been darned. Apparently we may be poor, but let us keep our pride. However we may have to pinch and screw in the house, we must be what the world chooses to call “respectable” out of doors . . . “respectability” . . . an attribute that we demand in our domestics and casual workpeople . . . and conveniently forget at most other times! “Wanted —a charwoman, must be respectable and honest.” But how we should shriek if an advertisement appeared inviting applications for some big, responsible position, and the same qualifications were demanded! But ... we digres. False pride we’ll agree is that little woman’s . . . but . . . it’s the only pride she knows. And, after all, it’s the pride that keeps her afloat. A pride, no matter how we may regret that it has been allowed to grow up . . . that has its roots in courage. A pride that will not tolerate whining, nor begging for sympathy, nor pity. Tears .. . they are for solitude. Outsiders must be met with high-held head. Her gloves must be ceaselessly darned with stitches fit for embroidery The slum woman alone go gloveless . . . the slattern alone has holes . . . but the woman who feels that she has to maintain the reputation of being “a lady” must keep up appearances at all costs. Her husband’s wages may be small or almost non-existent, and consequently food may be scarce, but the tablecloths must be spotless and the near-silver brilliantly shining. Clothes may be impossible to obtain for herself and the children, but Daddy must go to the office looking as though he’d sprung from a band-box. So, typically, she darns and re-darns the tired little glove. “Oh, she’ll come back,” said the doctor. “No, she won’t come back,” I declared. “Do you think she would acknowledge those exquisite darns? They proclaim too loudly the poverty she is anxious to conceal.” “Oh, you women,” again chuckled the doctor, and laughingly turned back to his work. One may gaze in admiration at beautiful actresses . . . one may follow through a series of impossible adventures one’s favourite film star . . . one may thrill to the woes of the heroine of the latest novel . . . one may follow with avidity the doings of pretty little society butterflies' . . . but henceforth my tribute shall be paid to the sad little woman who goes through life in a struggle to make ends meet. She moves along silently. Nobody hears her . . . she isn’t photographed

. . . the newspapers don’t notice it when she sneaks away for a couple of days to rest her tired little body. Her days are devoted to patient service. She may not sing or dance, but she can hear music in a baby’s voice . and hears a child’s cry through the greatest noise. Her touch can extinguish pain. She may not find much time for reading or writing, but her soul is forever alert. She may have no career in her life as compared to the achievements of some other women I-lers is the monotonous and strange adventure of continual self-sacrifice. She is an artist, with life, instead of oil-colours, as her means of expression. Her material is her family . . • her tools are her heart and her evergiving hands. Her masterpiece is her wife and motherhood. Perhaps she is the Unknown Warrior among women, never shrinking from the battle. , Her cenotaph is the memory she leaves behind, more enduring than stone . . . more fragrant than any flowers. Her name is Legion. All these things the little glove whispered to me as it lay so tired and fatigued upon the doctor’s^table. When washing voile, dissolve one teaspoon of gum arable in a cup of boiling water, then add this to enough cold water to rinse the article in. This gives the desired stiffness,and the voile will not shrink.