"LETS PRETEND" WOMEN.

Dunstan Times, Issue 3137, 2 October 1922, Page 7

"LETS PRETEND" WOMEN.

(By One of Them). "Men are not born actors like women," said a Glasgow professor of elocution the other day. This was his explanation of the fact that his girl pupils did more credit to his teaching than the boys. In the main I admit the "soft iupeaohment," though I believe that as actresses women are much more "made" than "born." From her very earliest year the training of a woman is designed to teach her to conceal her real nature, her real thoughts and feelings—everything in fact that is real about her. Why are "let's pretend" and dressing up the favorite amusements of little girls? Because life impresses upon their infant minds that pretending is their game—the woman's game. So gradually pretending, which is only another word for acting, becomes second nature. To-day I realise that at the age of four I was already an accomplished actress. When dressed in my best white lace and blue sash and dumped upon a chair when dessert was served at my parents' dinner-table I was already able to conceal the fact that I hated being "shown off" in this way. At the bottom of my childish heart I resented being kissed by strangers who only petted me because they knew they were expected to do so. But I had no difficulty in smiling through all these indignities, because I, too, knew I was expected to smile. Being "good" was just pretending to be a doll instead of a normal naughty infant. At school I picked up with the same instinctive ease the delicate art of cajolery, which made my teachers my friends, while to my school-fellows I posed as a romantic heroine in a way that won their adoration. Of course I was not conscious that all the time I was playing a part. I merely responded automatically to the demand life makes upon a woman at all ages to appear something different from what she really it. Love found me later on charmingly capable of being, superficially spe'aking, "all things to all men." Following my mother's counsel I drifted into matrimony with the most eligible among my admirers, who was attracted by my adaptability. Fortunately for me he turned out the kindest of men, but-he has never had more tnan an occasional glimpse of my real self. Perhaps I've become so identified with any part of the sweet conventional Victorian ideal that the secret, turbulent woman has ceased to exist.

All the same, I rejoice when I see the girls of to-day daring quite brazenly to be themselves. The maiden who wants to marry is, however, still chary of expressing her crude ideas and intentions. How often have I watched the quick adjustment of the mask when an eligible bachelor comes within earshot! On these occasions the woman disappears, at least temporarily, in the actress.

But as women become used to their independence they will grow more quietly and naturally real. It is still so new that some of the mare apt to bo agressively assertive about it. Most of the criticism launched against the modern girl by Victorian fogies is provoked by that impatient casting off of the "let's pretend" mask. I forgive them because I've worn it so long myself. I know what it costs to bo real.