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Updated: June 12, 2025
Painting would merely be a prop of a weak feminist. Yes, she could have told him that she had her art, that focus of the realm of ideas that had been her vocation before he moved in with her, and he would have scowled discreetly, never criticizing its odd feral qualities directly.
Besides, the Italian villa was to be finished shortly and that would necessitate a new round of entertainments and minor adjustments and no end of enviable publicity and comment. This diversion would take her through the late spring and summer, and in the fall she fully intended to take up dress reform and become a feminist.
Yet, of course, she was a "Feminist" and particularly associated with those persons in the suffrage camp who stood for broad views on marriage and divorce. She knew very well that many other persons in the same camp held different opinions; and in public or official gatherings was always nervously most people thought arrogantly on the look-out for affronts.
Jacob transcribed a whole passage from Marlowe. Miss Julia Hedge, the feminist, waited for her books. They did not come. She wetted her pen. She looked about her. Her eye was caught by the final letters in Lord Macaulay's name. And she read them all round the dome the names of great men which remind us "Oh damn," said Julia Hedge, "why didn't they leave room for an Eliot or a Bronte?"
The most questionable doctrines of the English feminists would be already abandoned by themselves if either the wisest among them, or their opponents, were able to cite the evidence of this great Swedish feminist, who is certainly at this moment the most powerful and the wisest living protagonist of her sex.
To the contrary, she clings to the conventional theory that the human female of today is no more than the plaything of the concupiscent male, and that she must wait for the feminist millenium to set her free from his abominable pawings. But she can reach this notion only by standing her whole structure of reasoning on its head in fact, by knocking it over and repudiating it.
"Any one of a dozen. You are bored and want to take care of your money...intend to learn something of business, as all women should, and will in time....Ring in the feminist stuff...wife's economic independence...woman's new position in the world....That will make Morty so raving angry that he will forget about the other. Will you do it?" "Yes, I will. I believe you are right.
Their form remains just what it was when woman was esteemed a pretty, desirable, and incidentally a child-producing, chattel. Against these time-honoured ideas the new spirit of womanhood struggles in shame, astonishment, bitterness, and tears.... I confess myself altogether feminist. I have no doubts in the matter. I want this coddling and browbeating of women to cease.
Ann Veronica snatched at the opportunity, and spent most of the intervening time in the Assyrian Court of the British Museum, reading and thinking over a little book upon the feminist movement the tired woman had made her buy.
"I suppose," she said, "you'll call Portia a feminist. Anyway, she smokes cigarettes. Oh, can't I get you some? I forgot!" He had a case of his own in his pocket, he said, and got one out now and lighted it. "Why," she went on, "Portia hasn't time to talk about it much. You see, she's a business woman. She's a house decorator. I don't mean painting and paper-hanging.
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