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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 7, Issue 9 (April 1, 1933)

Our Women's Section

page 57

Our Women's Section

Wellington

“I have heard the song of the blossoms, and the old chant of the sea, And seen strange lands.”

—Masefield.

People have gone from this City of the Hills, they have wandered over the earth and dwelt in many places—and they have come back again. They have seen the sun rise over the Giant Pyramids, they have choked in a good old London fog, they have been swept by the rushing throng of Broadway, they have watched natives chattering and swarming in many a squalid bazaar—but they have kept in their hearts the memory of a city built everywhere on the hills. The scent of gorse is hard to forget—it used to haunt Katherine Mansfield somewhere in France, it used to come gently to the trenches in Flanders—even to the arid burning cove of Anzac.

There is something very attractive about this wind-swept city, they will tell you—an illusive something which claims those whose childhood has been spent here. So they come back from the corners of the earth, and they are amazed.

There lies the harbour they have described so enthusiastically to Americans, so changeful, so vivid and so nobly flanked by hills, barren and bush-clad.

There stands Pencarrow, Guardian of the Heads; little rugged Ward Island; smoky industrial flats of Petone; Oriental Bay, looking like Geneva by the waters of a blue lake. All these things are familiar and dear to the wanderer. They are part of his youth.

And a boisterous nor'-wester is blowing still, flecking the harbour with gallant white horses; clouds rushing madly across the sky; everything swift and virile and exultant in its strength and movement.

Now he can feel the heart-beat of Wellington, centre and hub of the young Dominion.

He stands beneath the exquisite War Memorial, carved against an evening sky, symbol of youth and sacrifice. He sees many new and magnificent buildings rising bravely, eloquent of a great city of the future. He goes from the city into the many suburbs, clambering and clustering on the hills—everywhere he sees growth and change.

It is morning—great lorries are approaching the city, trains constantly arriving and departing, cranes loading and unloading at the wharves, people pre-occupied and intent pouring in from every direction. Life going on swiftly and inevitably.

Yet he has heard that in New Zealand, and in Wellington most of all, the dread word “depression” has eaten into the very souls of the people. “The price of butter and wool,” “taxation,” “unemployment,” “the Government,” these are the words on everyone's lips, he has been told. “You won't know Wellington when you get back—the people have forgotten how to laugh!”

He idly watched the throngs of business people emerging for lunch from the great new buildings, chattering merry typistes, whistling boys, two “bosses” having a friendly chat.

Over his coffee he rejoices because he has found Wellington again, and because he knows that her children are unchanged.

He smiles as he reads in an English magazine:—“The trouble about New Zealand is that it takes things seriously.”

page 58

Your Old Coat and Skirt

Do you keep in your wardrobe a perfectly good coat and skirt—useless because fashion demands ankle-lengths now, and your skirt is just below the knees? You look at it often, sadly admiring the cut of the coat and thinking how well it fits you, but what to do with that ridiculous skirt is the question. And the answer is nothing! Hopeless to add about twelve inches to its inadequate length, it must be abandoned. This does not sound particularly helpful or economical.

But you can make a new costume easily. Look at the little sketch and visualise yourself in the autumn. There is the coat of your suit just as it was three years ago; but the skirt is new and fulfilling every demand of 1933, flared, close-fitting at the hips, nearly ankle length.

Buy some fine tweed check, or some of that very smart shepherd's plaid, to match your coat, and run up a six-piece skirt. Behold a new outfit for the office!

* * *

“Be Yourself”

“One can't be too natural nowadays”-thus reads an advertisement -in an English newspaper. We laugh at the thought conveyed in these words-that now if is fashionable, in fact “quite the thing” to be natural!

Society suddenly commands that women are to be natural, and they hasten to obey, with amazing and often distressing results. With tremendous relief they fling aside the innumerable artifices and wiles hitherto necessary for charm, and whole-heartedly they begin to be Natural. With their characteristic adaptability they believe that they can don the garment of care-free abandon as effortlessly as they can discard the armour of Artifice.

But, surprisingly, enough, they find it tremendously difficult. The Americans have an expression, “Be yourself.” Women tried to and couldn't.

It becomes a “cult” in the way things do, and it is followed with all the enthusiasm and dogged perseverance once devoted to slimming—and once again to “being intellectual.”

The very words in the advertisement-“one can't be too natural”-illustrates my point, that it becomes a craze like crossword puzzles, platinum blondes, and beach pyjamas.

And how artificially natural they are! This sounds a paradox, but actually is the case. Anything that can enhance their “natural” attraction is avidly seized and wholeheartedly adopted. Of course all mannerisms are dropped as no longer “done,” and, behold, in their place appear countless others!

We begin to read about “Your Individuality” in magazines and papers, “Personality,” “Your Own Type,” “Character Counts,” “What is Your Style?” and. worse, we begin to see signs of women conscientiously and devotedly “expressing their individuality,” sometimes by lounging or shouting or wandering alone by the sad sea waves, or writing reams of poetry (very modern), wearing black, and eating indescribable vegetarian concoctions. All this to be natural—such tremendous effort and tireless energy to achieve originality and distinction from one's friends. In fact, the madder you can be the better. The wholly sane and well-balanced woman is described as “uninteresting.”

How ridiculous it is, and how useless! Most of these seekers after the elusive Blue Bird of Charm have forgotten what they really are, so how impossible to be themselves!

It is difficult to learn to laugh spontaneously, to talk only when you have something to say, to observe all things, to be enthusiastic and occupied and happy. In short—to “Be Yourself!”

page 59