Maria; Or, The Wrongs of WomanWollstonecraft, Mary
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Maria; Or, The Wrongs of Woman
Wollstonecraft, Mary
Autobiographical fiction; Feminist fiction; Women -- Fiction
“I shudder with horror, when I recollect the treatment I had now to
endure. Not only under the lash of my task-mistress, but the drudge of
the maid, apprentices and children, I never had a taste of human
kindness to soften the rigour of perpetual labour. I had been
introduced as an object of abhorrence into the family; as a creature of
whom my step-mother, though she had been kind enough to let me live in
the house with her own child, could make nothing. I was described as a
wretch, whose nose must be kept to the grinding stone—and it was held
there with an iron grasp. It seemed indeed the privilege of their
superior nature to kick me about, like the dog or cat. If I were
attentive, I was called fawning, if refractory, an obstinate mule, and
like a mule I received their censure on my loaded back. Often has my
mistress, for some instance of forgetfulness, thrown me from one side
of the kitchen to the other, knocked my head against the wall, spit in
my face, with various refinements on barbarity that I forbear to
enumerate, though they were all acted over again by the servant, with
additional insults, to which the appellation of bastard, was commonly
added, with taunts or sneers. But I will not attempt to give you an
adequate idea of my situation, lest you, who probably have never been
drenched with the dregs of human misery, should think I exaggerate.
“I stole now, from absolute necessity,—bread; yet whatever else was
taken, which I had it not in my power to take, was ascribed to me. I
was the filching cat, the ravenous dog, the dumb brute, who must bear
all; for if I endeavoured to exculpate myself, I was silenced, without
any enquiries being made, with ‘Hold your tongue, you never tell
truth.’ Even the very air I breathed was tainted with scorn; for I was
sent to the neighbouring shops with Glutton, Liar, or Thief, written on
my forehead. This was, at first, the most bitter punishment; but sullen
pride, or a kind of stupid desperation, made me, at length, almost
regardless of the contempt, which had wrung from me so many solitary
tears at the only moments when I was allowed to rest.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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