A Pair of Silk Stockings

by Kate Chopin

Little Mrs. Sommers one day found herself the unexpected possessor of fifteen

dollars. It seemed to her a very large amount of money, and the way in which it stuffed

and bulged her worn old porte-monnaie gave her a feeling of importance such as she had

not enjoyed for years.

The question of investment was one that occupied her greatly. For a day or two she

walked about apparently in a dreamy state, but really absorbed in speculation and

calculation. She did not wish to act hastily, to do anything she might afterward regret. But

it was during the still hours of the night when she lay awake revolving plans in her mind

that she seemed to see her way clearly toward a proper and judicious use of the money.

A dollar or two should be added to the price usually paid for Janie’s shoes, which

would insure their lasting an appreciable time longer than they usually did. She would

buy so and so many yards of percale for new shirt waists for the boys and Janie and Mag.

She had intended to make the old ones do by skilful patching. Mag should have another

gown. She had seen some beautiful patterns, veritable bargains in the shop windows. And

still there would be left enough for new stockings—two pairs apiece—and what darning

that would save for a while! She would get caps for the boys and sailor-hats for the girls.

The vision of her little brood looking fresh and dainty and new for once in their lives

excited her and made her restless and wakeful with anticipation.

The neighbors sometimes talked of certain “better days” that little Mrs. Sommers

had known before she had ever thought of being Mrs. Sommers. She herself indulged in

no such morbid retrospection. She had no time—no second of time to devote to the past.

The needs of the present absorbed her every faculty. A vision of the future like some dim,

gaunt monster sometimes appalled her, but luckily to-morrow never comes.

Mrs. Sommers was one who knew the value of bargains; who could stand for hours

making her way inch by inch toward the desired object that was selling below cost. She

could elbow her way if need be; she had learned to clutch a piece of goods and hold it and

stick to it with persistence and determination till her turn came to be served, no matter

when it came.

But that day she was a little faint and tired. She had swallowed a light luncheon—

no! when she came to think of it, between getting the children fed and the place righted,

and preparing herself for the shopping bout, she had actually forgotten to eat any

luncheon at all!

She sat herself upon a revolving stool before a counter that was comparatively

deserted, trying to gather strength and courage to charge through an eager multitude that

was besieging breast-works of shirting and figured lawn. An all-gone limp feeling had

come over her and she rested her hand aimlessly upon the counter. She wore no gloves.

By degrees she grew aware that her hand had encountered something very soothing, very

pleasant to touch. She looked down to see that her hand lay upon a pile of silk stockings.

A placard near by announced that they had been reduced in price from two dollars and

fifty cents to one dollar and ninety-eight cents; and a young girl who stood behind the

counter asked her if she wished to examine their line of silk hosiery. She smiled, just as if

she had been asked to inspect a tiara of diamonds with the ultimate view of purchasing it.

But she went on feeling the soft, sheeny luxurious things—with both hands now, holding

them up to see them glisten, and to feel them glide serpent-like through her fingers.2

Two hectic blotches came suddenly into her pale cheeks. She looked up at the girl.

“Do you think there are any eights-and-a-half among these?”

There were any number of eights-and-a-half. In fact, there were more of that size

than any other. Here was a light-blue pair; there were some lavender, some all black and

various shades of tan and gray. Mrs. Sommers selected a black pair and looked at them

very long and closely. She pretended to be examining their texture, which the clerk

assured her was excellent.

“A dollar and ninety-eight cents,” she mused aloud. “Well, I’ll take this pair.” She

handed the girl a five-dollar bill and waited for her change and for her parcel. What a

very small parcel it was! It seemed lost in the depths of her shabby old shopping-bag.

Mrs. Sommers after that did not move in the direction of the bargain counter. She

took the elevator, which carried her to an upper floor into the region of the ladies’

waiting-rooms. Here, in a retired corner, she exchanged her cotton stockings for the new

silk ones which she had just bought. She was not going through any acute mental process

or reasoning with herself, nor was she striving to explain to her satisfaction the motive of

her action. She was not thinking at all. She seemed for the time to be taking a rest from

that laborious and fatiguing function and to have abandoned herself to some mechanical

impulse that directed her actions and freed her of responsibility.

How good was the touch of the raw silk to her flesh! She felt like lying back in the

cushioned chair and reveling for a while in the luxury of it. She did for a little while. Then

she replaced her shoes, rolled the cotton stockings together and thrust them into her bag.

After doing this she crossed straight over to the shoe department and took her seat to be

Fitted.

She was fastidious. The clerk could not make her out; he could not reconcile her

shoes with her stockings, and she was not too easily pleased. She held back her skirts and

turned her feet one way and her head another way as she glanced down at the polished,

pointed-tipped boots. Her foot and ankle looked very pretty. She could not realize that

they belonged to her and were a part of herself. She wanted an excellent and stylish fit,

she told the young fellow who served her, and she did not mind the difference of a dollar

or two more in the price so long as she got what she desired.

It was a long time since Mrs. Sommers had been fitted with gloves. On rare

occasions when she had bought a pair they were always “bargains,” so cheap that it

would have been preposterous and unreasonable to have expected them to be fitted to the

Hand.

Now she rested her elbow on the cushion of the glove counter, and a pretty,

pleasant young creature, delicate and deft of touch, drew a long-wristed “kid” over Mrs.

Sommers’ hand. She smoothed it down over the wrist and buttoned it neatly, and both

lost themselves for a second or two in admiring contemplation of the little symmetrical

gloved hand. But there were other places where money might be spent.

There were books and magazines piled up in the window of a stall a few paces down

the street. Mrs. Sommers bought two high-priced magazines such as she had been

accustomed to read in the days when she had been accustomed to other pleasant things.

She carried them without wrapping. As well as she could she lifted her skirts at the

crossings. Her stockings and boots and well fitting gloves had worked marvels in her

bearing—had given her a feeling of assurance, a sense of belonging to the well-dressed

Multitude.3

She was very hungry. Another time she would have stilled the cravings for food until

reaching her own home, where she would have brewed herself a cup of tea and taken a

snack of anything that was available. But the impulse that was guiding her would not

suffer her to entertain any such thought.

There was a restaurant at the corner. She had never entered its doors; from the

outside she had sometimes caught glimpses of spotless damask and shining crystal, and

soft-stepping waiters serving people of fashion.

When she entered her appearance created no surprise, no consternation, as she had

half feared it might. She seated herself at a small table alone, and an attentive waiter at

once approached to take her order. She did not want a profusion; she craved a nice and

tasty bite—a half dozen blue-points, a plump chop with cress, a something sweet—a

crème-frappée, for instance; a glass of Rhine wine, and after all a small cup of black coffee.

While waiting to be served she removed her gloves very leisurely and laid them

beside her. Then she picked up a magazine and glanced through it, cutting the pages with

a blunt edge of her knife. It was all very agreeable. The damask was even more spotless

than it had seemed through the window, and the crystal more sparkling. There were quiet

ladies and gentlemen, who did not notice her, lunching at the small tables like her own. A

soft, pleasing strain of music could be heard, and a gentle breeze was blowing through the

window. She tasted a bite, and she read a word or two, and she sipped the amber wine

and wiggled her toes in the silk stockings. The price of it made no difference. She counted

the money out to the waiter and left an extra coin on his tray, whereupon he bowed

before her as before a princess of royal blood.

There was still money in her purse, and her next temptation presented itself in the

shape of a matinée poster.

It was a little later when she entered the theatre, the play had begun and the house

seemed to her to be packed. But there were vacant seats here and there, and into one of

them she was ushered, between brilliantly dressed women who had gone there to kill time

and eat candy and display their gaudy attire. There were many others who were there

solely for the play and acting. It is safe to say there was no one present who bore quite the

attitude which Mrs. Sommers did to her surroundings. She gathered in the whole—stage

and players and people in one wide impression, and absorbed it and enjoyed it. She

laughed at the comedy and wept—she and the gaudy woman next to her wept over the

tragedy. And they talked a little together over it. And the gaudy woman wiped her eyes

and sniffled on a tiny square of filmy, perfumed lace and passed little Mrs. Sommers her

box of candy.

The play was over, the music ceased, the crowd filed out. It was like a dream ended.

People scattered in all directions. Mrs. Sommers went to the corner and waited for the

cable car.

A man with keen eyes, who sat opposite to her, seemed to like the study of her small,

pale face. It puzzled him to decipher what he saw there. In truth, he saw nothing—unless

he were wizard enough to detect a poignant wish, a powerful longing that the cable car

would never stop anywhere, but go on and on with her forever.

Kate Chopin wrote “A Pair of Silk Stockings” in April, 1896. The story was published in Vogue on

September 16, 1897, one of nineteen Kate Chopin stories that Vogue published. The text of the story is based on that in The Complete Works of Kate Chopin, edited by Per Seyersted (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State4 University Press, 1969, 2006). A misplaced apostrophe in the Seyersted text—on page 2 of this text—has been silently corrected, and italics have been added to a French expression on p. 3. You can find extensive, accurate information about Kate Chopin’s stories and novels as well as about her life at the Kate Chopin International Society website: http://www.KateChopin.org