Eva at last.... I draw a breath of relief and feel, as I always do, like saying "Thank you" to her. Great floodgates open, my poise is restored--a living proof.... Why this blitheness? Because of her smile, her radiance, her frankness, the glory she carries about with her from the clear image of her child and husband? I do not know. She exists, that's all. When I think of her, I have a complete sense of happiness and confidence.... Perhaps this is friendship.
She has a little trouble making her way through the hall. Her head, set in velvet, rises above the field of heads like a taller, brighter stalk; the precious gems of her eyes show in full. She sees me, her face brightens.... "Thank you," I say, very low just to myself. After all there will be one fine face in the room.
We had scarcely shaken hands and seated ourselves when silence fell, broken here and there by coughing.
The woman making the speech is also ugly. Yet what resources in that ample body. Under the armor of her corset, there are fine, noble lines, I am sure. Under her sausage sleeves there are the arms of a mother, even perhaps of a woman in love; the huge pancake on the nape of her neck shows she has long shining hair silky to the touch; and what tenderness in the depth of her eyes which dart glances in our direction. If she dared, what sweetness....
She came to speak to us from a platform for the purpose of conveying her idea and a little of her soul, unaware that a valiant soul is a visible soul. The only means we have of showing our souls, sharing them and giving them freedom, are the ordinary means--our actions, the bare flesh of our lips, the sincere tears of our eyes, our bodies which encase our souls, our smiles which beautify our souls, and our voices.
This woman's soul is a strained voice, but how marvellous. The rows in the audience remain stationary, each head staying fixed in the position it held at the first word she uttered.
The women's horrid cares, their marketing, their husbands, their children, their dishwashing, their difficulty in making ends meet, all the everyday trifles that weigh on women and enslave them, are driven far away. The pale blonde with faded eyes beside Eva probably made the same O of her mouth when she spelled out her letters as a child. The old woman nodding "Yes, yes"--the two plumes in her bonnet respond "Yes, yes"--has forgotten her stupid drudgery.