Nothing but women....
Not a single pretty one. Two, four, ten, a hundred ... there must be two hundred.... Not a single pretty one....
To be sure, the weak unsteady light discolors their faces and throws drab blotches around their features, but that alone does not account for the general stamp of dullness which makes them seem like a flock of widows. The two men sitting apart on the crosswise bench like well-behaved children who have just been punished, have a sorry air, not at all the air of having done it on purpose.
I am impatient. A woman addressing other women.... What is she going to tell us? Will the audience brighten up?
I am standing with my back to the platform facing the door to keep watch for Eva for whom I am reserving a seat beside my own.... Alas, something for a merciless eye to feed upon! I can hardly bear to look at that uncultivated field of dingy heads. But there is nothing better to turn to—moldy walls picked at and peeling, smeary stains on a colorless floor. Your ears are pierced by a rising babel.
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 speech.
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....