Feminine Fluidity

"...In these Eastern lands there are many soft, flabby hearts — nay, liquid, melting hearts. Hearts that melt whenever the doves lament, hearts that turn liquid whenever the roses tremble in their sheaths... hearts that stream with infatuation whenever the sun of dreams glitters... hearts forever liquid, forever melting... And we... we are in the age of iron and electricity!"

This is what the Rihani of Freike sounded on his bell, and I do not know into which hearts this voice may seep... for we are still in the prime of our fluidity, swimming in a sea of chaos, indifference, recklessness, and moral flabbiness... understanding of the truth of our existence nothing but our existence alone!... A regrettable state this is, truth be told... a state that drives us to search for the woman — she being, naturally, the mother, the sister, and the wife... Did they not say, God rest their souls: "Look for the woman!..."

The civilization of the twentieth century, unfortunately, has polished her face, her appearance, and her tongue, but it has not reached her essence... her innermost nature... the dearest and most precious thing she possesses in this life... her secret, by which man has been captivated and to which he has fled, dazzled, bewitched, submissive — namely, her femininity... For that femininity is still in the stage of fluidity, flowing and spilling over on every occasion, yet congealing in every mold that embraces it; and this is what makes it like a feather in the wind's path, soaring in a fancy that touches no ground of truth and comes to no understanding with reality — and this too is what imposes upon her life one ebb after another...

Yes, she prides herself on her virgin femininity and tries, successfully, to impose it on every occasion, strutting with foolish coquetry through the corridors of her society, as though forever reminding the world that she is... Eve the female... the ornament of his life... But this is not enough, for femininity does not mean reckless coquetry, giddy flirtation, and swaying emotion. Like the mind, it needs moral polishing... pure crystallization... sound direction... And woman's mission is not merely the mission of the flower of the fields... nor will this femininity of hers prove an insurmountable obstacle in her development toward social maturity...

Affectation in speech, in smiling, in walking, and in gestures is not among the marks of true femininity, nor will a "Jacques Fath" coat or a Paris shawl fulfill its conditions; nor is it shown by coquettish, ringing laughter or by feigned fear of insects and household pets. A woman's true femininity is too far above, too lofty, to be reflected in silly appearances such as these... It does not melt in trials and calamities, does not go frantic over little cats, does not ache and wail over trifling pains, and is not beguiled by glowing mirage-colors and honeyed, ringing words that float on the memory as bubbles float on the face of the water.

Polished femininity, though it differs from manhood, plants the feet firmly on the ground, crystallizes thought, and ripens the emotions, just as it tunes the strings of the heart — so that its possessor becomes the ornament of society and the bread of its table...