Of All Women, I Prefer... the Mature One!

She is believing, cultured, intelligent, tender, and gay.
She hides her care to gladden those around her

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I was invited to a party that gathered a number of holders of high office and men of the press; but I stood apart from everyone, being unknown to them, and I felt lost in that atmosphere.

Then there entered a lady of elegant appearance and cheerful countenance. My host presented me to her; she had heard my name before, and she quickly made a place for me among the company and let them know who I was. The lady was not a friend of mine; rather she was of that kind who make you feel that you are everything — you the center of her attention — and who forget to utter a single word about themselves while sitting with you.

This incident rises before me whenever I think about women, their habits and their inclinations, and then compare those small things which make of them two opposites. The lady's conduct, in the matter we are discussing, is clear proof of her maturity and her appreciation. For I love people, with no distinction between the great and the small among them, or their beliefs; I love all that is in them and all that is theirs — and this is one of the causes of every individual's success, and the foundation of the bond that joins human beings alike. But there is one particular class toward whom I feel a firmer tie: the class that loves music, art, and books — for in music is my life. And among all of these, I prefer the mature woman.

Here I do not want the reader to confuse maturity with age; for I have met girls of sixteen whose maturity surpassed that of women of sixty. Age is a measure of the sun's risings and settings, not of a woman's qualifications and capacities.

The maturity of women has influenced the course of my life in its various stages. The first influence was my mother; then my teacher, who understood my capacities and did her utmost to develop them, and who afterwards helped me to enter working life. The mature woman deals with her surroundings with ease: she is neither conceited nor ignorant, but faces life with intelligence, awareness, and courage; and she believes in herself and in others — a faith which can shape the direction of a life, lifting it from failure to success. I shall tell the story of one woman's faith, by way of illustration:

I was very restless during my school years, and I often did rash things. Once I drove a nail into my wrist and paid no attention to it at first; but it aroused my mother's concern when the flesh around it began to swell, and she forbade me to move my hand. She took me to the doctor, who told her that my hand had gangrene, then made her understand that there was no way to drain off the poison, and that if it spread through my body I would die without fail. Here he gave her the choice between my life and

the amputation of my forearm — which, for me, meant life itself. And so we returned home, each of us looking at the other, neither daring to speak. I felt that my life would have no value the moment I ceased to play, and my mother understood that perfectly.

To this very hour I am overcome by the tears I shed at that moment upon her breast. She raised me gently and smiled into my face — a smile all hope and life, all confidence and faith — then said: You will be healed, my son; we have no need of doctors!

In my despair I did not appreciate that resolve and that courage. Since that time I have learned much about medicine and about hospitals; but whenever I think of my mother's miracle, of her courage and her faith, I cannot but bow my head in reverence. She tried a home remedy: she boiled a pot of water and plunged my forearm into it; then she mixed a glass of milk with soap shavings and rubbed my scalded forearm with it. My fever had risen, and I lay in my bed unconscious. For four days she never left me, strengthening my will and heartening me; at last she noticed the swelling fading away — the poisoning began to drain off, the fever to abate; faith conquered in the end, and life returned to me.

Yes, the mature woman is believing, cultured, intelligent, tender; and she is gay besides, hiding her care to gladden those around her. A man trusts her, and entrusts to her the care of his health and his home, for she knows how to choose everything that will give him rest and happiness. And she is, with all this, beautiful — and here I do not mean the beauty of Hollywood actresses; it is something deeper than surface glitter: it shines from the eyes; it is a beauty clamorous in its calm, enchanting in its modesty, full of life, traced upon the features of the face, in the folds of the body and the breaths of speech. And I am one of the believers in home life — and when I think of choosing my companion, I shall gather all the foregoing qualifications in her person!