Love,
for women like her ... even eternal love ... must be episodical. Life
forces the duties of leadership on such women whether they resent them
or not. They must take their love where they find it as great men do,
subordinated to their chosen careers and the tremendous duties and
responsibilities that are the fruit of all achieved ambition.
It was true that she had no political ambition, but for an unpredictive
period she must be the beacon-light of the new Republic, no matter how
successful the coup of the Socialists; until some one man (she knew of
none) or some group of men became strong enough to control its
destinies. The women must stand firm, a solid critical body led by
herself, until the tragically disciplined soldiers who had survived
these years of warfare had ceased to be sheep, or run bleating to the
new fold.
Even if she won Franz over, her power would be sapped; not for a moment
would he be out of her consciousness; her imagination would drift
incessantly from the vital work in hand to the hour of their reunion.
The hurtling power of her eloquence would be diminished, her magnetism
weakened.
Her memory flashed backward to those three years when he was an
ever-rising obsession--personifying love and completion as he
did--before which her proud will fell back again and again, powerless
and humiliated.
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