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The Senators watched in curious silence as Madame Chiang walked down the aisle of the Senate Chamber. They saw a still face with big dark eyes. They saw a slim, straight figure in a black Chinese gown, with here a tiny splash of jade, there a black sequin's understated sparkle. Madame Chiang stepped to the rostrum, listened as Vice President Wallace introduced her, shot a smile at the Senators, and then, after apologizing for not having a set speech, knocked their silvery blocks off extemporaneously.
She told how one of General Doolittle's flyers, forced to bail out on Chinese soil after bombing Tokyo, had seen the populace running toward him, had waved and shouted the only Chinese word he knew: "Mei-kuo, Mei-kuo"—America, America (literally, said Madame Chiang, "beautiful country"). "Our people laughed and almost hugged him and greeted him like a long-lost brother."
Then she told of a trip she had taken to the Heng-Yang Mountains to see the "Rub-the-Mirror Pavilion." There, 2,000 years ago, a young Buddhist monk had sat crossed-legged for days muttering "Amita Buddha! Amita Buddha!" The Father Prior took a brick and rubbed it against a nearby stone until the acolyte asked what he was doing.
The Father Prior said: "I am trying to make a mirror out of this brick."
"It is impossible," said the acolyte.
"Yes," said the Father Prior, "it is just as impossible for you to acquire grace by doing nothing except murmur 'Amita-Buddha' all day long . . ."
"So, my friends," said Madame Chiang, "I feel that it is necessary for us not only to have ideals and to proclaim that we have them, it is necessary that we act to implement them."
The U.S. Senate is not in the habit of rising to its feet to applaud. For Madame Chiang it rose and thundered.
Proud Day. A few minutes later in the House, Speaker Sam Rayburn, a bachelor, stepped forward and said: "It is a proud day for the United States of America to receive and to do honor to one of the outstanding women of all the earth. ..."
Madame Chiang took her time. She had made many speeches in her life, but never one quite so important as the one the words of which were spread out on the little, mahogany manuscript-stand that had been borrowed from the Senate for her. She had spent weeks thinking about this speech. China was in it. Her husband was part of it. Her life, her acquaintance with America, her identity with her own land, had gone into it. ...
She began with a little deft flattery, for she knew that compliments would not hurt a compliment-starved Congress. Then: "The American people have every right to be proud of their fighting men in every part of the world,"
This was a compliment she could put to some use. With exquisite subtlety, she made the point that many of these troops are idle. She said: "Some of your troops are stationed in isolated spots. . . . They, and others, have to stand the monotony of waiting, just waiting. . . ."