“That does not follow,” replied Irene, returning his glance steadily, “for you men always claim to be wiser than women. I do not agree with this fiat, so absolutely set forth by the lords of creation; yet I am not what is termed ‘strong-minded,’ I simply seek justice. Pray stay with us,” she added, turning to Féraz, who was about to retire, as he usually did whenever El-Râmi held an interview with any visitor; “there is no occasion for you to go away.”
Féraz hesitated, glancing at his brother.
“Yes, by all means remain here, Féraz,” said El-Râmi gently, “since Madame Vassilius desires it.”
Delighted with the permission, Féraz ensconced himself in a corner with a book, pretending to read, but in reality listening to every word of the conversation. He liked to hear Irene’s voice—it was singularly sweet and ringing, and at times had a peculiar thrill of pathos in it that went straight to the heart.
“You know,” she went on, “that I am, or am supposed to be, what the world calls ‘famous.’ That is, I write books which the public clamour for and read, and for which I receive large sums of money. I am able to live well, dress well, and look well, and I am known as one of society’s ‘celebrities.’ Well, now, can you tell me why, for such poor honours as these, men, supposed to be our wiser and stronger superiors, are so spitefully jealous of a woman’s fame?”
“Jealous?” echoed El-Râmi dubiously, and with something of hesitation. “You mean——”
“I mean what I say,” continued Madame Vassilius calmly; “neither more nor less. Spitefully jealous is the term I used. Explain to me this riddle: Why do men encourage women to every sort of base folly and vanity that may lead them at length to become the slaves of man’s lust and cruelty, and yet take every possible means to oppose and hinder them in their attempts to escape from sensuality and animalism into intellectual progress and pre-eminence? In looking back on the history of all famous women, from Sappho downwards to the present time, it is amazing to consider what men have said of them. Always a sneer at ‘women’s work.’ And, if praise is at any time given, how grudging and half-hearted it is! Men will enter no protest against women who uncover their bare limbs to the public gaze and dance lewdly in music-halls and theatres for the masculine delectation; they will defend the street prostitute; they will pledge themselves and their family estates in order to provide jewels for the newest ‘ballerina’; but for the woman of intellect they have nothing but a shrug of contempt. If she produces a great work of art in literature, it is never thoroughly acknowledged; and the hard blows delivered on Charlotte Bronté, George Eliot, Georges Sand, and others of their calibre, far outweighed their laurels. George Eliot and Georges Sand took men’s names in order to shelter themselves a little from the pitiless storm that assails literary work known to emanate from a woman’s brain; but let a man write the veriest trash that ever was printed, he will still be accredited by his own sex with something better than ever the cleverest woman could compass. How is it that the ‘superior’ sex are cowardly enough to throw stones at those among the ‘inferior,’ who surpass their so-called lords and masters both in chastity and intellect?”
She spoke earnestly, her eyes shining with emotion; she looked lovely, thus inspired by the strength of her inward feelings. El-Râmi was taken aback. Like most Orientals, he had to a certain extent despised women and their work. But, then, what of Lilith? Without her aid would his discoveries in spiritual science have progressed so far? Had he or any man a right to call woman the “inferior” sex?
“Madame,” he said slowly and with a vague embarrassment, “you bring an accusation against our sex which it is impossible to refute, because it is simply and undeniably true. Men do not love either chastity or intellect in women.”
He paused, looking at her, then went on: