"The mean opinion that men entertain of our sex."
"And you would combat this with your pen?"
"I hope to do so."
"Do not mistake; we have mightier weapons for the contest than the pen!"
"There are none more effectual than the cultivation of our powers, for it will prove to them that we do not deserve their contempt,--that we can perform tasks that they consider emphatically their own."
"They will never acknowledge it. All intellectual power is relative,--there is nothing absolute but physical force. If we can knock a man down, he must believe that we are as strong as he. But he will never concede our intellectual equality, because there is no compelling him to be just. As long as there is no third authority in the world to act as umpire in the contest between the sexes, which can only be if God himself should descend from the skies, so long must we be victims to the egotism of men!"
Ernestine looked down thoughtfully. "You may be right, but we must comfort ourselves with the reflection that by the contest itself we have done good. To do good is the object of all, and the individual must be content with the peace of this consciousness as his reward."
"What cold comfort! Why, every flower in your path will perish in such an icy atmosphere! I pity you! Come, confide in me. In spite of your bluntness, I feel drawn towards you. I will introduce you to a new existence, where you may learn how to revenge yourself upon men. You bear the stamp upon your brow of one gifted by God to be their scourge. Learn to understand yourself, and you will see how perverted your views are! Your power lies not in the bulky volumes that you write. Our charms are the weapons by which we conquer! As long as men have eyes and we have beauty, they must be our slaves; and you would imprison yourself within four walls, and toil and strive, while you have only to face those who shrug their shoulders at your writings, to have them prostrate at your feet? Would not this be an easier conquest?"
Ernestine was silent. The countess saw with delight that she was evidently agitated, and continued more confidently.
"You are beautiful,--how beautiful you yourself do not probably know, or you would not deprive the world of a sight that would enchant it, or yourself of the satisfaction of observing its admiration. Believe me,--there is no greater delight than the triumph of our charms. To know yourself an object of worship,--to be able to bless with a smile!--ah, what rapture! It is a divine privilege, that thousands would envy you. In comparison with it, what is the feeble pleasure that your studies can afford you? What can it matter to you if it is reported for a few miles around that you are a great scholar? Is such a report a flower, refreshing you by its fragrance?--a flame, that can warm you, or a ray of light, that can dazzle you? Can it give pleasure to any one besides yourself? It is invisible, incomprehensible,--a mere idea, a phantom, a nothing. Its only value for you is the value that it gives you in the eyes of others, for in ourselves we are nothing. We are only what we may become through our relation to others. Go to the hunters of Siberia, or to the Laplanders, and ascertain whether you find it any satisfaction that you rank among the scholars of Germany. You are striving for one end, that you may secure some value in the eyes of men and revenge yourself for the contempt heaped upon you as a woman. You seek the means to this end in your inkstand,--seek it in your dark lustrous eyes,--in your long silken hair. You will find it there, like the girl in the fairy-tale. You can comb pearls and diamonds out of those locks. Let me be the fairy to hand you the magic comb."