The door closed behind him, and Ernestine, still agitated by the interview, half awake and half dreaming, went into the antechamber to receive the stranger waiting there.
The Worronska, in all her grandeur, stood before her.
Ernestine had never in her life seen so extraordinary a vision. She was actually dazzled.
The brown, Juno-like eyes were regarding her with strange curiosity, the black eyebrows were gloomily contracted; there was something so hard and haughty in her air and bearing that Ernestine took offence at it before a word had been uttered.
The way in which the lady measured her with her glance from head to foot recalled to her memory the pain that she had once suffered beneath the gaze of the Staatsrathin"s guests. For one second she felt in danger of the same overwhelming sensation of embarra.s.sment. She seemed to grow pale and wither in the presence of this dazzling and haughty person. But she was no longer a child, sensible only of her defects, and the next moment the pride of conscious power came to her relief.
She knew that she stood in the presence of an enemy, but she felt herself the equal of her opponent. Who was this woman who thus a.s.sumed the right to look down upon her? Whence did she derive this right?--from beauty, wealth, or rank? Did she know as much as Ernestine? Had she written a prize essay? And, more than all, did she possess such a friend as now belonged to Ernestine? No, no, a.s.suredly not. Ernestine was her equal, whoever she might be.
"Will you walk in?" said Ernestine with icy repose of manner and with a dignity that evidently impressed the countess greatly. Ernestine stood aside to allow her to pa.s.s, and motioned her towards a small sofa filling a recess of the room, while she herself took a seat opposite.
Her lips were closed; no conventional grimace, usual upon the reception of a visitor, distorted the pure beauty of her grave countenance. She awaited in silence the stranger"s communication; she was too unfamiliar with the forms of society to excuse herself for having kept her waiting in the antechamber. The countess at last understood that she must be the first to speak. She felt, too, in the presence of such a woman as Ernestine that her coming hither was a mistake, and it made her falter.
For the first time in her life she was confused. The tables were turned. Ernestine was already the victor in this silent encounter. Hers was the victory of true self-respect over the frivolous conceit of a jealous coquette.
The Worronska had failed in her part even before she began to play it.
She had heard Mollner"s voice and his step as he left the room. The affair, then, had gone farther than she had thought. Anger had put her off her guard, and given her a hostile air when she had come to allure and perhaps lead astray. Her error must be rectified at all hazards.
She held out her hand to Ernestine and said, in her melodious Russian-German, "I am the Countess Worronska."
Ernestine slightly inclined her head, and the expression of her face grew colder and more forbidding than before. "And what is your pleasure with me, Countess Worronska?"
"What? Oh, that is soon told. I seek from you amus.e.m.e.nt, instruction, excitement,--everything that so talented a companion as you are, and one so entirely of my way of thinking, can bestow."
Ernestine recoiled almost perceptibly. "Of your way of thinking?" she asked.
"Most certainly! We are both advocates of the emanc.i.p.ation of women, each in her own way, but our object is the same. We are both adherents of the great champion of women"s rights, Louisa A----, who is my intimate friend. How charming it would be to enlist you also! We could then labour in concert,--I in action, Louisa through the daily press, you by your books."
Ernestine listened with the same unmoved countenance to what the countess said. When she had finished, Ernestine was silent for a moment, as if seeking some fitting form of speech for what she wished to say. The countess watched her eagerly. At last Ernestine replied, "Countess Worronska, I must decline your proposal,--I am resolved to pursue my path alone."
The Worronska bit her lips. "Indeed? You are afraid of sharing your laurels?"
"Not so," rejoined Ernestine calmly. "I am afraid of sharing the laurels of a Louisa A----."
"Oh! would you think that a disgrace?"
"Yes."
A pause ensued. The countess cast a fierce glance at Ernestine, who bore it coldly and unflinchingly. Again rage seethed in the bosom of the Worronska, but she controlled herself, for she was determined to compa.s.s her ends, and knew that she must be upon her guard with this girl.
"You are certainly frank," she began. "But I like that,--it is original."
"It is unfortunate that truth should be so rare among your a.s.sociates, Countess Worronska, that you call it original!"
"You are severe, Fraulein Hartwich. You should know my friends, and then you would be more lenient to their weaknesses. Why is it unfortunate? Refinement of taste brings that in its train. We cushion the chairs on which we sit, we plane and polish the rough wood of our furniture, we clothe the bare walls of our rooms with tapestry, we do not devour our meat raw like the Cossacks, but delicately cooked to please our palates. Why then should we surround ourselves morally with spikes and thorns, which rend and tear those around us? Why should we partake of our intellectual food so raw and undressed that it disgusts us? Thank Heaven, we have put off such barbarisms with our more advanced culture."
"You are perfectly right. Countess Worronska, looking upon the matter from a worldly point of view. I am only surprised to hear you defend the forms of society while you despise its proprieties."
A crimson flush rose to the brow of her visitor. But her rage only strengthened her determination to subdue her foe, superior as she could not but acknowledge her to be. "Yes, what you say is true: I love forms, because they are pleasant and useful. I hate propriety, because it would be our master, and by propriety you mean decorum--I understand you perfectly. Yes, then, yes: I love the forms of society, that give an aesthetic charm to existence, and make it smooth and easy, but I hate what people call decorum. When, in despair at the tyranny of my first husband, and utterly loathing his rude vulgarity, I left him by stealth, and fled, at peril of my life, across the half-frozen Neva to my father, to share his solitude and poverty, I acted honourably, but every one condemned me, the runaway wife was an object of scorn,--she had sinned against the laws of decorum. But when, after my divorce, I married the old Count Worronska, simply because I coveted rank and wealth, I acted dishonourably, but I had done nothing indecorous. Every one bowed low before me, and I found myself an object of respect to others when I was so deeply sunk in my own esteem. And can I do homage to decorum, the idol to which we are sacrificed, the empty scarecrow that the selfishness of men sets up to keep us within our prison-walls?
In the folds of its garment lie hidden tyranny, hate and revenge, jealousy and envy, malice and uncharitableness, ready to crawl out like poisonous serpents and attack its victims. What free spirit will not curse it if it has ever been aware of even the shadow of its rod? I began by cursing it, but I have ended by despising it. I have sworn hostility to it, and, trust me, there is a rare delight in stripping it of its mask. Louisa A---- contends against it with far n.o.bler weapons-than it deserves. It is not worth the going out to meet it with such solemn pathos. A hundred years hence, the world will laugh to think that it should have had power to annoy such a woman as Louisa."
She ceased, and looked into Ernestine"s face to see the effect of her words. But there was no change of feature there.
"I cannot vie with you in your style of speaking, Countess Worronska. I am used to plain thoughts. I am not practised in metaphor, and cannot adorn what I say with such wealth of imagery. I can only reply plainly and frankly to what you say, that what you designate as our foe I consider our protection, and that it is a far different foe that I contend with. Therefore we should never agree, and it is a useless waste of time to attempt any closer intercourse."
The countess started, and the colour left her lips, so tightly were they compressed. Yet she would make one more attempt. She regarded Ernestine with a look of profound compa.s.sion, and possessed herself of her reluctant hand. "Poor child! does even your bold spirit languish in the fetters of prejudice? What a pity! How inconceivable! And will you tell me what foe it is that you wish to subdue?"
"The mean opinion that men entertain of our s.e.x."
"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 s.e.xes, which can only be if G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 l.u.s.trous 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."
"Cease, I pray you, Countess Worronska!" cried Ernestine, blushing deeply. "I cannot listen to such words."
"If you fear my words, it proves the effect that they have upon you, and I have half conquered already," cried the temptress exultingly.
"If you think so," said Ernestine haughtily, "continue, I pray you.
When you have finished, I will tell you what I would rather not have been compelled to say."
"You will think more kindly of me when you have heard me to the end,"
said the countess. "You think my views immoral; but what is immorality?
What corresponds closely with the laws of nature? What morality do the brutes possess? None! and they are, therefore, irresponsible. They obey those laws which you, as a student of nature, esteem the first and highest. Ascetics say morality is necessary to preserve that order without which chaos would come again. But I ask you, Does chaos reign in the brute creation? Does not the strictest order in the preservation of species prevail there? Does not each possess and preserve its individual peculiarities? Does the lion mate with the hyena? Are there not inviolable laws prevailing there? And it would be just so with mankind. n.o.ble natures would attract only n.o.ble natures, and the common and vile herd with the vile. Love would direct the whole, and the indecorum of conventionality, of force, of falsehood and hypocrisy, would vanish. Would not the world be fairer, and, believe me, better?
Conscious that no legal claim could exist between husband and wife, each would endeavour to retain the heart of the other by redoubled tenderness and self-sacrifice. Mankind would grow more amiable, more self-denying, and the mind would be fed on the freedom of the body. As long as we have no freedom of choice, our spirits must be enslaved.
Have not men arrogated to themselves the right of free choice? Are they bound by laws? Where is the man who does not transgress them in public or private? But for us there is no appeal,--we are property possessed,--we have no right of ownership. We must be far above the necessity for change, inherent in every human being,--far above the demands of taste, of pa.s.sion,--above everything except man. We must achieve the victory over nature, so impossible for him, but be utterly subject to his will. Is this a just order of the world? No! Even those who have never felt the pressure of its injustice cannot defend it! Has not advancing culture abolished serfdom in Russia? And is the saddest of all serfdom--the serfdom of woman--to continue? No! If you do not choose to contend for its own sake for that right of free choice, of personal freedom for which such women as Louisa A---- are doing battle, do it for the thousands of poor weak creatures languishing beneath such a perversion of morality!"
Ernestine cast upon her an annihilating glance. After a short pause she said, "And if I were to do so, I should be striving for the ruin of humanity. I will not argue with you in justification of a morality which you do not understand, but I will attempt to remind you of its necessity, which has not, it seems, occurred to you. It can be done in a few words. Morality is moderation. Where it is wanting, all force exhausts itself in immensity; for moderation is the conservative force in nature, as in life. You look amazed. You do not understand me. I cannot lead you in a single hour along the dark, th.o.r.n.y path by which I have attained this conviction, and I know, besides, that I speak to deaf ears. But you have challenged my opinion. You shall have it, then." Ernestine"s cheeks began to flush with n.o.ble indignation. "All partisans labour for their cause, which may excuse you for attempting to disturb the peace of a quiet mind, to instil poison into an innocent heart. May you never be more successful than with me! I will believe that you have been impelled by the fanaticism of your error, not by the demoniac desire to drag me, who have done nothing to harm you, down to your abyss. But, Countess Worronska, what wretched error is this upon which you are squandering your power, your glorious gifts? I know it.
Do not think that what you say is new to me. It is the old threadbare philosophy of the voluptuary. It is the proclamation of all that mankind should conceal, if not for the sake of morality, then for the sake of immortal beauty, because it is monstrous if you will not call it immoral. It is what has branded the words "emanc.i.p.ation of woman"
with eternal disgrace. Enough! Spare me a nearer approach to so disgusting a theme. I know sufficient of it to condemn it; for it was my right and my duty, as a champion of our rights, to examine and prove all that had been done by any of my s.e.x for the amelioration of its condition. And I have found with the deepest sorrow how widely different these women"s paths are from mine, how little they understand their own dignity. What they call emanc.i.p.ation is degradation,--what should make them free makes them bold. Their frankness becomes shamelessness. What they call casting off ign.o.ble fetters is licentiousness. What do they do? What do they achieve to show themselves worthy of the rights that they demand? Are such feats as smoking cigars and shooting pistols the evidences of our greatness? And what about these very rights that they demand? What does this Louisa A---- want? What do all these women want, who strut like stage-heroines about the world, filling it with shrill clamour about their misunderstood hearts? Fie upon them! They train themselves to be slaves by their struggles for emanc.i.p.ation,--slaves to their desires and to men; for all their bombastic phrases about freedom signify freedom of intercourse with the other s.e.x."
The countess sprang up.
"Hear me to the end," said Ernestine, more and more animated by a n.o.ble ardour. "My words cannot do you the harm that yours might have done me.
I deeply regret that my efforts could have been for one moment confounded with yours, and therefore I will clear myself to your better self, without an instant"s delay, from the suspicion of abetting you in any way. Let me tell you that my purpose is solely to vindicate the intellectual honour of my s.e.x,--to enlarge the bounds of our ability, not of our will. Emanc.i.p.ation of the spirit is the goal for which I strive. Or, to speak more plainly, you work for the emanc.i.p.ation of the flesh,--I for emanc.i.p.ation from the flesh. You see our efforts are as wide asunder as the poles; and, I tell you frankly, I fear the shadow that intercourse with you would cast upon my pure cause."