I do not exaggerate if I say that most of those who broach the subject of woman, or her psychological state and her fluctuations, and all the other topics that branch out from this field, are very often carried away by the pen, because they write at the prompting of pure emotion. And emotion is most like a raging storm: no sooner does it blow with insane force and wreck what it wrecks than calm and stillness follow it. But if we say that most of those who write about woman are driven to it by a strong, unbridled emotion, or by an inclination to court her and win her favor that knows no bounds — there are also those who write relying on reason and logic; yet reason and logic do not suffice if the subject is treated from one side and not the other. For woman is the complement of man; it is therefore not permissible to examine her case in isolation. Rather, we must couple everything we say about her with what we know about man, and then we shall reach our goal.
The strange thing is that great writers, whose fame has filled the horizons and whose every written word has become an irrefutable, conclusive argument, treated the subject of woman in isolation from man, and therefore handled her in their writings and their talk with unfamiliar epithets — calling her deceitful... changeable... a mysterious secret... and all the rest of what sound taste does not approve. After them came others weaving on their loom, which only made bad matters worse, and people would almost have agreed unanimously on these sayings were it not for a small band... a very small one. What, then, is the measure of truth in their writings on this subject? Do the epithets which the writers have fastened upon woman apply to man rather than to anyone else? And how can we arrive at knowledge of the real truth?
There is no doubt that what we have set forth above indicates clearly the falsity of the claims made in the writings
of famous authors concerning woman, because they treated her subject either at the impulse of emotion — so that most of it came out as deliberate slander or empty flattery — or they approached it from one side only, so that it was one-sided and not to be relied upon. Now we shall try to find out whether the epithets the writers have fastened upon woman apply to man. To that end I shall relate some true incidents which I heard from numerous women friends, leaving the judgment to the honored readers.
A friend related to me, saying: A year before my marriage I made the acquaintance, at the house of my relatives, of a young man of handsome appearance who, I was told, enjoyed an ample share of culture. I, being a girl who reveres culture, could do no less than praise his qualities and his virtues, after hearing him speak of himself frequently and insistently. But he took fright and turned tail, and I have not seen him from that day to this. What happened, I wonder?!! It became clear to me that man fears woman's praise and shies away from it, and dreads her neglect and so keeps his distance from her. In both cases I do not know what man wants. Upon the truth itself, they are a mysterious secret...
Another friend mentioned to me a story that happened to her a short time ago. She said: You know that I loved my husband with a love beyond which there is no love, and lavished upon him, of myself and of all I possess, more than the mind can imagine — until one day I heard him say, 'Adam himself was denied such a blessing as this.' And I do not exaggerate if I say that he revered me almost to the point of worship. Then one day he ran off after one of the courtesans without addressing a word to me or offering an apology. In the end it became clear to me that man fears blessing as he dreads poverty, and that he is like a
feather in the wind, not knowing where to settle. Men are indeed traitors, and they are hypocrites.
And a lady told me the story of her husband. She said: I do not know, by God, what he wants. He is a baffling riddle. At times he appears to me sincere, at other times deceitful, and even so I do not know how to deal with his obscurity. One day we received an invitation to spend an evening at one of the city's pleasure haunts, so I put on the best I had — a red dress that drew every eye. But no sooner had my husband come home from his work and seen me in that joyous state than he refused to go, inventing excuses. I believed him; and hardly had I changed my dress when his former resolve returned to him and he asked me to accompany him, without my knowing the reason. During the evening he began staring at the ladies who were wearing eye-catching dresses, in a way that made me understand the reason for his refusal at the beginning and his acceptance at the end. Upon my life, men are hypocrites and greedy — and yet...
These are some true stories drawn from the very heart of life, and if they indicate anything, they indicate the obscurity of men, their changeability, their ignorance of themselves and of woman, and the applicability to them of the very epithets they fastened upon her. There is no doubt that Oscar Wilde's theory of woman is the truest of theories, for he said of her: 'Woman is but a picture among pictures, and pictures are looked at and understood; the riddle is man, and a baffling riddle he is. If a man wishes to uncover the truth of what woman intends behind what she utters, he has only to look at her, not to listen to her.'
A nonentity among nonentities is man. A nonentity, a mysterious secret, an eternal riddle to himself and to others, even if he tries