She goes to him strong in her weakness, in
her unshielded bosom, in her heart which
beats for him alone. This is the real woman's
warfare, in which the most valiant man will
be vanquished. Who will now be bold
enough to raise the question, whether she is
superior or inferior to man? She is both
at once. She is to us what the sky is to
the earth; above, beneath, and all around.
She is our atmosphere, the vital element of
our heart.

How are we then to reconcile the discrepancy
that woman should be obedient, and
at the same time equal to her husband? The
apparent difficulty is great. The husband
ought to have over his young wife, and the
wife when more advanced in years ought to
have over her husband, a very powerful
ascendant.

But to arrive at that result, to establish
real unanimity between them, to assure
especially the maintenance and the crescendo of
this unity of heart, the great point is habit,
—a complication of habits. And there exists
a means of attaining the object. The material
arrangements in which their daily life is
formed—all the forms of their material and
moral communication—have great influence.
What is wanted, is (if the title were not
spoiled by works unworthy to bear the name)
an Art of Love—of loving the same object for
a whole life long.

A good wife and a good trade are the two
first steps to liberty—a trade, and not an art
of luxury. An accomplishment, over and
above, is all very well; but the first requisite
is some art of general and universal
usefulness. Think of this, too, young people,
whether you are students or workmen; two
persons spend less than one. Think of this,
when your joyous companions come rushing
to your door with, "What are you doing,
still here? Are you a bear, a hermit, a
saint in training? We want you. Come
with us to the Chartreuse or the Chaumière.
We are going there with Amanda, Héloïse,
and Jeanneton." To which you will answer,
"By-and-by. I have not quite finished; I
have still something to do." If you reply
thus, most certainly between those two pale
flowers which you keep on your window-sill,
there will appear the vision of a third flower
—namely, the light and misty image of your
future bride. She is still very young—much
younger than yourself. She acquires time
to attain her womanhood. But, child as
she is, if she is often in your thoughts she
will serve you as a surer guardian than
your father and mother. For she is strict,
is that little one; she permits no sort of
folly. If anything of the kind enters your
head, she will tell you of it, without uttering
a word. "No, my good friend; don't
do that. Stop at home, and work for my
sake."

For a while, this charming phantom will
act as your mentor, preceptor, and tutor.
By-and-by your parts will be changed. When she
enters your home, as your wife, she will
think it perfectly good and right that you
should be master in your turn. You will
then thank the Great Being whose inventive
benevolence created woman for your sake—
—woman, the miracle of divine contradiction.
For she changes without altering. She
is inconstant and faithful. She maintains a
ceaseless motion in the clear-obscure of grace.
The woman whom you loved in the morning
is not exactly the woman of the evening.
An Alsacian nun, while listening to the
nightingale, forgot herself, they say, for
three hundred years. But he who could listen
to and follow a woman throughout all her
metamorphoses, would meet with endless
surprises, would be delighted, or piqued, but
would never weary. A single woman would
occupy ten thousand years. Consequently,
you risk very little in marrying a plain girl.
In general, if she is plain, she is so only
because she has had no one to love her.
Beloved, she will become quite a different
person; her friends will hardly know her
again.

Woman takes scarcely any interest in the
vain discussions which are raised in her name
at the present day. She troubles herself very
little about the grand contradictory debate
whether she is superior or inferior to the
man. The theory of the question is, with
her, quite a secondary consideration.
Whereever she proves herself thoughtful, clever,
and prudent, there she is mistress; she
manages the house, directs the business, keeps
the money, disposes of everything. Will she
obey? As soon as this word is uttered, you
fancy she is going to resist. Nothing of the
kind; she laughs and shakes her head. She
knows perfectly, in her own heart, that the
better she obeys, the surer she is to
govern.

What is it that woman really likes best?
What is her most secret wish—the indistinct
and instinctive thought which follows
her, without her being able to account for
it, into every place at every time—the
thought which fully explains her apparent
contradictions, her prudence, and her folly,—
her fidelity and her inconstancy? Does she
wish to be loved? No doubt she does; but
that answer is far too vague to unveil the
longings of her heart of hearts. What she
desires most is, to reign at home, to be
mistress of the house, mistress in the parlour,
mistress in the dining-room, completely
mistress in her own little world.

"This," said the ancient Persian, and
Voltaire after him, "This is what, above all
things, pleases the ladies."

The secret, essential, capital, fundamental
point is, that every woman feels herself to be
a powerful centre of love and attraction,
around which everything ought to gravitate.
She wants man to regard her with insatiable
desire—with eternal curiosity. She has a