 of a classical education, it
was insinuated, had been mine; on flowers of Hymettus I had revelled; a golden
store, hived in memory, now silently sustained my efforts, and privily nurtured
my wits.
    A hundred expedients did M. Paul employ to surprise my secret - to wheedle,
to threaten, to startle it out of me. Sometimes he placed Greek and Latin books
in my way, and then watched me, as Joan of Arc's jailors tempted her with the
warrior's accoutrements, and lay in wait for the issue. Again he quoted I know
not what authors and passages, and while rolling out their sweet and sounding
lines (the classic tones fell very musically from his lips - for he had a good
voice - remarkable for compass, modulation, and matchless expression), he would
fix on me a vigilant, piercing, and often malicious eye. It was evident he
sometimes expected great demonstrations; they never occurred, however; not
comprehending, of course I could neither be charmed nor annoyed.
    Baffled - almost angry - he still clung to his fixed idea; my
susceptibilities were pronounced marble - my face a mask. It appeared as if he
could not be brought to accept the homely truth, and take me for what I was:
men, and women too, must have delusion of some sort; if not made ready to their
hand, they will invent exaggeration for themselves.
    At moments I did wish that his suspicions had been better founded. There
were times when I would have given my right hand to possess the treasures he
ascribed to me. He deserved condign punishment for his testy crotchets. I could
have gloried in bringing home to him his worst apprehensions astoundingly
realized. I could have exulted to burst on his vision, confront and confound his
lunettes, one blaze of acquirements. Oh! why did nobody undertake to make me
clever while I was young enough to learn, that I might, by one grand, sudden,
inhuman revelation - one cold, cruel, overwhelming triumph - have for ever
crushed the mocking spirit out of Paul Carl David Emanuel!
    Alas! no such feat was in my power. To-day, as usual, his quotations fell
ineffectual: he soon shifted his ground.
    »Women of intellect« was his next theme: here he was at home. A »woman of
intellect,« it appeared, was a sort of »lusus naturæ,« a luckless accident, a
thing for which there was neither place nor use in creation, wanted neither as
wife nor worker. Beauty anticipated her in the first office.
