not? If body and soul are connected, then how could your brain hold such thoughts unless you had a rational soul? If Aristotle had met a woman like you he might have thought differently.”
“Aristotle would never have bothered to teach me anything. He would have assumed I was only soil, fit for a man’s seed. So he wouldn’t have given himselfthe opportunity to find out that his hypothesis about women was false.”
“Are you saying that men are the irrational sex?”
“No, only that all humans must be vigilant in the maintenance of their souls and, therefore, their search for truth. Accepted truth is only as good as the tests used to prove it. So I would not say Aristotle was wrong but only suggest that his work was unfinished.”
“Aristotle would encourage the questioning of accepted truths. But take care with whom you share these thoughts. Many men become irritable when questioned by women.”
“Not you, dear teacher.”
“Not me. But then we might hypothesize that I am a man made irrational by love.” He bends closer to examine her work but then turns his head as if to kiss her.
Just then a cough startles them. Pierre bolts upright, and she leaps to her feet, as an older man dressed in black enters the room. Did he see them? Does he suspect that they have become more than teacher and student? But his face is as unreadable as blank parchment.
“Hello, Uncle!” She feigns an enthusiasm she doesn’t feel.
“Hello, my child.”His voice is ceremonious, almost cold. He turns to Pierre, “How is my protégée doing?”
“Amazingly well, Your Excellence. Inside that lovely head rests the most luminous mind in all of France.”
She wishes he wouldn’t pour it on so thick.
Her uncle’s lips tighten. “High praise for a woman, though I’m happy to know that someone else appreciates the jewel of my household.”
“It’s no empty flattery. She offers an outstanding analysis of Aristotle’s degrees of the soul: nutritive, sensitive, rational. And she recognizes the different values that might flow from Plato’s concept, in which soul and body are separate, as opposed to Aristotle’s concept, in which soul and body are inseparable.” His unguarded enthusiasm contrasts sharply with the stern formality of the older man.
Her uncle stares directly into Pierre’s eyes, until the younger man drops his gaze in confusion. Her uncle’s look strikes her as threatening. “I can see that my niece appreciates your appreciation. “As he turns his gaze on her, it softens into something closer to sorrow than anger. “I hope you appreciate the education my money affords you.”
“I do, Uncle. You have been good to me in every way.” She puts a hand on his shoulder and kisses his cheek—a move that felt natural when she was a child. But now her lips shrink from his beard-stubbled and wrinkled face. She steps back to gauge his reaction. He smiles at her, and his look softens, though not completely. There is affection in that glance … and something more.
Her uncle’s voice turns gruff. “Don’t let me keep you from your work. I’ll expect you to entertain me at dinner with the new ideas this teacher has put in your pretty head.” He nods, and she and Pierre bow. Then the old man leaves in aflutter of black.
As soon as his footsteps fade into another part of the large house, the two young people turn to stare at each other, wide-eyed as children who have weathered a sudden storm. Then they break into giggles of relief. She sits down again at the table and resumes writing, but her hand is shaking and her letters are uneven. Pierre places a hand over hers, stopping the progress of her quill. He guides her hand to set the quill down on the blotter, and then he leans over her chair and enfolds her in an embrace that takes her breath away. She sighs and looks up at him. They kiss, their lips barely touching, as if this would make it easier to part should her uncle return. But the feathery touch only makes
“Aristotle would never have bothered to teach me anything. He would have assumed I was only soil, fit for a man’s seed. So he wouldn’t have given himselfthe opportunity to find out that his hypothesis about women was false.”
“Are you saying that men are the irrational sex?”
“No, only that all humans must be vigilant in the maintenance of their souls and, therefore, their search for truth. Accepted truth is only as good as the tests used to prove it. So I would not say Aristotle was wrong but only suggest that his work was unfinished.”
“Aristotle would encourage the questioning of accepted truths. But take care with whom you share these thoughts. Many men become irritable when questioned by women.”
“Not you, dear teacher.”
“Not me. But then we might hypothesize that I am a man made irrational by love.” He bends closer to examine her work but then turns his head as if to kiss her.
Just then a cough startles them. Pierre bolts upright, and she leaps to her feet, as an older man dressed in black enters the room. Did he see them? Does he suspect that they have become more than teacher and student? But his face is as unreadable as blank parchment.
“Hello, Uncle!” She feigns an enthusiasm she doesn’t feel.
“Hello, my child.”His voice is ceremonious, almost cold. He turns to Pierre, “How is my protégée doing?”
“Amazingly well, Your Excellence. Inside that lovely head rests the most luminous mind in all of France.”
She wishes he wouldn’t pour it on so thick.
Her uncle’s lips tighten. “High praise for a woman, though I’m happy to know that someone else appreciates the jewel of my household.”
“It’s no empty flattery. She offers an outstanding analysis of Aristotle’s degrees of the soul: nutritive, sensitive, rational. And she recognizes the different values that might flow from Plato’s concept, in which soul and body are separate, as opposed to Aristotle’s concept, in which soul and body are inseparable.” His unguarded enthusiasm contrasts sharply with the stern formality of the older man.
Her uncle stares directly into Pierre’s eyes, until the younger man drops his gaze in confusion. Her uncle’s look strikes her as threatening. “I can see that my niece appreciates your appreciation. “As he turns his gaze on her, it softens into something closer to sorrow than anger. “I hope you appreciate the education my money affords you.”
“I do, Uncle. You have been good to me in every way.” She puts a hand on his shoulder and kisses his cheek—a move that felt natural when she was a child. But now her lips shrink from his beard-stubbled and wrinkled face. She steps back to gauge his reaction. He smiles at her, and his look softens, though not completely. There is affection in that glance … and something more.
Her uncle’s voice turns gruff. “Don’t let me keep you from your work. I’ll expect you to entertain me at dinner with the new ideas this teacher has put in your pretty head.” He nods, and she and Pierre bow. Then the old man leaves in aflutter of black.
As soon as his footsteps fade into another part of the large house, the two young people turn to stare at each other, wide-eyed as children who have weathered a sudden storm. Then they break into giggles of relief. She sits down again at the table and resumes writing, but her hand is shaking and her letters are uneven. Pierre places a hand over hers, stopping the progress of her quill. He guides her hand to set the quill down on the blotter, and then he leans over her chair and enfolds her in an embrace that takes her breath away. She sighs and looks up at him. They kiss, their lips barely touching, as if this would make it easier to part should her uncle return. But the feathery touch only makes
Similar Books
