The divine right of husbands, like the divine right of kings

Host: The autumn afternoon lay warm and restless over the public park, where the leaves rustled like old parchment and the air carried the faint sweetness of decaying grass and rain. The sky hung low — pale, wide, full of unsaid things. Across from the lake, on a worn wooden bench, Jack and Jeeny sat side by side, watching the slow dance of ducks gliding across mirrored water.

Host: The world felt suspended in that strange stillness between change and endurance — between the world that was and the one trying to be born.

Jeeny: (gazing at the lake) “Mary Wollstonecraft once said, ‘The divine right of husbands, like the divine right of kings, may, it is hoped, in this enlightened age, be contested without danger.’”
(She lets out a breath, smiling faintly.) “Even after two centuries, it still feels daring to say out loud.”

Jack: (leaning back, hands in his coat pockets) “Yeah. It’s not just a quote — it’s a declaration. She wasn’t just talking about marriage; she was dismantling an empire of obedience.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Marriage wasn’t just personal then — it was political. To question the husband was to question the monarchy of the home.”

Jack: “And to question the monarchy of the home was to question the monarchy of the world.”

Host: A gust of wind scattered the leaves across their feet — brown, gold, red — a small, silent rebellion of its own. Jeeny brushed a strand of hair from her face and looked at Jack, her expression half amusement, half challenge.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, though. We talk about enlightenment as if it came and conquered. But look around — people still cling to old crowns. Just smaller ones.”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. Now it’s not the divine right of husbands; it’s the unspoken privilege of comfort. Of thinking equality’s already been won, so no one needs to keep fighting.”

Jeeny: “And the danger Wollstonecraft talked about — it’s still there. Only now it hides behind politeness.”

Jack: “Right. People don’t burn you for speaking out anymore; they just tune you out.”

Host: The light shifted, soft gold brushing the tops of the trees, casting long shadows that stretched across the grass like slow-moving history.

Jeeny: “Imagine her in that century — a woman writing openly, fearlessly, comparing husbands to kings. Every word was a risk, and she still wrote it.”

Jack: “She wasn’t just brave. She was prophetic. She knew the personal was the political long before the slogan existed.”

Jeeny: “And she knew that submission — whether to a crown or a man — was learned, not natural.”

Jack: “And unlearning it would be painful.”

Host: Jeeny looked out over the lake again, her reflection trembling in the ripples.

Jeeny: “You know what I find beautiful? That she didn’t just demand freedom for women. She demanded enlightenment for men, too. To be free of the illusion that dominance makes them divine.”

Jack: “That’s the tragedy of power — it imprisons the holder as much as the subject. Kings die of isolation. Husbands die of silence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The divine right of husbands wasn’t just tyranny. It was blindness.”

Jack: (quietly) “And fear.”

Jeeny: “Fear?”

Jack: “Yeah. Fear of irrelevance. Fear that equality means loss instead of partnership. You take away the crown, and suddenly the man has to learn how to speak — not command.”

Jeeny: “And listen — really listen.”

Jack: “Which might be harder than giving up power.”

Host: The sunlight dimmed, sinking lower behind the trees. The park began to empty — children’s laughter fading, bicycles rolling home, leaves crunching under retreating feet. Only the wind stayed, restless and watching.

Jeeny: “You know, Wollstonecraft believed education was the key — that equality wasn’t born in revolution, but in understanding.”

Jack: “She was right. You can tear down systems, but if the minds inside them stay the same, the new world just wears old habits.”

Jeeny: “And we still wear them.”

Jack: “Yeah. We just rebrand them as tradition, romance, protection.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The divine right of husbands turned into the divine right of being ‘the man of the house.’ It’s softer, but it’s still a crown.”

Host: A pair of swans drifted past, their necks curved in perfect symmetry. The sight made Jeeny smile.

Jeeny: “You know what’s ironic? Real love — equal love — is more radical than any revolution. It doesn’t just redistribute power. It destroys the need for it.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “So love becomes the great equalizer.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The first true democracy.”

Jack: “Wollstonecraft would’ve liked that. She fought for reason, but she believed in feeling, too — just not as submission.”

Jeeny: “Love that doesn’t shrink one to glorify the other.”

Jack: “Mutual freedom instead of mutual fear.”

Host: The first stars began to appear in the fading sky, faint but stubborn — like truths that refuse to be forgotten.

Jeeny: “Sometimes I think about what she gave up — reputation, safety, belonging — just to say what she knew was right. It makes me wonder what our age will look like to her. Whether we’ve earned the word ‘enlightened.’”

Jack: “Depends. If enlightenment means equality, we’re still halfway there. If it means consciousness — knowing where the shadows still live — then maybe we’re closer.”

Jeeny: “You sound optimistic.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “No. Just honest. Progress is slow, but defiance is faster. Every woman who laughs in the face of control — that’s Wollstonecraft’s ghost, still working.”

Jeeny: “And every man who listens.”

Jack: “Yeah. That too.”

Host: The wind softened now, almost tender. The park lights flickered on, painting small halos of light along the path.

Jeeny: “You know what’s beautiful, Jack? That she dared to hope her ideas could be contested ‘without danger.’ Hope itself — that was her rebellion.”

Jack: “Hope and intellect — the two weapons they never expected her to wield.”

Jeeny: “And she used both without apology.”

Jack: “That’s what I admire most — her audacity. To compare a husband to a king wasn’t just satire. It was liberation written in irony.”

Jeeny: “Irony as revolution.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The lake shimmered in the fading light, a mirror of the sky — half dusk, half reflection. The air was cool now, filled with the scent of wet leaves and the quiet hum of the coming night.

Jeeny: (softly) “You know, every generation thinks it’s enlightened. But enlightenment isn’t a finish line — it’s a flame. It has to be kept alive.”

Jack: “And it only burns when people are brave enough to contest what feels divine.”

Jeeny: “And human enough to do it with compassion.”

Jack: “Mary would have approved.”

Host: They both stood, stretching against the evening chill. The wind scattered the last leaves across the path — each one spinning like a small, fiery truth refusing to settle.

And in that quiet moment — under the dim glow of streetlights, beside the lake that mirrored both history and hope —
Mary Wollstonecraft’s words seemed to echo again, alive as ever:

that divinity is not hierarchy,
but humanity awake;
that the throne of power,
whether in palaces or in hearts,
was never sacred — only fragile;
and that the truest enlightenment
comes not from claiming superiority,
but from daring to stand equal
in love,
in reason,
and in truth.

Host: The night deepened. The stars gathered.

And Jack and Jeeny walked on —
two voices from an “enlightened age” still learning,
still contesting,
still believing
that freedom begins
with the courage to speak.