Chapter IV

Mrs. Y***s***e. • A neglectful husband. • Domestic unhappiness. • At a ball. • Longings for maternity. • The wish expressed. At supper. • Hands under the table-cloth. • On the road home. • The family carriage. • Premonitory touches. • No coach on the stand. • The attempt. • On my knees. • Jolting difficulties. • The trick done.

Sarah Mavis had gone, Louisa Fisher had disappeared, Jenny was married to her John. I had gone through the lascivious dissipation which relieved me in my despair after my disappointed love; and almost immediately I entered into a liaison of an entirely different character. Its seeds were sown even when I visited Mavis, though I was not conscious of it till I began to write this portion of my narrative, and to reflect.

[How far chance determined my course in this liaison, how far an unoccupied mind and a prick with no regular claims on its exertions (for I had all but totally forsaken the connubial couch) combined to bring it about, I cannot say. Certainly my attention seems to have been led toward the lady instinctively. Perhaps it was because the lady's cunt was yearning for my sperm, a yearning which the owner of that “nest of spicery” was herself at first barely conscious of, and even when she was, never disclosed it. I believe also that she never had any intention of gratifying it for lustful pleasure alone; but that maternal instinct drove her toward me. I shall always think that some magnetic or odic, or call it what you may, some subtle, semi-ethereal influence, born of her physical wants, communicated itself to me, without either word or look of invitation from her; and generated in me a lust for her. In the end we gratified our wants together. I for sexual pleasure with a beautiful accomplished lady, she for a higher and powerful claim (almost a holy one) of her nature. Nothing in my private career presents such a psychological curiosity as this liaison does. It seems to me as I again read the manuscript, almost like a fable, yet it is as true as fact can make truth.]

We were on somewhat intimate terms with Mr. and Mrs. Y***s***e, I had known her in her youth, but her husband only since their marriage of about six years previously. It was a most unlucky union. She was an intellectual, charming, beautiful woman and had married him thinking it a wonderful match, for she was poor, though a born thoroughbred lady. He was a big, handsome man, a manufacturer, and very rich; but within a year after their marriage he had developed a host of vices, among them gambling and drunkenness. He neglected her, though he spoke of her in the highest terms, and kept up a splendid establishment. I knew that he frequented gay women, and that his drunkenness and whorings were driving him toward ruin and imbecility. Things were of course kept as quiet as they could be by the wife, but it became known among friends that he often went to bed drunk, and had even pissed the bed.

His wife took a huge disgust at him. They, I had heard, did not sleep together often, and although they went out together as man and wife, they led an unhappy existence at home. “Poor Mrs. Y***s****e!” were the terms usually applied to her. She kept up appearances, went much into society, gave splendid dinners and entertainments at which her husband was frequently absent. Chagrin told on her, her face assumed a pensive, sad, and even peevish expression; and then some people said she was ill-tempered, and had driven her husband into evil courses. It was false, for I had heard her husband, — whom I could not bear, — say how good she was, and bewail his own bad habits which he said he could not help, — they conquered him.

I met her out frequently, most frequently at houses where she was without her husband, and I without my curse, though sometimes otherwise. My domestic troubles were known to her, hers to me. There might have been some secret sympathy on this account between us. All I know is that I was sorry for her, and wondered how such a lovely creature got on with a man of such brutal, beastly habits. Her manner to me had always been soft and winning, chance had at dinner-parties often assigned her to me. “I'm so glad to take you in to dinner,” said I one night just before the time I am going to speak of. “So am I,” said she, “I've more pleasure in talking to you than to any one of our acquaintance.” Whenever we had met I had seen her eyes following me, yet not the shadow of voluptuous- ness had been shown, nor any improper advance had been made by her. Delighted with the hug that the waltz gave an occasion for, and the squeeze of the hand which the dance sometimes permits, yet a lustful idea had never entered my head about her, though unconsciously I always was looking at her whenever we met.

We had a habit of asking after each other, as if mutually conscious that in our homes we had troubled lives; yet we never complained to each other, though often we made slightly bitter remarks. There was a veiled meaning in what we said, but nothing in the slightest degree improper.

The following conversation took place at a dance, it is pretty nearly word for word. Said she with a sigh, “Ah! you men can escape your troubles, we poor women cannot.” “How?” “You know how, I expect, — or you are very much belied, — nobody blames you men.” “But an unhappy home can never be escaped.” “True, but you men can get forgetfulness, and keep out of it as you do.” “Who says I do?” “Ah!” “What do they say?” “I must not tell you.” “Do.” “Well, that you are very fond of the ladies.” “So I am.” “I knew it.” “Is there any harm in that?” “You know what I mean.” “I don't know, — do explain.” “You are a libertine, I expect.” “I should like to hear from your lips exactly what you mean.” She laughed. “I dare say you would, — but you won't.” “Then I am left in ignorance.” “Very ignorant, I dare say.” “I like to talk, walk, ride and dance with them, — I love to embrace them in the waltz.” “I know you do, and if you dance with me again don't hold me so close.” “I love you to be close to me — does it offend you?” “Not at all — but people may talk.” “I should like to be as close to you as man and woman could.” “Hush!” “I mean nothing.” “Of course not.” “I like to feel your breath on my face.” “They say you are a rake.” “Would you be anything else if you were placed like me?” “No, I would do as you do.” “Then you like my being a rake?” “No, — no.” “Are you a rake?” “I would be if I dared.” “Dear Mrs. Y***s***e, let us be rakes to-gether.” “Oh! naughty.” “You evidently don't under-stand me.” “Too well, and I also often feel quite reckless, for I have nothing to care about, no sister, my mother dead, no child, and such a home-life,” — and tears rose in her eyes. “It is sad, — don't cry, — I know also what sadness is, and what you must feel, — I wish you had a child.” “Yes, it would make me a home, — and yet a child of his! ah! I thank God we have none.” This was said with all the abandonment of an unhappy woman. Then she rose suddenly, and bidding me good-bye, left. I had never before, I think, alluded to her husband when conversing with her.

I met her at a dinner-party soon afterward, and took her down to table, — she I suppose was then thirty years old. She had a lovely neck, fine hazel eyes, and dark wavy hair. I pitied her. The conversation took this turn. “How strange things happen, some have such flocks of children which they don't want, rich people who want them none.” “People without children should change partners,” said I. (This was in the drawing-room after dinner.) “Hush!” said she, looking me full in the face. Her own face flushed, she stared at me, her breast gave violent heaves and her mouth slightly opened. I thought I had gone too far, had offended her, and was about to say I hoped I had not done so, when the hostess asked her to play. “Turn over the music-leaves,” said she to me, — and I did. She sang divinely, looking up at me as she sang; but although I saw she was agitated, I did not notice anything else, nor did I think about anything but what I said.