It was rarely that I told my griefs, but hid them as much as I could. I had told them only to a little gay woman, to one of my servants, and to an old friend's parlour-maid, and had fucked all three women. I was now piqued, was in love with this lady, fancied she had had as much to do with my erotic darings in the carriage as I had, and could not bear to be thought a liar and traitor at home, and to have behaved ill to any woman. “Listen,” I said. “Oh! I don't want to hear.” “But you must, — you shall, in justice to me, — listen.”
Then I told her in a few minutes a history in itself. “Good Heavens, you are jesting.” “By the Eternal God it's the truth,” — and I burst out crying. How long we sat I don't know, but I heard her saying, “I'm truly sorry for you, — it's almost incredible.” I went on my knees before her. “Kiss me.” “Get up for God's sake, — the servant will come in.” “Kiss — kiss me.” “There, — there, — get up,” said she kissing me, “now leave me, pray.” “Why I have not been here a quarter of an hour.” “You must have been here an hour, — it's dark. — I must ring for lights.”
“You are the first woman for years who has kissed me who has not been a harlot,” I said, forgetting the servants, the married women, and others I had had, and a lady about whom I shall print nothing. It was an odd thing to say, was quite useless and untrue, but it burst from my lips suddenly, — Heaven knows why.
The story I had old her had stirred her sympathies, for she was a woman in the fullness of her blood, in the hey-day of her lusts. She was a pure woman; but those who have tasted the pleasures of coition with a man, — and she had spent with me, — cannot resist the desire for them again. Hers however was a want which urges many a woman to sexual complaisance without knowing the cause, although she knew well what she wanted, and was willing to forget herself, to bring about a result to satisfy the want. It was not fucking, but the consequences which most women dread, and try to avoid, when the fucking is illicit. Yes — she yearned for maternity. All her utterances to me, involuntary, irrepressible as they were, all pointed to it.
The deed of the previous night, and my present disclosures, had broken all barriers. She had tried at the beginning to fence herself with coldness — useless. Oh! the mysteries of the cock and the cunt when once the male and female disclose them to each other. No fence, no walls, no bolts, no bars, will keep them asunder. What can a woman refuse a man whose spunk has filled her cunt, from the portals of her womb to her clitoris, as mine had hers. All on a sudden I closed on her, kissed her, and put my hand up her petticoats.
“Now leave off, — if you attempt to repeat last night, I will leave the room, and deny myself in future when you call.” “Nonsense Mary, — let me call you Mary, — dear Mary, — you know what you told me only yesterday night as we danced, — things have not changed since then, — let me, — let me be the father.”
“Never, — a moment's weakness, — yes I should like a child, — in my loneliness and misery, with all our wealth, it might comfort me, — but not one of disgrace, — I forgot myself, and now you punish me, — forget all about it. As a gentleman, as I know you to be, — you will forget it, and never disclose my weakness, I am sure.”
“Nonsense, we love each other, — let me.” “Now don't, — leave off, — not now, — oh! don't make that noise, — be quiet then, — the footman will be in.” “He is out, or was when I was downstairs.” She rose up. “Let me feel where I did last night.” “No, I forgot myself once, but never again, — go.” “I won't by God, — I will have you, — I feel mad when I think my prick has been in your dear cunt, but never spent in it properly, — that my sperm has covered it, but was half wasted outside it.”
Out of the large double drawing-rooms was her boudoir, a sofa in it. I laid hold of her hands, and pulled her. “Come here.” “Oh! don't make that noise, — the footman may come here.” “Well, here.” Gently, and kissing her as I went, I pulled that lady into her boudoir and laid her on the sofa. Sighs, kisses, murmurs of my love, and we were spending together on the sofa a minute or two afterward. The doors were unlocked, any one coming in must have caught us; both must have been delirious with love-passion, to have run such risks. Rising quickly after I had spent, she rang for lights. Then was another ring audible.
“It's his ring, — it's my husband, — he's come home, — perhaps not drunk for once, — sit down there, — no, not so near, — there, — oh! my God what has brought him home!” (He rang a minute after she had rung the drawing-room bell.)
“How are you old fellow?” said her husband, quite sober, entering the room, and shaking hands with me, — “why I thought (to his wife) you would see no one.” “I felt better when I was up, and Mr.*** has come to say he has a box for Drury Lane for next Friday, and very much wants us to go with him and Mrs. ***, — I told him to wait a little on chance of your coming home.” “Will you join us?” said I. “Yes,” replied he, “you stop to dinner with us.” I hesitated. “Do.” “I'd rather not.” “We are all alone, — why don't you ask him, Molly?” No reply. “Why the damned fool has fainted, — it's the second time she has done it today, — what the hell's the matter with her?” said he.
[It's singular what a lot of fainting women I had in my youth, — those in after years did not faint during our intrigues.]
To ring, get sal-volatile, spirits, was the work of a minute. She had recovered before they came. Mr Y***- s***e poured himself out three quarters of a tumbler of brandy, and putting a little water to it, swallowed it. “Don't drink all that,” said she. “Mind your own business,” said he. I rose to go. “I want him to stay to dinner, Molly.” “Won't you stay?” “I'd rather not.” “Stay, — nonsense,” said he, — “She'll be as dull as stale beer tonight, — if you don't stay, come to my club, and we'll dine there.” “Pray stay,” said she. My seed was up her, that was an attraction, and though kindness would have said go, — I stayed. She left the room. Mr. Y***s***e drank more brandy and water; at dinner he was three sheets in the wind, no one was there but us three. “Who knows if chance may not give her to me again tonight!”
It was the most extraordinary evening in point of strained sensation I ever spent. Shown into a bed-room to wash before dinner, I would not wash the hand which had fingered her cunt; out of a superstition that if I kept it unwashed I should have her again that night. I had never been at a family-dinner with them before. My sense of delicacy as a gentleman ought to have made me refuse her husband's invitation, seeing that she was distressed, and had not willingly joined with him in asking me. At table he was boisterous and jolly at first, then heavy and stupid as the wine told on him; she dull and distressed, though trying hard to hide her being so. “You are as dull as ditch-water, — you are as cheerful as small beer drawn yesterday,” he kept saying at intervals to her. I had been trying to engage her in conversation all the evening, but it flagged, al-though she drank wine freely. Gradually all the talking fell to him, and as he was listened to, he seemed contented. I felt more inclined to think, than to talk; at all events to him, for my mind dwelt on the changes twenty-four hours had made in our relations to each other. The night before I had seen her come in to the ball-room upright, radiant, fresh-coloured, sparkling, proud in step, composed in demeanour; and I had not a vestige of a thought of having her. I had even thought her cold, and should have said without any sensuality. There she sat now. My hands had wandered over her soft flesh, from her knees to her navel, I had titillated her clitoris, spent in her. She was pale in face, dark rings were round her eyes, she seemed half lifeless, it was painful to see her. Whenever I turned my eyes toward her, I found her fixed on me with a strained expression in them, as if she were hearing some frightful tale. (I shall never forget the expression in them.) Her voice quivered, she answered slowly. I kept thinking of my fuck on the sofa, and all the occurrences. The more I thought, the more impossible it seemed to me that all could so have come about, — it seemed a dream.