Jacky S - Suburban Souls, Book II

LILIAN TO JACKY.

Telegram. Sonis-sur-Marne.

March 23, 1899, 9:50 a.m.

Sleep well, sweetheart.

LILIAN TO JACKY.

(No date or place.)

Postmark Sonis-sur-Marne. March 23, 1899.

My very own,

You had the scent of a detective to write to me yesterday, as confess that I felt disposed to nevermore give you the slightest sign of life after your letter of Sunday.

Papa is in bed with the influenza, and I myself am only just a little better.

You are absolutely in the wrong and you do not understand what I write to you concerning Mr. A. There is positively nothing and there will never be anything between us but a great desire on his part, which manifests itself openly each time that he finds himself alone with me, which is horribly wearying in every way, and even rather more repugnant than anything else.

l suffer greatly from this state of things, but how can you fancy yourself responsible for it? It is no more your fault than it is mine, I suppose?

Thank you for the ring. I shall wear it with all the more happiness, knowing that it comes from you. It is preferable that it should be Mr. S, who gives it me openly, as one of my lady customers is going to offer me one, and two would be too many.

You will soon be invited, but the indisposition of Papa alone put off this happy moment.

I am impatient to see you, for we have a multitude of things to say to each other, and then I wish to see you for the sole pleasure of feeling that you are near me.

To your dear lips,

LILIAN.

The effect of my insane correspondence was now beginning to make itself felt; and my young lady was quite bereft of all prudence, or the atmosphere in which she lived had caused a total eclipse of all moral sense. Here was a young woman declaring coolly that her mother's old lover pursued her daily with his in-famous passion; she living under the same roof as him, and this desire manifested itself openly whenever they were alone together. Which possibly meant that he opened his trousers whenever he caught her on the stairs, or coming out of the W.C. To write so coolly concerning a stepfather, with whom she had just traveled all alone, added to her letter from Lille, would, I thought, have been sufficient circumstantial evidence in a divorce court, but I was still dissatisfied, and the more she tried to keep me off the track of her incestuous secret, the more I wanted to know.

Seriously speaking, no woman could live in the manner Lilian wanted to make out to me. The loathsome disgust she would feel at the approach of the lips of her beloved mother's paramour, at the touch of his gouty, nailless hands fumbling round her petticoats could drive her to flight or suicide, if she really was the right-minded girl she now wished to make herself out to me. Where were the dreams of collaboration and photography with Papa? How about the appointment for the day of Mi-Carême? She talked vaguely of inviting me to her house, but there were no signs of sensual longing. The ring and my show of rage, followed by an unasked-for apology, had quite fogged Lilian, and she took no trouble with me, thinking evidently that I was in a condition to digest the rawest falsehoods, and I could not divest myself of the notion that Papa was amusing himself by reading all my letters, and that he was now her lover, pander, and father-confessor rolled into one; so I locked myself up in my little den, and wrote the following extraordinary concoction destined to throw such a cloud of dust in their eyes, that in their vanity, she like all shallow, crafty, vain women believing that my love or passion for her was so great, that I could be easily rendered blind, and forget all teachings of experience and common sense; while Papa loving darkness rather than light because his deeds were evil, kept advising her to stick to the lie she had written to me in that vile elucidation from Lille, which I am almost inclined to think was composed by the pair together, or at his dictation, over the café complet in the morning, in the double-bedded room. And why double-bedded? I had only Lily's word for that. Since she had been imprudent enough to write to me, probably because I expressly told her not to, on the printed paper of the hotel at Lille, what was there to prevent me taking the train and passing one night in the same hotel, perhaps in the same room? My lust was sufficiently cooled now to enable me to shrug my shoulders, as this thought came over me. And I am sorry to say, I declared that they were not worth the trouble, and I preferred to stop at home in Paris and nurse my influenza, which was troubling me considerably. Moral: Be careful how you use the hotel note-paper. A good plan is to write at a different hotel to that you are stopping at. You can always get a sheet of their paper for the trouble of taking a cup of coffee there, and if you know how to lie glibly, an answer can easily be received there, too.

JACKY TO LILIAN.

Night of March 24/25, 1899.

Little Lily, darling,

So you have been ill? Influenza? You say that you are only just getting better?

I asked for news of your health in the long letter I wrote to you on your return. I hope that when you receive these lines you will be quite reinstated.

I am better. Sleep has come back to me, a little. Your good telegram, followed by a still better letter, comforted me and made things easier.

Then, darling, I felt myself loved by you. In 1897, you loved me only a little; in 1898, much more; and in 1899, you love me passionately. After my letter of Sunday, I might add not at all.

Frankly, that letter was too insulting. I still blush for shame of it. You have pardoned me, my love, because you are “crazy on Jacky.” You said that yourself, when you called me your little husband. A wrong done to a woman we love is only inexcusable when she no longer loves us.

I still feel the desire to excuse myself. I detest narrow-minded, obstinate, pigheaded, vain people who think themselves degraded to have to say: “Pardon me, I am wrong.”

I know some of the middle classes, decorated with the Legion of Honour, who would let themselves be cut into a thousand pieces sooner than retract anything they have once said. How stupid! I am vicious, perverted, depraved, my intelligence is below ordinary standards. I am a very ordinary, faulty, vulgar man, but I try to be delicate in my sentiments and when I have to reproach myself for having done wrong, I candidly confess it. My loyal avowal is my best justification. I know the folly of mankind, and that the loving heart is often the prey of error or weakness. I shall always acknowledge my mistakes without false shame, pride, or obstinacy, but with sincere regret.

Charming Lilian, who is about soon to call me to her side! I shall be able to touch you, to feel you near me, to enjoy your perfume, living flower that you are; read my pardon in your beautiful eyes, and depart with the satisfaction that I am still loved by you.

For the ring, spare me, I pray you, sweet love, the annoyance of having to give it to you before everybody. Be ready and dressed as soon as I come. I will give it to you when we are alone. Then you can run and show it to your parents, to know if you are allowed to accept it, etc. You know the old tune better than I. It is only a trifle, and for that reason will pass as swiftly as my tongue in your mouth. I am not rich enough to give you what you deserve. I only fear that by its style, by the stones I have chosen, it may not perhaps please you. And you are so good for me that you will always say it delights you exceedingly. I should like to put it on your finger myself. I would that it were never off your hand, that you wore it at night; especially at night.

I go mad when I sit down to write to you. It is true that I see you so seldom. My letter takes the place of a chat with you.