Jacky S - Suburban Souls, Book II

Are you mad? Do you take me for a madman? Or are we all mad, and you alone sane?

It is laughable. But I don't care. When in a rage we say: “I don't care a damn; what does it matter to me?” generally we feel quite the contrary. I believe that I prove, and I have sufficiently proved lately, the appearance of a slight commencement of indifference. And if you do not believe me, I do not care.

A few guesses:

Lilian was certainly a virgin in October last. January she was so no longer, nor in December either. (“Don't be silly, darling!”)

When sucking her in the dining-room in January, I felt the difference. I ask to be allowed to try with my finger. She consented, and cunningly put me off: “It is so tender now I've come!”

When did she lose her maidenhead?

In London in October? I think not. I saw her at the beginning of November, when she forged the hideous lie of the lost letter. At that moment, she wanted to be my wife. I still believe in her relative honesty, and she would not have wished to marry me if she had not been physically intact. You see, Lilian, that I have still a little illusion. You are surprised? I do not care.

I think that the thing happened in November. With whom? After November, there is no talk of marriage.

I have two ideas: Mr. Arvel or a stranger. I put aside the first-named, I don't know why, and from some signs that I have no time to set out here-especially as all this is very vague in my brain; I grope in darkness now-I lean towards a stranger, who, either because he feared the consequences, or else because he bored of her after once or twice, has not set eyes on her since. Or he is perhaps absent momentarily. And I believe he is an officer.

I suppose he abandoned her. Out of spite, she threw herself into the arms of those whom she thought she loved a little: Mr. Arvel, who, on second thoughts, I think she loves a great deal, whom she seduced; and Jacky, whom she don't much care about, except to make him suffer and excite Mr. Arvel. Nevertheless, she is always telling Jacky and writing to him how she loves him. I do not speak of the parties carrées with her Lesbian Charlotte.

A woman who truly loves cannot live without the man she has chosen. She only knows one thing; to see him as often as possible, although she may have to dig up the earth with her nails to get to him. In a word-'tis love. And when she sees her lover, she only knows one other thing: to get into bed, to open her thighs, to give herself up, and let herself be taken, virgin or not. Does a woman really in love think of her virginity? She loves. That is all.

Lilian the liar does nothing of this with me. She loves not, neither Jacky nor anybody. Mr. Arvel a little, and the remembrance of her first real lover-that is all. She loves nothing. She fetched me out Sunday night through vanity, to show Lolotte that after having copulated in her society, she had yet another man waiting for her. I do not care.

Excuse all faults of French of your old foreign snob. I have a copy of this letter. Shall I make a few extracts for Lolotte, or do you prefer to read this to her when you see her?

This is a calm and sensible letter, without empty phrases; without tears, flowers, birds, or music. You like novels. This is better-here you have a living romance, of which you are the heroine.

You love voluptuous letters that you can show. Show this one, I'm not ashamed of it. I set forth my weakness, I allow, but I've no vanity. I boast of nothing. The part of victim does not displease me. And to prove that I should not blush if it be shown to who you like, I write it on paper stamped with my die, and I sign my name in full,

JOHN S.

But I have wagered with myself that you will not answer me. You are in a tight corner.

What lying bubbles I have burst since you became a neat little Césarée! I kiss you, and conclude-at last!

From a sensible point of view, it doubtless seems a silly thing to have sent the foregoing letter. The reason why I did it was because I was afraid that Lilian, perhaps half tipsy-she must have been so, or she would never have opened her thighs so wide-would not, or could not see my motives. Also, that I did not wish to spare her; I felt a savage pleasure in rubbing her nose in her filth. I wanted to drive her to give me up herself. I wanted to see how far she would go; whether she had any pride left; whether she was utterly debased and abandoned or not; and lastly, I was now certain that Papa knew all our story, and had eagerly devoured my letters, just as Lilian and he had read all my obscene books together, I told her so; I told her I found his big black thumbmarks in one of them. She never answered; she never did, when I guessed rightly I thought he was putting her up to most of her tricks. In their narrow-mindedness, they cannot believe that I have always been truthful, and in spite of all I have said, think I am a miser and that there is still something to be got out of me; never mind how little-it is all profit. They were trying to “work” me. Pa, Ma, and Lilian were all conspiring. They were accomplices, more or less, and I was to be the fool. Where they were all wrong, was that according to my mad letters and my still madder talk and ideas, they suppose and hope that I am absolutely gone crazy on Lilian and that she can do whatever she likes with me. Habitual liars are the easiest people in the world to deceive. They believe everybody. But you must never lie to them. Tell them the truth or nothing, and they will be as children in your hands.

I had now to make a most dreadful sacrifice, with only the voice of my conscience to applaud me-the sacrifice of my passion; of my sensual enjoyment; of my thirst for lust with Lilian, which I could have still assuaged had I chosen to be a weak coward towards myself. This holocaust, perhaps I am too vain in saying so, seemed to elevate me in my own sight, and I felt like a hero, in thus conquering my concupiscence in solitude, between four walls, all alone with my thoughts.

ERIC ARVEL TO JACKY.

Sonis-sur-Marne. May 1, 1899.

My dear Jacky,

If you have nothing better to do on Wednesday, will you bring down your bike and come for a ride? We will breakfast at 11:30, sans façon, and see you get home safely at night. Raoul has written, and desires to be kindly remembered to you. I was very much obliged to you for the papers you sent.

Hoping you are all well at home, believe me to remain,

Yours very truly,

ERIC ARVEL.

P.S. -Look at the enclosed photo, and tell us what you think about “Mount Calvary”?

Wednesday, May 3, 1899.

This postscript and the photograph, representing Lilian between her brother and myself-taken by Papa in February-confirmed me in my opinion that Papa knew all, and so did Lolotte, for Lilian never troubled about my threat of writing to her Sapphic friend. I sent a wire, accepting the invitation, and went down on my bicycle; my hands full, as usual.

I had made up my mind to be calm, cool, collected and merry, and not to say a word to Lilian on the subject of our secret (?) relations, unless she spoke first. I half expected she would not be there. How could it be possible that any woman, even the lowest of the low, could sit unmoved in front of the man who, in the right or in the wrong, had sent her such a vile, horrible, loathsome letter, without counting his brutal assault on her? But knowing her petty thoughts, I guessed she would say: “How he must love me to write such things! How vexed he is!” And she would be proud to think she had got me in such a mad state. So Pa and Lilian invited me to gloat over my supposed sufferings and make me suffer more. The best reason of all was, perhaps, that Papa did not want to quarrel openly with me, as I knew now too much about him.