Jacky S - Suburban Souls, Book II

“'Nothing! But what did he say to you, Lilian?'

“'Nothing, Pa!' What fun for me you both are! It is grand to be able to read you all here, wanting for nothing, caring for nothing, and telling you all I think of you. I am going to put our adventure into a novel. I have already written a lot of it. I shall call it Suburban Souls. I shall alter the names and places.”

“That is the least you can do! — Now, will you go away! Leave off, I say. You do not know what nonsense you are talking and how you are mistaken in every way.”

“If I am wrong, I am an utter rogue. You have never yet called me a liar, because you know I am not one. But say so now; spit in my face, and tell me to go!”

She turned away without a word, and her mother appeared.

“Don't say any more, as Ma can catch up a few English words she may know,” whispered Lilian, hurriedly.

So I saluted the workgirls and retired.

It was always the same. She could not tell the truth. Driven in a corner, she covered up the first lie with a second one; then if wanted, placed a third one over them, and so on as long as necessary. It is true that she deceives no one, as she must always be detected sooner or later; but she gives herself the satisfaction of believing that she has blinded her victim for the nonce.

I went back to the dark-room. Papa was hard at work, finishing my second photograph, and his own. I help him a little, as it is too late to go out cycling.

I now make up my mind to do what I have never done before: to “work” him a little, and talk to him, as he has tried to talk to me. If he knows all, as I think, it will not matter, and if he does not-I shall see what comes of it. So I begin to talk smut. That soon draws him out, and I boldly tell him about virgins, and how girls swear you out that they have never been penetrated by a man.

“You can't tell,” he says, looking at me with a puzzled expression.

“Can't you? You've only got to put your finger up.”

“That is not a test. But still if you thrust in four inches or so, they can't be virgins. My fingers are no use. They are too short.”

And he stared at me with increasing uneasiness.

“Then I am right. You agree with me. My experience has proved this.”

“But then, there is no certainty. The hymen gives!”

What a splendid, strange remark for him to make! An elastic maidenhead! Surely he knew all, and was trying to make me believe that Lilian's membrane still closed up the vaginal passage, and was like a bit of india-rubber!

“You can't tell,” he continues. “They can make a virgin cleft with alum water.”

“That is no use against the medical exploration with the finger.”

“Ah, you've never tried to get into an alum girl!”

I cannot help shrugging my shoulders disdainfully, and keep on:

“What is really difficult is not to have children. To get them is easy, but to enjoy a woman and not impregnate, is hard work.”

“To get children,” he answers, evading my proposition, “the best way is to have connection dog-fashion, and not let the woman empty her bladder for twenty-four hours afterwards.”

I can hardly keep from laughing at this new cure for female sterility, and we prepare for a walk before dinner, when Lilian appears from the kitchen. She looks so ill so black, dull, and rancorous-that even Papa notices it, and asks her what is the matter. It is the effect of my talk, and she has been having a little explanation with her mother about what I had said. She chaffs me and I retaliate gaily, all before Papa. I tell her how rude she was, never to thank me for some English fashion papers I put in Papa's parcels. She curtsies down to the ground with ironical politeness, saying:

“I thank you, sir! — Are you satisfied now?”

“Hardly. You are not over polite as a rule.”

“I shan't take lessons from you.”

“You might do worse.”

She tells her Papa that she is going to Paris the next day, and she says:

“I must have a little check: fifty francs will do!”

And she pirouettes in front of us, lifting up her skirts slightly, but turning her head away. When in a fix, she hides her face. Papa does not answer, but looks at her with his most gloomy air, showing how strongly she stirred him then. This is also to vex me, and show me what money she can have of him! With this she runs indoors, still with averted face. Shortly afterwards, I am alone for few moments, while Papa has gone up to his room, and I hand her the preface (see Appendix B), and the first eighty pages of The Double Life, a rough proof; with all the incestuous passage marked, and some newspaper cuttings: “An Infamous Father” (see Appendix F) and “The Tête-à-tête" (see Appendix G). I give her to understand that I have arranged this preface. She seems very pleased and is evidently delighted that I do not sulk after the blowing-up. Her lips twitch, her eyes laugh, and her nostrils quiver, exactly as when she used to get “wet.” Can she make her nostril palpitate at will? Yes-women can do it.

“Don't spend!” I say, and she runs away laughing.

Papa and I go out with the dogs. We talk more smut and I tell him:

THE TALE OF TRIXIE.

A few years ago, I was carrying on an intrigue, to use a polite team, with a married lady, and she used to give me a rendezvous somewhere in Paris. during the afternoon. Her lord and master was rather jealous and she was obliged to take great precautions, frequently changing the place of appointment. One quiet spot I had found out was the Terrasse de l'Orangerie, in the garden of the Tuileries, where one might have thought oneself to be in a dull provincial town, had it not been for the roar of the distant traffic. My sweet adulteress very often never appeared at all, as a whim of her master might stop her many a time from going out.

At least, so she told me. One fine day in June, I was at my post, under the trees, and I knew by the time I had been there that she would not come that day. I felt rather glad than otherwise, and was debating with myself whether it would not be better to give up such an unsatisfactory liaison altogether, as I lazily smoked a cigar, and fell to idly watching the movements of a trim-built little lady who was impatiently trotting up and down, all alone, with a bunch of roses stuck in her waistband. She was simply, but neatly dressed, and it was easy for a man used to the ways of a big city, to see that she was not a common wench, seeking the acquaintance of the first man who would accost her.

She passed in front of me, and went to the stone parapet that borders the terrace, and like Sister Ann, looked out afar, but nothing was to be seen. With a gesture of impatience, she tore the roses from her girdle and flung them away. Then she looked at a tiny watch and made as if to leave the garden. I got up and followed her, and although repulsed at first, I managed to make her conquest, and finally, after a deal of trouble, she told me that she was seeking an adventure, and had answered an advertisement in the Ruy Blas newspaper, where, under the cloak of matrimony, kindred souls poured out their desire to find fitting mates, and restless spirits sought for their affinities. Trixie, for thus I shall call my new friend, was fresh to Paris and its ways, and she had answered one of these announcements, when she had been directed to come to the Tuileries, with the bunch of roses as a signal, so as to make herself known. The correspondent had not kept his appointment and so she made my acquaintance.

I may say at once that, after two or three appointments, she let me do what I chose with her and I found her to be a most charming little woman, and possessing all the qualities that I always sought for in a mistress: strong sensuality and no squeamishness or false prudery.