Jacky S - Suburban Souls, Book II

“If you don't, someone else will!”

“Alas!” I say, “there's no honesty when our desires are aroused!”

He concurs, and tells me some of his experiences. They are silly, schoolboy yarns. I continue to astonish him with some of my adventures. I want him to retail all this to Lilian.

Then he talks of the books he likes. Miss Braddon is his favorite author. He does not like French novels, as a rule, but he wants to read that celebrated book on the vice of masturbation, Charlot s'amuse. I promise to get him a copy. He does not like Fanny Hill. I tell him it is good, and written in good English, too. He hates reading philosophy. He prefers Tit-Bits and Answers. He has read the book I lent him- The Romance of Lust — twice since February! He is going to send it back to me. I shall then go through it and see why he liked it so much. He gossips anent flagellation, and tells me how much he likes books on that subject, especially The Mysteries of Verbena House, which he had from me, and which I passed on to Lilian.

I narrate to him some recollections of Trixie's birching experiences with me. I have never been like this before with him. He listens with open mouth, and his pipe goes out. I cannot now remember all I told him. A huge budget of stories of the same kind I unpacked for him after dinner.

I begged him never to sneer at novels, except very farfetched stories of travel and murder, because authors simply hear of strange doings in private life and write them up, when by practice we can, as we read, pick the truth even out of a mass of lies in a three-volume love-story.

I confide to him that a gentleman friend of mine had written a vile book, and having gone away traveling, had left me to correct the proofs. I promise him a copy when done, in a few months.

“What is it about?” he asks.

“I dare not tell you. It is so awful. You shall see it when finished.”

“I should like a copy, but I must not keep it. I will return it when read, as I am frightened of the girl getting hold of it!”

Of course, I am alluding to The Double Life, the proofs or which he got from Lilian soon after I left his house, I expect.

We return to dinner; he still saying, as he opens the door:

“That story of Trixie is wonderful!”

I must remark that they had cut off the afternoon tea, and I have not washed my hands since the morning. It will be remembered that they used to take me into the best bedroom, which communicates with Lilian's. Have they altered their sleeping arrangements? I walked behind my man, chuckling as we go in to the evening meal. Trixie has kept us out late. It is eight o'clock. Mamma and Lilian are awaiting us impatiently. We sit down talking “dog,” and I say:

“Mr. Arvel and myself disagree on one point. I will not allow that in-breeding is good. All your dogs will have faults, unless you get some outside cross.”

He has just had another brother and sister put together. They are also by a brother and sister.

I notice that Lilian and her Papa have not yet been able to meet that day. I have never left one or the other, so I know I can continue to try and talk to Papa again after dinner, before she has time to tell him that I have declared they are accomplices in every way against me. He is charming to me all through dinner and until I leave; quite different from last time, when he was probably under the influence of Lilian's story to him of the little drama of the cab, told in her own way, of course, as she has a certain set of lies for him, no doubt. Perhaps he is glad I am no longer friends with her?

I am certain he is quite bewitched by her and she likes him very much. But still I fancy she has not yet found the man who can influence her. Will she ever? I think not.

How a young woman of twenty-three can allow a man to talk and write to her as I have done, surpasses my comprehension. And still she sends for me. The lowest street whore, or brothel wench, would have shown some little pride of some sort ere this; or would have fled from my awful talk; or shed one or two tears, if only of vexation. She must be hysterically mad. She is lustful, but coldhearted, in spite of her heated centre of love, which is like a fire on an iceberg.

I am forced to come to the conclusion that she no longer cares for me-if she ever did-and I make up my mind that this shall be my last visit. I have a scheme for closing the doors of this House of Lies against myself, so as to guard against any future weakness on my own part.

We sit down to dinner. Lilian gets up occasionally, and once she stands over her Papa, and plunges her eyes in his as if she were fascinating a dumb animal. He looks at her for a few seconds, and then, quite confused, unable to bear her glance any longer, drops his head sheepishly into his plate, like a boy sick with passion.

We talk of legs and calves again. Lilian says she has no calves. Mine are false, I say. She determines to see if what I declare is true, and feels them under the table, finishing up with a sly pinch.

She passes me the salt, with the remark that she is helping me to sorrow.

“Dost hate me then so greatly?” I exclaim, in the exaggerated, gruff tone of the stage villain. She does not like that remark and says so.

There are asparagus which Mamma tells me Lilian went and got specially for me. I ask her to mix me some sauce of oil and vinegar, as she is doing for herself. She consents, and when finished, puts her finger in it to taste it. Mamma chides her. I say I will be revenged, and when she is beginning to eat her asparagus, I put my finger in her plate and taste her sauce. She offers me more asparagus. I take some from her hand and say:

“Thank you, Madam-Mademoiselle, I mean!”

At this, which I say loudly and boldly, her face shows true temper; the black cloud comes over her features, and her lips are blue and distorted.

“I hate being called madame!” she cries angrily. Both Mamma and Papa are curiously silent during my encounter with Lilian.

We talk of types of character. I tell them that if the negatives of the photographs of the illustrious personage who died in February in a woman's arms, of Papa, and of myself, were all super-imposed and drawn off together, the features would mix and melt into one face, as we were of the same race, tastes, and temperament. No one replies to me. I do not think they understand, or else they have read my thoughts. I add that I really think my host is a Jew, and appeal to my hostess. She answers coolly: “I know he is not!”

“No one knows better than you, madam!”

She does not turn a hair, nor does Lilian. They make as if they did not know what I am talking about. Of course, Papa is silent.

Dinner is over. Papa leaves me alone with Mamma and Lilian.

Mamma tells me about Raoul as a soldier. I had told him that if ever he got into trouble privately, and there was anything he did not want his mother or sister to know, he was to write to me. This I now told to his mother and she thanked me. An officer has taken a dislike to him and he is being persecuted. He is unhappy. I say that there is perhaps a petticoat in the case. They agree with me. Raoul has never been punished. Both the women say that it is thanks to the good advice I have given him. I do not quite understand. Lilian tells me that he never forgot how I instructed him to behave at the regiment last November, and if he has got on so well, it is all on account of my counsel. And that was eight months ago. She never told me this before. Ma informs me that Lilian is not going to London with her brother in September, but is going to give up bonnet-building, as her health will not permit her to remain the long necessary hours in the workroom, and that it is a fearful trade unless you have a very good connection. She requires plenty of exercise in the open air, and to live in a pure atmosphere, not inhaling the rebreathed air of the stifling workshop, with a stove in it.