Jacky S - Suburban Souls, Book II

Women of infamy, like Lilian Arvel, are seldom perfect types of beauty. Our passions are printed on our features, and wicked thoughts make wicked faces.

Sensual women are sad, until aroused. Their development of breast is rudimentary, as was the case with Lilian, who in male attire might have been easily taken for a young lad. Her maternal grandmother, I have already said, was more than eccentric, and her mother flew into tremendous passions when put out, and was unreasonably jealous. Lilian had always a very bad temper; she was a liar, vicious, and thought of nothing but men, jewelry, and dresses. I fancy that she suffered from chronic inflammation of the intestines and that would account for the peculiar bluish tint that overspread her features whenever put out. But I am no doctor. Her menstruation was tolerably regular. There were nervous troubles, spasms, cramps of the stomach, stifling, but never a complete hysterical fit with me. Her nerves troubled her during her monthly derangements. She had been some time at a convent-school, and in answer to my inquiries told me that she had never witnessed, or been invited to take part in any acts of sapphism. I remember on one occasion, before I was unduly intimate with her, that some young women from Myrio's dined at the villa while I was there. One of them was called “Mahogany,” in allusion to the color of her hair, and she was supposed to be married, but she had all the freedom of manner of the kept mistress. After the meal, Lilian went and sat on a garden bench with her, and by the way in which she sprawled on her friend's shoulders, I felt sure they were all disciples of Sappho.

Lilian's conduct was lax and provoking with all the young men she met, and some elderly financiers, from the London Stock Exchange, who had been invited to dinner by Arvel, came away with the conviction that the daughter of their host was a dangerous flirt, if nothing worse. Four years ago, she ran away from home and took refuge with her grandmother.

Lilian Arvel is a neuropath, who has unfortunately not found in her dwelling, between her mother and her mother's lover, the advice and examples that might have had a happy influence, so as to modify any bad instincts she may have had within her. She has much false pride; extraordinary ambition; her tastes lead her towards dress and debauchery; she hates her mother, and she surely despises her Papa, although she accepts his caresses. He serves as a machine to calm her lust. But she can reason perfectly well on all subjects which have nothing to do with the satisfaction of her passions. The manner in which her mother lived, combined with the conversations of her customers, all professional harlots, adulteresses, or kept women, showed plainly that there was little chance of her moral sentiments being nurtured, or of her receiving the good advice and education which might have changed in some slight measure the disposition and tendencies of a young woman of uncontrollable imagination. She is endowed with very lively intelligence; her repartees are pointed and prompt; her memory is surprisingly precise. But I perceive a great change when I proceed to analyze her feelings and nature. Here I find enormous gaps, and I note the excessive development of egotistical feelings, vanity, and a yearning to be talked about and always play the principal part. If I call to mind her childhood, when she served as an aphrodisiacal plaything, in the bed of her mother; afterwards toying with her brother; then eagerly drinking in the bawdy chatter and risky songs of the milliner's workshop; her dangerous flirtations with Gaston, Ted, François, and all the others I know not of; her connection with Madame Rosenblatt and Charlotte; without counting officers, actors, and myself, I can only reconstitute a type of character much more often to be met with than many people think. The principal characteristic of this style of person is the complete absence of all idea of morality. Such individuals are quite capable of saying what they ought or ought not to do, but all moral notions are abstract for them, and have no bearing on their determinations. Lusts, appetites, and instincts predominate and their perverted impulses carry an intellectual activity, which is often intact, towards the goal of selfish satisfaction only. Acts entirely at variance with all moral and social laws do not excite their horror, but are quietly accepted by these curious unmoral people, who are as those suffering from color-blindness.

They are afflicted with moral cecity, and do evil deeds with complete indifference. And as their intelligence, seemingly without a flaw, is only superficial; as the versatility of their feelings is as great as that of their ideas, they have no remorse. They may suffer slightly from an annoying obsession, when they cannot have their own way, but never from the remembrance of a bad action.

My poor dead Lily had a great liking and esteem for the Arvels. She was proud to find that they invited me so often and delighted to know that her Jacky should be so sought after.

It proved her own good taste. She would see that I was well-dressed to go to Sonis and would wake me early so that I might not miss my train, after having chosen my cravat herself.

She had respect for them too and never thought of herself on the same footing, for were they not married, whereas she was but my concubine? I never deceived her. During the last year of her life, she began to get jealous of them all at Sonis and suspected me of being in love with one or the other of the women of the villa.

When I had been preparing a new chemical product in 1897, Lilian Arvel had done some typewriting for me. My poor girl knew of this and was always grateful to the young lady who was so kind to Jacky. She was sure the good wishes of a pure maiden would bring luck to my new invention.

On her deathbed, although her approaching end had been carefully concealed from her, she had forebodings and said to me:

“Jacky, I am dying. I know I am. You will marry Miss Arvel. You know-the young lady who typed your prospectus two years ago. I am not jealous of her now. I can't be jealous if she loves you. Don't sleep with her in this bed. We two have passed every night in it for well-nigh fifteen years… You made fools of us both this summer.”

November 8, 1899.

In my packets of newspapers for Mr. Arvel towards the end of October I enclosed a curious cutting from the Figaro (see Appendix R.) and an extract from Zola's latest novel that was just out (see Appendix S) copied on the typewriter, as, to change the current of my sad thoughts, I had bought a machine and was beginning to practise with it.

Then Papa wrote to me and the following correspondence took place. I was evasive and elusive. He was incomprehensible and bitter.

I only note a sort of rage and hate to think I had got to know his secrets, had read him and his daughter-whore through and through, and had walked away when I was tired of their intrigues.

If the girl was still at home, living quietly with him and Ma, and “getting her own living”-this was Arvel's pet phrase as applied to women-by carefully moulding the weak brains of moneyed lechers; there was no excuse for him to write as he did, and drag his own concubine in the mud, to “bluff” an ex-lover, trying to convince him that he had never played at the game of incest with her. Surely I should never believe that he would so vilify his own mistress?

If she had left him, disappointment might be a motive.

Be that as it may, his long and prosy letters did not trouble me much, as will be seen by my vague answers, and my mind was perfectly at rest as regarded the triumvirate of Sonis-sur-Marne. I never asked anybody about them. I knew nothing of their movements.

ERIC ARVEL TO JACKY.

Sonis-sur-Marne. November 7, 1899.

My dear Jacky,