Jacky S - Suburban Souls, Book II

“Have you been at the cockles?” Why try to fit the cap of generalities? Experience bitter as wormwood and sharper than a two-edged sword has taught me, not to-day but long since, how readily we embark on the journey to Cythera “as the bird hasteth to the snare knowing not that it is for his life.” Will my experience benefit you? If so, you should have it, but the only experience of value is that bought with tears and lamentations, when in the solitude of our chamber we open our hearts and say: “I have sinned.”

Recent experiences have I none. I have sunk to anchor in my haven of rest, with plenty of time for reflection, for examining the past, and making the general confession a man makes to himself, when he feels that the time is approaching for him to turn his face to the wall. I have not offered myself as a candidate for the crown of gold and myrtle, and I am as full of those faults and imperfections as any man who is human, and God alone knows if I can affect the same indifference as the good Saint Anthony, when the temptress comes across my path. Perhaps age will by that time have conquered the folie érotique which warps our best intentions, and I shall have sang-froid enough left to ask myself the why and the wherefore of the wiles of her who seeks to ensnare me. Possibly prudence and caution may cause me to ask myself why the appât has been so tempting, and Passion tempered with Age will enable me to see through the plot made against happiness or honor. Many have succumbed, and if I follow their example I shall only be one of the few who have sacrificed so much to gain so little. Human resolves are as the words which are written on the sand of the seashore, and yet there are men cowardly enough to say with their first parent: “The woman who thou gavest to be with me she gave me of the tree and I did eat. When the cup comes to your lips, will you dash it aside and say that there was the warning in the words that “there's no fool like the old fool”? Believe me, it is hard even to aspire to friendships with the young, when a certain period of life is attained, and women have the instinctive desire, the unhealthy curiosity, to see how far they can arouse the old Adam. What are the peculiarities of Passion? Sordid motives on the one part, and vanity on the other. Passion is not devotion, and in my opinion Love only comes when the man has learned to appreciate the sterling qualities of a woman, apart from the carnal pleasure she can afford him.

I hope my sermon has been long enough, and that you are convinced that when I wrote to you, there was no secret sorrow gnawing at my heart, and no desire to throw stones in the glass house inhabited by my neighbor. Age enables me to philosophize, and when I have time to sit quiet in my own room and review the past, analyzing my own feelings, wondering whether I could withstand the smiling promises of the temptress, I am impressed with the wisdom of the man who said there was “no fool like the old fool.”

Here on let me again thank you for all your kindness, and good wishes, and hope that the new year may bring you and yours the realization of every wish.

Yours very truly,

ERIC ARVEL.

I wrote no more to Mr. Arvel, and ceased sending any papers. I gave no sign of life.

January 1, 1900.

As I awoke on the first morning of the New Year, I received the following from Trixie, and I cannot refrain from giving it here, as it is such a triumph for my theory of true love and affection, which Papa affects to sneer at.

TRIXIE TO JACKY.

Paris. December 31, 1899

My dearest friend,

For the last few days I have not had a moment to myself. I wish that all these holidays were passed; they do not amuse me.

Thank you for the pretty paper, it is quite in good taste, like everything that comes from you, and when I use it I shall often think of you, and that will prevent me from gathering my ideas together.

For the year 1900, I send you, with all my heart, my most sincere and best wishes. May it be luckier for you than the one that is gone. For myself, I ask you to keep me a little corner in your heart, for you know that I love you very much.

I want also to tell you once for all, that I will no longer let you put on your little sardonical look, when I say that I love you for yourself-or, if you like, for myself-without any desire for money.

I will not let you compare me to other women. I am almost happy that you are hard-up just now, as that gives me the opportunity to show you that I wish to abandon myself to you, entirely, for love, without any other thought than that of making you happy and so becoming myself at the same time the happiest of women.

I have been deprived of your caresses too long; you must never leave me again-do you hear me, darling? Be good to me, dearest, and let me love you. I will overwhelm you with so many caresses; I will be for you such a perfect sweetheart, that you will be forced to succumb beneath the weight of evidence, and you, who are so straightforward, possessing such perfect common sense; knowing so well how to judge men and women, I want to force you to say to yourself and to me also, that if I have faults, as is only natural, I have no idea of lucre with you.

So see how I am dragged hither and thither: I would that you remain poor, so that you should have the proof that I love you for yourself alone, and at the same time I wish that you were rich and independent. I hope that you may become immensely rich, and yet if that was to happen, I should live under the eternal apprehension of seeing later on that you have the idea that I have only loved you in the hope of being enriched by you. After all, you are only a man…. Pardon me if I foresee that you may become like all other men.

Tomorrow, on returning from your walk, come and wish me “Good morning,” at the post-office, Place Victor Hugo, about one o'clock, if you can; I so much wish to see you.

Can you see us on our bicycles this weather? It would be a great success. And your dear muddy, dirty dog I was forgetting! I want to see him too.

A thousand tender things and as many clever and voluptuous kisses,

TRIXIE.

And now, Mr. Prompter, please ring down the curtain. This drama is finished.

The actors wash off their paint; the brown holland is put over the boxes. We go home, and all is dark until the next night.

So it is on the mimic stage, but in life there is no ending to the long succession of comedy and tragedy which is played out in many acts, and is never ended.

Death now and then calls at the stage-door, and one of the players: poor, painted, false villain, or roguish clown; tragedy queen, or meretricious dancing girl; is carried away in the black hearse, but the universal spectacle of love and hate goes on all the same.

Thus with my most vile story. I must break off here, but there is no finish to a real book, such as this is.

When the novel is a mere fantasy, it is easy to dispose of the characters. But this tale being a true one, I can only bow and go, making way for some fresh actor, who is waiting in the wings to caper in the light, when I shall have disappeared, whether I will or no; for I am, and so are you, Reader, in the hands of the Great Scene-Shifter.

July 1899-January 1900.

Appendix A

PLEASURES OF CRUELTY.

ACCOUNT OF A SCENE WITNESSED IN A WOOD, BY A GENTLEMAN, WHO HAPPENED TO BE UNSEEN BY THE ACTORS

(Evidently father and daughter.)

FATHER.-“Come, my dear, this is a beautifully quiet spot, let me look at your legs.”

DAUGHTER.-“Oh! Papa! Papa! What do you mean, you can always see my feet and ankles?”

FATHER.-“That's nothing, I must see more, and teach you to obey me in everything I order; now, lift up your skirts.”

DAUGHTER, all blushes.-“Well, then, Papa; there's my legs,” drawing up her clothes so as fully to expose beautiful well-filled stockings and the ends of finely embroidered drawers: “Is that what you require?”