Anonymous - Gynecocracy

"Julia," presently said Mademoiselle to my relief, for I began to feel de trop, when her visitor had taken a chair and seated himself near her and had commenced a low conversation with her alone, "you had better go to my boudoir, amuse yourself there with that passage in the Medea you could not construe this morning or with Aeschylus or Sophocles-"

"Or Sappho," he broke in; "or, better still, Ovid's Art of Love. Mademoiselle has a rariorum edition deluxe, illustrated, and altogether sumptuous, if you can only find it."

"Lord Alfred!" said Mademoiselle, menacingly.

"Mademoiselle!" I heard him retort in a mock-pleading tone, his head a little on one side, as he looked at her. And I left the room.

Why had I not been allowed to go out with my cousins as usual? Why was I sent to Mademoiselle's boudoir! These were the questions which first suggested themselves to me; and then in a flutter partly agreeable and partly the contrary, I looked at the statues and at the pictures in a vague search of some assistance to determine Lord Alfred Ridlington's sex and my own!

At last my attention was caught and engrossed by a truly sumptuous edition of Theophile Gautier's Mademoiselle de Maupin, a work I then saw for the first time-one which has ever since fascinated me and which to my mind possesses a greater charm than the writings even of Rousseau himself.

The steel engravings were all that the most exacting imagination could desire, executed with consummate art, and possessing a still atmosphere of perfect luxury and voluptuousness which imparted itself as an additional delight to the letterpress.

Mademoiselle had with difficulty obtained the copy in Bond Street on our last visit to London and had paid?15 for it. She had it bound, at an additional charge of three guineas, in a rich chaste cover.

I threw myself down on the great divan with the volume in my hands, opening it at random. I arranged my skirts and myself comfortably, exactly with the feelings of any other girl, leaving my pretty ankles and shoes sufficiently visible for my own delectation, if for no one else's.

I opened my new acquaintance with avidity, intent upon the entertainment promised by the engravings. My thoughts, without any direction on my part, however, momentarily returned to Lord Alfred Ridlington. But only for a moment.

The fact is the puzzle had by this time become a bore.

It worried me; it excited positive neurosis, it set up neuralgia. Impatiently and petulantly, therefore, I dismissed the subject to stew in its own juice and to evolve itself as fate might ordain. As to a welcome refuge I turned to the volume between which and myself these intruders had ventured to insinuate themselves.

Then, with the scent of the glorious roses smiling in great bowls wherever within the little sanctuary, my eyes chanced to light, filling the atmosphere and my nostrils, I read.

The balmy air-soft, cool, and in gentle motion-gratefully fanned my cheeks and neck. A sense of deep rest, of intense peace, as distinctive of this apartment as of its mistress, settled itself upon me, leaving me free to concentrate my undisturbed attention upon a narrative which speedily absorbed it.

From the lawns and terraces of the gardens beneath the large window, shaded by an ample awning outside, came the sounds made by Juno's proud birds, wheeling themselves out with pride, expanding their blue, green, and gold tails to their utmost dimensions, stretching downwards their wings so that their rustle along the ground, as they strutted to and fro, rivalled the noise made by a modern belle and her garments. Then, with the burst peculiar to them, they allowed their pent-up magnificence to escape, only to recommence the performance, their discordant cries startling me from time to time with their dissonant harshness.

The hum and buzz of the myriad of summer insects were unceasing. More than one industrious and adventurous bee sailed about the window, and having reconnoitred the lady's apartment and the lady within, withdrew with polite reserve.

Amid these ideas and surroundings and under the potent spell exercised by them, one to which by temperament I was more than ordinarily susceptible, to which indeed my peculiar circumstances, my vesture, and what I had undergone, exposed me in a special manner, I opened the book of all others fitted for that place and time.

This the golden book of spirit and sense,

The holy writ of beauty.

The engravings did not retain me long. I desired to become acquainted with Mademoiselle de Maupin herself.

I felt satisfied as my eyes fell on the clear text and I read with slow rapture, in order to prolong the delicious impression made by my imaginative expectations and their gradual and entire realisation. Here is what I read.

"You know the eagerness with which I have sought for physical beauty, the importance I attach to outward form and how the world I am in love with is the world that the eyes can see; or, to put the matter in more conventional language, I am so corrupt and blase, that my faith in moral beauty is gone, and my power of striving after it also… I find that the earth is all as fair as heaven, and virtue for me is nothing but the perfection of form.

"Many a time and long have I paused in some cathedral under the shadow of the marble foliage, when the lights were quivering in through the stained windows, when the organ unbidden made a low murmuring of itself, and the wind was breathing amongst the pipes; and I have plunged my gaze far into the pale blue depths of the almond-shaped eyes of the Madonna. I have followed with a tender reverence the curves of that wasted figure of hers, and the arch of her eyebrows just visible, and no more than that.

"I have admired her smooth and lustrous brow, her temples with her transparent chastity, and her cheeks shaped with a sober virginal colour, more tender than the colour of a peach-flower. I have counted one by one the fair and golden lashes that threw their tremulous shade upon it.

"I have traced out with care in the subdued tone that surrounds her, the evanescent lines of her throat so fragile and inclined so modestly. I have even lifted with an adventuring hand, the folds of her tunic, and have seen unveiled that bosom, maiden and full of milk, that has never been pressed by any except divine lips.

"I have traced out the rare clear veins of it even to their faintest branchings. I have laid my finger on it, to draw the white drops forth of the draught of heaven. I have so much as touched with my lips the very bud of the rosa mystica."

"Oh, Mademoiselle! Oh, Gertrude Stormont!" I exclaimed, and sighed involuntarily, and as I lingered in my contemplation of Mademoiselle's bosom, which the above lines exactly described, I sank into a soft transport, half closing my eyes and dwelling upon my recollection of the contact of my mystical rose, recalling the lilies and the roses of the exquisite mounds, out of which it grew and the azure veins which I too had traced with my eyes.

I had then no further opportunity of pursuing this train of thought, or of reading any more of the words of one who so fully understood and expressed my ideas.

I heard the portiere removed and someone took hold of the door handle. I hastily glanced at myself to ascertain whether my pose was satisfactory and my drapery as it should be. No doubt it was Mademoiselle, and yet perhaps-I kept my eyes down upon the book, I dared not raise them yet-perhaps it might be Lord Alfred Ridlington!

What if he should find me here alone in that turmoil of mind, in that little sanctuary at my devotions to Venus, carried away by her sacred inspirations? 278

The door opened and closed again. Someone came across the thick soft carpet towards the couch. With a blush, which must have been perceptible, I looked up. It was he, it was Lord Alfred Ridlington-and alone.