John Barth - Letters

Be that as may, we were by A.‘s own assertion done with d and entering e. Inasmuch as he had declared to me in his Ex-hor-ta-ti-on of 3 March that I was the 6th love of his life, and as the evidence was that he had come to me from a painful third connexion with Magda, I urged her now to tell me what I must look forward to from Our Friend in Stage #5.

More tears. Then she told me, in two longish, earnest installments: one then and there, the other this morning, both punctuated with the good womanly embraces aforementioned. Ah, the Italians! Only her suicide convinces me that Carthaginian Dido was of Phoenician and not Italian Catholic origins. God damn me if I go that route! Which, Kleenexed and synopsised, appears to have been this: In 1967, when their marriage was officially kaput, Marsha ran off to Niagara Falls with the lover whose subsequent early rejection of her had fetched her to the Remobilisation Farm and the sexual-clerical employ of “Monsieur Casteene”/Cook. Ambrose, at Peter’s urging, had reluctantly moved back into Mensch’s Castle with his daughter; he had finished the conversion of the Lighthouse into a camera obscura, and — not at his own particular initiative, I gather — had become party to a tacitly acknowledged ménage à trois, the guilty background whereof we have had hints in an earlier letter. Look it up: as Ambrose says, that’s what print’s for.

Magda again, then. But with a difference! At a Ambrose had been a callow, adoring amateur; there’d been no sex till the end, 1947, when in Peter’s absence Magda had bemusedly (and fatefully) accommodated the boy’s ardours as the stone house rose up about them. At c —1949 and after — their feelings had been reciprocal but for the most part unspoken; they did not couple, nor did Magda question her heart’s commitment to Peter and their newborn twins. This time ’round (1967), worse luck for her, Ambrose was passive, aloof, still shaken by the wreck of his marriage; whereas Magda found herself possessed, for the first time in her 38 years, by unreserved, overriding, self-transcending (and self-amazing) passion: a possession so complete as to make her wonder whether, after all, the man Ambrose was not as much its occasion as its cause and object. She knew him thoroughly; she saw and did not admire his faults; she found altogether more to respect in her husband; her contempt for mere adventurous adultery, Marsha-style, was profound — and none of those considerations mattered. She was Swept Away!

I was impressed with the woman’s understanding of what had happened to her; how judiciously she assessed the contributions of Peter, Ambrose, and herself to the experience. She’d been near forty, heavier than at c (and than she is now); it turns out that Peter — despite his being an affectionate, strong, and devoted husband — was, no doubt still is, an indifferent lover: perfunctory, unskillful, often impotent though decidedly fertile, withal Not Very Interested in That. Magda had never managed orgasm, except solo. Of this she’d been aware, in a general way: a more vigorous erotic life, like a larger income, she could imagine to be agreeable if it didn’t bring problems with it. But she’d felt content, sufficient, and had not thitherto been tempted to infidelity.

Even so, it had unquestionably been a factor in her overwhelmment that, however it was they got together again at e, Ambrose revealed himself this time around to be an amateur no longer in the sexual way. I abbreviate: at age 38 she learned from him how to fuck, and by her own admission the experience set her a little crazy. It also inspired in her — focussed, channelled, whatever — a passion for him which, alas, he scarcely measured up to and but feebly reciprocated. This part was painful: for Magda especially, of course, but for Ambrose too (and for me to hear). Early on in our own connexion he had mentioned “a Dido whose Aeneas can neither return her love nor leave her palace…” She had no wish to divorce Peter and marry Ambrose; she had not really expected him to love her as she loved him, though hope was hope; neither did she think their affair would last long. On the other hand she could not imagine — it would have appalled her to imagine — an experience so important to her as being without consequences. She begged him to “run off” with her; she was ready to put by the family she genuinely prized and give herself exclusively to her lover for the vague “year or two” she could imagine them together, in Italy… More than anything else she prayed he might make her pregnant, before he left her, with

a little Aeneas to play in the palace

And, in spite of all this, to remind me of you by his looks…

Then she would return to Cambridge and take the consequences, whatever they were.

But that’s not our Ambrose, what? He was moved; she believed his testimony that if he had taught her what sex was all about, she had taught him, just as belatedly and more considerably, what love was all about; made him realise that he’d never truly been loved before. Surely that tuition was what kept him from cutting his anchor cables: it was a remarkable, new, and of course very flattering business, to be loved like that! And he did both admire and love Magda, though not quite so much as at c and at a…

And not enough. No help for that, but it must have hurt. The truth was — he felt a fool, a beast, a sexual snob for feeling it, but there it was, and she sensed it without his saying it — she no longer aroused him very much; he could be seduced away by the first trim 22-year-old at Marshyhope. He deplored this fact, and resented having to deplore it. Very painful for the pair of them, whilst Peter, humble and ashamed, looked the other way.

Thus e: as if circumstances and want of heroical destiny had held Aeneas in Carthage not for a winter but for a year and more, with a Dido less queenly than Dido and whose passion he found himself ever less able to return, despite his esteem for her… Ambrose didn’t oblige Magda to dress like his undergraduates (she’s but a year his senior), but he said cruel things, and hated himself for having done: she was not dainty; she was not fresh; he made her douche; he made her shave her legs and underarms daily, and the fleece between her navel and her fleece. Clumsily she went at any perversion, tried to dream up new ones, anything to keep him.

Last September, not to beggar her self-respect altogether, Ambrose finally managed to put an end to this 5th Affair; would have moved out of the Castle as well, down to Redmans Neck or somewhere, but for Peter’s insistence, which frantic Magda seconded: Angie needed them both; all three. Through the fall and winter, whilst she went crackers with desperation, he humped the odd ex-student; by March she knew he’d got Serious again with someone. The knowledge went into her like Dido’s knife, for she still much loved him.

But not, she acknowledged, as much as before. Surely I must see (I saw) that she did not resent me; on the contrary. She was not yet over her Grand Passion, but she was getting over it, rather to her own surprise and much to her relief. She bore him no grudge for having been unable to match her feeling for him; what would be the sense in that? She could not imagine ever falling in love again; was glad her marriage had been no worse scarred; was as prepared as one could be to face the prospective widowhood that now shockingly loomed. But like Héloïse her Abelard, she could not forget the things she and Ambrose had done, the places where they’d done them…

Hm. I was, to be sure, as busy noting and assessing the differences between our cases as sympathising with Magda’s confidences. Ambrose had not taught me how to screw; André had, in Paris, an age ago. Our mighty April sessions were as much a refresher course for him as for me. The Baby business — which I understood better now — was his idea, not mine (Magda tearily prayed me luck for July, and belied her statement of a paragraph ago by wishing fervently she could feel again the joy of pregnancy). Nevertheless, the ground resemblance was plain enough to promise that Stage 5 is going to be no picnic: my Aeneas-Come-Lately has stripped me of my queenship, demanded of my worn-out womb that it find the wherewithal to germinate his feeble seed, and in the meanwhile makes a fool of me with the dockside whores of Carthage!