Jacky S
Suburban Souls, Book I
1
Her father loved me, oft invited me.
HEART: Why did you not ravish her?
CONST: Not I, truly, my talent lies to softer exercises.
My great fear in setting forth this simple adventure of love and passion is that I shall not be able to carry home to my reader's mind the feelings, the hopes, the doubts and fears that so long racked my soul and stirred up all that was good and bad in the heart and brain of the writer-a very ordinary man.
I have always been a great reader of amatory literature and all books and novels relating to sexual matters, whether willfully obscene or cunningly veiled; whether written by medical authorities, novelists, or even issued from the secret presses of Belgium and Holland. I often remarked that such tales were far from true to nature. I do not speak of lewd worlds, where impossibilities are presented merely to augment the sale of the volumes, but of the few which impress us with an idea of truth, being incidents which, although highly colored, might perhaps have happened all the same. Such are some of the best French novels. But most of them are written by men who misjudge women, and when lady novelists write about love they seldom show us a woman as she really is, their sympathy for their own sex guiding their partial pens in spite of themselves. Really true tales of sensuality are thus rare, and I come forward to give you mine, where I have carefully endeavored to keep my imagination within bounds and tell nothing but what did really happen.
It will hurt me, and drag open smarting, half-healed wounds, but I mean to do it and go through it as an expiation.
I am the hero. I cannot help smiling as I write that word. I guess my readers will think I am going to praise myself, and with excuses lead up to an eventual conversion. Do not be led away. I am not a good man. Some may call me vile. You must not put me down as a professional romance-writer. No, I am plain Jacky S., of the Paris Bourse, writing plain facts, and if I were to see the error of my ways and retire to a monastery at the end of the story, it would be feeble-minded and contrary to human nature. So pity me, and do not crush me beneath the weight of your righteous self-satisfaction. Had I been my own maker, and had I, as a baby, possessed the knowledge of the world I have now, I should have been a good man, without voluptuous longings or abnormal passions, and I should not be writing this vicious book. I know some men get more pleasure out of one Sunday's church-going than I have ever done in a year's enjoyment of wine, women, and gambling. I know not how they do it. I should like to be as they are, but I cannot change my nature, and I shall go to my death as I was born.
Let all young men who read my story, and who will spit out their pitiable contempt for me, the unworthy author, wallowing in the slime of sensuality, take a scribbling diary and jot down their secret longings for a few months. Truthfully, mind you. At the end of a quarter's record, just hark back and see if the chronicle agrees or disagrees with my arts.
Why are we as we are? Hereditary influences, education, surroundings-Heaven knows what. Conclusion: some men are bad, a few are good, most of us are betwixt and between.
I am at the top of the sinners' class and my only excuse is that somehow I manage to be intensely wicked on an honorable, chivalrous basis of my own. You shall find out my style of villainy as you read on.
I have spoken the prologue. Let me now try and introduce the actors in this miniature drama of lust.
Eric Arvel was a correspondent of the financial press. His duties brought him to the Bourse nearly every day, and he used to watch the market and send off long columns of criticism on the rise and fall of stocks and shares to newspapers in England, Germany, and Russia. He was a man of many languages and I never knew his precise nationality. I expect he was born of English and Continental parents and had been brought up in Great Britain. But his business and birth have very little to do with the present memoirs, although I often thought he was of Jewish extraction and the German strain seemed to predominate. Besides his financial elucubrations, he wrote letters of Parisian gossip for many newspapers, and had other strings to his bow. I think he was often employed by houses of business in London to travel and collect debts, or help to get evidence for solicitors in Great Britain. He journeyed greatly at one time all over Europe, and once had a mission that took him to China and Japan, returning from those countries with heaps of curiosities, such as quaint idols, dainty porcelain, and beautifully embroidered silk gowns, wherewith to delight the females of his household. I never troubled about his writings or his doings. It was no concern of mine what money he had or how he accumulated it. I had known him for years, how many I cannot now remember. I am forty-seven, as I write now, and I am nearly sure we must have been acquainted twenty years before. I occupied a good position on the French Stock Exchange, and earned and spent money like water. When plying his avocation, he frequently fell across me and other members of my family, who were in the same line of business, and he knew all my parents at home. He was perfectly straightforward in all his monetary transactions, which is paying him a great compliment, as journalists are generally shifty paymasters. We seemed to have a little sympathy for each other, as we had many tastes in common, and so we got drawn together, although I think he was about twelve years my senior. I do not know his precise age, but we will say he is about sixty. He was fond of tales of scandal, liked gossiping about people, and was pleased to know how much money they possessed and if they were in good circumstances or not. I used to feed his curiosity and chop funny stories about all sorts and conditions of men with him. I would furnish him with what information I could for his articles, and he in return gave me a cunningly worded advertisement as often as possible. He liked reading as I do and I lent him books. One or two were of a spicy sort. I furnished him with reviews and magazines for years, sending him packets of papers twice and thrice a month. His tastes seemed to lead him towards lechery. I was always fond of women and so our conversation was often of the most lascivious kind. He was a great smoker and was seldom without the Englishman's briar in his mouth. I am also a votary of the weed, and we would swap tobaccos and have many a long chat together about the scandals of the Exchange, the amours of our circle of financiers and the latest echoes of the London clubs, for I am an Englishman, although my life has been passed in Paris. I never was much of a scandalmonger myself, being too indifferent to the wagging of the world, but I used to collect little stories to please my friend. I do not think he was very liberal-minded, nor very particular to a lie or two, especially when he fell to boasting about how he had succeeded in one thing or another, but I took good care never to contradict him. He possessed the usual vanity of ordinary middle-class folk, and gave his opinion on current topics boldly, albeit I could often see he had never studied the subject he was talking about. He was very fond of money, but careful and saving withal. One trait that always grated upon me was that he seemed pleased to hear of the downfall of anybody even when the victim of circumstances was a perfect stranger to him and had never been in his way. So I suppose there was a little envy and a great deal of jealousy in his composition. In appearance, he was tall, corpulent, and a trifle weak at the knees. He was far from ill-looking and must have been handsome in his youth. He was fair, with a thick moustache and no beard; bald, with a fine-shaped Roman nose and open nostrils. He was shortsighted and wore a pince-nez. His eyes were blue and he bit his nails to the quick. Some ten years ago he had suffered from a mysterious malady, and he wasted to a skeleton, so that everybody thought he was not long for this world. He spoke vaguely of some kidney trouble, and then he rallied, miraculously as I thought, and grew quite stout.
During all these years I had only met him as one man of the world meets another and cared nothing about his private life. He had frequently begged me to come and see him at his suburban dwelling at Sonis-sur-Marne, which, as all the world knows, is about twenty minutes ride by train from the Eastern station of Paris, but I had always refused, or put him off on some specious pretext, as I was very diffident about making fresh acquaintances, and if there was one thing I hated more than another it was pushing myself into people's houses. But in 1895, having been bitten by a mania for possessing and rearing dogs, I happened to have a very fine litter of fox terriers, and I asked Mr. Arvel if he would care to accept a bitch six months old, who promised to make a nice animal. He seemed very pleased at the offer, telling me that he wanted a dog who would be watchful and give the alarm down in the country, and he asked me to come to lunch and bring the puppy, who I had christened Lili. Oddly enough, I found that my friend's house was called Villa Lilian, and this name was cut into the stone at the side of the gate. The name of Lilian or Lily is destined to play a great part in my life, as my mistress-for I have a mistress, as every Parisian has-was also named Lily. This latter lady plays but an insignificant part in this narrative, and so I pass her by for the present.
But the story is of my love and I will introduce her at once, as I am dying to write her description. My pen moved slowly as I tried to conjure up the heavy, sullen, dull figure of my host and now it runs fast; my pulse quickens and my heart beats, as I endeavor to give a faint idea of the lineaments and bearing of the girl who was destined to offer me a little pleasure and cause me plenty of pain.
And her name was Lilian, too. She was a pronounced brunette, and at first sight you could scarcely call her handsome. But she was full of expression and, when pleased, and her face lighted up in the heat of conversation, was very pretty. Her visage might be compared to an unfinished sketch; the features were good, taken one by one, but they lacked completion and rounding off. Her eyes were beautiful, of a rich brown, large and liquid, like those of an intelligent hound, with long lashes, and symmetrical bushy black eyebrows overshadowed them. The sign of jealousy was unmistakably there, for the brows met above the bridge of a sharply cut nose, which was perhaps a trifle too long. There was an air of decision about the pointed chin, but this singular young girl possessed a remarkable mouth, which could not fail to attract a masculine observer and which was in perfect harmony with her other features. It was long and large and the fleshy lips seemed to be never still. All her emotions, all the secret inward movements of her mind betrayed themselves by the ever-changing unrest of these two rosy cushions. Sometimes the corners rose up, unveiling a chaplet of pretty white teeth, as pointed as those of a young wolf, and their pearly enamel contrasted with the brilliant carmine of the lips, which she was always biting and licking with the end of her tongue. Her sensual mouth resembled a brutal red wound across the dark olive tint of her face. Sometimes these strange lips pursed themselves together in a rapid pout or, half-opened, appeared to be drinking in a delightful draught of air, or better still imploring the white heat of a lascivious lover's scalding kiss. When out of temper, she was positively ugly: two black circles appeared round the eyes, which became gloomy; a dull, bluish tinge overcast her skin and the mysterious lips turned positively violet. She possessed an admirable forest of splendid blue-black hair and needed but a blood rose behind her ear and a lace mantilla on her shapely head to be the living picture of a cigar maker of Seville, and this was not to be wondered at, as she had Spanish blood in her veins. She was of middle height, thin, with no bust, and the lines of her figure were perfect, there being nothing angular about her. Her waist was naturally small, while her hips and the lower part of her frame were well developed. She was quick, deft in her manner, with a pleasing voice, and possessed the gift of being at ease in society, thus making those who approached her happy to be in her company. She spoke English with a slight accent, which was an additional charm, and was fairly well educated, writing both English and French with very few faults. She was domesticated, and knew how to sew, cut out and make dresses, and cook a little, but thanks be to Heaven, she was no musician and although the Villa Lilian boasted a piano when I first knew her she could only tease it with one tapering finger. Her Papa had some peculiar theories about the necessity for a young lady to be able to earn her own living, and he had placed her for some years at Myrio's, in the rue de la Paix, a celebrated house for making ladies' head-coverings. So Lilian was a milliner, and she made hats and bonnets for the wealthy little bourgeoisies of Sonis and the wives of the retired tradespeople who inhabited the mansions and châteaux in the sleepy village during the summer, so Lilian had several workgirls in a kiosque in the garden, and was supposed to be lucratively employed in her leisure hours until such time as the proverbial Mr. Right should come along and take her away to bear him a strictly limited number of children and become a staid married lady. But this was not to be.
On my first visit to the Villa Lilian, in the middle of May, 1895, I was received with great cordiality. The little bitch seemed to please Monsieur, Madame, and Mademoiselle.
I must say at once that Mr. Arvel was not married and the lady who was at the head of his household was not his wife. She was a short, stout, little Frenchwoman, about forty-five years of age, as far as I could judge, with the fine eyes, black hair, and pearly teeth that she had handed down to her daughter Lilian. She was very vulgar and quite uneducated but was a fine specimen of the French middle-class housewife, having all the qualities and faults of the Gallic peasantess. She was very frugal, avaricious, a foe to dusty corners and untidiness, and an excellent cook. I think Eric Arvel, who was a tremendous eater, loved her for the dainty dishes she used to set before him. Her greatest pleasure was to see him gorge, and all her guests were bound to overeat themselves to please her. She seemed tolerably artful, cunning, and hot-tempered. Besides her daughter Lilian, there was a son, two years younger, Raoul, but he was being brought up in England and I was not destined to meet him until three years later.
I already had a slight bowing acquaintance with Madame Adèle, Arvel's mistress, and I knew he had lived with her as her husband for about sixteen or seventeen years when this story opens. He told me frankly of his position, and how everybody at Sonis believed them to be married, and I found that he had brought up the boy and girl, his mistress being left a widow only three years after the birth of the children, and, they had lived together ever since. He intended to marry her eventually and although they quarreled now and again, she was evidently fond of her lord and master, but he, very hasty, obstinate, and despotic, did not seem to care much for her. He liked his house, his garden, his dogs, his pipe and his bicycle, and when his routine work was done, dashed off with sufficient facility, his pleasure consisted of a heavy meal, a pipe, and desultory reading.
His house was a pretty one, and had been bought cheaply with the economies of Madame, to whom it belonged. A year after I knew him, some adjoining ground being in the market, he bought it, enlarged the garden and improved the house. I must not forget that Adèle's mother occasionally appeared on the scene, but she was a silly old lady, slightly eccentric, inasmuch as she tried to doctor everybody with mysterious herb medicines and was a general nuisance. Eventually, Mr. Arvel pensioned her off, to stop her coming to the house. He was the breadwinner, and I could see that his mistress and the girl did all they could to make him a comfortable home, as they were entirely dependent on him. He spent plenty of money on the villa and garden, meaning it as a little piece of property for Adèle, if anything should happen to him.
After this first day spent with the family, I did not mean to return, as Arvel's boasting conversation was trite and commonplace, and the mother was a cypher, once away from her housework or the kitchen. But I fell in love with Lilian at first sight. When I say I fell in love with her, I hardly know how to analyze my own feelings. I can only say that I desired her. But she was nineteen, and I was forty-three, and I tried to put this new passion out of my mind. There was my Lily too, in a pretty little home I had put together for her bit by bit, and I had an idea that it would be a scurvy trick to make love to the young lady, who I may call the stepdaughter of my host. I made myself agreeable to the two ladies and was invited down to their pleasant little country house over and over again. Sometimes my faithful companion, my dog Smike, was invited too, to be petted and made much of by Lilian, and so was his mate, the mother of the bitch Lili, good old Sally Brass. I never came empty-handed, and brought them presents of perfumery, flowers, sweets, and such trifles as please the female mind. Lilian took no particular notice of me, treating me with politeness and nothing more. The little bitch grew apace, and Papa, who was very hard to convince, got into his head that in-and-in breeding was good for fox terriers and borrowed its father to cover the daughter, Lili. He got a tolerable litter, but they were all more or less faulty. An outside cross was wanted, but they doted on their pets and kept several bitches of the litter, and one dog, Blackamoor, who became the special pet of Mademoiselle. They already had one dog, a tremendous Bordeaux hound, very good to his masters, but ferocious with strangers. All this brought me continually to the cottage and no doubt I pleased the women, or else they would have taken good care not to have had me at their house so often.
I remember meeting Mr. and Mrs. Arvel, I speak of them as if they were legally married, at Le Treport, in August, 1896, quite by accident. I joked freely with Adèle, as French matrons are very fond of loose talk, being alone with her for a short time, and chaffed her about this trip with her husband to the seaside. Lilian was at home, with her Granny to look after her. It was quite a honeymoon, I said. She answered me quietly that Mr. Arvel was far from loving, and that she suffered greatly from his neglect, being rather sensual. This startled me a little, and I drew back and kept out of the way, as I was thinking of the daughter and not of the mother.
But it made me open my eyes and I began to think that perhaps I was rather too scrupulous and there might be a chance for me with Lilian. Mr. Arvel's conversations, too, were very lewd, but he particularly impressed upon me how innocent Lilian was. She knew nothing of the relations of the sexes and was very frivolous, not caring for any serious pleasures.
He complained that he could not get her to read a book and so form her mind. In fact, he spoke against her and ran her down continually, and his mistress came in also for a share of his disdain. I was a long-time victim of this peculiar mania of his, but I found out afterwards that such backbiting is a common fault with little-minded people, and occurs in many families. The more such parents love their children, wives, or relations, the more they speak against them. The principal motive is jealousy, lest you should think too much of them, to the detriment of their own vanity, and they seem to get annoyed with themselves to find that the person they are trying to lower in your estimation should take up so much of their own thoughts or yours. But I could see that he was very fond of Lilian and was always talking about her. He would tease her and call her “Scraggy,” and pinch her calves as she passed him. She would shriek, putting out her tongue at him, and appealing to Mamma for help, and Adèle would scold both her and Papa.
I used to try to get alone with Lilian in corners, but she did not want me, and when she stroked Blackamoor, I would caress him, too, and attempt to get my hand on hers, but she never took heed.
I remember one day she was indisposed, as she seemed to suffer from stomach troubles, and, in her dressing-gown, she came and sat next to me on a sofa. Her father, as I call him to prevent useless reiteration, was seated opposite us. She was quite close to me and I could feel the warmth and pressure of her body through the light fabric of what was evidently her only garment. A thrill of sensual longing stirred me, but she felt nothing. I mentioned the circumstance to her a year later, but she confessed that she had no recollection of this trifling incident, which I always remember.
So things went on until the summer of 1897, when I made up my mind to gradually drop the Arvel family. I loved the girl, although I had never betrayed myself and I could see I was nothing to her. I dared not speak out, as I still had the sentiment of honesty, which told me that I must not take a mean advantage of my friend's hospitality, especially as he appeared to be very fond of the girl, and they were forever together, when she invariably sided with her Pa against her Mamma.
When I was invited to Sonis, Lilian would often write to me in obedience to Papa's wishes, and I would answer her as prettily as I dared. I was quite surprised and delighted to find that in July or August, 1897, her letters seemed to get more cordial and one day she asked me to accompany her to the post office alone. I went with great pleasure, especially as up to now Papa had always accompanied us, and the only liberty I had ever taken was a little mild chaff about marriage, when she would retort that she never intended to wed, but would always remain with her Papa. I was pleased to find that Lilian was as near as possible making love to me and I could see that I had very little work to do to make myself thoroughly liked.
The first few letters, which were merely invitations by her parents' orders, I have destroyed, but some of them now contained very gracious hints to encourage me to carry on what was fast growing into a real flirtation. We had many such walks and talks, but I was too flushed with my triumph to remember dates or take notes, and I must try to sum up all our conversations together and so get on rapidly, as I mean to endeavor to stick to plain facts, making my confessions as concise as possible. I have carefully avoided all reference to extraneous events (except in one or two notable instances), passing guests I met at Sonis, or indeed anything that has no bearing upon the loves of Jacky and Lilian.
Our talk began to run into very loose channels, as Lilian, in answer to an insidious question of mine, told me that one of her lady customers had made love to her, and much to her disgust had kissed her on the mouth. I explained that there was something masculine about her-she was wearing a boy's straw hat-and soon led her to talk about lovers. She told me that she had never had one, but had flirted a little. She did not like young fellows, but preferred men of mature age. Upon this I followed suit and put myself forward, to be, of course, agreeably received. This was our first important chat, as far as I can recollect, and I was soon in receipt of another note, begging me to come and spend the day and asking after the health of my dog Smike. She added that she sent a kiss to him, as she did not dare to offer one to his master, although she would dearly like to do so.
Our next interview, during another quiet ramble in the streets and lanes of Sonis, was more to the point. I took her hand in mine and caressed her bare neck as I made a bold declaration of love, but she spoke of danger. I explained that I was not a youth and that a man of the world like myself could give pleasure without fear of disagreeable consequences. I offered, in one word, caresses without danger.
“I should want more than that,” she answered.
I thought immediately that she had already been in the arms of a real lover, and that she was alluding to the male's approach in its entirety, and resolved to let my pent-up desire have full vent. So I told her how I had long since yearned for her and reminded her of my little attempts to approach her. She quite understood that if I had returned to Sonis again and again, it was for her and her only. So I soon extracted from her a half-promise that she would come to me one day in Paris, and I was to correspond with her in a feigned lady's handwriting, as neither Papa nor Mamma tampered with her letters as long as the envelopes seemed to betray a female correspondent, who might be a customer. I then asked for the promised kiss, but explained that I did not want a silly, grandmotherly pressure of the lips.
“I want a real French kiss,” I said.
She laughed. I guessed she understood.
I simply thought that here was a young person fresh from the workroom of a milliner of the rue de la Paix, who probably had already been enjoyed by a man, without counting possible Lesbian approaches of her companions, and thus I grew bolder and bolder. We returned home and, nearing the kitchen, which was in the basement, we passed through a lobby where there was hardly any light.
“How dark it is here!” whispered Lilian, and I immediately turned round and clasped her in my arms. My lips were on her mouth at once-the mouth I had longed for two years and more-and to my delight I felt her cool, moist, pointed tongue slowly insert itself between my willing lips and join mine. It was an enchanting embrace. I felt such a shudder of longing lust rush through my veins as I have never felt before or since, and I believe I shall never forget Lilian's first kiss.
LILIAN TO JACK.
Sonis-sur-Marne. October 20, 1897.
My dear Mr. S.,
You must think I am a little humbug by not having received an answer to your charming letter, but really it is no fault of mine.
I have much to do this week and in spite of my great desire, it has been impossible for me to get away for the whole of one afternoon.
When I meet you, I should wish to have enough time not to run away directly after I arrive. I am certain that we shall have much to say to each other.
Will you let me come to you Thursday week? If yes, I shall be in Paris at 2:30. Do not wait for me at the Gare d l'Est, but tell me yourself the place where I am to find you. I am too ignorant to fix a rendezvous myself.
I hope to have a word from you shortly. Awaiting a reply, please accept the assurance of my most lively sympathy,
LILIAN.
LILIAN TO JACK.
Sonis-sur-Marne. October 26, 1897.
As I know my dear Marie is very amiable, I ask her to kindly await me next Thursday, so that I shall not have to ask the concierge about… you?
I can see you smile, but what would you have?… I cannot surmount a certain feeling of timidity.
I have to go to London, Friday or Saturday, but this will not prevent me keeping the appointment, for-must I confess it? — I await next Thursday with immense impatience!
Soon I shall have the pleasure of teasing you and listening to all the silly things you talk about in your last note,
LILIAN.
Lilian was acquainted with a young woman about her own age, whose Christian name was Charlotte, and who was employed in a firm of some importance in Paris. They sold lace, and Charlotte's uncle was at the head of the firm, I think. Anyhow, Charlotte occupied a certain position in the business, and as a person of confidence was required to visit London yearly in the autumn. It had been arranged that Lilian should accompany Charlotte and talk the necessary English. Lilian had already done this journey the year before and the two families were friendly. All Mademoiselle Arvel's expenses were defrayed, and she received one hundred francs for each week she stopped in London. It was generally a fortnight or three weeks until all the customers had been visited. Lilian was delighted, as she could thus see her brother Raoul, of whom she appeared to be very fond.
LILIAN TO JACKY.
Sonis-sur-Marne. Thursday, October 27, 1897.
Here are all our, or so to speak more correctly, all my beautiful castles in the air demolished. I am really unlucky, I, who was full of such great joy at the idea of seeing you tomorrow, to be able to tell you, perhaps even to prove to you that a certain person not only seems to like you and interests herself in all you do, but that she really loves you.
But to return to the real reason of this letter. I am kept a prisoner by a severe cold.2 Impossible to go out. If you will allow me and if it does not worry you, I will give you an appointment for next week, unless I have to go to London on Saturday. In that case, I will write immediately when I return. It seems as if everything was against me just now. I hope you will think of the poor little invalid, who is always thinking of you.
LILIAN.
LILIAN TO JACKY.
London. November 2, 1897.
I am here since Saturday evening and I already wish to be back again. No, decidedly, I shall never get used to London! All is sad and dull. The women look like machines on springs and the men seem to be running as if pursued. Nowhere is there to be seen the grace of true Parisienne. I hope you will not be vexed at my frankness. I ought not to say what I think of your fellow countrymen, and yet in my eyes you are so unlike most Englishmen. At any rate, you only have their qualities. Thus having all English and French qualities, you must consequently be perfect. Still I confess that my hope is that I shall not find you so. What a bore a man must be who possesses every virtue!
No, I really do not know what I ought to bring you back from London, but you have only to make a sign and if it will give you the least pleasure, I shall only be too happy to do it.
I hope to be at Sonis for the end of next week. It is useless for me to tell you that as soon as I am free I shall write to you to ask if you still have the same wish for me. I have not quite got over my cold. Thanks for kind advice.
This letter carries to you a kiss as soft and as sweet as you can possibly desire.
LILIAN.
Strange to say there was no address on this letter from London, so that I could not answer it.
LILIAN TO JACKY.
Sonis-sur-Marne. November 16, 1897.
Once more I am near you. According to my promise, and for my own pleasure, I quickly write to you. I shall be free any day you like next week. To you, my dear confidant, I may tell the little trouble I had on the eve of my departure from London. I lost a five-pound note. Am I not unlucky? But I weary you with all my stories, so I leave you, but expect a line in return.
Soon I hope to see you.
LILIAN.
I did not like this letter, and my growing passion, from fever heat fell to freezing point. Was this the missive to receive on the eve of a young girl's first appointment? It smacked of the professional. Did she want to sell herself? I resolved to have no more to do with her, and despite the agony of disillusion, I answered as follows:
JACKY TO LILIAN.