MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Eugénie, I protest—my brother is responsible for this, not I. But there’s no cause for alarm: I know Dolmancé for a most agreeable man, and he possesses just that degree of philosophic understanding we require for your enlightenment. He can be of nothing but the greatest service to our schemes. As for his discretion, I am as willing to answer for it as for my own. Therefore, dear heart, familiarize yourself with this man who in all the world is the best endowed to form you and to guide you into a career of the happiness and the pleasures we wish to taste together.
EUGÉNIE, blushing—Oh! I still find all this most upsetting. . . .
DOLMANCÉ—Come, my lovely Eugénie, put yourself at ease. . . . Modesty is an antiquated virtue which you, so rich in charms, ought to know wonderfully well how to do without.
EUGÉNIE—But decency . . .
DOLMANCÉ—Ha! A Gothicism not very much defended these days. It is so hostile to Nature! (Dolmancé seizes Eugénie, folds her in his arms, and kisses her.)
EUGÉNIE, struggling in his embrace—That’s quite enough, Monsieur! . . . Indeed, you show me very little consideration!
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Eugénie, listen to me: let’s both of us cease behaving like prudes with this charming gentleman; I am not better acquainted with him than are you, yet watch how I give myself to him. (She kisses him indecently on the mouth.) Imitate me.
EUGÉNIE—Oh, most willingly; where might I find better examples? (She puts herself in Dolmancé’s arms; he kisses her ardently, tongue in mouth.)
DOLMANCÉ—Amiable, delicious creature!
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE, kissing her in the same way—Didst think, little chit, I’d not have my turn as well? (At this point Dolmancé, holding first one in his arms, then the other, tongues both, each for a quarter of an hour, and they both tongue one another and him.)
DOLMANCÉ—Ah, such preliminaries make me drunk with desire! Mesdames, upon my word, it is extraordinarily warm here; more lightly attired, we might converse with infinitely greater comfort.
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—You are right, sir; we’ll don these gauze negligees—of our charms, they’ll conceal only those that must be hidden from desire.
EUGÉNIE—Indeed, dear one, you lead me to do things! . . .
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE, helping her undress—Completely ridiculous, isn’t it?
EUGÉNIE—Most improper at the very least, I’d say. . . . My! how you kiss me!
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Pretty bosom! . . . a rose only now reaching full bloom.
DOLMANCÉ, considering, without touching, Eugénie’s breasts— And which promises yet other allurements . . . infinitely to be preferred.
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Infinitely to be preferred?
DOLMANCÉ—Oh yes, upon my honor. (Saying which, Dolmancé appears eager to turn Eugénie about in order to inspect her from the rear.)
EUGÉNIE—No, I beg of you!
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—No, Dolmancé. . . I don’t want you yet to see . . . an object whose sway over you is so great that, the image of it once fixed in your head, you are unable thereafter to reason coolly. We need your lessons, first give them to us—and afterward the myrtle you covet will be your reward.
DOLMANCÉ—Very well, but in order to demonstrate, in order to give this beautiful child the first lessons of libertinage, we will require willing co-operation from you, Madame, in the exercise that must follow.
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—So be it! All right then, look you here—I’m entirely naked. Make your dissertations upon me as much as you please.
DOLMANCÉ—Oh, lovely body! ’Tis Venus herself, embellished by the Graces.
EUGÉNIE—Oh, my dear friend, what charms! delights! Let me drink them in with my eyes, let me cover them with my kisses. (She does so.)
DOLMANCÉ—What excellent predispositions! A trifle less passion, lovely Eugénie, for the moment you are only being asked to show a little attention.
EUGÉNIE—Let’s continue, I’m listening. . . . But how beautiful she is . . . so plump, so fresh! . . . Ah, how charming my dear friend is. Is she not, Monsieur?
DOLMANCÉ—Beautiful, assuredly . . . she is wondrous to see; but I am persuaded you yield to her in nothing. . . . Well, now, my pretty little student, either you pay attention to me or beware lest, if you are not docile, I exercise over you the rights amply conferred upon me by my title as your mentor.
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Oh, yes, yes indeed, Dolmancé, I put her into your safekeeping. She must have a severe scolding if she misbehaves.
DOLMANCÉ—It is very possible I might not be able to confine myself to remonstrances.
EUGÉNIE—Great heaven! You terrify me . . . what then would you do to me, Monsieur?
DOLMANCÉ, stammering, and kissing Eugénie on the mouth— Punishments . . . corrections. . . I might very well hold this pretty little ass accountable for mistakes made by the head. (He strikes the former through the gauze dressing gown in which Eugénie is presently arrayed.)
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Yes, I approve of the project but not of the gesture. Let’s begin our lesson, else the little time granted us to enjoy Eugénie will be spent in preliminaries, and the instruction shall remain incomplete.
DOLMANCÉ, who, as he discusses them, one by one touches the parts of Madame de Saint-Ange’s body—I begin. I will say nothing of these fleshy globes; you know as well as I, Eugénie, that they are indifferently known as bosoms, breasts, tits. Pleasure may put them to profitable use: while amusing himself, a lover has them continually before his eyes: he caresses them, handles them, indeed, some lovers form of them the very seat of their pleasure and niche their member between these twin mounts of Venus which the woman then squeezes together, compressing this member; after a little management, certain men succeed in spreading thereupon the delicious balm of life whose outpouring causes the whole happiness of libertines. . . . But this member of which we shall be obliged to speak incessantly—should we not be well advised, Madame, to give our student a lecture upon it?
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Verily, I do think so.
DOLMANCÉ—Very well, Madame, I am going to recline upon this couch; place yourself near me. Then you will lay hands upon the subject and you will yourself explain its properties to our young student. (Dolmancé lies down and Madame de Saint-Ange demonstrates.)
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—This scepter of Venus you have before your eyes, Eugénie, is the primary agent of love’s pleasure: it is called the member: there is not a single part of the human body into which it cannot introduce itself. Always obedient to the passions of the person who wields it, sometimes it nests there (She touches Eugénie’s cunt.), this is the ordinary route, the one in widest use, but not the most agreeable; in pursuit of a more mysterious sanctuary, it is often here (She spreads wide Eugénie’s buttocks and indicates the anus.) that the libertine seeks enjoyment: we will return to this most delicious pleasure of them all; there are as well the mouth, the breasts, the armpits which provide him with further altars upon which to burn his incense. And finally whatever be the place among all these he most prefers, after a few instants of agitation the member may be seen to vent a white and viscous liquor, whose flowing forth plunges the man into a delirium intense enough to procure for him the sweetest pleasures he can hope to have in life.
EUGÉNIE—How much I should like to see this liquor flow!
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—I need but vibrate my hand—you see how the thing becomes irritated the more I chafe and pull on it. These movements are known as pollution, and in the language of libertinage this action is called frigging.
EUGÉNIE—Oh, please, dear friend, allow me to frig this splendid member!
DOLMANCÉ—Look out! I’ll not be able . . . don’t interfere with her, Madame, this ingenuousness has got me horribly erected.
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—No good will come of this excitement. Be reasonable, Dolmancé: once that semen flows, the activity of your animal spirits will be diminished and the warmth of your dissertations will be
lessened correspondingly.
EUGÉNIE, fondling Dolmancé’s testicles—Ah, my dear friend, how sorry I am you resist my desires! . . . And these balls, what might be their purpose? What are they called?
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—The technical term is genitals, male genitals . . . testicles belongs to art, the balls are the reservoir containing the abundant semen I have just mentioned and which, expelled into the woman’s matrix, or womb, produces the human species; but we will not stress these details, Eugénie, for they relate more to medicine than to libertinage. A pretty girl ought simply to concern herself with fucking, and never with engendering. No need to touch at greater length on what pertains to the dull business of population, from now on we shall address ourselves principally, nay, uniquely to those libertine lecheries whose spirit is in no wise reproductive.
EUGÉNIE—But, dear friend, when this enormous member I can scarcely grip in my hand, when this member penetrates, as you assure me it can, into a hole as little as the one in your behind, that must cause the woman a great deal of pain.
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Whether this introduction be wrought before or behind, if she is not yet accustomed to it a woman always suffers. It has pleased Nature so to make us that we attain happiness only by way of pain. But once vanquished and had this way, nothing can equal the joy one tastes upon the entrance of this member into our ass; it is a pleasure incontestably superior to any sensation procured by this same introduction in front. And, besides, how many dangers does not a woman thus avoid! Fewer risks to her health, and none at all of pregnancy. For the present I’ll say no more about this delight—your master and mine, Eugénie, will soon award it a full analysis, and by uniting practice with theory will, I trust, convince you, my precious one, that amongst all the bedroom’s pleasures, that is the only one for which you should have a preference.
DOLMANCÉ—I beg you to speed your demonstrations, Madame, for I can no longer restrain myself; I’ll discharge despite my efforts, and this redoubtable member, reduced to nothing, will be unable to aid your lessons.
EUGÉNIE—What! It would be reduced to nothing, dear heart, if it were to lose this semen you speak of! . . . Oh, do allow me to help him lose it, so that I may see what happens to it. . . . And besides, I should take such pleasure in seeing it flow!
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—No, no, Dolmancé, up with you. Remember that this is the payment of your labors, and that I’ll not turn her over to you until you’ve merited her.
DOLMANCÉ—So be it; but the better to convince Eugénie of all we are going to relate concerning pleasure, would it be in any way prejudicial to Eugénie’s instruction if, for instance, you were to frig her in front of me?
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Why, doubtless not, and I shall do so all the more happily since I am certain this lubricious episode will only enrich our lessons. Onto the couch, my sweet.
EUGÉNIE—Oh dear God! the delicious niche! But why all these mirrors?
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—By repeating our attitudes and postures in a thousand different ways, they infinitely multiply those same pleasures for the persons seated here upon this ottoman. Thus everything is visible, no part of the body can remain hidden: everything must be seen; these images are so many groups disposed around those enchained by love, so many delicious tableaux wherewith lewdness waxes drunk and which soon drive it to its climax.
EUGÉNIE—What a marvelous invention!
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Dolmancé, undress the victim yourself.
DOLMANCÉ—That will not be difficult, since ’tis merely a question of removing this gauze in order to discern naked the most appealing features. (He strips her, and his first glances are instantly directed upon her behind.) And so I am about to see this divine, this priceless ass of which I have such ardent expectations! . . . Ah, by God! What fullness of flesh and what coolness, what stunning elegance! . . . Never have I seen one lovelier!
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Rascal! How clearly your initial homages betray your tastes and pleasures!
DOLMANCÉ—But can there be anything in the world to equal this?. . . Where might love find a more divine altar?. . . Eugénie . . . sublime Eugénie, let me overwhelm this ass of yours with the softest caresses. (He fingers and kisses it, transported.)
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Stop, libertine! . . . You forget Eugénie belongs to me only. She’s to be your reward for the lessons she awaits from you; but you’ll not have your recompense before she has been given those lessons. Enough of this ardor or you’ll anger me.
DOLMANCÉ—Scoundrel! It’s your jealousy. . . . Very well. Pass me yours and I’ll pay it a similar homage. (He raises Madame de Saint-Ange’s negligee and caresses her behind.) Ah, ’tis lovely, my angel, ’tis delicious too! Let me compare them both. . . . I’d see them one next to the other—Ganymede beside Venus! (He lavishes kisses upon each.) In order to have the bewitching spectacle of so much beauty constantly before my eyes, Madame, could you not, by interlacing yourselves, uninterruptedly offer my gaze these charming asses I worship?
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Perfectly well! There . . . are you satisfied?. . . (They intertwine their bodies in such a manner that both asses confront Dolmancé.)
DOLMANCÉ—It could not be better: ’tis precisely what I asked for. And now agitate those superb asses with all the fire of lubricity; let them sink and rise in cadence; let them obey the proddings whereby pleasure is going to stir them. . . . Oh, splendid, splendid, ’tis delicious! . . .
EUGÉNIE—Ah, my dearest one, what pleasures you give me. . . . What is it you call what you are doing now?
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Frigging, my pet, giving oneself pleasure. Stop a moment; we’ll alter our positions. Examine my cunt . . . thus is named the temple of Venus. Look sharply at that coign your hand covers, examine it well. I am going to open it a little. This elevation you notice above it is called the mound, which is garnished with hair, generally, when one reaches the age of fourteen or fifteen, when, that is, a girl begins to have periods. Here above is a little tongue-shaped thing—that is the clitoris, and there lies all a woman’s power of sensation. It is the center of all mine; it would be impossible to tickle this part of me without seeing me swoon with delight. . . . Try it. . . . Ah, sweet little bitch, how well you do it! One would think you’ve done nothing else all your life! . . . enough! . . . stop! . . . No, I tell you, no, I do not wish to surrender myself. . . . Oh, Dolmancé, stop me! . . . under the enchanted fingers of this pretty child, I am about to go out of my mind.
DOLMANCÉ—You might be able to lower the temperature of your ideas by varying them: frig her in your turn; keep a grip on yourself, and let her go to work. . . . There, yes, in this position, in this manner her pretty little ass is between my hands, I’ll pollute it ever so lightly with a finger. . . . Let yourself go Eugénie, abandon all your senses to pleasure, let it be the one object, the one god of your existence; it is to this god a girl ought to sacrifice everything, and in her eyes, nothing must be as holy as pleasure.
EUGÉNIE—Nothing in the world is so delightful, I do feel that. . . . I am beside myself . . . I no longer know what I am saying, nor what I am doing. . . . What a drunkenness steals through all my being!
DOLMANCÉ—Look at the little rascal discharge! And squeeze! . . . Her anus nearly nipped off the end of my finger . . . how splendid it would be to bugger her at such a moment! (He stands and claps his prick to the girl’s ass.)
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Yet another moment’s patience. The dear girl’s education must be our sole occupation! . . . How pleasant it is to enlighten her!
DOLMANCÉ—Well then, Eugénie, you observe that after a more or less prolonged pollution, the seminal glands swell, enlarge, and finally exhale a liquid whose release hurls the woman into the most intense rapture. This is known as discharging. When it pleases your good friend here, I’ll show you, but in a more energetic and more imperious manner, how the same operation occurs in a man.
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Wait, Eugénie, now I’m going to teach y
ou a new way to drown a woman in joy. Spread your thighs. . . . Dolmancé, you see how I am adjusting her, her ass is all yours. Suck it for her while my tongue licks her cunt, and between the two of us let’s see if we can get her to swoon three or four times. Your little mound is charming, Eugénie, how I adore kissing this downy flesh! . . . I see your clitoris more clearly now; ’tis but somewhat formed, yet most sensitive. . . . How you do quiver and squirm! . . . Let me spread you. . . . Ah! you’re a virgin indeed! . . . Describe what you feel when our two tongues run at once into your two apertures. (They do as they have said.)
EUGÉNIE—Ah, my dear, it thrills me so; it is a sensation impossible to depict! I’d be hard put to say which of your tongues plunges me further into my delirium.
DOLMANCÉ—In this posture, Madame, my prick is well within your reach. Condescend to frig it, I beg of you, while I suck this heavenly ass. Thrust your tongue yet further, Madame; don’t be content to suck her clitoris; make your voluptuous tongue penetrate into her womb: ’tis the surest way to hasten the ejaculation.
EUGÉNIE, stiffening—I cannot bear it anymore! oh, I’m dying! Don’t abandon me, dear friends, I am about to swoon. (She discharges between her two initiators.)
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Well, my pet! What think you of the pleasure we have given you?
EUGÉNIE—I am dead, exhausted . . . but I beg you to explain two words you pronounced and which I do not understand. First of all, what does womb signify?
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—’Tis a kind of vessel much resembling a bottle whose neck embraces the male’s member, and which receives the fuck produced in the woman by glandular seepage and in the man by the ejaculation we will exhibit for you; and of the commingling of these liquors is born the germ whereof result now boys, now girls.
EUGÉNIE—Oh, I see; this definition simultaneously explains the word fuck whose meaning I did not thoroughly grasp until now. And is the union of the seeds necessary to the formation of the fetus?
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Assuredly; although it is proven that the fetus owes its existence only to the man’s sperm, this latter, by itself, unmixed with the woman’s, would come to naught. But that which we women furnish has a merely elaborative function; it does not create, it furthers creation without being its cause. Indeed, there are several contemporary naturalists who claim it is useless; whence the moralists, always guided by science’s discoveries, have decided—and the conclusion has a degree of plausibility—that, such being the case, the child born of the father’s blood owes filial tenderness to him alone, an assertion not without its appealing qualities and one which, even though a woman, I should not be inclined to contest.
Justine, Philosophy in the Bedroom, and Other Writings Page 21
