Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  Archer tried to console himself with the thought that he was not quite such an ass as Larry Lefferts, nor May such a simpleton as poor Gertrude; but the difference was after all one of intelligence and not of standards. In reality they all lived in a kind of hieroglyphic world, where the real thing was never said or done or even thought, but only represented by a set of arbitrary signs; as when Mrs. Welland, who knew exactly why Archer had pressed her to announce her daughter’s engagement at the Beaufort ball (and had indeed expected him to do no less), yet felt obliged to simulate reluctance, and the air of having had her hand forced, quite as, in the books on Primitive Man that people of advanced culture were beginning to read, the savage bride is dragged with shrieks from her parents’ tent.

  The result, of course, was that the young girl who was the centre of this elaborate system of mystification remained the more inscrutable for her very frankness and assurance. She was frank, poor darling, because she had nothing to conceal, assured because she knew of nothing to be on her guard against; and with no better preparation than this, she was to be plunged overnight into what people evasively called “the facts of life.”

  The young man was sincerely but placidly in love. He delighted in the radiant good looks of his betrothed, in her health, her horsemanship, her grace and quickness at games, and the shy interest in books and ideas that she was beginning to develop under his guidance. (She had advanced far enough to join him in ridiculing the Idyls of the King, but not to feel the beauty of Ulysses and the Lotus Eaters.) She was straightforward, loyal and brave; she had a sense of humour (chiefly proved by her laughing at HIS jokes); and he suspected, in the depths of her innocently-gazing soul, a glow of feeling that it would be a joy to waken. But when he had gone the brief round of her he returned discouraged by the thought that all this frankness and innocence were only an artificial product. Untrained human nature was not frank and innocent; it was full of the twists and defences of an instinctive guile. And he felt himself oppressed by this creation of factitious purity, so cunningly manufactured by a conspiracy of mothers and aunts and grandmothers and long-dead ancestresses, because it was supposed to be what he wanted, what he had a right to, in order that he might exercise his lordly pleasure in smashing it like an image made of snow.

  There was a certain triteness in these reflections: they were those habitual to young men on the approach of their wedding day. But they were generally accompanied by a sense of compunction and self-abasement of which Newland Archer felt no trace. He could not deplore (as Thackeray’s heroes so often exasperated him by doing) that he had not a blank page to offer his bride in exchange for the unblemished one she was to give to him. He could not get away from the fact that if he had been brought up as she had they would have been no more fit to find their way about than the Babes in the Wood; nor could he, for all his anxious cogitations, see any honest reason (any, that is, unconnected with his own momentary pleasure, and the passion of masculine vanity) why his bride should not have been allowed the same freedom of experience as himself.

  Such questions, at such an hour, were bound to drift through his mind; but he was conscious that their uncomfortable persistence and precision were due to the inopportune arrival of the Countess Olenska. Here he was, at the very moment of his betrothal—a moment for pure thoughts and cloudless hopes—pitchforked into a coil of scandal which raised all the special problems he would have preferred to let lie. “Hang Ellen Olenska!” he grumbled, as he covered his fire and began to undress. How had he allowed her to seduce him, capture his affection, his manly affection? He could not really see why her fate should have the least bearing on his; yet he dimly felt that he had only just begun to measure the risks of the championship which his engagement had forced upon him.

  A light tap sounded on the back hallway door.

  Newland thought it might be best to ignore it this evening because he felt perplexed and conflicted. The knock repeated.

  “Hang it all,” he thought. He slipped on his robe and headed for the door. When he unlatched it, two female servants stood waiting.

  “It’s our evening, sir,” the chambermaid Miranda said. “We’re here to serve you.”

  Newland considered the women. He had known Miranda for some years now. She had been his faithful and loyal servant, attending to his every need. She was a dark-haired woman with a mousey face and had little in the way of bosoms, but her hips were full and her body a pleasurable form, comforting to lie upon. The other woman—a pert, blonde-haired girl, really—was many years younger and was new to the household. She had an eager look about her. Her breasts spilled from her maid’s uniform, and when he saw them, Newland instantly felt an intense arousal. He had wondered what his commitment to May would do to these interludes. That was why he had broken off the affair with the society woman. But satisfying his manly needs with loyal chambermaids was not the same as having a love affair, or acting like an ass. On the contrary, cavorting with the servants to satisfy his desires would only ensure that he would remain faithful to May, that he would not fall in love with a woman of her stature. And Miranda was most discrete, and would not bring another girl who would not exercise the same discretion. His decision was made.

  He stepped forward, clasped the bib of the young woman’s dress, and pulled it forward, exposing her naked breasts. Her large, full nipples stood on end like buttons that needed attention. She wriggled her body enticingly. Without asking her leave, he slipped his hand inside the dress and pulled one of her breasts free to have a closer look and feel.

  At his touch, the young chambermaid sucked in a strong, quivering breath. It might have been a sigh of pleasure, it might have been a moan of pain. Unmindful of her reaction, Newland placed his thumb and forefingers around the magnificent nipple, and then rolled and squeezed it between his fingers. She purred this time.

  “And who might you be, Miss?” he asked the young woman.

  “Oh, my,” the chambermaid said, her speech labored. “My name … oh, my name is … Anne, Mr. Archer.”

  Newland gave the nipple one last squeeze, causing Anne to throw her head back and moan in pleasure. “Yes, Anne and Miranda, do come in,” he said. Anne smiled and squeezed her own breasts, and Miranda licked her lips saucily. He stepped to the side and allowed the two chambermaids to enter, making sure to squeeze Miranda’s voluptuous bottom as she wriggled past him in a teasing sort of manner. At his touch, Miranda was sure to shriek with pleasure.

  Newland shut the door and approached Anne from behind. “The first thing we’ll need to do is take these clothes off of you.”

  Miranda gleefully helped Newland undress the young woman, and once Anne stood naked, Newland quickly led her to the bed and gently lowered her down to the mattress. “Open your legs wide,” he said, and helped her spread them. Miranda slid the robe from her master’s back, and then began to undress herself.

  Seeing the young Anne’s intimate form, Newland felt his member jump and quickly stand fully erect. “So delicate,” he said, the words rushing out of his lungs in anticipation of deflowering her.

  “She’s pure, to be sure, Mr. Archer,” Miranda said, coming alongside of him to see for herself. “Ready to become a woman.”

  Newland faced Miranda. “And this is her pleasure?”

  Anne answered herself, “Yes, of course, Mr. Archer.” She smiled, and then cupped one of her breasts, lifted it to her mouth, and used her long tongue to slowly lick the magnificent nipple.

  “Well then, if you’re sure,” he said, grinning and reveling in her nakedness. He once again ran his fingers gently over her erect nipple.

  “Oh, yes,” Anne hissed, beginning to undulate to his gentle touch. “More, Mr. Archer.”

  Newland began massaging Anne’s intimate folds, thumbing a finger around her protruding pearl. Miranda, now fully naked, took her place on the bed above Anne. She propped herself on her hands and knees with her bottom and intimate form facing Newland, and she began shaking her bottom in lustful invitation. Newla
nd reached to touch Miranda’s pearl and began massaging both of the women at once, slithering his hands through their moist petals and folds. Then he slipped a finger inside of Miranda’s sheath and began thrumming it in rhythm to his manipulations of Anne’s pearl. He was careful not to compromise Anne’s hymen—not yet.

  Miranda rocked and moaned, begging for more, and so Newland pushed her forward so that she rested on her forearms, exposing more of her intimate form. He leaned forward and tasted her cream as he continued to play with Anne. Then he slid his tongue from her well of passion to her pearl, where he began to swirl. Miranda danced and undulated uninhibitedly. She was hot, moist, and ready for more. But she would have to wait. Newland pressed his member against Anne’s female folds and slowly slid it through her cream. Anne moaned with pleasure, and began moving her hips more desirously toward him.

  Newland could wait no longer. He leveled his member at the opening of her sheath and began to gently probe. She was tight, so tight, never having been opened or touched before. Newland felt the rush of his desires taking over him, so he pushed a little more insistently. Anne moaned louder as he attempted to enter her tight vessel. Since she was a virgin, he was not yet able to enter—she was too tight. So he grasped her erect nipple and squeezed until she was overflowing with a rich, creamy pool of passion. With a forceful push, he finally split her flesh and pushed his crown inside of her, and she was no longer a virgin.

  Anne gasped at his entry, and then cried, “OH!” Her voice hinted at painful pleasure.

  “Are you quite enjoying it, Anne?” Newland asked.

  “Yes, yes, Mr. Archer, it’s just … oh!” She arched her neck. “So good, so good,” she repeated over and over. It was as though she were speaking to no one, that she was lost in a dream of perfect pleasure.

  Not stopping, Newland slowly, but firmly, pushed his member deeper inside, filling her vessel to its end, and then he stopped to savor the moment.

  “OH! My God,” Anne said, gasping for breath. “I can’t … I … I …”

  “Take my breast,” Miranda said to her.

  Anne quickly grasped one of Miranda’s breasts and began to suckle a nipple with great enthusiasm, and then she grasped Miranda’s other breast and began massaging it with great fervor, rubbing her fingers across its erect tip. Miranda smiled wickedly and groaned in pleasure. And the more Anne sucked, the more she seemed to relax for Newland, making it easier for him to begin stroking in and out of her. With each passing minute, Newland’s enthusiasm grew more pronounced. He began groaning wildly as he thrust in and out of Anne, while also enjoying the fruits of Miranda’s cream with his tongue. Miranda moaned uninhibitedly, and before long, Anne joined in moaning just as excitedly, as though she had known carnal knowledge her whole life. The three moved as one, locked in passion.

  “Oh, yes, yes,” Anne said, continuing to suckle Miranda’s breast. “I … I,” she said, and a moment later, her hips thrust forward. “My God!”

  Newland felt Anne’s vessel contract and squeeze. Her entire body convulsed, and she thrashed her limbs uncontrollably. It was all that Newland could do to keep his member buried inside her. He had satisfied her completely. He continued to thrust in and out of her and then pulled his erection from her once she lay satisfied.

  “Come closer,” he said, patting Miranda’s full bottom.

  “Oh, Mr. Archer, I thought you’d never ask,” Miranda said, and she placed herself at the edge of the bed and lifted her bottom in the air, so that he could access her forbidden door. “I’ve waited so long.”

  Newland grasped her breasts and squeezed. Then he returned his hands to her bottom cheeks, holding them firmly apart. “Brace yourself, my dear,” he said. Wet with Anne’s cream, he slowly pushed inside Miranda’s forbidden door, grunting as he worked.

  “Ah-h, my God!” she exclaimed. “Oh-h, Mr. Archer!”

  Anne rose and stood behind Newland. There, she grasped his firm buttocks and began massaging as he rocked in and out of Miranda, groaning with utmost pleasure. Newland reached for Miranda’s pearl and began massaging her to intensify her pleasure. A moment later, Anne moved one of her hands between Newland’s fold and with her fingers began strumming the opening to his forbidden door. Newland groaned at her deeper touch, encouraging her to explore more, so Anne dipped a finger deep inside of him, and soon began moving it in and out to match his strokes in and out of Miranda.

  At Anne’s touch, Newland found himself completely overwhelmed. Unable to control himself, he thrust heartily a few more times, until with great tumult and satisfaction, his loins tightened and he released his seed within Miranda’s cavity with such vigor that his body shook thunderously. His convulsions ignited Miranda fully, and she exploded with him.

  “My God!” he exclaimed. “Why shouldn’t women have the same freedom of experience?”

  “Beg your pardon, Sir?” Anne said.

  But Newland did not answer her. Overcome, he and Miranda collapsed onto the bed, gasping for breath. It took some time for them to recover, but once they did, Newland promptly dismissed the chambermaids. He kissed both women and squeezed Anne’s breast and Miranda’s bottom as they left his quarters, and before long, he soon found himself situated in bed, feeling satisfied and content, while thinking that he was glad that at least there were some women in this world who were not afraid to live life without hypocrisy.

  A few days later the bolt fell.

  The Lovell Mingotts had sent out cards for what was known as “a formal dinner” (that is, three extra footmen, two dishes for each course, and a Roman punch in the middle), and had headed their invitations with the words “To meet the Countess Olenska,” in accordance with the hospitable American fashion, which treats strangers as if they were royalties, or at least as their ambassadors.

  The guests had been selected with a boldness and discrimination in which the initiated recognised the firm hand of Catherine the Great. Associated with such immemorial standbys as the Selfridge Merrys, who were asked everywhere because they always had been, the Beauforts, on whom there was a claim of relationship, and Mr. Sillerton Jackson and his sister Sophy (who went wherever her brother told her to), were some of the most fashionable and yet most irreproachable of the dominant “young married” set; the Lawrence Leffertses, Mrs. Lefferts Rushworth (the lovely widow), the Harry Thorleys, the Reggie Chiverses and young Morris Dagonet and his wife (who was a van der Luyden). The company indeed was perfectly assorted, since all the members belonged to the little inner group of people who, during the long New York season, disported themselves together daily and nightly with apparently undiminished zest.

  Forty-eight hours later the unbelievable had happened; every one had refused the Mingotts’ invitation except the Beauforts and old Mr. Jackson and his sister. The intended slight was emphasised by the fact that even the Reggie Chiverses, who were of the Mingott clan, were among those inflicting it; and by the uniform wording of the notes, in all of which the writers “regretted that they were unable to accept,” without the mitigating plea of a “previous engagement” that ordinary courtesy prescribed.

  New York society was, in those days, far too small, and too scant in its resources, for every one in it (including livery-stable-keepers, butlers and cooks) not to know exactly on which evenings people were free; and it was thus possible for the recipients of Mrs. Lovell Mingott’s invitations to make cruelly clear their determination not to meet the Countess Olenska.

  The blow was unexpected; but the Mingotts, as their way was, met it gallantly. Mrs. Lovell Mingott confided the case to Mrs. Welland, who confided it to Newland Archer; who, aflame at the outrage, appealed passionately and authoritatively to his mother; who, after a painful period of inward resistance and outward temporising, succumbed to his instances (as she always did), and immediately embracing his cause with an energy redoubled by her previous hesitations, put on her grey velvet bonnet and said: “I’ll go and see Louisa van der Luyden.”

  The New York of Newland Archer’
s day was a small and slippery pyramid, in which, as yet, hardly a fissure had been made or a foothold gained. At its base was a firm foundation of what Mrs. Archer called “plain people”; an honourable but obscure majority of respectable families who (as in the case of the Spicers or the Leffertses or the Jacksons) had been raised above their level by marriage with one of the ruling clans. People, Mrs. Archer always said, were not as particular as they used to be; and with old Catherine Spicer ruling one end of Fifth Avenue, and Julius Beaufort the other, you couldn’t expect the old traditions to last much longer.

  Firmly narrowing upward from this wealthy but inconspicuous substratum was the compact and dominant group which the Mingotts, Newlands, Chiverses and Mansons so actively represented. Most people imagined them to be the very apex of the pyramid; but they themselves (at least those of Mrs. Archer’s generation) were aware that, in the eyes of the professional genealogist, only a still smaller number of families could lay claim to that eminence.

  “Don’t tell me,” Mrs. Archer would say to her children, “all this modern newspaper rubbish about a New York aristocracy. If there is one, neither the Mingotts nor the Mansons belong to it; no, nor the Newlands or the Chiverses either. Our grandfathers and great-grandfathers were just respectable English or Dutch merchants, who came to the colonies to make their fortune, and stayed here because they did so well. One of your great-grandfathers signed the Declaration, and another was a general on Washington’s staff, and received General Burgoyne’s sword after the battle of Saratoga. These are things to be proud of, but they have nothing to do with rank or class. New York has always been a commercial community, and there are not more than three families in it who can claim an aristocratic origin in the real sense of the word.”