Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  “More, harder,” she demanded, groaning and whining as she worked her hips like a madwoman, continuing to slap his buttocks.

  Newland raised his head from her bosom and looked into her face. The young woman’s eyes were closed. She was completely enraptured. For a moment, he thought he might reprimand her, although he didn’t quite have the heart to spoil her pleasure. Her head rolled from side to side, her hips thrust to his every beat, and he actually found that he enjoyed the stings of her playful spanks, as his member grew harder with each successive strike.

  “Oh, oh, Mr. Archer. Suck one of my breasts. Whichever one you like. And thrust harder! More, more …” She grasped his head with both hands and guided his mouth back to one of her breasts, and then resumed spanking him, delivering some of the blows to the cleft between his cheeks. “Harder, faster,” she cried.

  Now under the young woman’s control, Newland obeyed, panting to keep pace with her. He was besieged by her wild and relentless passion, his desire heightened by her slaps to his backside. He was ready to explode, but the young woman beat him to it. Her body suddenly tightened, went absolutely stiff, and then began convulsing in pleasure. Anne screamed out that she was undone. Her vessel tightened, and Newland himself could wait no longer. He released his seed, filling her vessel, until it overflowed.

  Exhausted, he collapsed upon her to catch his breath.

  When he rose up and slid out of her vessel, Anne opened her eyes and looked at her master. “Sir?” she said.

  “What is it Anne?”

  As she lay back on the bed with her legs spread open, she grabbed hold of one of her mammoth breasts, brought it to her mouth, and circled a nipple with her tongue. Then she looked at Newland with a grin. “Again, sir?” she asked, curiously.

  Newland looked down at his wilting member and sighed.

  “No, no, alas, I think not. We’ve quite finished for the night.”

  He was at Mr. Letterblair’s punctually at seven, glad of the pretext for excusing himself soon after dinner. He had formed his own opinion from the papers entrusted to him, and did not especially want to go into the matter with his senior partner. Mr. Letterblair was a widower, and they dined alone, copiously and slowly, in a dark shabby room hung with yellowing prints of “The Death of Chatham” and “The Coronation of Napoleon.” On the sideboard, between fluted Sheraton knife-cases, stood a decanter of Haut Brion, and another of the old Lanning port (the gift of a client), which the wastrel Tom Lanning had sold off a year or two before his mysterious and discreditable death in San Francisco—an incident less publicly humiliating to the family than the sale of the cellar.

  After a velvety oyster soup came shad and cucumbers, then a young broiled turkey with corn fritters, followed by a canvasback with currant jelly and a celery mayonnaise. Mr. Letterblair, who lunched on a sandwich and tea, dined deliberately and deeply, and insisted on his guest’s doing the same. Finally, when the closing rites had been accomplished, the cloth was removed, cigars were lit, and Mr. Letterblair, leaning back in his chair and pushing the port westward, said, spreading his back agreeably to the coal fire behind him: “The whole family are against a divorce. And I think rightly.”

  Archer instantly felt himself on the other side of the argument. “But why, sir? If there ever was a case—”

  “Well—what’s the use? SHE’S here—he’s there; the Atlantic’s between them. She’ll never get back a dollar more of her money than what he’s voluntarily returned to her: their damned heathen marriage settlements take precious good care of that. As things go over there, Olenska’s acted generously: he might have turned her out without a penny.”

  The young man knew this and was silent.

  “I understand, though,” Mr. Letterblair continued, “that she attaches no importance to the money. Therefore, as the family say, why not let well enough alone?”

  Archer had gone to the house an hour earlier in full agreement with Mr. Letterblair’s view; but put into words by this selfish, well-fed and supremely indifferent old man it suddenly became the Pharisaic voice of a society wholly absorbed in barricading itself against the unpleasant.

  “I think that’s for her to decide.”

  “H’m—have you considered the consequences if she decides for divorce?”

  “You mean the threat in her husband’s letter? What weight would that carry? It’s no more than the vague charge of an angry blackguard.”

  “Yes; but it might make some unpleasant talk if he really defends the suit.”

  “Unpleasant—!” said Archer explosively.

  Mr. Letterblair looked at him from under enquiring eyebrows, and the young man, aware of the uselessness of trying to explain what was in his mind, bowed acquiescently while his senior continued: “Divorce is always unpleasant.”

  “You agree with me?” Mr. Letterblair resumed, after a waiting silence.

  “Naturally,” said Archer.

  “Well, then, I may count on you; the Mingotts may count on you; to use your influence against the idea?”

  Archer hesitated. “I can’t pledge myself till I’ve seen the Countess Olenska,” he said at length.

  “Mr. Archer, I don’t understand you. Do you want to marry into a family with a scandalous divorce-suit hanging over it?”

  “I don’t think that has anything to do with the case.”

  Mr. Letterblair put down his glass of port and fixed on his young partner a cautious and apprehensive gaze.

  Archer understood that he ran the risk of having his mandate withdrawn, and for some obscure reason he disliked the prospect. Now that the job had been thrust on him he did not propose to relinquish it; and, to guard against the possibility, he saw that he must reassure the unimaginative old man who was the legal conscience of the Mingotts.

  “You may be sure, sir, that I shan’t commit myself till I’ve reported to you; what I meant was that I’d rather not give an opinion till I’ve heard what Madame Olenska has to say.”

  Mr. Letterblair nodded approvingly at an excess of caution worthy of the best New York tradition, and the young man, glancing at his watch, pleaded an engagement and took leave.

  Chapter 12

  Old-fashioned New York dined at seven, and the habit of after-dinner calls, though derided in Archer’s set, still generally prevailed. As the young man strolled up Fifth Avenue from Waverley Place, the long thoroughfare was deserted but for a group of carriages standing before the Reggie Chiverses’ (where there was a dinner for the Duke), and the occasional figure of an elderly gentleman in heavy overcoat and muffler ascending a brownstone doorstep and disappearing into a gas-lit hall. Thus, as Archer crossed Washington Square, he remarked that old Mr. du Lac was calling on his cousins the Dagonets, and turning down the corner of West Tenth Street he saw Mr. Skipworth, of his own firm, obviously bound on a visit to the Miss Lannings. A little farther up Fifth Avenue, Beaufort appeared on his doorstep, darkly projected against a blaze of light, descended to his private brougham, and rolled away to a mysterious and probably unmentionable destination. It was not an Opera night, and no one was giving a party, so that Beaufort’s outing was undoubtedly of a clandestine nature. Archer connected it in his mind with a little house beyond Lexington Avenue in which beribboned window curtains and flower-boxes had recently appeared, and before whose newly painted door the canary-coloured brougham of Miss Fanny Ring was frequently seen to wait.

  Beyond the small and slippery pyramid which composed Mrs. Archer’s world lay the almost unmapped quarter inhabited by artists, musicians and “people who wrote.” These scattered fragments of humanity had never shown any desire to be amalgamated with the social structure. In spite of odd ways they were said to be, for the most part, quite respectable; but they preferred to keep to themselves. Medora Manson, in her prosperous days, had inaugurated a “literary salon”; but it had soon died out owing to the reluctance of the literary to frequent it.

  Others had made the same attempt, and there was a household of Blenkers—an intense a
nd voluble mother, and three blowsy daughters who imitated her—where one met Edwin Booth and Patti and William Winter, and the new Shakespearian actor George Rignold, and some of the magazine editors and musical and literary critics.

  Mrs. Archer and her group felt a certain timidity concerning these persons. They were odd, they were uncertain, they had things one didn’t know about in the background of their lives and minds. Literature and art were deeply respected in the Archer set, and Mrs. Archer was always at pains to tell her children how much more agreeable and cultivated society had been when it included such figures as Washington Irving, Fitz-Greene Halleck and the poet of “The Culprit Fay.” The most celebrated authors of that generation had been “gentlemen”; perhaps the unknown persons who succeeded them had gentlemanly sentiments, but their origin, their appearance, their hair, their intimacy with the stage and the Opera, made any old New York criterion inapplicable to them.

  “When I was a girl,” Mrs. Archer used to say, “we knew everybody between the Battery and Canal Street; and only the people one knew had carriages. It was perfectly easy to place any one then; now one can’t tell, and I prefer not to try.”

  Only old Catherine Mingott, with her absence of moral prejudices and almost parvenu indifference to the subtler distinctions, might have bridged the abyss; but she had never opened a book or looked at a picture, and cared for music only because it reminded her of gala nights at the Italiens, in the days of her triumph at the Tuileries. Possibly Beaufort, who was her match in daring, would have succeeded in bringing about a fusion; but his grand house and silk-stockinged footmen were an obstacle to informal sociability. Moreover, he was as illiterate as old Mrs. Mingott, and considered “fellows who wrote” as the mere paid purveyors of rich men’s pleasures; and no one rich enough to influence his opinion had ever questioned it.

  Newland Archer had been aware of these things ever since he could remember, and had accepted them as part of the structure of his universe. He knew that there were societies where painters and poets and novelists and men of science, and even great actors, were as sought after as Dukes; he had often pictured to himself what it would have been to live in the intimacy of drawing-rooms dominated by the talk of Merimee (whose “Lettres a une Inconnue” was one of his inseparables), of Thackeray, Browning or William Morris. But such things were inconceivable in New York, and unsettling to think of. Archer knew most of the “fellows who wrote,” the musicians and the painters: he met them at the Century, or at the little musical and theatrical clubs that were beginning to come into existence. He enjoyed them there, and was bored with them at the Blenkers’, where they were mingled with fervid and dowdy women who passed them about like captured curiosities; and even after his most exciting talks with Ned Winsett he always came away with the feeling that if his world was small, so was theirs, and that the only way to enlarge either was to reach a stage of manners where they would naturally merge.

  He was reminded of this by trying to picture the society in which the Countess Olenska had lived and suffered, and also—perhaps—tasted mysterious joys. He remembered with what amusement she had told him that her grandmother Mingott and the Wellands objected to her living in a “Bohemian” quarter given over to “people who wrote.” It was not the peril but the poverty that her family disliked; but that shade escaped her, and she supposed they considered literature compromising.

  She herself had no fears of it, and the books scattered about her drawing-room (a part of the house in which books were usually supposed to be “out of place”), though chiefly works of fiction, had whetted Archer’s interest with such new names as those of Paul Bourget, Huysmans, and the Goncourt brothers. Ruminating on these things as he approached her door, he was once more conscious of the curious way in which she reversed his values, and of the need of thinking himself into conditions incredibly different from any that he knew if he were to be of use in her present difficulty.

  Nastasia opened the door, smiling mysteriously. On the bench in the hall lay a sable-lined overcoat, a folded opera hat of dull silk with a gold J. B. on the lining, and a white silk muffler: there was no mistaking the fact that these costly articles were the property of Julius Beaufort.

  Archer was angry: so angry that he came near scribbling a word on his card and going away; then he remembered that in writing to Madame Olenska he had been kept by excess of discretion from saying that he wished to see her privately. He had therefore no one but himself to blame if she had opened her doors to other visitors; and he entered the drawing-room with the dogged determination to make Beaufort feel himself in the way, and to outstay him.

  The banker stood leaning against the mantelshelf, which was draped with an old embroidery held in place by brass candelabra containing church candies of yellowish wax. He had thrust his chest out, supporting his shoulders against the mantel and resting his weight on one large patent-leather foot. As Archer entered he was smiling and looking down on his hostess, who sat on a sofa placed at right angles to the chimney. A table banked with flowers formed a screen behind it, and against the orchids and azaleas which the young man recognised as tributes from the Beaufort hot-houses, Madame Olenska sat half-reclined, her head propped on a hand and her wide sleeve leaving the arm bare to the elbow.

  It was usual for ladies who received in the evenings to wear what were called “simple dinner dresses”: a close-fitting armour of whaleboned silk, slightly open in the neck, with lace ruffles filling in the crack, and tight sleeves with a flounce uncovering just enough wrist to show an Etruscan gold bracelet or a velvet band. But Madame Olenska, heedless of tradition, was attired in a long robe of red velvet bordered about the chin and down the front with glossy black fur. Archer remembered, on his last visit to Paris, seeing a portrait by the new painter, Carolus Duran, whose pictures were the sensation of the Salon, in which the lady wore one of these bold sheath-like robes with her chin nestling in fur. There was something perverse and provocative in the notion of fur worn in the evening in a heated drawing-room, and in the combination of a muffled throat and bare arms; but the effect was undeniably pleasing.

  “Lord love us—three whole days at Skuytercliff!” Beaufort was saying in his loud sneering voice as Archer entered. “You’d better take all your furs, and a hot-water-bottle.”

  “Why? Is the house so cold?” she asked, holding out her left hand to Archer in a way mysteriously suggesting that she expected him to kiss it.

  “No; but the missus is,” said Beaufort, nodding carelessly to the young man.

  “But I thought her so kind. She came herself to invite me. Granny says I must certainly go.”

  “Granny would, of course. And I say it’s a shame you’re going to miss the little oyster supper I’d planned for you at Delmonico’s next Sunday, with Campanini and Scalchi and a lot of jolly people.”

  She looked doubtfully from the banker to Archer.

  “Ah—that does tempt me! Except the other evening at Mrs. Struthers’s I’ve not met a single artist since I’ve been here.”

  “What kind of artists? I know one or two painters, very good fellows, that I could bring to see you if you’d allow me,” said Archer boldly.

  “Painters? Are there painters in New York?” asked Beaufort, in a tone implying that there could be none since he did not buy their pictures; and Madame Olenska said to Archer, with her grave smile: “That would be charming. But I was really thinking of dramatic artists, singers, actors, musicians. My husband’s house was always full of them.”

  She said the words “my husband” as if no sinister associations were connected with them, and in a tone that seemed almost to sigh over the lost delights of her married life. Archer looked at her perplexedly, wondering if it were lightness or dissimulation that enabled her to touch so easily on the past at the very moment when she was risking her reputation in order to break with it.

  “I do think,” she went on, addressing both men, “that the imprevu adds to one’s enjoyment. It’s perhaps a mistake to see the same peop
le every day.”

  “It’s confoundedly dull, anyhow; New York is dying of dullness,” Beaufort grumbled. “And when I try to liven it up for you, you go back on me. Come—think better of it! Sunday is your last chance, for Campanini leaves next week for Baltimore and Philadelphia; and I’ve a private room, and a Steinway, and they’ll sing all night for me.”

  “How delicious! May I think it over, and write to you tomorrow morning?”

  She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it, and being unused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes.

  “Why not now?”

  “It’s too serious a question to decide at this late hour.”

  “Do you call it late?”

  She returned his glance coolly. “Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while.”

  “Ah,” Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold: “I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you’re included in the supper,” left the room with his heavy important step.

  For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark made him change his mind.

  “You know painters, then? You live in their milieu?” she asked, her eyes full of interest.

  “Oh, not exactly. I don’t know that the arts have a milieu here, any of them; they’re more like a very thinly settled outskirt.”

  “But you care for such things?”

  “Immensely. When I’m in Paris or London I never miss an exhibition. I try to keep up.”

  She looked down at the tip of the little satin boot that peeped from her long draperies.

  “I used to care immensely too: my life was full of such things. But now I want to try not to.”