Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  A pleasant glow dilated Archer’s heart. There was nothing extraordinary in the tale: any woman would have done as much for a neighbour’s child. But it was just like Ellen, he felt, to have rushed in bareheaded, carrying the boy in her arms, and to have dazzled poor Mrs. Winsett into forgetting to ask who she was.

  “That is the Countess Olenska—a granddaughter of old Mrs. Mingott’s.”

  “Whew—a Countess!” whistled Ned Winsett. “Well, I didn’t know Countesses were so neighbourly. Mingotts ain’t.”

  “They would be, if you’d let them.”

  “Ah, well—” It was their old interminable argument as to the obstinate unwillingness of the “clever people” to frequent the fashionable, and both men knew that there was no use in prolonging it.

  “I wonder,” Winsett broke off, “how a Countess happens to live in our slum?”

  “Because she doesn’t care a hang about where she lives—or about any of our little social sign-posts,” said Archer, with a secret pride in his own picture of her.

  “H’m—been in bigger places, I suppose,” the other commented. “Well, here’s my corner.”

  He slouched off across Broadway, and Archer stood looking after him and musing on his last words.

  Ned Winsett had those flashes of penetration; they were the most interesting thing about him, and always made Archer wonder why they had allowed him to accept failure so stolidly at an age when most men are still struggling.

  Archer had known that Winsett had a wife and child, but he had never seen them. The two men always met at the Century, or at some haunt of journalists and theatrical people, such as the restaurant where Winsett had proposed to go for a bock. He had given Archer to understand that his wife was an invalid; which might be true of the poor lady, or might merely mean that she was lacking in social gifts or in evening clothes, or in both. Winsett himself had a savage abhorrence of social observances: Archer, who dressed in the evening because he thought it cleaner and more comfortable to do so, and who had never stopped to consider that cleanliness and comfort are two of the costliest items in a modest budget, regarded Winsett’s attitude as part of the boring “Bohemian” pose that always made fashionable people, who changed their clothes without talking about it, and were not forever harping on the number of servants one kept, seem so much simpler and less self-conscious than the others. Nevertheless, he was always stimulated by Winsett, and whenever he caught sight of the journalist’s lean bearded face and melancholy eyes he would rout him out of his corner and carry him off for a long talk.

  Winsett was not a journalist by choice. He was a pure man of letters, untimely born in a world that had no need of letters; but after publishing one volume of brief and exquisite literary appreciations, of which one hundred and twenty copies were sold, thirty given away, and the balance eventually destroyed by the publishers (as per contract) to make room for more marketable material, he had abandoned his real calling, and taken a sub-editorial job on a women’s weekly, where fashion-plates and paper patterns alternated with New England love-stories and advertisements of temperance drinks.

  On the subject of “Hearth-fires” (as the paper was called) he was inexhaustibly entertaining; but beneath his fun lurked the sterile bitterness of the still young man who has tried and given up. His conversation always made Archer take the measure of his own life, and feel how little it contained; but Winsett’s, after all, contained still less, and though their common fund of intellectual interests and curiosities made their talks exhilarating, their exchange of views usually remained within the limits of a pensive dilettantism.

  “The fact is, life isn’t much a fit for either of us,” Winsett had once said. “I’m down and out; nothing to be done about it. I’ve got only one ware to produce, and there’s no market for it here, and won’t be in my time. But you’re free and you’re well-off. Why don’t you get into touch? There’s only one way to do it: to go into politics.”

  Archer threw his head back and laughed. There one saw at a flash the unbridgeable difference between men like Winsett and the others—Archer’s kind. Every one in polite circles knew that, in America, “a gentleman couldn’t go into politics.” But, since he could hardly put it in that way to Winsett, he answered evasively: “Look at the career of the honest man in American politics! They don’t want us.”

  “Who’s `they’? Why don’t you all get together and be `they’ yourselves?”

  Archer’s laugh lingered on his lips in a slightly condescending smile. It was useless to prolong the discussion: everybody knew the melancholy fate of the few gentlemen who had risked their clean linen in municipal or state politics in New York. The day was past when that sort of thing was possible: the country was in possession of the bosses and the emigrant, and decent people had to fall back on sport or culture.

  “Culture! Yes—if we had it! But there are just a few little local patches, dying out here and there for lack of—well, hoeing and cross-fertilising: the last remnants of the old European tradition that your forebears brought with them. But you’re in a pitiful little minority: you’ve got no centre, no competition, no audience. You’re like the pictures on the walls of a deserted house: `The Portrait of a Gentleman.’ You’ll never amount to anything, any of you, till you roll up your sleeves and get right down into the muck. That, or emigrate … God! If I could emigrate … “

  Archer mentally shrugged his shoulders and turned the conversation back to books, where Winsett, if uncertain, was always interesting. Emigrate! As if a gentleman could abandon his own country! One could no more do that than one could roll up one’s sleeves and go down into the muck. A gentleman simply stayed at home and abstained. But you couldn’t make a man like Winsett see that; and that was why the New York of literary clubs and exotic restaurants, though a first shake made it seem more of a kaleidoscope, turned out, in the end, to be a smaller box, with a more monotonous pattern, than the assembled atoms of Fifth Avenue.

  The next morning Archer scoured the town in vain for more yellow roses. In consequence of this search he arrived late at the office, perceived that his doing so made no difference whatever to any one, and was filled with sudden exasperation at the elaborate futility of his life. Why should he not be, at that moment, on the sands of St. Augustine with May Welland? No one was deceived by his pretense of professional activity. In old-fashioned legal firms like that of which Mr. Letterblair was the head, and which were mainly engaged in the management of large estates and “conservative” investments, there were always two or three young men, fairly well-off, and without professional ambition, who, for a certain number of hours of each day, sat at their desks accomplishing trivial tasks, or simply reading the newspapers. Though it was supposed to be proper for them to have an occupation, the crude fact of money-making was still regarded as derogatory, and the law, being a profession, was accounted a more gentlemanly pursuit than business. But none of these young men had much hope of really advancing in his profession, or any earnest desire to do so; and over many of them the green mould of the perfunctory was already perceptibly spreading.

  It made Archer shiver to think that it might be spreading over him too. He had, to be sure, other tastes and interests; he spent his vacations in European travel, cultivated the “clever people” May spoke of, and generally tried to “keep up,” as he had somewhat wistfully put it to Madame Olenska. But once he was married, what would become of this narrow margin of life in which his real experiences were lived? He had seen enough of other young men who had dreamed his dream, though perhaps less ardently, and who had gradually sunk into the placid and luxurious routine of their elders.

  From the office he sent a note by messenger to Madame Olenska, asking if he might call that afternoon, and begging her to let him find a reply at his club; but at the club he found nothing, nor did he receive any letter the following day. This unexpected silence mortified him beyond reason, and though the next morning he saw a glorious cluster of yellow roses behind a florist’s window-pane, he le
ft it there. It was only on the third morning that he received a line by post from the Countess Olenska. To his surprise it was dated from Skuytercliff, whither the van der Luydens had promptly retreated after putting the Duke on board his steamer.

  “I ran away,” the writer began abruptly (without the usual preliminaries), “the day after I saw you at the play, and these kind friends have taken me in. I wanted to be quiet, and think things over. You were right in telling me how kind they were; I feel myself so safe here. I wish that you were with us.” She ended with a conventional “Yours sincerely,” and without any allusion to the date of her return.

  The tone of the note surprised the young man. What was Madame Olenska running away from, and why did she feel the need to be safe? His first thought was of some dark menace from abroad; then he reflected that he did not know her epistolary style, and that it might run to picturesque exaggeration. Women always exaggerated; and moreover she was not wholly at her ease in English, which she often spoke as if she were translating from the French. “Je me suis evadee—” put in that way, the opening sentence immediately suggested that she might merely have wanted to escape from a boring round of engagements; which was very likely true, for he judged her to be capricious, and easily wearied of the pleasure of the moment.

  It amused him to think of the van der Luydens having carried her off to Skuytercliff on a second visit, and this time for an indefinite period. The doors of Skuytercliff were rarely and grudgingly opened to visitors, and a chilly week-end was the most ever offered to the few thus privileged. But Archer had seen, on his last visit to Paris, the delicious play of Labiche, “Le Voyage de M. Perrichon,” and he remembered M. Perrichon’s dogged and undiscouraged attachment to the young man whom he had pulled out of the glacier. The van der Luydens had rescued Madame Olenska from a doom almost as icy; and though there were many other reasons for being attracted to her, Archer knew that beneath them all lay the gentle and obstinate determination to go on rescuing her.

  He felt a distinct disappointment on learning that she was away; and almost immediately remembered that, only the day before, he had refused an invitation to spend the following Sunday with the Reggie Chiverses at their house on the Hudson, a few miles below Skuytercliff.

  He had had his fill long ago of the noisy friendly parties at Highbank, with coasting, ice-boating, sleighing, long tramps in the snow, and a general flavour of mild flirting and milder practical jokes. He had just received a box of new books from his London book-seller, and had preferred the prospect of a quiet Sunday at home with his spoils. But he now went into the club writing-room, wrote a hurried telegram, and told the servant to send it immediately. He knew that Mrs. Reggie didn’t object to her visitors’ suddenly changing their minds, and that there was always a room to spare in her elastic house.

  That evening when Newland arrived home, he called for Miranda to ready his portmanteaus. As he smoked his cigar in his private chambers, he held one of his new books in his lap without bothering to read it. All he could think of was that blissful moment when he would knock upon the Countess’s door to surprise her. This time he intended to bed her properly and fill his days with her pleasant and amusing company. They would have such delightful conversation in sharing thoughts from books they had read and exhibits they had seen.

  “Sir,” Miranda said, interrupting his thoughts.

  Newland looked up.

  “You’re all packed.”

  “Very well, Miranda.” He lifted the book on the pretense of reading it.

  “Will there be anything further?”

  Newland looked up at her, perplexed.

  Her voice lowered. “You’ve always been so kind to me, sir. Never striking a hand of disapproval.”

  Newland was aghast at the very thought. “I wouldn’t dare think of such action.”

  “No, I don’t mean that you’re unpleased.”

  “Oh …?”

  She twisted her body, seductively.

  “Oh. Right. I’m afraid I’m a bit done in for the day,” he said.

  She neared him. “I could rub your shoulders, ease the tension of the day.”

  He hesitated, but said, “Yes. That might be nice.”

  She stepped around to the back of his chair, lowered his smoking jacket from his shoulders and chest, and then began rubbing his shoulders and chest with her strong hands. She hummed lightly, and before long, he was lost in a meditative doze. When his book tumbled from his lap to the rug, she scooted around and retrieved it from the floor. Turning back to him, she noticed the fine build of his chest, and after setting the book to the side, she carefully eased away the belt of his robe, letting the garment slide open to reveal his manhood surrounded in a thick casing of curls. His legs were parted, and she took delight in seeing her master’s jewels resting pleasingly upon the seat cushion of the chair.

  His naked body taunted her, reminded her of the many moments of intimate pleasure he had given to her. Nevertheless, she left well enough alone because with all her heart, she loved this man. She knew that as a simple servant, the most she would ever have of this man was the privilege of serving his needs, and that was by far good enough for her. Had he not hired her, she would most certainly have ended up in the service of the typical uncaring and brutal master; or worse, she would have become a woman of the streets—such was her desperation so many years ago. Loving him at a distance, serving his manly desires, and tending to his needs had given her comfort and self-respect. These were the only things she could ever ask of life.

  She lowered herself to the floor, removed one of his slippers, and began rubbing the sole of his foot. When he groaned quietly from deep within his chest, she knew that he was lost in pleasure.

  When he changed position, she glanced up and saw that his member was becoming engorged. She removed the other slipper and began to rub the sole of this foot. And before long, his member stood fully erect, even though he still appeared to be lost in slumber. Unable to resist, she slowly moved her hands up his legs, massaging gently as she worked her way up to his loins. She rubbed his muscular thighs, and still unable to refrain, she continued inching her way further up.

  His member began to throb. A moment later, he groaned a little louder, and pressed his hips forward as though needing to be touched.

  Taking that as a command, Miranda clasped his jewels in her hands and began gently massaging them, round and round. And when his member throbbed more insistently, she wrapped a hand around the staff and began slowly stroking it up and down.

  His groans grew more vocal, his staff more erect. Then she moved up, rolling the palm of her hand around his crown.

  His jaw slackened and he began breathing more heavily.

  Rising to her knees, she continued stroking his staff, and placed her tongue on his crown, where she began licking around it. He began to move to the rhythm of her tongue, and before long, she enveloped his crown fully inside her mouth. She sucked lightly, swirling her tongue, and soon began suckling him more vigorously as she pumped her hand up and down the length of his staff.

  “Ah,” he said, his eyes still closed.

  Miranda worked her delicate magic, until he gave way and began beating his hips more vigorously. She knew her master’s needs well, and how to please him. She suckled more intensely, and at last, he exploded, expelling his seed into her mouth and letting out a loud manly groan. She savored the taste of the man she loved, the man she could never have.

  She gently pulled her mouth from his crown and swallowed his seed, savoring her treat, while also letting her lips linger over the top of his crown. She licked the opening and between the folds, until she heard him speak.

  “Oh, dear girl. You’ve spoiled me again,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  She rose up and smiled.

  He bent down and kissed the top of her head. “You’re a good girl. I bid you good night, Miranda.”

  Chapter 15

  Newland Archer arrived at the Chiverses’s on Friday evening, and on Satu
rday went conscientiously through all the rites appertaining to a week-end at Highbank.

  In the morning he had a spin in the ice-boat with his hostess and a few of the hardier guests; in the afternoon he “went over the farm” with Reggie, and listened, in the elaborately appointed stables, to long and impressive disquisitions on the horse; after tea he talked in a corner of the firelit hall with a young lady who had professed herself brokenhearted when his engagement was announced, but was now eager to tell him of her own matrimonial hopes; and finally, about midnight, he assisted in putting a goldfish in one visitor’s bed, dressed up a burglar in the bathroom of a nervous aunt, and saw in the small hours by joining in a pillow-fight that ranged from the nurseries to the basement. But on Sunday after luncheon he borrowed a cutter, and drove over to Skuytercliff.

  People had always been told that the house at Skuytercliff was an Italian villa. Those who had never been to Italy believed it; so did some who had. The house had been built by Mr. van der Luyden in his youth, on his return from the “grand tour,” and in anticipation of his approaching marriage with Miss Louisa Dagonet. It was a large square wooden structure, with tongued and grooved walls painted pale green and white, a Corinthian portico, and fluted pilasters between the windows. From the high ground on which it stood a series of terraces bordered by balustrades and urns descended in the steel-engraving style to a small irregular lake with an asphalt edge overhung by rare weeping conifers. To the right and left, the famous weedless lawns studded with “specimen” trees (each of a different variety) rolled away to long ranges of grass crested with elaborate cast-iron ornaments; and below, in a hollow, lay the four-roomed stone house which the first Patroon had built on the land granted him in 1612.