This is Forbidden Book: Notes and Gossip of Tabooed Literature
by An Old Bibliophile this being the Roth reprint of the 1902 Carrington catalog of
books for sale. If you wish to verify the text below, please
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FORBIDDEN BOOKS
NOTES and GOSSIP
ON TABOOED LITERATURE
AN OLD BIBLIOPHILE
Livres cheris, que je lia tour a tour
A table, au foyer, sous la treille,
Je vous prefere a ces amis d'un jour
L'amour changeant, la fragile bouteille
Dans cette vie aux destins inconstants,
Danse ce vieux monde ou l'amour a des ailes,
Ou l'amitie ne fleurit qu'au printemps,
Chers compagnons, seuls vous me'etes fideles.
PARIS
FOR THE AUTHOR AND HIS FRIENDS
1902
Of
This Book
No More Than
Three Hundred and
Seventy-five Copies
Have Been Printed
All on the Same
Paper
The Present
is
No.
PREFACE
"Je n'ecris que pour cent lecteurs, et de ces etres, mal-
heureux, aimables, charmants, point hypocrites, point moraux,
auxquels je voudrais plaire, j'en connais a peine un ou deux.
De tout ce qui ment pour avoir de la consideration comme
ecrivian, je n'en fais aucun cas."
STENDAHL.
COMMERCIAL life had never left me much time
for making a business of pleasure and relaxa-
tion, such as I see now around me as I have
passed that uncertain meridian politely termed middle-
age. Having fallen into what is called the sere and
yellow category, I think I am entitled in my dotage to
play at being a philosopher and find fault with my fel-
low men, in revenge for that they did often scoff and
laugh at me when I was younger. Such are the benefits
of old age and experience.
I was a long way over thirty and had never troubled
to read a really obscene book, although I knew that such
volumes existed. I had always been a lover of fiction,
and having been brought up before the age of bicycles
and lawn-tennis, I think I must have given a little more
time to literature than our boys of to-day. Just about
that time I stumbled across a catalogue of condemned
works, and in hunting through it, I was struck by the
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wonderful titles of the books that had been
persecuted, and was also stupefied to find how
under different political regimes, so many great
men had suffered for their opinions expressed in
pamphlets or in gazettes, and how absurd it all
seemed after a few years had passed. From
thence to hunting up the books I saw in the
catalogue was but a step, and so I blossomed
into a bibliophile, if you can so call a. collector
of forbidden books. For I never troubled much
about any others. This mania kept me amused
and interested for some thirty years or more, and
now I have set my house in order in view of the
certain fact that I cannot live forever, and as I
know not what will become of my library after
my death, I preferred to get rid of it while I
lived and so I gradually sold off my collection or
exchanged for standard works. All that remains
to remind me of many happy hours of relaxation
and amused wonderment are the notes I used to
make and the gossiping memories they evoke.
These rambling reminiscences—or rather, a
small part of them—I now jot down, and give
them out for the pleasure and guidance of other
collectors of the same style—if such exist.
I may be blamed for having had such vitiated
taste as to gather a mass of literature capable of
corrupting morals and sowing the seed of lust and
licentiousness. To which I reply that I really and
honesty believe that too great a fuss is made over
obscene books, and nine times out of ten the
harm they do is hardly worth talking about.
When I was quite a child I was much struck
with the performance of a somewhat wild
pantomimic sketch, entitled, "Valentine and
Orson," and thoroughly enjoyed the scene where
the monster or wild man beholds his own
ugliness, as for the first time in his existence he
catches sight of his shaggy lineaments in the
polished
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shield by Valentine. May not the smug-faced
hypocrite railing against realism be of times
nothing more than an Orson in disguise!
A man of clean and normally healthy tastes will
read an obscene volume, and frankly say that he
has finished it and does not care much for it. He
will add that he does not want to persue [sic]
another, while the congenitally corrupt
individual, who would like to outvie the im-
possible feats of the heroes of smutty vulgar
volumes destined solely to inflame the passions,
calls out that he would not touch the horrible
little volume with a pair of tongs, and that the
author and seller thereof ought to be clapped
into jail. And yet he may be a man whose de-;
bauchery and deceit has driven his wife to die in
a madhouse, as I have seen it myself.
When Zola wrote his novel "Nana", which is
nothing more than a kind of modern "Fanny
Hill," a fearful outcry was raised in France, and
everybody said that they were not going to read
such filth. I think over a hundred thousand
copies were soon sold, and an illustrated edition
was also printed. It has been reprinted in every
language, again and again, more or less expur-;
gated—this book that nobody read! How many
people do you think have been corrupted by
reading the adventures of a mercenary prostitute
who dies of the smallpox, alone and neglected, in
a room of the Grand Hotel, at Paris!
When an Anarchist or political refugee is
tracked to his dingy lair by the police, it is always
gravely stated that a great quantity of socialistic
literature, and pamphlets advocating the
assassination of crowned tyrants, has been found
in the box of the misguided and dangerous crank.
If a young lad robs his employer and buys a
pistol, taking at the same time a third-class ticket
to a seaport town, a novel in penny numbers
(No.1 gratis
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with No.2, in a coloured wrapper), called, "Dick
Turpin junior," or "The Boy Burglar," will be
found among his belongings. The embezzling
clerk has been tempted by betting-men, as the
racing literature found in his possession plainly
proves, even had he made no whining confession.
But when a madman violates a little girl and cuts
her to pieces afterwards, why is there not a copy
of the bloodthirsty book, "Justine," ever to be
seized among his effects, so as to plainly show us
once for all that obscene and vile volumes really
wreak all the harm we are led to believe!
Not long since I read how a young draper's
assistant, of London, who led a double life, had
enticed his sweetheart, whom he was deceiving
with false tales of grandeur and lying promises,
into the parlour of his mother's house, taking her
life afterwards by breaking her skull with a heavy
instrument. He then poisoned himself. Do you
think he was corrupted by reading obscene books?
It must not be forgotten that sadism existed
before de Sade, but he was the first to set it down
as a theory.
Do you suppose that the "Horos" couple
became blasphemous debauchees by reading
books of lust? And inversely, do you not think
that if their wretched victims had not had sexual
knowledge and good advice on such subjects
carefully kept from them, they would have fallen
such an easy prey to the curious mixture of mysti-
cism and mesmeric lubricity that proved their
undoing?
People who read do not act, and those who act
do not read. I remember a friend of mine who was
being ruined by daily frequentation of a gambling
club, where he was carefully rooked six days in the
week. In pity of this sad infatuation, I brought him
several books where the tricks of the Greeks were
unveiled. He thanked me, and some time later
having occasion to visit him, I saw my volumes in
a comer covered with dust
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and uncut. Those who play cards never read, and
those who read are no gamblers.
With regard to the corruption of the morals
brought about by impure tales: there are very few
women in my experience who care to read them
after their first curiosity has been gratified. The
reason is obvious. They are all written by men,
and the female naturally soon pierces the
impossibility of the descriptions as incidents. She
soon reckons them up at their true value and
generally declines the offer of more, preferring as
a rule a sentimental love story that will make her
weep. Women have more satisfaction when a sad
drama or a goody-goody story brings up a ball in
their throat and enables them to have "a good
cry," than by reading how some virgin enjoys the
penetration of the male at once, and invites
repeated assaults at the same sitting, like an old
married woman with ten lovers; or how a boy of
sixteen outdoes Hercules, by being flogged till the
blood runs down to his heels, etc.
To be led astray by such work of smut and
salacity, a being must be greatly predisposed, for it
is impossible for the normally healthy male, or the
female with enough red globules in her blood to
become suddenly profligate, and lose all their
pudicity, through reading a mass of crude and
impossible filth relating to sexual enjoyment. A
feeling of disgust must be created in clean-minded
people, and I think the ordinary sensuous
novelette or more carefully-veiled romance from
the circulating library is far more dangerous to the
morals of young folks, especially our daughters.
The soft villi an in the conservatory, who glues his
lips, (they always "glue"), to the mouth of the
lovely creature in a low-necked dress, whose
bosom heaves with gratitude, for having had her
bolting horse stopped by his sinewy arm, as he
saved her life that morning, is a thousand times
more dangerous
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than the lusty ruffian with an enormous
development of virility, who is pictured with
much carmine, in the ugly coloured plates of the
obscene book.
It is this mistaken modesty with regard to the
duties of kind nature that transforms the streets
of all great European cities into happy hunting
grounds for the systematic seducer, who knows
that by a show of religion, and a few lying
promises, he can wheedle the poor little workgirl,
or proud, well-built dressmaker's assistant out of
all her savings and her virginity to boot. From
whom do the quack doctors who advertise by
sticking bills in the byeways draw the major part
of their revenues? From unfortunate boys, who
having been wrongly instructed, by being kept in
ignorance, have at the first call of nature rushed
to the venal Venus, and contaminated by what
they are led to believe is a secret and shameful
disease—as if any malady of the human frame,
acquired or constitutional, could be of a secret
shameful nature—seek out these rogues, for fear
of scandal.
Now, my merry men, open up your tribunals,
and send out your police, so as to defend public
morality by putting some silly fool of a bookseller
in jail for a lengthened term of imprisonment for
having sold for a few guineas this atrocious
literature through the post to a bigger fool than
himself.
What makes these prosecutions, whether
conducted by the Police, Vigilance Societies, or
indignant private individuals, so ridiculous, is that
no book can be utterly stamped out. Since the
invention of printing every book has survived,
while its perseuctors [sic] have long been for-
gotten. When books are ordered to be destroyed
the worthy magistrate is only giving them a new
lease of life. Those who do not care to read such
volumes stop the case in their newspapers, and
those who would like
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to see them keep the titles in their memory and
wait until they are reprinted. And they always are.
Even if the judicial orders are carried out entirely,
which I doubt, one copy escapes somehow. An
enthusiast may transcribe it, when he has it lent to
him, and so it is born again. Books have the
vitality of the most lively, healthy germs.
AN OLD BIBLIOPHILE
PARIS, April 15th, 1902.
Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure.
London, G. Fenton, 1749.
2 vols., 12mo., 13 free plates.
IN January, 1884, at Stockholm, there was a
sale by public auction of books on love,
women and marriage—which is a polite way
of informing collectors of my class that there are
some racy books to be had—which was soon
followed by another in November of the same year.
These two parts (1) formed the library of a Swedish
book-lover, Count Manderstrom, unless I am
mistaken, and this catalogue is very curious and
interesting. But what was most remarkable was the
third part, entirely composed of books a "figures
galantes," which means: excessively free, containing
97 numbers of books, vignettes, and even
transparent playing cards, which were not publicly
put up for sale, but marked in plain figures.
In this list was a copy of Cleland's famous work,
generally known by the name of the heroine:
"Fanny Hill," and in French editions, very often as
"Miss Fanny," as noted above, and only 75 francs
was asked for it. The amiable bookseller who
superintended the sale, was kind enough besides to
grant a discount of 10% without me asking for it.
I had great pleasure in receiving the book, for
this was the first time I was lucky enough to get
hold of the
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FORBIDDEN
original edition of this celebrated novel, which is
without doubt the best erotic work in the English
tongue. It is written in sober style, but the English
is of the best, and all is perfectly correct and
grammatical, which is a rare thing to be said of a
free work in any language.
As for the subject, it is a universal one, simply
narrating the life of a young person carrying on
what Rudyard Kipling calls "the most ancient and
best-paying trade in the world." This book had
many editions, and I can call to mind one printed
in London, about 1855, with the close type of the
old two-shilling "railway" novel, where all the free
passages were "worked up," and made more
obscene still, with G. W. M. Reynolds' and G. P.
R. James' flowers of rhetoric. The contrast of the
ultra-romantic varnishing to the solid chastened
prose of Cleland forms a most extraordinary
mixture, and makes the perusal a difficult task.
The two volumes of the gentle Swedish
gentleman, became my property, and they were
ornamented with 13 plates, illustrating the best
parts of this fascinating tale, in the broadest
manner possible, but in spite of my efforts and
researches, I was never able to find another copy
of the same series of pictures, either in a copy of
the book or apart, so as to be able to compare
and verify them. They were mezzotints, evidently
by a master hand, in the style of Morland. I held
the true edito princeps [sic], with a set of plates
unknown to all the inconophiles and bibliophiles
to whom I showed them. The number of the
plates seemed suspicious. Why thirteen? This
number seemed strange to me, as engravings were
printd [sic] as a rule, in even numbers, being
struck off in twos and fours on the same plate. Be
that as it may, I was the proud possessor of a
unique book, and I well remember the annoyance
of my friend Pisanus Fraxi—peace be to his ashes
I—who had just printed his bibliography
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of "Fanny Hill," (1) without having seen my copy.
So I was able to declare that my two volumes were
unknown to all bibliographers,—a sweet triumph
for an amateur!
They were modestly bound in contemporary
calf, and instead of the true title, they bore on
their backs the mention: "Natural Philosophy."
That poor martyred publisher, Isidore Liseux,
used them to make his careful reprint, where
therefore the true text is to be found. Thus it was
that a Frenchman published in our time the text
in extenso of the masterpiece of English amorous
literature, for it must not be forgotten that the
reprints made in London since those of the
XVIII century are all more or less hacked
about.
My two cherished volumes were a sweet delight
for seventeen years, and when, with the advent of
old age the taste for books had left me, together
with many other tastes, I was able to find a home
for my faithful Fanny. Not only was I thanked for
giving her away, but joyously was counted out to
me more than tenfold the price I had paid for her.
Ah! if all my life I could have got rid of all my
Fannies in such an advantageous way!
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FORBIDDEN
Thais, translated from the French of
Anatole France. "Then you would
have felt my soul in a kiss, And I
would have given my soul for this, To
burn for ever in burning hell"
Swinburne. London, Charles Car-
rington, 1901. All rights reserved.
8vo., x (preface), and 304 pp. Twenty copper-plate
etchings, with tissue-paper before each, on which Is printed
In red the text and number of the page to which it belongs.
Issue: 500 copies, on Van Gelder hand-made paper.
A VERY handsome and excellently printed
volume worthily dressed in a pretty blue
moire binding, "gilt top, uncut edges,"
which is the sweet description so dear to the
heart of the real lover of nice books. And when
he gets one in this happy state, he wraps it up to
preserve it from the light, which may discolor the
binding or the paper, and if he wants to read the
text, he buys a cheap reprint or borrows it from a
friend. Such is the true bibliophile!
This volume is for such refined folk, as the
insight given into the life of the frivolous
courtesan of the 4th century can have no interest
for the common herd. Such good judges and
talented critics as the Reverend John Clifford;
Theodore Watts-Dunton, Swinburne's fidus
Achates; the Reverend Marcus Dods; William Can-
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21
ton; and Professor George Saints bury have
eulogised [sic] this translation, It deserves all their
praise, for it is nobly done. It must have been a
labour of love, although anybody knowing the
original language of translation always thinks he
could have made a better version himself.
This is, strange to say, the first of Anatole
France's works which has been rendered into
English, a surprising fact when we think that he
is one of the greatest French writers of the age.
But perhaps he is not quite sensational enough!
He writes in sober style, which makes the reading
enjoyable to cultured ears, and reposeful after
laboured and tortured prose, where the author's
effort is too easily discernable. He does not in-
dulge in long descriptions nor seek to overawe by
audacious word-painting. The effect is produced
by simplicity, and the narrative rolls on smoothly,
the author leaving the reader to put in all the
psychological part for himself, leading him on to
divine motives and meanings by the plain and
unvarnished words of the swinging dialogue.
Perhaps the half-hidden irony of Anatole
France might be distasteful in English-speaking
countries; and in "Thais," straitlaced people may
object to the local colouring, as the tenets of early
Christianity are roughly handled, and there are
some religious discussions that might leave a
flavour of blasphemy in the mouths of the rigid
and righteous.
Paphnuce, an ascetic monk of the Thebaid,
remembers in spite of himself, the days when as a
young man he indulged in fleshy luxury and
riotous living. He suddenly takes into his head
that he should depart to Alexandria and reclaim
Thais, prostitute and dancing-girl. He succeeds in
converting her, and after inducing her to burn
her belongings, gives her into the keeping of the
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FORBIDDEN
Lady Superior Albina in a nunnery. She becomes
a saint, and he returns to the desert, but in spite
of his penance and extraordinary self-inflicted
suffering the reader can see that he is and always
has been in love with Thais. He hears that she is
dying and then at last knows that he has never
been entirely free from the mastership of his
own lustful longings.
"Thais is dying!" An incomprehensible saying! "Thais is
dying!" In those three words what a new and terrible sense!
"Thais is dying!" Then why the sun, the flowers, the brooks,
and all creation! "Thais is dying!" What good was all the
universe' Suddenly he sprang forward. "To see her again, to
see her once more!" He began to run. He knew not where he
was, or whither he went, but instinct conducted. him with un-
erring certainty; he went straight to the Nile. A swarm of sails
covered the upper waters of the river. He sprang on board a
barque manned by Nubians, and lying in the forepart of the
boat, his eyes devouring space, he cried in grief and rage—
"Fool, fool, that I was not to have possessed Thais whilst
there was yet time! Fool, to have believed that there was any-
thing else in the world but her! Oh, madness! I dreamed of
God, of the salvation of my soul, of life eternal—as if all that
counted for anything when I had seen Thais! Why did I not
feel that blessed eternity was in a single kiss of that woman,
and that without her, life was senseless, and no more than evil
dream' Oh, stupid fool! thou hast seen her, and thou hast
desired the good things of the other world! Oh, coward! thou
hast seen her, and thou hast feared God! God! heaven! what
are they! And what have they to offer thee which are worth the
least tittle [sic] of that which she would have given thee! Oh,
miserable, senseless fool, who sought divine goodness else-
where than on the lips of Thais! What hand was upon thine
eyes! Cursed be he who blinded thee then! Thou couldst have
bought, at the price of thy damnation, one moment of her
love, and thou hast not done it! She opened to you her arms—
flesh mingled with the perfume of flowers—and thou wast not
engulfed in the unspeakable enchantments of her unveiled
breast. Thou hast listened to the jealous. voice which said to
thee 'Refrain!' Dupe, dupe, miserable dupe! Oh, regrets! Oh,
remorse! Oh, despair! Not to have the joy to carry to hell the
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memory of that never-to-be-forgotten hour, and to cry to God,
'Burn my flesh, dry up all the blood in my veins, break all my
bones, thou canst not take from me the remembrance which
sweetens and refreshes me for ever or ever ... Thais is dying!
Preposterous God, if Thou knewest how I laugh at Thy hell!
Thais is dying, and she will never be mine—never! never!
And as the boat came down the river with the current, he
remained whole days lying on his face, and repeating:—
"Never! never! never!"
Then at the idea that she had given herself to others, and not
to him; that she had poured forth an ocean of love, and he had
not wetted his lips therein, he stood up, savagely wild, and
howled with grief. He tore his breast with his nails, and bit the
flesh of his arms.
He thought—
"If I could but kill all those she has loved!"
The thought of these murders filled him with delicious fury.
He dreamed of killing Nicias slowly and leisurely, looking him
full in the eyes whilst he murdered him. Then suddenly his fury
melted away. He wept, he sobbed. He became feeble and
meek. An unknown tenderness softened his soul. He longed to
throw his arms around the neck of the companion of his
childhood, and say to him, "Nicias, I love thee, because thou
hast loved her. Talk to me about her. Tell me what she said to
thee." And still, without ceasing, the irony of that phrase
entered into his soul—"Thais is dying!"
"Light of day, silvery shadows of night, stars, heavens, trees,
with trembling crests, savage beasts, domestic animals, all the
anxious souls of men, do you not hear? 'Thais is dying!' Dis-
appear, ye lights, breezes, and perfumes! Hide yourselves, ye
shapes and thoughts of the universe! 'Thais is dying!' She was
the beauty of the world, and all that drew near to her grew
fairer in the reflection of her grace. The old man and the sages
who sat near her, at the banquet at Alexandria, how pleasant
they were, and how fascinating was their conversation! A host
of brilliant thoughts sprang to their lips, and all their ideas were
steeped in pleasure. And it was because the breath of Thais was
upon them that all they said was love, beauty, truth. A
delightful impiety lent its grace to their discourse. They
thoroughly expressed all human splendour. Alas! all that is but
a dream. 'Thais is dying!' Oh, how easy it will be to
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FORBIDDEN
me to die of her death! But canst thou only die, withered
embryo, foetus steeped in gall and scalding tears! Miserable
abortion, dost thou think thou canst taste death, thou who hast
never known life! If only God exists, that He damn me. I hope
for it—I wish it .. God, I hate Thee—dost thou hear—
Overwhelm me with Thy damnation. To compel Thee to, I spit
in Thy face. I must find an eternal hell, to exhaust the eternity
of rage which consumes me."
* * * * * *
The next day, at dawn, Albania received him at the nunnery.
"Thou art welcome to our tabernacles of peace, venerable
father, for, no doubt, thou comest to bless the saint thou hast
given us. Thou knowest that God, in His mercy, has called her
to Him; how couldst thou fail to know tidings that the angels
have carried from desert to desert? It is true that Thais is about
to meet her blessed death. Her labours are accomplished and I
ought to inform thee, in a few words, as to her conduct whilst
she was ,amongst us. After thy departure, when she was
confined in a cell sealed with thy seal, I sent her, with her food,
a flute, similar to those which girls of her profession play at
banquets. I did that to prevent her from falling into a
melancholy mood, and that she should not show less skill and
talent before God than she had shown before men. In this I
showed prudence and foresight, for all day long Thais praised
the Lord upon the flute, and the virgins, who were attracted by
the sound of this invisible flute, said, 'We hear the nightingale
of the heavenly groves, the dying Swan of Jesus crucified. Thus
did Thais perform her penance, when, after sixty days, the door
which thou hadst sealed opened of itself, and the clay seal was
broken without being touched by any human hand. By that sign
I knew that the trial thou hadst imposed upon her was at an
end, and that God had pardoned the sins of the flute-plyer.
From that time she has shared the ordinary life of my nuns,
working and praying with them. She was an example to them by
the modesty of her acts and words, and seemed like a statue of
purity amongst them. Sometimes she was sad; but those clouds
soon passed. When I saw that she was really drawn towards
God by faith, hope, and love, I did not hesitate to employ her
talent, and even her beauty, for the improvement of her sisters.
I asked her to represent before us the actions of the famous
women and wise virgins of the Scriptures. She acted Esther,
Deborah, Judith, Mary, the
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sister of Lazarus, and Mary, the mother of Jesus. I know,
venerable father, that thy austere mind is alarmed at the idea of
these performances. But thou thyself wouldst have been
touched if thou hadst seen her in these pious scenes, shedding
real tears, and raising to heaven arms as graceful as palm
leaves. I have long governed a community of women, and I
make it a rule never to oppose their nature. All seeds give not
the same flowers. Not all souls are sanctified in the same way.
It must also not be forgotten that Thais gave herself to God
whilst she was still beautiful, and such a sacrifice is, if not un-
exampled, at least very rare. This beauty—her natural
vesture—has not left her during the three months' fever of
which she is dying. As, during her illness, she has incessantly
asked to see the sky, I have her carried every morning into the
courtyard, near the well, under the old fig tree, in the shade of
which the abbesses of this convent are accustomed to hold
their meetings. Thou wilt find her there, venerable father; but
hasten, for God calls her, and this night a shroud will cover
that face which God made to both shame and edify this
world."
Paphnuce followed her into a courtyard with the morning
light. On the edge of the brick roofs, the pigeons formed a
string of pearls. On a bed, in the shade of the fig-tree, Thais
lay quite white, her arms crossed. By her side stood veiled
women, reciting the prayers for the dying.
"Have mercy upon me, a God, according to Thy loving
kindness: according unto the multitude of Thy mercies blot
out my transgressions."
He called her" Thais! "
She raised her eyelids, and turned her white eyes in the
direction of the voice.
Albina made a sign to the veiled women to retire a few
paces.
"Thais!" repeated the monk.
She raised her head; a light breath came from her pale lips.
"Is that thee, my father? ... Dost thou remember the water of
love was born in my heart—the love of life eternal."
She was silent and her head fell back.
Death was upon her, and the sweat of the last agony
bedewed her forehead. A pigeon broke the still silence with its
plaintive cooing. Then the sobs of the monk mingled with the
psalms of the virgins.
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"Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from
my sin. For I acknowledge my transgressions; and my sin is ever
before me."
Suddenly Thais sat up in bed. Her violet eyes opened wide,
and with rapt gaze, her arms stretched towards the distant
hills, she said in a clear, fresh voice—
"Behold them—the roses of the eternal dawn!"
Her eyes shone; a slight flush suffused her face. She had
revived, more sweet and more beautiful than ever. Paphnuce
knelt down, and drew his long black arms around her.
"Do not die!" he cried, in a strange voice, which he himself
did not recognize. "I love thee! Do not die! Listen, my Thais. I
have deceived thee; I was but a wretched fool. God, heaven—
all that is nothing. There is nothing true but this worldly life,
and the love of human beings. I love thee! Do not die! That
would be impossible—thou art too precious! Come, come
with me! Let us fly; I will carry thee far away in my arms.
Come, let us love! Hear me, 0 my beloved, and say, 'I will
live; I wish to live.' Thais, Thais, arise!"
She did not hear him. Her eyes gazed into infinity. She
murmured—
"Heaven opens. I see the angels, the prophets, and the
saints ... The good Theodore is amongst them, his hands filled
with flowers; he smiles on me and calls me ... Two angels
come to me. They draw near ... How beautiful they are! I see
God!"
She uttered a joyful sigh, and her head fell back motionless
on the pillow. Thais was dead.
Paphnuce held her in a last despairing embrace; his eyes
devoured her with desire, rage and love.
Albina called to him "Avaunt, accursed wretch!"
And she gently placed her fingers on the eyelids of the dead
girl. Paphnuce staggered back, his eyes burning with flames
and feeling the earth open beneath his feet.
The virgins chanted the song of Zachhrias! "Blessed be the
Lord God of Israel."
Suddenly their voices strayed in their throats. They had seen
the monk's face, and they fled in affright, crying—
"A vampire! A vampire!"
He had become so repulsive, that passing his hand over his
face, he felt his own hideousness.
BOOKS
27
Such is the conclusion of this delightful
romance, and I think the last two lines are a gem.
It would have taken an ordinary grinder of novels
half a page to describe the change of features of
the renegade from religion. I was reading a very
clever story the other day, of love and adventure
in South Africa, and was disgusted to find that
the otherwise gifted writer used such verbs as
"synchronize" and "polarize"—in a novel! And
the heroine was ever worrying about her
"limitations."
Before leaving my little pet Thais—actress,
prostitute, flute-player and saint, now canonized
in the Catholic calendar—I must say a word in
favour of the bizarre illustrations to this
translation. They are printed in two colours. The
centre, picturing the incidents and personages, are
in black, but they are framed all around in sepia,
with a multitude of weird and fantastical figures,
representing evidently the thoughts of the char-
acters of the book, and forming, so to speak, a
fanciful commentary. The temptations of
Paphnuce in his cell are represented by myriads
of devils, and all the writhing figures of his
dreams of carnality. Each plate has the same ever-
varied and extraordinary attributes, full of life and
originality. The name of the young artist is Martin
van Maele, and I fancy he will be heard of in time
to come.
The conversions of courtesans have always
been a favorite theme with French authors, and it
is not surprising, for such instances are to be seen
every day in France. There is many a provincial
town where the flyman points out to the traveller
[sic] the comfortable villa, where lives in
retirement a respected and charitable old dame,
who was formerly ready in Paris to sell her
charms to the highest bidder. He will tell that she
has become a model of piety, outvying Mary
Magdalen [sic], who
28
FORBIDDEN
had no money to give away that I wot of, and
the former light o'love is as ready to open her
purse as formerly her massive, ivory thighs. I
myself was recently edified at the respectable life
led by an elderly lady in a town about thirty miles
from the gay capital. The good gossip had for
many years been at the head of a hospital
convent, where for a few pieces of silver, the
lads of the garrison and the notabilities of the
region could sacrifice to Venus, with all medical
guarantees, under the paternal eye of a
beneficient [sic] municipality, or to speak
vulgarly, my lady friend once kept a bawdyhouse.
She had adopted the clever tactics of "beginning
with herself," and often told an admiring and
respectful crowd of village matrons how she
had—what shall I say?—worked her way up
from the ranks, until she ruled a score of clean
and submissive sluts. She would say herself that
she was once "a dealer in human flesh," and
now, touched by the spirit of grace and with a
nice little annuity, she waited for her reward,
while she worked out her salvation, based, no
doubt, on the salvation of many of her former
clients. She was loved and petted by the priests
of the dioceses, and I remember how she
presented an altar-cloth, trimmed with her
pickings of antique lace, to the old church where
she used to approach the holy table. There was
not the slightest doubt that the rose point,
Alencon, and Valenciennes had formerly
adorned her drawers and chemises when she was
on the war-path, in the days of her lustful
juiciness. She was pointed out as an example of
thrift, and godly prosperity to all the virgins of
the surrounding country, and doubtless many a
poor young peasantess hungered for the day
when she could go to Paris, be a
cocotte, and send
home money for her pa and ma, not forgetting a
crown and some tobacco for her brother.
Heaven would surely bless her
bidet-
BOOKS
29
pious prostitute, and dutiful daughter—and then
when old she would marry a member of the
Chamber of Deputies; pay his debts, receive the
generals of the army of the Republic, and found
a Home for Syphilitic Servant Girls, or some
such holy asylum.
The original edition was published in Paris by
Calmann Levy, 1891, 12mo., but there is
another, which is very beautiful, and well printed
on good papers, with pleasing illustrations. It is
an octavo, published by Romagnol, Paris, 1900,
and has seven large engravings and 58 vignettes
by Laurens. There were only 300 copies, and
they are all out of print.
This sweet story has been adapted to the lyric
staged by Louis Gallet, while Massanet wrote the
music, and it was brought out at the Paris Grand
Opera in 1894. The libretto was published by
Calmann Levy in the same year. (12mo., x-45pp.).
The arduous role of the gentle heroine was
undertaken by the beautiful Madame Sybil
Sanderson, who in order to wear the loose
flowing draperies of the lascivious courtesan,
sacrificed what the French people consider one
of the great beauties of a woman's body the
bouquet of hair that grows under the armpits.
Thus she appeared before the Parisian first-
nighters who were waiting with eager eyes, for
the event had been noised abroad. She was
afterwards photographed in her stage costume,
and was careful to hold up one arm so as to
show the denuded axilla.
This undergrowth in women is supposed by
our lively Gallic neighbors to be a promise of the
extent of luxuriance of the mystic inverted
triangle that makes the footlights always have
their dresses cut very low under the arms, as the
male portion of the audience, and sometimes
the females too—alas!—like to see the entire
under part of the arm entirely exposed. If a
woman on the
30
FORBIDDEN
stage possesses too much hair, a titter will go
round the house as she makes her first appearance,
and ladies will put their fans up to their faces. But
then there are many charming girls on the boards
who have been generously treated by Nature in
that direction, so they remedy their defect by
carefully affixing with glue a tuft of fuzzy crape
under their arms. This is rather rough on the
amateur in the stalls who may fall in love with
them and take them out to supper, in the hope
that the bush below may equal the armpit-copse
above. What a difference he will find and what a
disappointment, for I do think that one is the sign
of the other, even as a slight moustache on a
woman's upper lip is a never-failing indication. For
what says the old French
diction? if it snows like
that on the mountains, how thick it must lay in the
valleys!
When foreign female performers travel to
London to come out at a playhouse or a music-
hall, the management always makes them add a
piece of assorted material to their dress to hide the
hair under the arm, to show which is accounted
dirty and disgusting in the British Isles, and
sometimes manches a souffle! are ordered to be worn,
if the epoch of the costume permits it. This is a
kind of bellows or accordeon [sic] arrangement of
the top of the sleeve that spreads out when the
arm is lifted and closes when it is pressed close to
the body.
BOOKS
31
Memoirs of Private Flagellation. A
Treacherous Plot. The Fate of Isabel
Seaton. A Scene in a Boarding School,
by James Holmes and others.
Paris (?) Librairie des Bibliophiles Francais et Etrangers.
Taus droits reserves. n.d. (1891?) Printed outer wrapper.
8vo. 236 pp.
IN spite of the imprint, this privately issued
work, of which a hundred and odd copies
were struck off, has evidently been printed
in an English-speaking country, and I should not
be surprised if it did not see the light in the
United States.
There is not the slightest attempt in this
volume to disguise the fact that it is intended for
those who take a delight in reading about the
birching and beating of women. Here we have a
simple peasant lass chastised for pilfering, and as
a contrast a fashionable flirt and wrecker of
men's hearts is traoed[?] by some disappointed
suitors and sufficiently humbled and birched.
Those are the principal stories in the volume, but
not the least curious part are a number of short
pitry adventures and curiosities of passion and
perverted sexuality; nineteen in all. If I do not
mistake, these first circulated in the firm of
typewritten Mss. all over North America, until
gathered together here. They are all eminently
remark-
32
FORBIDDEN
able and are entitled, "The Awakening of Sexual
Life; personal experiences."
The book is well written and will amply repay
perusal, but I am unable to trace "John Holmes,"
whose pen name is on the title page. I believe this
work has become somewhat rare.
BOOKS
33
Records of Personal Chastisement.
The Unhappiest Day of my Life, fol-
lowed by the true story, how for the
first time disclosed, of Mr. Thorne's
Governess, based upon private mem-
oirs in the possession of that gentle-
man's family. Price: Twenty shillings.
Paris, (?) libraire de Bibliophiles
Francais et Etrangers. Tous droits
reserves. n. d. (1899?)
8vo. 149 pp. Printed outer wrapper.
A SERIAL with the foregoing work, and
issued about the same time. It is headed by
a clever letter by G. Bernard Shaw, who
points out boldly that there exist male
"flagellomaniacs" who crave" intensely for the
flogging of women;" and there are "debauchees
from whom poor girls earn a few pounds by
submitting to a flogging." If such people exist they
have no doubt been eager buyers of this curious
volume, for they can find therein everything neces-
sary to arouse their peculiar propensity.
But the volume, very closely printed, is not
entirely devoted to flagellation, as there are many
strange stories,
34
FORBIDDEN
and one of the most novel is entitled "A Married
Woman's Experience in Variety." Upon diligent
enquiry after perusal of this erotic episode, I
found that the word "variety" meant that certain
husbands allowed their wives to vary their
pleasures, or to speak plainly, felt no jealousy, but
were delighted to see their legal spouse or their
concubines in the arms of other males. Such
accommodating men are known in free-love
circles as "varietists."[sic] I believe this peculiar
sect—if I may call it—originated in America, the
land of freedom. It is doubtless an outcome of the
Woodhull and McClafftn doctrines; a modern
echo of Oneida Creek. But it is unfortunately
perfectly certain that in all countries there are men
who gain fresh erotic excitement in giving over
their sweethearts to strangers or friends, and are
sometimes pleased spectators of the inevitable
result. Of course, I speak of those who draw no
pecuniary advantages from this willing sacrifice.
For those who profit by their fair companions'
prostitution there are other words in the
dictionary than those of "variety" and "varietist".
Some of the most intellectual gentlemen have
been slaves to this perverted doctrine, and I
should be very curious to see one come forward
and define the reasons that induce him to let his
wife or mistress gad about with indiscriminate
suitors. At present, the doctrine of "variety"
awaits a sincere expounder of its rise, origin,
delights and advantages.
BOOKS
35
My Secret Life. Amsterdam, (N.D.) Not
for publication.
11 vols., crown 8vo., of 378, 373, 379, 380, 388, 384, 369,
387, 376, and 394 pp. (The first volume contains an
introduction, a preface and a second preface. 'The last
volume has only 255 pp. of text, and the rest to page 394, is
made up of an exhaustive alphabetical index.)
About the year 1888, a well-known bookseller
and publisher of Amsterdam, whose specialty
was literature of an incandescent kind, was
summoned to London by one of his customers,
a rich old Englishman, who desired to have
privately printed for his own enjoyment an
enormous MSS.; containing in the fullest detail
all the secret venereal thoughts of his existence.
He defrayed all costs of printing, on condition
that no more than six copies should be struck
off. A few years afterwards, this eccentric
amateur shuffled off the mortal coil; and a few
copies of the extraordinary work made a timid
appearance on the market, being quoted at the
high figure of £100! It is evident that many more
than the half-dozen copies stipulated must have
been printed let us say about twenty-five or so—
as I have unfrequently [sic] seen a complete
series, and I should say that at the time I am
writing the book may be obtained by carefully
searching for about £60 to £75 according to the
condition.
In July, 1894, the publisher issued a volume
without
36
FORBIDDEN
any title, save the words: "My Secret Life,
Contents," on the half-title and this was simply
the index to the chapters; the introduction and
prefaces, and the alphabetical index from the
eleventh volume.
This was evidently to whet the curiosity of
collectors and serve as a kind of prospectus.
Opinions may and must differ as to the
peculiar perversity which induced the author to
take notes all his life about his sexual pleasures,
and finally have them all printed, but
nevertheless nothing can be more astonishing
than the extraordinary variety of the adventures
narrated, ranging through all sorts and
conditions of women, from a street-walker to a
princess. No doubt the writer was a strong and
hearty Englishman, who travelled a little, and
whose only pleasure was in hunting for all kinds
of diversions with any women he might come
across, no matter or how. To his credit be it
stated that he never initiates us into the secrets
of his married life, and certain of his mistresses
he refuses to speak about so that really we are
only told about those women he did not feel any
love for, but only lust. And that is what the work
really is—a book of pure, unmitigated lust.
It is written carelessly, and there are many
printers' errors. It reads like an ordinary rapid
correspondence, and makes me think it must all
be true, as there is not the slightest attempt to
cultivate a literary style.
It is difficult to give an idea of the enormous
mass of text in a short notice, but the following
sample culled from the index may show the
diversity of the subjects treated, and it must not
be forgotten that the author speaks the plainest
and broadest language:
Copulating (1) and copulative organs—Essay on
" the
nature of
" described
fully
" Aesthetic
aspects of
BOOKS
37
" Is
not obscene or filthy
" In
obedience to Divine command: "Increase
" and
multiply"
" Is
divine, a God-like act
" Has
divine attributes and sanctity
" Creates
a sentiment being with a soul
" Establishes
needful affection between the sexes
" Is
the foundation of love between the sexes
" (1)The
common, vulgar word is used in the original
Copulating Is the great humanizer
" Difference
between human beings and beasts
" The
philosophy of—see also Philosophy
" Reflexions
[sic]
" Thoughts
and reflexions [sic] on
" What
leads some women to it
" Its
monotony and sameness in movement
" Muscular
motions of body when
" Number
of thrusts before spending
" Quantity
of sperm spent
" Pleasure
of is paradisical [sic]
" Happiness
of dying whilst
" Thoughts
during
" Idealities
during
" Ejaculations
during
" Conflicting
emotions during
" Postures
whilst—see postures
" Men
and women copulate with intelligence
" Animals
copulate without intelligence
" With
pleasure—passion
" Voluptuously,
exquisitely
" Without
pleasure or but little
" Delaying
the pleasure of spending
" Modesty
hinders complete pleasure
" Frantically
with lust
" In
fear
" Is
most exquisite when prick and cunt fit
" Is
most exquisite when both spend together
" Is
most exquisite when both are naked
" Pleasure
increased by being looked at when
" Belly
to belly—passim [sic]
" Belly
to bum lying down
38
FORBIDDEN
" Belly
to bum at bedside, dog-fashion
" Belly
to bum kneeling, passim [sic]
" Woman
sitting on prick facing man
" Woman
sitting bum to his belly
" Woman
sitting while another licks her clitoris
" between
a woman's breasts
" in
a woman's armpits
" Woman
sitting, man kneeling in front
" difficulty
in selecting women for
" with
condums on—see condums
" in
masks
" in
spermatized quiros, and other places
" wheel-barrow
fashion
" a
peculiar chair for—and other sexualities
Copulating eccentric postures
" twice
without uncunting
" During
an interval of dinner
" Bouts
on one night
" Remarkable
bouts
" Second
time often most pleasurable
" Illicit
is the most exciting
" Desire
for communicated by look or touch
" catamenia
" In
another man's sperm
" women
enceinte
" one
very big with child
" so
as to avoid getting children
" Women
doing it con amore solamente
" Women
doing it for love
" Women
doing it for revenge
" Payments
to women for—passim [sic]
" Payments
by the hour
" Payments
by gift of a watch
" Payments
by gift of silk handkerchiefs
" Payments
by a bottle of champagne
" Payments
by gift of a postage stamp
" Payments
for—for a shilling
" Payments
Cheap
" Payments
dear
" on
credit
" a
man hit whilst
BOOKS
39
" a
prick hit by hail whilst
" interrupter,
prevented altogether
" women—and
other women present
" women
and feeling other cunts whilst
" women
and putting prick into two alternately
" with
another man present
" and
feeling a man's prick whilst
" a
woman whilst she's flat fucking another
" a
woman whilst she frigs her clitoris
" whilst
she frigs another woman
" whilst
she is buggered
" with
a couple having connection besides us
" while
she licks another's cunt
" with
a dildo up her bum
" a
woman who is standing on pricks
" The
woman on the top
" brother
and sister doing it
" a
sailor and whore against a wall
" Negro
and Negress doing it
Copulating Females' early knowledge about
" Females'
age when fit for
" Females'
when they mostly begin
" Females'
cannot begin too early
" Females
all differ a little in manner when
" Females
look lovely directly after
" Females
how they behave after
" Females
sometimes sham pleasure
" Females'
when married and f.. ....d illicidy, its
its
effect on their husband
" women
before a girl
" a
couple caught at
" poor
girls see their parents
" a
harlot—smoking whilst
" Flat
fucking (Tribadism)
(Tribadism) French women's
opinion about doing it
" seeing
couples—see peepholes
" seeing
one woman with two women
" seeing
one man with three women
" Two
couples together in same room
" three
couples doing it indiscriminately
" couples
heard in adjoining rooms
40
FORBIDDEN
" an
old harlot and a youth
" my
first thoughts about
" first
attempt—a failure
" first
accomplished
" my
powers of
" diary
of
" number
of women I have had
" number
of women nationalities
" promiscuously
" before
looking-glasses
" I
am f ... ed out temporarily
" woman
status unknown (clapped me)
" a
female carter in a wood
" field
women and girls
" Juveniles
" Girls
" Middle-aged
" Oldish
women
" Servants
" Chambermaids
" Railway
station woman
" Very
big women
" Shop
girls, many
" Little
women
" Dress-makers,
several
" Ladies,
various
" Landladies
" Married
women,
" various—see
adultery
" Married
women, (acostermonger's)
" Widows
" Widows
one in the East
" Kept
women
" a
sailor's woman
" a
showman's daughter
" harlots,
poor—see f .... ing cheap
" harlots,
well off—passim [sic]
" harlots,
companionable
" harlots,
oriental
" a
harlot with two cunts
" a
harlot with bald cunt
" a
harlot with semi-bald cunt
BOOKS
41
" Sisters
" women
of doubtful chastity
" English
women—passim [sic]
" Irish
woman—long-haired cunt
" Irish
woman—foul-tongued
" Scotch
woman—horse collar cunt
" German
field labourer
" American
" Mullatoes
[sic]
" A
Creole
" a
negress
" women
very fat
" other
nationalities—passim [sic]
" thin
nationalities
" average
condition—passim [sic]
" in
houses—passim [sic]
" in
an empty house
" in
brothels—passim [sic]
" in
a cottage
" in
hotels—passim [sic]
" in
a boudoir
" in
a summer-house
" in
a grotto
" in
waterclosets and privies
" in
cabs
" in
railway carriages
" in
a church
" in
a church-yard
" in
a chalet
" in
a calf-shed
" in
a cow-shed
" in
a root-shed
" in
a barn
" in
a loft
" in
a stable
" in
a brickyard
" in
fields, on grass
" in
a game-preserve
" in
streets
" on
the sea shore
" at
sea in cabins
" in
a bath
42
FORBIDDEN
" on
top of a tower
" on
beds—passim [sic]
" on
the floor
" on
a form
" on
chairs
" on
a carpenter's bench
" on
sofas
" against
an arm chair
" against
walls
" against
a turnpike
" against
fences
" against
field gates
" against
railings
" against
trees
" against
windows
" against
a bed
" against
a kitchen dresser
The first six chapters of the first volume have
been recently reprinted under the title of "The
Dawn of Sensuality," Lutetia (Brussels) 1901,
small 8vo., 170 pp. 200 copies on Dutch paper,
and gives the autobiography of the writer and his
sensual freaks up to the age of seventeen.
To enable the reader to form some idea of this
peculiar work, I have picked out one of his love-
affairs, as differing entirely from any other in all
the eleven volumes.
He forms the acquaintance of a retired officer
of the French army in Paris, who introduces him
to his wife, an attractive lady. The old soldier
frequently talks about women. He is a drunkard
too, and in his cups lets out that he once heard of
a female who had connection with twelve men in
an hour. Pressed by the author of "My Secret
Life," he gradually bretrays [sic] a deep mystery,
for the victim of men's lust is no other than the
woman who passes as his wife, for he is not
legally married.
This disclosure excites the salacious desire of
his listener, and he attacks the officer's mistress,
who soon
BOOKS
43
gives way to him, as she had threatened her
babbling paramour that if ever he exposed her
past to a stranger, that man should have her.
She was one of a family living not far from Strasburg, her
father a very small farmer on his own land. Her sister had
married an Italian who had a farm in Lombardy, not far from
Solferino, and had two children. Her husband's father (an old
man) lived with them. Gertrude (her name) had a lover at
Strasburg and she let him have her—but about her third or
fourth poke, her father who had suspected something, caught
him on top of her in a barn. He pulled him off her and he
never finished his poke. She was watched as a cat does a
mouse, and carefully kept from him after the event, till the
young man was conscripted for a soldier, and she after a time
never heard of, or from him, and believed he died. Her father
to get her away, sent her to live with her married sister in
Lombardy. He was not sure about the death of her lover.
The Italian and her sister, seem to have been comfortably
off for peasants. The man, his father, and another man farmed
the two women, Gertrude and her sister, did dairy work. They
had a house far larger than was of any use to them, but it had
been bought with the land and there it was. They couldn't help
that, but that big farm-house brought perhaps the things to
pass I tell of. Gertrude soon spoke Italian, and had just heard
that her lover had been killed in Algeria, when the Franco—
Austrian war broke out.
The Austrians retired gradually, being driven back by the
French and Piedmontese, but made a stand at Solferinomost
of the peasants on the line had left their cottages, taking their
goods with them to the nearest large towns, fearing naturally
that in war their cottages would be burnt, and they perhaps
killed in the battles. This family had delayed moving, but were
about to do so, when all at once about fifty Austrian soldiers
were quartered on them, with two or three officers. They
would let nothing go, not even the husband; (Gertrude's
brother-in-law,) but they promised they would not be harmed,
and be paid for everything by Government notes. They made
them wait upon them, used up all they found in the way of
food, made the husband, (whom I will call Antonio) take his
cart backwards and forwards to the nearest towns for things all
day long, and soldiers went with him to insure his not
44
FORBIDDEN
running away, though they were but seven miles from the
town. The officers took their beds from them for their own
use, and the family were compelled to sleep all in one room, on
mattresses, or straw laid on the floor, as well as they could.
Soldiers occupied the rest of the premises including barns.
Most soldiers went off in the day leaving sentries, but came
back in the evening or the night. They said they would let
Antonio's family go in time to take refuge in the town, before
they could be in any danger, and that a battle must take place in
a few days. The women they said might go at once if they
pleased, but they would not go without Antonio. Indeed they
did not seem to know when to go, where, or what to do.
The officers and a few soldiers spoke Italian, which was the
language, together with French, that Antonio, Gertrude, and
the others used to speak to them in, but they had very little to
say to them. The soldiers' language was German, and they
didn't guess that the two women spoke German. So the
women heard everything that was said by them, and from
morning to night it was talk in the bawdiest language about the
two women. They joked about which of the two had the most
hair on her cunt, wondered if Gertrude had been fucked. One
said he was sure she had—another thought not, a third
believed that Antonio fucked them both, another that the
father licked Gertrude's cunt, to keep her from wanting men.
One officer said to another, (the officers were not so coarse)
he'd give the price of his horse to have her for a week, the
other thought she would be a splendid bedfellow. It seemed to
have struck one officer that they might possibly understand
German, and he asked them if they did. They said no. So for
four days, all the bawdy talk, all the lubricious (sic) suggestions,
desires, that a lot of strong men, hot with lust at being near two
fine women, gave utterances to, these two women heard. Lewd
the soldiers were I guess, for it transpired that they had been in
tents for a month, and not near a woman to speak to. This
lustful talk amused the women, it was so complimentary to
their charms, that they couldn't help it. Margaretta (the married
one) said it made her want fucking, and Gertrude admitted to
me that it made her frig herself. They however resolved not to
tell Antonio, for he was a jealous man. Sometimes he asked
them what the soldiers talked about. They told him much, but
never told him if it was about their desires for the two women.
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On the fourth morning, a mounted soldier galloped in. There
was instant a great bustle, a general muster, and the officers
and most of the soldiers went off, telling the women that they
had best get to the nearest town (Brescia) without a minute's
delay. But. Antonio had .then gone with the cart accompanied
by two soldiers, to get things for the soldiery, so they resolved
they would wait his return.
The manners of the soldiers who remained changed at once,
when the detachment was well away with the officers. They
looked at the women in a lewd rude way. Gertrude heard one
man say he'd have a fuck if he were shot for it. A presentiment
of harm came over the two women and they felt in very great
dread. Gertrude was in the kitchen, her sister with the children
in the lime room above, where all the family had been sleeping,
when some whispered together, and looked at Gertrude.
Something told her she was going to be attacked, and she
walked to the door to go upstairs. A soldier stopped her, kissed
her, and asked her to go to. bed with him. She resisted. Four
men laid hold of her, and pushed her into a room in which the
officers had slept—she kicking and screaming, begging and
praying to be left alone. They had hitherto spoken to her in
broken Italian. They kissed her as they pulled her along, two
kissed her at once "Let's fuck her, no one can hear," said one.
She then begged and entreated them not, and in German—
"Hell! she speaks German," said one.—"Margaretta—
Margaretta help me!" she screamed.—"It's no use screaming—
none can hear—no one can help you,' they said.—"We won't
hurt you, but we will fuck you. Come now, lets do it, mein
lieben," (sic) and they tried kindness when they had her in the
bedroom. She struggled violently. "Look you," said one,
putting a sword to her, "if you make a row, no one can hear
you, but if you're not quiet, we'll fuck you and your sister too,
then kill you both, and set fire to the house—they will think
the French did it." They then got her to the bed. One of them,
and she thought two, had their pricks out even before they
were in the bedroom. They placed her on the bedside, two men
held her arms, two pulled her clothes and held her legs wide
apart, and another soldier pushed one away to get at her first,
then fucked her. In terror and confusion she struggled, and
screamed till she became feeble or faint.—"Never mind, mein
lieben," said one, "you need not tell. No one will know and
you'll never see us again."—A cunt cannot speak," said
another, at which
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they laughed. A few more things were said like it, and
exhaustion made her resist less. Besides, they kept saying they
would not hurt her on any account, but fuck her they would,
and they evidently wanted to do their bawdy work kindly.
Except at intervals, the soldiers were very quiet, they were
absorbed in the sight, silent with expectation of their turn up
on her.
As they first pulled up her clothes, they broke out into wild
exclamations of delight, directly they saw her thighs and cunt,
and one of those holding her arms undid her dress in front and
pulled out her breasts. Then he kissed them while one was
fucking her, and all spoke endearingly. From faintness and fear,
she now became quiet, ceased resistance, and she closed her
eyes. A third man fucked her, and she seemed then to recover
herself in a degree, for now she was surprised at the quickness
with which they finished up her. Then she thought it was the
fourth, perhaps the fifth man was on her, when she heard a
scream and knew it was her sister's.
"You're murdering my sister!" she cried, and with a sudden
violent effort of fear, she got half disengaged, and uncunted
the soldier, who threw himself brutally upon her and hurt her
thighs and bum. The bruises afterwards showed. One or two
soldiers said: "Don't fear, it's nothing, they are only doing to
her what we are doing to you—they won't hurt her—and you
know you like it." —Then was a squabble. One of the men
holding her arm, his prick was out and near her head, said it
was his turn, and went round and fucked her. Then she got
into a half-stupid state. She felt it was hopeless to struggle
more, even if she could, and it passed through her mind that
they would do nothing else to her.—They hurt her arms. She
said so, and they let them go.—A man was then upon her, and
when she got her hands free, she tried to push her petticoat
down. Then they pulled her arms back again, and hurt her
worse. On her crying, they let them go again, but she made no
more efforts.
Now she felt that she could do nothing more, and must let
them do anything, submit to anything. She only. moaned, and
begged them to let her go directly each finished his fuck. "No
more. Oh, don't do it any more. Oh, you'll kill me," said she.
Meanwhile a voluptuous sensation crept through her cunt, and
through her whole body, the continued friction of the pricks
stimulating her sense. Then lewd wants came which
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she tried to stop, but couldn't, just then another man was
about to fuck her, when as he laid hold of his prick to put it
in, his sperm spouted out. She told me that some fell on her
breasts. The soldiers laughed.—"Come away," said one,
"you've done without cunt." But he put his prick stiff up her,
and had her, though he was a long time fucking. Then in spite
of herself she spent with him. "She's ill, she's fainting," he
said. "Hell to you, leave her alone, its brutally bad!"—Curse
it, you shant it's a thundering shame," said another.—"You
go to hell,' said others to those two.—"We don't frig as you
do. "Make haste," said one, "the captain said half-an-hour."—
"I'll have her before I go if I'm shot," said another.—She
now looked on at the operators, she was less alarmed and
could not help looking. At first she had often closed her eyes,
she felt so horrified. At one time two men had their pricks
out ready. Other soldiers came in, one said it was a shame
and he would have nothing to do with it, and he left the
room. It did not stop the others. On they went fucking till all
had had her, and two or three she thought had her twice. "I'll
have it again," said one.
Now she shut her eyes feeling again faint.—"Look at
Fritz's prick," said a man, frig it Fritz!" She opened her eyes
and saw a larger prick than the others. She cried out. "Oh,
don't, for Gods sake, let me get up." But the larger prick did
not hurt her, and again she spent. She now had long lost
count of the men and the fucks.—"Lock the door," said
someone," or, (naming some men) will come in."—Her legs
now felt painfully weary.—"Oh my legs!" said she. "Get on
to the bed, my love." That she resisted, but they lifted her on
it, and the next man laid on the top of her. He took off some
of his accoutrements, to enable him to do so. As she moved,
she felt the wet spunk under her—it was in all directions
about her thighs, belly, and chemise, eight or nine men she
thought had now fucked in each other's sperm, but about
numbers she was getting confused.
A bugle sounded, and some soldiers pulled at the door furi-
ously.—"It's locked," said one.—Then all left her quickly,
one putting his prick in his trousers in great haste. She sat up
by the bedside. One soldier came hurriedly back.—"Let me,
mein lieben."—"No, no."—But he pushed her back, it was
no use resisting, she was well nigh strengthless, and he fucked
her. Two others came back. Said one: "If you say a word
mind,
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we'll shoot you, and all of you on the first chance." She won't
tell, will you Lieben!" said the other.—"She likes it, she's been
fucked before, haven't you !"—The first speaker pulled out
his prick.—Have me again—here, maiden,', so saying he put a
handful of money in her hand.—She threw it on the floor.—
"Y ou shant I don't want your money."—He pushed her back
and put his prick in her.—"Oh, you're killing me!" she cried,
"How I wish I was dead."—"You'll have a lot more of it
before you die, love!" and he finished fucking. He had done
her before, she now recollected. He was fucking her when a
bugle sounded again.—"Bugger the hell of a bugle!" said the
other, and he buttoned up his cock which he was preparing to
use the other had done, and the two left in a hurry.
Alone, she sat up, terrified with the threats, so feeble she
could scarcely stand. She went to both doors, they were
locked. She was frightened to call out, went to the window,
and saw the remainder of the soldiers as she thought
marching off quickly. But the lock turned and a soldier came
in by himself.—"Let me have you—pray do—" said he. "I'm
a gentleman born, though I'm a common soldier—take my
watch and let me."—"I won't touch it," she said, "I'm not
a
prostitute." "Do, for God's sake! I don't want to force you
like the other brutes, but I must, I will; I will have a woman
before I die." She tried to get away. He pulled her gently on to
the bed, unbuttoned, and knelt between her thighs, feeling her
cunt, covered as it was and her thighs were with sperm.—
"Say you let me,—do." She did not attempt to interrupt him,
or reply, and he fucked her. He spent directly he had put into
her. Then with endearing terms he went on shoving, saying
he'd not had a woman for weeks, and finally so stirred up her
senses that she spent with him, for he fucked her twice
without uncunting.
Then he stood up by her side for a minute, and said in a
kind voice: "How lovely you are. I wish you had let me do
you of your own free will, instead of forcing you." She laid
still, exhausted, not having even strength to pull her clothes
down, but he did, over her cunt. "Here, said he, hurriedly,
taking out a gold watch and chain and purse. "I shall never
have a woman again. There will be a battle to-morrow, we are
in the front, and I shall be shot. I meant these for my mother,
and ought to have sent them to her a week ago; now it's too
late. When I'm dead they will rob my pockets, and if I give
them to a comrade the chances are he will keep them—it's—
too
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late—you may as well have them. I give them to you good bye!
and he left. She rose and went to the window and saw him
with three other soldiers march quickly off. He seemed in
command of them, but he was not an officer.
She waited a time. "Yes, I did feel my cunt, and there was
blood on my fingers." At length she went upstairs, found her
sister speechless with fear and the door locked. But she was
not hurt. Four men had fucked her with similar threats, but
kindly. The women looked at the clock. It was something over
an hour since the detachment with the officers had gone off.
All the fucking had been done in an hour. Gertrude never
could tell exactly how many men had her, sometimes she
thought eight, sometimes ten,—or how many fucks she had.
Certainly she had been fucked twelve times, but she thought it
might have been fifteen, counting each uncunting as two.
The women told all to each other then and there, listening
and dreading lest soldiers should come back, but all was silent.
In the sitting-room lay the watch, chain and a good deal of
money in the purse. Gertrude took it up—it was hers, and they
agreed to say nothing about the whole affair to Antonio. He
was jealous and might not believe the story quite, especially on
account of the purse and watch. "No, keep it to ourselves,
never tell anyone." They found the old man bolted in a stable,
he did not know who bolted him in, or why. He was there
when they took out the officers' horses, and supposed they
shot the bolt by accident. He had holloaed [sic], but in vain,
and evidently suspected nothing. Two of four men had done
Margaretta twice, and she had not spent she told Gertrude,
who doubted that.
Then there was the sound of cannon in the distance—what
were they to do! The soldiers had told Margaretta to leave
within an hour, or they would regret it, for certainly the French
would shell all the cottages to drive out the Austrians if there.
For days they had packed up the little valuables they could not
bear leaving, and would have moved to the town, only the
soldiers had used their cart and horse and Antonio. One
soldier who had tailed Margaretta had said: "If the French
catch you, they will bugger you, as well as fuck you, and
certainly cut your throats afterwards." The women and old
man sat cowering for fear about their husband and selves. At
length off they an trudged, and met Antonio and cart
returning. They loaded it (returning for a little time) with what
few goods they
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could, and got to the town of Brescia, where with hundreds of
peasants and farmers driven out like themselves from their
homes by fear they got a miserable shelter.
Next day the battle of Solferino was fought. Every hotel and
house in the town was filled with the wounded French, most of
the Austrians were taken elsewhere. Everybody was compelled
to help the wounded. Gertrude, a strong, big woman, was glad
to get an employment at the largest hotel, in which most of the
French officers' wounded were placed. Her future pseudo-
husband with a wounded leg, was among them; and it fell to her
lot to attend to him in some degree, when his soldier-servant
was not there.
So as to make room for worse cases (the hospital head-
quarters were in the hotel) the captain like others was moved to
a private house. He had money, he liked her attention for him,
and for money she went to attend him there. One day, when
better, he threw his arms round her, kissed her, and said he
wished she was his wife. Soon after he let his clothes be so
disarranged, that she saw his cock standing stiff as he lay, and
either was, or shammed being asleep. She looked at his cock
attentively and felt a liking for him. The cock evoked her lust,
and she went to her room and frigged herself.
Both sisters never mentioned to any person the shagging the
soldiers had given them, but it had a very stimulating effect on
both. Margaretta, it seems, had never referred to Gertrude's
escapade with her lover at Strasburg, nor talked about marriage
pleasures, nor seemingly, as I made out in my conversations
with Gertrude, done or said anything to make Gertrude long for
a cock to be put up her. She wanted evidently to stop sexual
aspirations, to keep herself steady, and get her married as soon
as possible. Gertrude told me that she herself was late in her
monthlies coming on, and had no great longings for a male, and
had not frigged herself till seventeen or eighteen years old. She
had spent with her lover at Strasburg, and she pined after him,
but it was for him rather than for fucking.
An Italian was at this time paying attentions to Gertrude, of
what are called an honorable sort, but she never thought of his
fucking her, and no man had laid hands on her ankles even, still
less touched her quim, since her Strasburg lover, till the soldiers
did. That shock to her nervous system set her and her sister
eternally talking about fucking. The very night of the
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affair, though half-dead with fright and fatigue, the excitement
and irritation of her cunt and brain was such, that she had
frigged herself.
There was such difficulty in getting accommodation in the
overcrowded town which they could pay for, that the whole
family slept on the floor in one room. Her brain would not let
her sleep, fucking was on her brain. The old man and children
alone slept soundly, she laid as if asleep, in hopes Antonio
would stroke her sister—Margaretta had told her that she also
felt need to be fucked again. Antonion had been out all day to
see about his affairs, the two women talked about fucking all
day, and about the soldiers' pricks and spunk. They compared
their experiences, and at last frigged themselves before each
other. Margaretta told Gertrude what sort of a prick Antonio
had, and how often he fucked, and Gertrude told Margaretta,
how her lover first got into her. There was at least complete
confidences about sexual matters between them. Lewdness had
taken possession of them, and it is not to be wondered at.
The next night all huddled together, Margaretta let Antonio
shage her. She knew Gertrude close by was feigning sleep, for
the two women had so arranged it between themselves—An-
tonio had hesitated for fear Gertrude should wake "Hush—
no," he said. But his wife, his cock in her hand, roused it up till
he eased it in her. Gertrude frigged herself—Margaretta
imaged to herself a soldier doing it to her, whilst Antonio
operated. Gertrude's masturbations were accompanied by
similar thoughts about the many cocks which had plugged her
cunt. Working and attending to the wounded, then, separated
the two much after that night, but they talked of the soldiers
whenever they met. Some time after, Margaretta was ashamed
of having let Gertrude know about her husband's fuckings.
Gertrude ceased to frig herself much, but now looked on men
with different eyes, and desired to have one at her cunt, instead
of her fingers. She wished she was married, for Margaretta had
disclosed everything, even to the size and look of her
husband's cock—the reserve which Margaretta formerly had
maintained on such topics, for fear of encouraging lewdness in
her sister was gone for ever.
The sight of the captain's doodle stimulated Gertrude's want
of a male. Soon he kissed her again, and a circumstance
brought things to a crisis about two months after the battle.
The cap-
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tain could then move about with crutches in his room, but
could not get his trousers on.
Antonio's house, barns, and stores were burnt, and he was
nearly ruined like hundreds of other peasant farmers. He had
some money, but was not spending it. The Austrian officers
had promised to pay for the things they had taken, and there
was compensation to come but they could not be reliable till
the end of the war. He and his wife worked in all sorts of
ways to get money. His object was to get to his farm, and
make the place habitable again. A good opportunity then
offered, but money was needed, and then her sister reminded
Gertrude of her watch, chain and money. She agreed to sell it,
and lend the proceeds privately to Margaretta, but how to sell
it was the difficulty. They went to a Jew, who offered some-
thing ridiculously small, and told them he knew they had
stolen it, and would tell the police. "Ask the captain to sell
it or buy it of you," said Margaretta. "He is fond of you."
Another difficulty arose. What would Antonio think about
Gertrude having the money? "Say the captain gave it to you
for nursing him," said Margaretta. "No," said Gertrude, "An-
tonio will think I've been letting him do it to me." "What if he
does?" said the other. Now she had never told her husband
that her sister Gertrude had been poked by a lover at
Strasburg, and sent quietly to them on account of that; having
a fear perhaps that if he knew it, he might fancy a poke in the
same hole himself. Gertrude refused, but the sister became so
pressing, said how kind they had been to her, what a help it
would be to them all, if Antonio could only get back and pay
for roofing their cottage (the walls were standing) and they
could start again; that she prevailed on Gertrude to try to sell
it to him.
Gertrude asked the captain if he would sell the things for
her. "Mon Dieu," said he. "They are worth 1500 francs." She
was staggered—thinking them not worth a quarter of the
money. The Jew had offered a hundred francs. Who gave it to
her? Her lover before he joined his regiment. The captain at
once said she was lying. "He must have been a gentleman, and
well-off then, for there are armorial bearings on it—and the
watch is German manufacture—why the watch alone would
have bought your lover off the conscription." She stuck to it
that it was all true. "La, la, la, I see. it. Your lover kept you
and gave you it now, weren't you his mistress?" In vain
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she denied it. "You come and live with me," said he, "we'll
go to Paris, and be so happy," and then he began to talk
bawd—which he had never done before.
She in tears and agitation went to her sister and told her
all. Said the sister, who did not seem to care about anything,
so long as they got the money to enable them to go back to
the farm: "Why not? you can't do better." "Then I shan't
marry Pietro." "Well, he's only a little farmer—and you'll
have as much money in a week with the captain, as Pietro
will give you in a year." Gertrude revolted at this advice, the
sisters had a row and parted; Margaretta finishing by saying
that Pietro could not marry till his father died, which might
be years hence, and that if Gertrude liked to wait years for
her fucking, she might—and more fool she.
But it was such a fortune to them just then, these fifteen
hundred francs, or even half that sum, that her sister was at
her about it soon again nearly every day. Once she said she
would tell her husband if she did not get the money. Then
Gertrude said she would tell him, all about the soldiers
having tailed his wife. But it never was told him, they were
both too wise for that.
She determined not to accept the captain's offer, and for a
week resisted. The leg of the captain got better, and he was
incessantly worrying her to be his mistress. He would take
her through Italy, and give her no end of pleasures. At last he
said, that if she would sleep with him one night only, he
would give her half his estimate of the value, and the other
half for a second night. The offer of sleeping with her made
her long for the male, she told me frankly.
There had been another wounded officer in the house. The
mistress with an old servant attended to him, and in fact all
three helped both of the two wounded men. There was only
opportunity of a brief kind for the captain to tail Gertrude in
the day, for the lady of the house was, or affected to be
prudish, and said that Gertrude ought not to be assisting the
captain alone, and was constantly in the room with her. The
other officer then left sufficiently cured. The mistresses's
husband was out all day, and their servant was also out one
day—the captain was moving about the room with crutches,
but had no trousers on, and a great dressing-gown covered
him.
Gertrude was with him and he renewed his offer of money.
She had a lewdness on her that day she supposed, her cunt
was
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yearning for copulation, and his talk put the soldiers in her
head. He caught hold of her as she passed him,—he was
sitting on the edge of the bed—and kissed her, held her tight,
and talked downright bawdiness. She boxed his ears and
then he talked worse. His crutches slipped down to the
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