Afterward:
I never did, dear reader, discover the limits to my need for sex. I saw no particular reason for staying on at Daphne Oblov's to prove again and again that I was incapable of being satisfied for any reasonable length of time. The furnace at the apex of my black triangle wanted to be stoked without end-I had no control over it. George Maytemper showed himself the gallant he truly was by once again exercising forbearance and permitting me to rejoin his players, but he remarked that, regrettably, if ever I had to sever myself from his group once more in the future, there could be no return. He had to have both his leads and supporting players completely dependable- which was, after all, he said, within the tradition of the theatre. I promised Maytemper that I would abide by his stricture. I consulted several physicians, of course, with negative results. I visited, too, as a matter of fact, the doctor called on by Mother and Father whenever they stayed at their London residence in Hagen House. He was an old family friend, and his name was Noel Franniston and, with his snowy white hair, he looked to be the distinguished physician he actually was. My exchange with him, after he had thoroughly examined me at his rooms on Harley Street, might be illuminating for the discerning reader. After he had seated himself at his desk and I was ensconced in the Morris chair opposite him, Dr. Franniston said, “You are remarkably sound, Clarissa. Organically there's not a thing wrong with you. Apparently your condition came about at the outset of the Terstyke affair- commencing with the great Dane you told me of. Before then, for a period, you experienced sexual coldness following the unfortunate Kinsteares demise.” “Yes,” I said flatly, expressionlessly.
'I'm afraid, Clarissa, that what we call nymphomania-which is your present state-is attributable, I believe, to a pathologic mental condition and can be treated only by a physician qualified to handle the diseases of the psyche. I don't know of any such physician here in London who could remit your condition. If it were possible-but you will not accept any help from the Marquis-I'd like you to see a Sigmund Freud in Vienna. The treatment is expensive and you'd have to stay in Vienna for some time-and it is quite uncertain, even there, that therapy would be successful.” “Your opinion, then, Dr.
Franniston, is that this is a condition I will have to live with.”
Tamping the tobacco into his pipe, Dr. Franniston nodded and said, “I'm afraid so, Clarissa…” So, I have lived with it. Painfully, innumerable times, but I have managed. The rest of the tale can be quite briefly recounted. For many years, during my twenties and thirties, I had obviously no trouble at all in having lovers-from both sexes if I had a mind to. Nor was there any diminution during my forties. But when I turned fifty-and the newspapers had me down then as being the most brilliant of supporting actresses-male and female overtures to me began to thin out. A noticeable sag to my face and figure had come about-as come about it must-and my emerald eyes were not quite enough to compensate for the failure of other parts of my body. Curiously, just about at this time of my life, I noticed what must have been a running advertisement in the agony column of one of the London newspapers-to the effect that a Lady Quist-Hagen was being sought and that she should contact at once Grantsby and Zast, solicitors. Although caution is wiser than curiosity-though, as it turned out this was not the case-I visited Grantsby and Zast. Emory Zast, his hair thinning beyond his bulging forehead, his nose crowded by puffy pink cheeks, was the soul of courtesy. He had news that was at once both tragic and enheartening. It seemed that my mother and father-Louisa and Mathew Quist-Hagen, the Marquis and Marchioness of Portferrans-had taken mortally ill when they had learned of the death of their only son, James, from a lingering blood disease-a matter I had not known about, of course, since James and I had not been in touch with each other for many, many years-and had themselves expired within weeks of each other from what Dr. Franniston had described as “profound shock.” They wished, Mr. Zast said, to exercise no punitive action upon their daughter, Clarissa, and had therefore willed her the very considerable bulk of their estate together with Hagen and Quistern houses-in the hope, they wrote, that Clarissa would marry and bear a son to continue the Quist-Hagen line. But in no sense, they added, was this to be a proviso before she, Clarissa Quist-Hagen, was to be the inheritor.
“The will,” Emory Zast said, “is presently in probate and, since the major inheritor is now on hand-you, Lady Clarissa- there is no reason why the whole matter cannot be settled expeditiously…” I wept, of course, not over my parents-who had rarely touched me physically in all of my childhood and adolescence- but over my brother James, who had become an Anglican cleric. The soul of a kind of spiritual elegance, James had never hurt a living thing-and the love we had borne one another had never tarnished. And that, patient reader, is practically the end of the tale. Victoria Collins had no further need for existence. I told the whole story to George Maytemper-he understood perfectly and, more than incidentally, felt pain on the death of my brother with whom, in their Oxford days, George had spent many a pleasant hour. “I daresay, what with the acquisition of the Portferrans estate and its titles and property, you will wish no longer to tread the boards,” George said. “Your talent, after all, is no more than incidental to your noble blood. That may be harsh to recognize, Victoria-I prefer that to Clarissa!-but it is nonetheless socially accurate. Further, of course, you may indulge your eccentricities-of which none of us are free-to the hilt, if you will forgive my play on the word. I do respect you, Victoria, for your thespian art-and I do regret that the company will lose you. Without stardom you have seen to it that many of my productions had their audience; without you, much of that would have been impossible…”
“Thank you, George,” I said. “I owe you infinitely for having been so patient with me.” I was close to tears. “Please,”
Maytemper said, and helped me with his handkerchief. “Don't forget Victoria,” I whispered, and turned to go. “I cannot forget Victoria,” George Maytemper said. And I left the theatre forever…
The fortune my parents left me had overtaken me just as I was trying to adjust to the loss of lovers due to my failing physical charms, but the new Marchioness of Portferrans was now able to buy her men for the night, month or year and, as a diagnosed nymphomaniac, to endure and indulge the carnal itch from which at no time have I had release. Relief-I concede, but that my body gave me only for small periods, at the end of which I, Victoria-Clarissa Quist-Hagen-had to have a man- or woman-or, I do confess, a dog, who may very well be not only man's best friend, but woman's. My dismay on leaving the world of the theatre, I learned to shrug off, with the single exception of giving up the opportunity of playing in a Bernard Shaw vehicle. In my humble opinion he is the greatest comic playwright the world has ever seen, exceeding Aristophanes, Congreve and Wilde. But I have not written this account to acquaint you, dear reader, with my esthetic tastes, but rather with the inclinations of my flesh. I trust my story has not led you to feeling sorry for an amoral female-I have tried to tell it with as much of the gusto as I have enjoyed most of my years. It is true that now and for all those years since the death of my brother and parents I have had to buy my favors, but I have no regrets in having done so. And it is true that Victoria Collins is once again Lady Clarissa, the most Honorable, the Marchioness of Portferrans. However, and nonetheless, and in spite of- I cannot forget Victoria! Nor, for that matter-Clarissa… FOREWORD The ethical publisher is constantly aware of his indebtedness to his readers. One of the most perturbing facets of this awareness is the bitter knowledge that too many of the truly informative, enlightening books are couched in terms which are completely understood only by the professional. Even in the progressive publishing environment of the 1960's, it is not easy to find a work which comprehensively deals with a specific subject in a manner which can be readily assimilated by the vast majority of the reading public, providing them with the basic knowledge they cannot afford to seek in the expensive parlors of the psychiatrist. In its continuing search for this scarce material, Pompeii Press examines countless manuscripts to find the very few which meet these exacting requirements: (1) Knowledgeable handling of a very specialized subject; (2) Minimum use or esoteric terminology and maximum use of terms understandable to the average layman; (3) Presentation in a fictional form which explains the essentials of the subject by vivid personalization, using believable situations involving true-to-life people. Author Burton Dixon has delved into his subject in a manner which proves his dedication to research. The many psychopathiae sexualis which are hardly understandable to the average reader can be credited for the background theme of Dixon's work. But, unlike these classic references, Dixon's manuscript opens to the average layman the basic weaknesses of one side of man's sexuality, while pointing out the perils involved in the indulgence of these weaknesses. Not only the psychological data, but the geographical and social details of this terribly fascinating account, have a frighteningly plausible flavor. From the beginning, man has taken advantage of man's vulnerability, sometimes in the interests of Science, as with men like the fictional Dr. Frankenstein, and sometimes for self-gratification, as with men like the Marquis de Sade and the Due de Fronsac (son of the Due de Richelieu). The experimenter of Dixon's story, Carroll Ventner, overlaps the gap between these two categories. His earnest desire to add to man's knowledge is augmented by his own expanding sexuality, which draws on his powerful drives through the weakness of his ethical defenses. Only a capable writer who is also a dedicated researcher could provide this story. And only his
