I have pictured him so often, and with such particularity, that I could leave him now to the readers of my Life of him, but one is tempted again and again to recall the laughing eyes, the eloquent tenor voice, and the charming phrases.
Speaking of young Raffalovich, I said that he had come to London apparently to found a salon.
'And he very nearly succeeded,' replied Oscar smiling, 'he established a saloon.'
On another occasion, apropos of some notice in a paper, I remarked, 'It is curious to see how thinkers like Matthew Arnold and Herbert Spencer love to call on titled people, princesses and duchesses; how inappropriate it all is!'
'Inappropriate, Frank?' cried Oscar. 'Surely it is to be expected: doctors must visit the dying.'
No afterthought, no art can give any idea of the astounding richness of his verbal humor. One day, walking down by the Houses of Parliament, we came on a meeting of the unemployed who were reinforced by some bands of suffragettes. 'Characteristic,' I said, in my usual serious way, 'one of these days the unemployed will make themselves heard here in Westminster. We are witnessing the beginnings of a social revolution.'
'You call it 'characteristic',' said Oscar. 'I think it characteristic, too, my dear Frank, to find the unenjoyed united in protest with the unemployed.'
No one else ever possessed such humor, both of words and of thoughts. His magnificent gift had conquered even English dullness and he was becoming a social favorite when Nemesis overtook him. One day I heard that the Marquis of Queensbury had insulted him, and then Oscar called on me, as I have narrated in my Life of him, and the tragedy began.
CHAPTER X
Since maturity I have always thought of women in three categories: those who love with the head, those who love with the heart, and those who are ruled in love, as in life, by the senses. Fortunately for us men, most women love with all three: head, heart and body, but still an acute student can usually see which of the three powers is in the ascendant.
Those who love with the head are the most dangerous and least attractive: as soon as they find out that their lover or husband has failings or infidelities, they cast about how best to avenge themselves and so punish him. Usually their invention is not long at fault, and woe betide the poor wretch who has to suffer their vindictiveness. The worst tragedies in life come from their malevolence.
The women who love with the heart, on the other hand, are like pearls of great price, and happily they are the most numerous class. Nearly every woman has something of the mother in her, and pity for weakness and lovingkindness beyond reason are always innate in her.
Lastly come those who love by the senses; but men can estimate this category perfectly: the senses are always selfish and seek selfish gratification, and so the sensuous sometimes when piqued or disappointed come to be as harsh and unamiable as those women who have brains and no heart. But, as I have said, most women have all three powers, and we can develop in them the affections we most need by judicious flattery.
My experience has been that girls as a rule never yield willingly to sensual desire, unless it is accompanied with some appeal to the heart or emotion; even some who turn out to be very passionate later do not give themselves readily to the sex-urge.
I want to tell here some experiences at this time which show how all sorts of motive enter into the matter with the girl, whereas the one motive is strong enough as a rule in the man. All through the years from 1890 to 1895,1 thought chiefly of Laura and of arranging meetings with her almost exclusively, but in the sex-way I was always inconstant.
I don't know why it was, but from my first months in Paris I had always the feeling that French girls gave themselves more easily to passion than any others. They seemed to know more about it and to give more place to it in their lives than girls of other races; and above all, they were as outspoken about it as English boys, and as a Welsh-Celt I felt a peculiar kinship with the French on that account. When American or English girls are brought up in France, they, too show more understanding of sensuality than those brought up in England or America; the contagion is catching.
All these years I went over to France irregularly every winter: my health was better in Nice than it was anywhere else: I never suffered from my bronchitis there; and of course I stayed in Paris on the way to the Riviera. One day when I was crossing the Channel, it was very rough, indeed, and there was an American lady and a girl on deck together who were very ill- at least the older lady was. I brought the stewardess and tipped her well to take care of the patient; in a few moments the lady said that she would like to go downstairs to the cabin, but the girl preferred to remain on deck. The stewardess and I took Mrs. Sterling down to the ladies' cabin, and I came back to the girl. She seemed about fifteen or sixteen years of age. She had run to the side and been ill once and was still very white. I got her a glass of port wine which brought the color to her cheeks, and with the color all her native courage. 'Would you like to walk,' I asked, 'or would you prefer to lie in the chair?'
'As soon as I stand up,' she replied, 'I get giddy. I think I had better lie back.'
So I got her another chair and lifted up her legs onto it before covering them over with the rug.
'What pretty legs you have,' I began.
She pulled a face at me and said, 'They are like everybody else's, I suppose.'
Her gesture amused me.
'Indeed they are not' I said; those were not the days of short dresses, but her dress was short and her legs were beautifully molded. 'I believe you wear your dress short,' I said, 'just to show your lovely legs.'
She drew up in the chair at once and said quite angrily, 'It isn't true; I hate short dresses. Aunt keeps me in them, but I know when I go back to my mother in New York I shall have long dresses. I am a woman, not a child.'
'A very young woman,' I remarked to pique her.
'That's all you know about it,' she said. 'What age do you think I am?'
'About thirteen,' I said.
'Oh, you pig,' she cried, 'I am nearly fifteen.'
I had only said thirteen to get her contradiction and so I confessed to her, and then said, 'But how long do you want your dresses to be?'
'Down to my ankles.'
'Why don't you get long dresses?' I asked.
'My aunt won't let me,' she said. 'I make her look old already; she says everybody takes her for my mother; she's my mother's younger sister. She loves me and is kind to me, but she wants to keep me in school dresses as long as possible because long dresses would make her look old. But now take your hand away.'
'My hand isn't doing any harm, is it?'
'It is, too,' she said, 'It keeps me nervous, and it has gotten up above my knee.
Now, please.'
I followed her imperative wish and took my hand away, saying, 'You might let me see whether you are a woman or a child.'
'You must take my word for it,' she said, laughing at me.
'I needn't,' I said, and I put my hand on her breast. It was more mature than I had thought, rounded and firm, though still small.
'If you are rude,' she said, 'I shall go away.'
'You won't either,' I replied, 'because you and I are going to conspire to get you into long dresses.'
'Oh,' she cried, sitting upright, 'how will you do that?'
'Nothing easier,' I said, 'if you will give me your address in Paris. I am going to the Hotel Meurice in the Rue Rivoli, and either you will come to me or I will go to you; probably it would be better for you to come to me some morning, as the Rue de la Paix is quite close to my hotel and I can take you to Worth or one of the famous dressmakers and get very pretty dresses made for you. Then we will try them on and if they are all right, you must
