Possessed | Page 9

changes and taking deep breaths.
I sit cross-legged on the floor with my feet on a red and gold cushion
and rotate my waist like an oriental dancer. I stand on my head and
hands and curve my body to right and left in graceful flexings. I do this
no matter how cold it is. I do not feel the cold, for I am all aglow with
health and strength. Then, before my bath, I do dumb-bell exercises in
front of the mirror.
I remember dining with my husband one night in a pink lace
peignoir--we had been married about three years--and during the
dessert, I excused myself and went into my bedroom and, posing before
a cheval glass, I let the peignoir slip off my shoulders, and stood there
like a piece of polished marble, rejoicing in my youth and loveliness!
How I hated my husband that night! He had taught me to drink. He had
made me sensual. He had not yet assumed the coarse, red-faced brutish
aspect that he wore later, but he had a coarse, red-faced brutish soul.
Alas! his body was still fine enough to tempt me. And his mind was
devilishly clever enough to captivate my fancy. He took away my faith,
even my faith in motherhood. That was why I chiefly hated him.
For three years my husband disgusted me with his unfaithfulness. No
woman was too high or too low, too refined or too ignorant, for his
passing fancy, if only she had physical attractiveness--just a little
physical attractiveness. Anything for variety, shop girl or duchess,
kitchen maid or society leader, they were all the same to Julian. He
confessed to me that he once made love to a little auburn-haired
divorcée while they were in a mourning carriage going to her sister's
funeral. Et elle s'est laissée faire!
He was like a hunter following his prey, like an angler fishing, he cared
only for the chase, for the capture. That was the man I had married!
What a liar he was! He poisoned my mind with his lies, assuring me

that all men were like himself, hypocrites, incapable of being true to
one woman. And I believed him. The ghastly part of it is I still believe
him. I can't help it. I have suffered too much. I can never have faith in
another man, not even in Captain Herrick. That is why I shall never
marry again--that is one reason.
* * * * *
Sunday.
A wonderful day! I strolled along the board walk in my new furs, and
met a young mother pushing a baby carriage with two splendid baby
boys--one of them sucking at his bottle. Such babies! She let me hold
the little fellow and I cuddled him close in my arms and felt his soft
cheeks and his warm little chubby hands on my face. How I long for a
baby of my own! I have thought--hoped--dreamed--
I went to the movies this evening with some friends and laughed so
hard that I thought I would break something in my internal machinery.
When I returned to the hotel I found a letter from Captain Herrick--so
manly and affectionate. He loves me! And I love him, more than
anything in the world. I feel so well today, so glad to be alive that if
Chris were here, I think I would promise him whatever he asked. I long
to give myself entirely--my beauty, my passion, everything--to this man
that I love.
And yet--alas!
Am I bold and vain to call myself beautiful?
* * * * *
I find myself in my diary siding strongly with women against men in
anything that has to do with emotional affairs, although I like men
better than women. My tendency is always to blame the man. This is
partly because of the hideous wrong that was done me by my husband
and partly because I like to believe that, however blame-worthy women

are in the sex struggle and, whatever faiblesses they may be guilty of,
the fundamental cause of it all must be found in centuries of men's
wickedness and oppression.
I have written about this with much feeling. In one place I say:
"Sometimes I feel as if there were a conspiracy of men--all kinds of
men, including the most serious and respectable--against the virtue of
attractive women. What a downfall of masculine reputations there
would be if women should tell a little of what they know about men!
Only a little! But women are silent in the main--through loyalty or
through fear."
And again:
"What happens to an attractive woman who is forced to earn her own
living? In the business world? In the artistic world? Anywhere? I do not
say that men are a pack of wolves, but--I