Possessed | Page 9

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 had such a heartbreaking experience, especially in my brief musical career. I might have had a small part in grand opera at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York City, so one particular musical wolf assured me, if I would show a little sympathy with his desire to assist me in some of the r?les--occasional private rehearsals, and so on. Oh, the beast!... He gave the part to another girl (her voice did not compare with mine) who was less particular, and she made her début the next season. I went to work at Wanamaker's store!"
And still men pursued me.
I find this entry:
"Roberta took me to dinner yesterday at the Lafayette with her friend Mr. G----, a man of sixty, red-faced, fat and prosperous, the breezy Westerner type. He is giving a grand party at Sherry's and wants me to come. I said I was afraid I couldn't, my real reason being that I have no dress that is nice enough. He said nothing at the time, but kept his eyes on me, and this evening, when I got home, there was a perfectly stunning dinner gown--it must have cost $250.--with a note from Mr. G---- begging me to accept it as I would a flower, since it meant absolutely nothing to him.
"How I