finger into the anus. This her husband taught her, and she would
rather have died than confess it to me when we first met. We
would often devote our Sundays to having a picnic as we termed
our lustful bouts, stimulating ourselves with wine. Her temper
was not improved thereby (though her fits entirely stopped for a
twelvemonth)--we had wordy warfares, but we made it up again
always with tears. Nor did I allow myself to deteriorate without
reactions and excursions into better things. I was always reading
Emerson; it was he who rescued me from orthodox Christianity and
taught me to trust in myself and in Nature. I have never ceased
this struggle towards better things to this day. There, in a
nutshell, is my life; I have always been defeated when
temptation came, but I have never ceased to struggle. I
determined to be more abstemious in sexual indulgence and asked
her to help me. She agreed willingly, for she was easily led.
Whenever we fell back again into excess it was my fault.

At a theatrical performance we first met a Miss T., a young
German who sang. She was about 25, with modest, quiet and
engaging manners. A. and she became very friendly. I liked her;
she was tall, dark and lithe, but had bad teeth.

I had been ill and at this time A. and I had a quarrel, my temper
suddenly breaking out in murderous frenzy. I called her names and
finally put her outside the house, telling her to go to her
mother. I suffered a very hell of remorse and misery. Everything
in the quiet, lonely house reminded me of her, seemed fragrant of
her; my anguish became so keen I could not stop in the house,
though I was just as wretched walking about. I kept this up for
two days, when I met her coming to look for me. One look was
enough--"A.!" "Pet!" in broken sobs--and in tears we kissed and
made it up. Miss T. was with her, and I greeted her, too, with
happy tears in my eyes. Another time, when A. was giving way to
_her_ temper, and one would have thought all love was dead, I
said "Don't you love me then?" and the word alone was a talisman,
her face changed, she held out her arms and began to sob
quietly.... She accepted an offer to travel with a small
theatrical company who were going up-country. She was not looking
well when I left and after a time I received a telegram telling
me to come to her at once as she was ill. Dreading all sorts of
things I borrowed my fare and went to her. I knew nothing of
women, of their point of view and different code of honor, and
was very far from the attitude of Guy de Maupassant who said he
liked women all the better for their charmingly deceitful ways.
A. wanted to see me and had taken the surest means to ensure my
coming. I was angry at first, but she looked so well and was so
loving that I could not be angry long.

One day when I was working the landlady came in and began talking
about A. and her conduct before I came. She had gone into the
actors' rooms at all hours, the woman said, and drank and been as
bad as the rest in her conversation. It was the second time a
married woman had run her down to me, and I commenced to think
there might be something in it, and suffered all my mad jealousy
over again. Not knowing the freedom actors and actresses allow
themselves on tour, without there being necessarily anything in
it, I worried till I thought I had nothing to do but die. And
then one of the great struggles of my life occurred. Walking the
country roads, I asked myself: "If it _is_ true, if she has been
unfaithful, will you forgive her and help her to arrive at her
best?" For a long time the answer was "No!" But perhaps my
striving for unity with myself had done some good, and the final
resolution was for forgiveness. I felt more peace of mind then,
and when I told a dying consumptive lodger in the house what the
landlady had said, he replied, "Don't you believe a word of it. I
know she loves you!"....

After an absence I found myself one evening in a town where A.
was performing. I went round to the back and they told me she had
gone to a room in the hotel to change for another part. I
followed and entered the room, with a glass of spirits I found
that an effeminate young actor was bringing to her. She was half
undressed, her beautiful arms and shoulders bare. My arrival was
unexpected and she looked at me surprised, I thought coldly, as I
reproached her for not keeping a promise she had made to me to
touch no alcohol during the tour, but soon her arms were round my
neck. She cried like a child. She was bigger and handsomer and
healthier. There was not only an increased strength and size, but
an increased delicacy and sweetness; her eyes and brows were
lovely; there was an indescribable bloom and fragrance on her,
such as the sun leaves on a peach; the traveling, country air,
and freedom from coitus (had I known it) had enabled her to
arrive at her true self, not only a beautiful woman, but a woman
of fascination, of wit, vivacity and universal _camaraderie_. Her
face was like the dawn; all my fears and jealousy left me like a
cloud that melts before the sun. I remember the look on her face
as she embraced me in bed that night. It had just the very
smallest touch of sensuality, but was more like some beautiful
child's who is being caressed by one she loves; this divine,
drowsy-eyed, adorable look I had never seen on her face
before--nor have I since.

We fell back into our old lustful ways. Later on A. became ill
and the black devil of epilepsy returned. I became gloomy.... A
restlessness and selfish brutality came over me; our love and
peace were gone. I persuaded A. to go to Melbourne and look out
for an engagement. The day before she was to sail we went to
Glenelg for a trip. The sea air, as often happened, precipitated
A.'s fits. We had gone down to the pier and A. said she felt bad.
I just managed to support her to the hotel before she became
stiff, and I made some impatient remark (for she nearly dragged
me down) which she heard, not being quite unconscious and said
half incoherently and very pitiably: "Be kind, oh, be kind!"
repeating it after consciousness left her. Her heart had been
breaking all day at the prospect of parting, and also, I expect,
because I was so ready to part with her. That moment was a crisis
in my life. I was in a murderous humor, but she looked so
unutterably wretched that it seemed impossible to be anything but
kind. I made myself speak lovingly to her, in moments of partial
consciousness, hired a room, carried her up, and nursed her and
petted her all night. The act of self-control, and forcing
myself to be kind whatever I felt, became a habit in time, a sort
of second nature.

In a few days she sailed. When she had gone I was remorseful and
mad with myself. How could I let her go by herself? I resolved to
follow her as speedily as possible, and did so.

If I remember rightly I came to the conclusion about this time
that we ought not to have coition unless we felt great love for
each other. It seemed to corroborate this to a certain extent
that A. always seemed more electric and pleasant to the touch
when we had connection for love and not for lust. Leave it to
Nature, I would say to myself. I began to feel how much my
struggles, efforts and temperate living had improved me. I had
more self-respect, though something of the old self-consciousness
was still left. I did not get better continuously, but in an
up-and-down zigzag. I still had moods of rage approaching madness
and periods of neurotic depression. Long walks decidedly helped
to cure me, and the sea, sun, wind, clouds and trees colored my
dreams at night very sweetly. I frequently dreamed I was walking
in orchards or forests, and a deeper, slightly melancholy but
potent savor, as of a diviner destiny, was on my soul.

After a long absence, during which she had frequently been ill,
A. joined me. I could see she was recovering from fits, which I
began to realize that she had more frequently in absence from me,
and also from drinking, perhaps. She was small and thin, but
fresh and sweet as honey, and all signs of fits and tempers
passed away from her face, so wonderful in its changes. I had
become so healthy through my abstinence, temperance and long
walks that our meeting was a new revelation to me of how
delicate, fragrant and divine a convalescent woman may be. She
was glad and surprised to see me looking so well, and if she put
her hand on my arm I felt a joyous thrill. I was certainly a
better man for abstaining and she a better woman and I determined
not to have connection unless we were carried away by our love.
As a matter of fact we did not give way to excess, though we were
very loving. I tried to persuade myself that we had not gone back
to our old ways, but I could not do so long.

Miss T. put in an appearance every day. She did not look so
innocent, but as it was no business of mine I did not trouble.
She seemed more attached to A. than ever.... A. was still very
loving with me, but it was an effort to me to keep up to her
pitch, and when A. proposed to go to Melbourne with Miss T, to
sell off the furniture before settling in Adelaide, I was rather
glad of the opportunity of abstaining from coitus and of watching
myself to see if I again improved. When A. and Miss T. came to
see me before going down to the steamer, A. was nearly crying and
Miss T., changed from the old welcome friend, was not only pale
and anxious, but looked guilty as if she had some treachery in
her mind; she could not meet my eye. I thought less of it then
than afterwards. And once more I took long walks at night and
rose early to catch the freshness of the mornings.

Some time before this I had read a book advocating a vegetarian
diet, and at this time I chanced to read Pater's beautiful "Denys
L'Auxerrois," the imaginary portrait of a young vine-dresser, who
was attractive beyond ordinary mortals and lived, until his fall
and deterioration, on fruit and water. The words, "a natural
simplicity in living" remained in my memory. I resolved to read
more carefully the book on scientific diet. Who can say, I
thought, what changes for the better may come to me if I live on
a strictly scientific and natural diet?

I fasted one whole day, and then had a breakfast of cherries, in
the middle of the day a meal of fruit, and walking in the
afternoon--a gray, rainy day--I felt so light, so different, and
the gray sky looked so sweet and familiar, that I was reminded of
the luminous visions of my boyhood. It was a distinct revelation.
This Pan-like, almost Bacchic feeling, did not last, however, nor
was I always able to maintain my new method of diet, though I
tried to do so. I made the attempt, however, but I imagine I was
more than usually run down. I would walk miles in the hope of
feeling less restless. One holiday I walked down to Glenelg,
having only had grapes for my dinner, and lying on the beach I
looked through a strong binocular glass I had borrowed at the
girls bathing. And the beauty of their faces in their frames of
hair, of their arms, of their figures, seen through their wet
clinging dresses, satisfied me and filled me with joy, gave me
for a short time that peace and content--in harmony with the
strong sunlight on the waves and the rhythmic surf on the
shore--I was seeking. The summer evenings on the pier or along
the beach had a peculiar savor; one felt the youth and beauty
there even on dark nights, the air was fragrant with them, white
dresses and summer hats disappearing down the beach or over the
sand hills. It was easy--doubtless justifiable sometimes--to put
a lewd construction on these disappearances; but I felt it need
not have been so; that it was not necessary that youth and
beauty, even the sexual act itself if led up to by love, should
be a subject of giggling and sniggering. I always left the beach
and its flitting summer dresses with a sigh.

A., after writing once, ceased writing at all and once more her
mother and I were left in a state of anxiety and suspense. At
last I determined to go to Melbourne to look for her, the only
clue I had being a remark in her letter that a certain actor was
giving her an engagement. In Melbourne I could not find any
traces of her for some days and what traces I did find of her
were not calculated to allay my anxious fears. One hotel-keeper
told me that some one of A's name had stayed there with another
hussy (giving Miss T's stage name): "There were nice carryings on
with the pair of them." I thought of Miss T's strange looks, but
could not imagine what hold she had on A., for A. loved me, I
knew. I seemed to be in an inextricable maze. I could settle to
nothing and was thinking of applying to the police when I heard
that the actor A. had mentioned had taken his company to the
Gippsland lakes. I followed to Sale, found the actor and was told
that A. was not there. "She slipped me at the last moment," he
said, "and remained in Melbourne." I returned to my lodgings,
with my anxiety and nervous restlessness increased tenfold. But
suddenly my fear and restlessness left me like a cloud. I felt
quiet, young, peaceful, able to enjoy the country, A. was
doubtless all right and would be able to explain her silence. I
undressed leisurely and happily, thinking of the stars.

The next day, Sunday, I awoke refreshed and still at peace. After
breakfast, hearing children's voices, I went out into the garden
and there was a collision of souls who somehow were affinities. A
young girl about twelve or younger with a fine presence and
handsome face fixed her eyes on me for half a minute and then
came and sat on my knee. She was one of those children I am
accustomed to call "love-children," because they are so much
brighter, healthier, larger and more loving than others. I always
imagine more love went to their making. We fell in love and she
said, stroking my beard, "Oh, you are pretty!" and I said, "And
so are you!" We were so affectionate that the servant called the
child away and I went for a walk, finding my little sweetheart
waiting for me on my return. The touch of her hand was electric
and her voice fresh and musical. I kissed her, but had become
more self-conscious since the morning and wondered if her mother
or the servant were looking, or even of they would appear. I was
not so frank and natural as my little chum. I have often thought
of her since. She had the breadth of forehead, the strength and
yet lightness of limb, together with the hands and feet, not too
small, that I always imagine the dwellers in Paradise will have.

I returned to Melbourne and continued trying to find A. At the
same time I commenced in earnest to live on fruit and brown bread
only, and enjoyed better tone and health every day, so that it
was a joy to walk down the street in the sun and exchange glances
with passengers a la old Walt. One day in the Botanical Gardens
veils seemed to be lifted off my eyes. I could look straight at
the sun and taking my note of color from that golden light I
turned my eyes on the flowers, the mown grass, the trees, and for
the first time perceived what a heavenly color green is, what
divine companions flowers are, and what a blue sky really means.
For half an hour I was in Paradise, and to complete my joy Nature
revealed to me a new and unexpected secret.

I was lying on a bench, basking, and my silk shirt coming open
the strong sun made its way to my breast and presently I felt a
totally new sensation there. I had discovered the last joy of the
skin. My skin, fed by healthy fruit-made blood, must have
functioned normally under the excitation of the sun just then
(for a brief space only, alas!). I cannot describe the joy, any
more than I could describe the taste of a peach to one who has
only eaten apples: it was satisfying, divine. I opened my shirt
wider, but the feeling only spread faintly, and indeed this
halcyon sunny hour terminated in a restlessness that sent me
walking into town to look for A.

At last I heard, not of A., but of Miss T. She was in a ballet. I
went round during rehearsal and while waiting entered into
conversation with a little chorus girl with a good face, who was
sewing. On my telling her whom I was seeking she stopped sewing
and looked at me quickly: "Oh, are you her husband? I know her.
_I have seen them together_." She looked as if she were going to
tell me something, but merely shook her old-fashioned head in a
mournful, indescribable way, saying "Why don't you keep your wife
with you?" I went to the door and presently saw Miss T. She tried
to avoid me, I thought, and looked more vicious than ever, but
after a minute's thought reluctantly told me where she and A.
were staying. To hide my fears and suspicions I had assumed a
careless demeanor, but I think I should have strangled her had
she refused to tell me. I hastily went to the place indicated and
going up the stairs (to the astonishment of the people) opened
the door and found myself face to face with A.--but how changed!
She had the hard, harlot, loveless look I detested. I felt for a
few minutes that I did not love her, and she regarded me coldly
too, but presently old habits reinstated themselves. She put out
her hands, very pitiably, and then was sobbing in my arms. I
could get nothing out of her but sobs, and to this day do not
know where she spent all these weeks nor why she did not write.
Miss T. came in after rehearsal, pale and hard-faced. I greeted
her politely, but was watching her, trying to puzzle out why A.
did not look as she usually did after long absence from coition.
Miss T. took another room in the same house and was soon joined
by another ballet girl, young and very pretty, who soon began to
have fits. A. was always crying until Miss T. went away with her
pretty friend. I knew nothing, could hardly be said to suspect
anything definite, and yet I pitied that pretty girl whose eyes
looked so helpless and appealing.

I set to work again. But I continued to live on fruit and bread,
and taking off my clothes I would stand up at the window in the
sun. A lot of prostitutes, however, who lived at the back saw me
and were scandalized or shocked or thought me mad. The landlady
heard of it and spoke to A. So I had to desist from my glorious
sun-baths.

We slept on a single bed, and though I did my best to avoid
coitus (I wanted to wait and think out some theory of it), A.,
who knew nothing of this, wanted to resume our old habits, and
finally I surrendered. But my sufferings next day were intense,
and I had the sense of having fallen from some high estate. My
thoughts were divided between two theories: one that our misery
was caused by our diet, more or less; the other that we had
fallen into some error as regards coitus, and this was becoming
almost a certainty with me.

There is one incident I think worthy of note which happened
before the "fall" just mentioned and when I was living on fruit
and in splendid health. At a performance I saw a girl on the
stage with handsome legs in tights, and once as she straightened
her leg the knee-cap going into position gave me such a strange
and keen joy--of that quality I call divine or musical--that I
was like one suddenly awakened to the divinity and beauty of the
female form. The joy was so keen and yet peaceful, familiar, and
subjective that I could not help comparing it to a happy chemical
change in the tissues of my own brain. Like the unexpected
functioning of my skin in the sun it was a sign of a partial
return to a normal condition, another glimpse of Paradise.

I stuck to my new diet and gained a fresh elation and joy in
life. Gradually clothes became insupportable, and I went down to
the beach as often as possible to take them off, and at nights,
beside the patient and astonished A., I would lie naked. One
evening, passing some grass, I looked over the fence like a gipsy
and felt a longing to take off my clothes and sleep in the grass
all night. It was of course impossible. And A. looked unhappily
in my face; she began to think her mother, who now thought I was
mad, must be right.

That night I woke up and found myself having coition. I was angry
and felt I had been put back in my progress, but a fever of lust
now came over me. I would sit under the tap and let the cold
water run over me to conquer the fever, but at the end of a week
my hopes were frustrated and I even turned against my natural
diet, on which I had made flesh. A., as I expected, went through
her usual fits, and slowly recovered. (If we had connection only
once she in about three weeks had a mild attack of fits; if we
had coition more than once the fits were more severe.) I relapsed
more than once and as a means of impressing my resolution for
future abstinence I would walk for miles in the middle of
pitch-black nights....

Miss T. came over to Adelaide and as I knew nothing definite
against her and heard that she was engaged, I thought perhaps my
suspicions were unfounded and was friendly. But one day in town I
saw her and A. on a tram going out to our cottage. Even then my
suspicions might not have been awakened, but I saw Miss T. say
something rapidly to A., and A. called out to me, "Will you be
coming home soon?" And I answered "No." When the tram had gone on
I found myself vaguely wondering what Miss T. wanted to know that
for, for my perceptions were becoming acute enough to understand
women's ways. In another minute I was walking rapidly home. When
I came to the door it was locked. I knocked and knocked and no
one came. I called out and threatened to kick in the door. Still
no one came. Mad with rage I commenced to put my threat into
execution, when the door was opened by Miss T., half-naked, in
her petticoats, and pale as death, but no longer defiant. "So
I've caught you, have I?" I _looked_, but could not trust myself
to speak. Wondering why A. did not appear I went into the
bedroom. She was lying on the bed, just as Miss T. had left her,
on the verge of a fit, and on seeing me she held out her hands
piteously, and when I stooped over her she whispered, "Send her
away, send her away." Then she became unconscious and going into
the next room I ordered Miss T. (who had managed to scramble on
her dress) out of the house. I spoke scornfully as if addressing
a dog, and she slinked out with a malignant but cowed look I hope
never to see on a woman's face again. What they had been doing
with their clothes off I do not know; women will rather die than
confess. When A. had recovered from her fit she denied that there
had been anything between them, and stuck to it doggedly, but
with such a forlorn look I had not the heart to prosecute my
inquiries.

For my part, all the efforts I had been making for so long seemed
for a time to be in vain; for some weeks I sank into a sort of
satyriasis, and even my anger against Miss T. turned to a
prurient curiosity. At the same time I was not always able to
adhere to my diet. But both as regards coition and diet I was
still fighting, and on the whole successfully. My fits of temper,
however, were excessive and my ennui became gloomy despair. One
day I blasphemed on crossing the Park and spoke contemptuously of
"God and his twopenny ha'penny revolving balls," referring to the
planetary system. But for long walks I should have gone mad. A.
was drinking in the intervals of her fits. I found half-empty
bottles of wine hidden away. This did not improve my temper, and
one day--this was when she was well and up--I struck her a heavy
blow on the face, and she aimed a glass decanter at me. She went
home to her mother and I lived alone in the cottage. I heard soon
afterwards that her husband had come back and that they had made
it up. Our parting was not, however, destined to be final.

Even out of that month's sufferings I made capital. I was better
after my tendency to lubricity, my gloom, rage, restlessness and
degradation. They had been but the irritations of convalescence.



INDEX OF AUTHORS.

Abrantes, duchesse d'
Adler
Albucasis
Alexander, H.C.B.
Amatus Lusitanus
Ammon
Andersen
Andriezen
Aquinas
Aristophanes
Aristotle
Averroes
Avicenna
Aubrey
Aulnoy, Madame d'

Baer
Ball
Ballantyne, J.W.
Bancroft, H.H.
Barker, Fordyce
Barnes, R.
Bartholin
Bayle
Beale, G.B.
Bechterew
Beck, J.R.
Becker
Bell, Sir C.
Bell, Sanford
Belletrud
Beneden
Bergh
Bianchi
Bierent
Binet
Bischoff, T.L.W.
Bloch, J.
Blondel
Blumenbach
Blunt, J.J.
Boas
Boccaccio
Boeteau
Bois, J.
Bois-Reymond, E. du
Boelsche
Booth, D.S.
Booth, J.
Bouchereau
Bouchet
Bourke, J.G.
Boveri
Brand
Braun
Brantome
Brehm
Breitenstein
Brenier de Montmorand
Brenot
Brouardel
Brown-Sequard
Bruegelmann
Buckman, S.S.
Bucknill
Bunge
Burchard
Burdach
Burton, Robert
Buschan
Busdraghi

Cabanis
Campbell, J.F.
Campbell, H.
Carpenter, E.
Casanova
Cascella
Castelnau
Catullus
Cecca
Celsus
Chapman, C.W.
Charcot
Chaucer
Chaulant
Chevalier
Chidley, W.
Cladel, J.
Clement, of Alexandria
Coe
Coen
Collineau
Colman, W.S.
Columbus, R.
Cook, G.W.
Crawley
Cumston
Cuvier
Cyples

Dabney
Darwin, C.
Darwin, E.
Daumas
Dearborn, G.
Dembo
Deniker
Dessoir, Max
Dickinson, R.L.
Diderot
Disselhorst
Donaldson, H.H.
Douglas, C.
Draehms
Duehren, E.
Dufougere
Dufour
Dulaure
Duncan, Matthews

East, A.
Edgar, Clifton
Ellis, Havelock
Engelmann
Erotion
Esbach
Eschricht
Espinas
Eulenburg
Evans
Ezekiel

Fabricius
Fallopius
Fere
Fichstedt
Flood, E.
Florence
Fothergill, Milner
Frazer, J.G.
Freud
Freyer
Froriep
Fuchs
Fuerbringer

Galen
Gardiner, C.F.
Garnier
Gautier, A.
Gautier, T.
Gellhoen
Gerhard, A.
Giles, A.
Godin
Goethe
Goncourt, E. de
Gopcevic
Goron
Gould
Gow
Graaf, de
Griffiths
Groos, K.
Gualino
Gueniot
Guibaut
Guillereau
Guinard
Guttceit

Hack
Haddon
Haig
Hall, G. Stanley
Haller
Hamilton, A.
Hammond
Hardy, Thomas
Hartland, E.S.
Harvey
Hegar
Henderson, J.
Henle
Hennig
Herman
Herodotus
Herrick
Heusinger
Hewitt, Graily
Hippocrates
Hirst
Hislop, J.T.
Hoche
Horrocks
Howard, W.L.
Howell
Howitt, A.W.
Hrdlicka
Hughes, C.H.
Hunter, John
Hunter, William
Huysmans
Hyades
Hyrtl

Jacobi
Jacoby, P.
Jahn
Janet
Janke
Jastreboff
Jenkyns, J.
Johnston, G.A.
Johnston, Sir H.H.
Jonson, Ben
Juvenal

Kaltenbach
Kelly, H.
Kepler
Kiernan, J.G.
Kisch
Kleinpaul
Kobelt
Kocher
Kohlbrugge
Kolbein
Krafft-Ebing
Krauss

Lamb, D.S.
Landes, L. de
Lane
Lasegue
Laurent, E.
Lawrence, Sir W.
Laycock
Levi
Licetus
Liebault
Lietaud
Lipps
Litzmann
Lombroso
Lorion
Lortet
Lucas, J.C.
Lucretius
Lunier
Luschka
Lusini
Lydston

Macdonald, A.
MacGillicuddy
McKay, A.
Mackay, W.J.S.
Mackenzie, J.
Magnan
Malebranche
Mantegazza
Marandon de Montyel
Marc
Marro
Marshall, H.R.
Martial
Martin, J.M.H.
Martineau
Maschka
Masterman
Matignon
Mattel
McMordie
Mercier
Meredith, Ellis
Middleton, T.
Mirabeau
Mitchell, Sir A.
Moll
Mongeri
Morache
Moraglia
Morris, R.T.
Morselli
Motet
Moulin, J. Mansell
Mueller, J.
Munde, P.

Naecke
Neale, R.
Neri
Nicholson, H.O.
Nina Rodrigues

Obici
Onanoff
Ottolenghi
Ovid

Pacheco
Palfyn
Park, Mungo
Papillault
Pasini
Paterson, A.R.
Paulini
Paulus AEginetus
Pearse, W.H.
Pearson, Karl
Pechuel-Loesche
Pelanda
Pennant
Penta
Pfaff
Pierer
Pillon
Pinaeus
Pinard
Pitre, C.
Pitres
Pittard
Plant
Plautus
Pliny
Ploss
Poehl
Polemon
Pollux
Porta, Della
Power
Pyle

Raymond
Regis
Regnier, H. de
Reinach, S.
Renooz, Celine
Restif de la Bretonne
Retterer, E.