“She is yet another protégée of yours—do not deny it,” Malvinia charged, her maddened eyes flashing, and her teeth bared in a malevolent grimace, with unpleasant connotations of the carnivore, quite at odds, I hardly need emphasize, with the young beauty’s costly attire, and the heavy strands of pearls looped about her slender white throat. “Pray do not turn that visage of righteous denial upon me, Vandenhoffen, who know your stage technique so well: do not insult us both, by attempting a spirited denial, of what, no doubt, all of New York is whispering.”
Whether Vandenhoffen was this time altogether innocent of any infidelity, or whether the veteran thespian so controlled the range and timbre of his voice, that the most egregious lie might be uttered with the most compelling sincerity, I hardly know: but in any case that vexed gentleman, making his exit, gloves and top hat in hand, paused only to make a speech of distinctive brevity. “If you forbid me, my dear, to affirm my high regard for you, by a spirited denial of the charges brought against me—why, then, I find myself most powerless, and must simply leave!”—the while his nobly craggy brow darkened with the contention of storm and portentous calm, and his profile strongly defined itself, as both cruel and tender, outrageous and just.
“Liar! Adulterer! Murderer!” Malvinia cried; and would have flung a vase of purple orchids at the villain’s handsome head, had he not prudently made his exit.
AND EVEN IN this scene, in which the grossly physical, and the carnal, play no evident role, one can discern—albeit with hesitant, shrinking eyes—The Mark of the Beast.
THE CAPRICIOUS NATURE of the theatrical world is such, however, that, by merely taking on new roles—new costumes, new hair fashions, new “characters”—Malvinia could retain a sizable number of admirers, gaining some, losing some, and again gaining some, from season to season. If her passionate emoting as the betrayed wife in Fatal Secret met with but restrained enthusiasm, in New York City, it was certain to receive a fonder reception in Buffalo, or in St. Louis; and, in any case, her gifts for “innocent comedic malice,” tho’ “most remarkable in a woman,” would, the next season, regain her applause on Broadway, in a bright confection called Love’s Labors Won, a spoof from the pen of Mr. Mark Twain—at that time in his career when, tho’ immensely famous and wealthy, and scornful of both fame and wealth, that satirical gentleman evidently desired more. “You can’t be wealthy enough to satisfy your heirs”—so Mr. Twain has informed us.
And so the years giddily passed. And Malvinia Morloch, tho’ taking on, with admirable if misguided ambition, any number of disparate roles, remained essentially the same young woman: a precocious girl, to be more exact: a scheming ingénue. She was so incontestably beautiful, as even her enemies were forced to agree, that a great deal was forgiven her; there were even those pitiable gentlemen, some of them in possession of considerable wealth and social rank, who exhibited a contemptible greed for ill-treatment—altogether perverse, to any normal way of thinking, in the masculine sex.
Malvinia Morloch prided herself on her exquisite perfection as a woman. Tho’ hilariously scornful on the subject of Bloodsmoor mores—the examples of Grandmother Sarah Kiddemaster, and Great-Aunt Edwina, in particular—Malvinia did not in fact radically stray from certain prescriptions laid down by those excellent ladies, who knew that the physical by its very nature is gross, and that the flesh of the female sex, whilst required for habitation on this earth, is yet angelic in aspiration, and partakes not at all of the lusty carnal appetites of the male. All this Malvinia knew, and it is to her credit: she was excessively fastidious in her daily—nay, thrice or four times daily—toilette; she bathed in French oils, and Portuguese minerals, and pink-toned sparkling bubbles that filled the air of the entire hotel suite with the most lovely fragrance; she abhorred plump women, and disapproved prettily of fat men—even Diamond Jim Brady; she recoiled in exaggerated disdain from all unpleasant odors, particularly those originating from the human body. Tho’ hardly a maiden at this point in her shameless career, Malvinia Morloch yet played the maiden in her coquetry; she was bright, brittle, arch, chill; virginal in manner; affecting a flirtatious reluctance to be touched—so that a gentleman, kissing her proffered hand, even if gloved, was rewarded with an involuntary frisson from her, and, it may be, knew himself all the more fired, with a passion to conquer her nymphal resistance. From the very start in her relations with Orlando Vandenhoffen, when she allowed herself to be seduced, in his lavish hotel suite, in Philadelphia, Malvinia’s role was that of the violated virgin: shy, coy, blushing, bold, resisting, and then unresisting, but never exactly acquiescent: and, of course, never moved by any ignoble impulses, let alone carnal passions, of her own. In all this, I suppose, the young Zinn girl did comport herself well—and was, in a manner of speaking, an incarnation of Grandmother Sarah Kiddemaster, despite the public immorality of her life!
I shall not succumb, the beauteous young girl proudly declared, and, indeed, for some time, her boast was not o’erturned.
THE SEASONS PASSED, however, and the years: and it was not long before certain inclinations were aroused in the young woman, of a sort that baffled and disgusted her, in secret; and, as they errupted into visibility, must have equally baffled and disgusted her seducer—and frightened him as well, for the Mark of the Beast, as it asserted itself, could not fail to intimidate the most manly of individuals.
(The Mark of the Beast being that ominous trait for which Judge Kiddemaster had looked, in his great-grandson Godfrey, and, many years previously, in his four granddaughters. The precise details concerning the Kiddemaster taint, which evidently surfaced, in varying degrees of severity, from generation to generation, were never available to me: tho’ it may be helpful for the reader to learn that while Judge Kiddemaster and Great-Aunt Edwina knew fully of this genetic curse, Prudence did not: nor, of course, did John Quincy Zinn.)
In any case, as regards the intimate relations between Malvinia Morloch and Orlando Vandenhoffen, it seemed to transpire, as the young ingénue strengthened her talent, and achieved a substantial reputation in the theatrical world—soon acquiring not only an ability to endure, but a positive exhilaration in, daylong rehearsals in ill-heated and rat-infested theaters, and performances made under great emotional strain and excitement—and, it may be, as Vandenhoffen impressed her less as a figure of mythical dimensions, and more as a near-equal, the impetuous young woman troubled but infrequently to hold her emotions in check; with unlook’d-for consequences, as if a veritable Devil sprang up in her, in quarrelsome moments, or in moments of carnal intimacy.
Alas!—coarse jests, and ribald remarks, and an extreme physicality, of a type perhaps not known save to pathological medicine; the occasional release of unspeakable odors, emanating from the nether regions; as well as an unnatural lubricity, of the female organs, that could not have failed to arouse grave repugnance in Vandenhoffen—as, indeed, it did in the hapless Malvinia, who was utterly astonished at the demonic caprices of her body, once the lamplight was extinguished. (Malvinia soon discovered that The Beast’s most repulsive antics did not emerge, if the room were not bathed in total darkness. But, as no self-respecting female, even of the fallen ilk, would submit to any amorous embrace, save in the pitch-dark, this proved of little practical aid.)
At such times it was not unusual for Malvinia to wrestle with her lover as if she were no frail female creature, but another man: and she might yank at his hair, or kick him, or walk over him with her hot bare feet! Possessed by indefinable urges, she grunted, and cursed, and clawed, and bit, and pummeled with her fists, ofttimes causing genuine pain in Vandenhoffen, and arousing much alarm, chagrin, and fury, in addition to simple disgust. That she begged for forgiveness, afterward; and dissolved in tears of abject humiliation, claiming that she “had no idea what came over her,” and that “it would never, never happen again,” was but scant consolation to the matinee idol, who must have inquired of himself, with increasing frequency, whether he might not be best served by returning to
his lawful wedded wife, and to his children, in Europe, being assured by past experience that that good woman behaved, at such times, with saintly passivity, and had never given him the least grounds for offense.
Still, Vandenhoffen’s young mistress provoked such visible envy in other gentlemen, and had acquired such an agreeable renown of her own, in Café Society, that he was loath to give her up. Her creamy-pale skin and luminous blue eyes and dramatic dark hair, as well as her sloping shoulders, slim waist, graceful carriage, and the impeccable style of her couture, were all to his credit, as the most exquisite Arabian steed is to its rider’s credit, and a significant aspect of his public self. Vandenhoffen responded with icy anger, when his mistress received gifts, and even marriage proposals, from other gentlemen: but he was secretly delighted, and may have kept closer tabs on her admirers, than she would have thought to do herself. And, it might be noted, the shrewd thespian did not stint from partaking of the bounty that was showered upon Malvinia Morloch, whether in such trifling forms as liqueur-filled bonbons, or fresh-cut roses, or sybaritic repasts at the most exclusive restaurants and clubs in the city; or in such extravagant forms as jewels and furs and other finery, that might, in extremes of financial need, be exchanged for cash. (For Malvinia and Vandenhoffen lived with lavish abandon, as if deriving a frenetic, childlike joy out of spending money, and riveting the public’s attention upon them: such behavior, in such circles, being by no means remarkable during these “gilded” years, despite the fact that periodic economic depressions struck the nation, and it was not uncommon for frivolous theatergoers to pass, in the street, the most piteous “gentlemen-beggars,” their expressions registering naught but a blank stupor, as a consequence of the disaster that had befallen them.)
And so, Vandenhoffen thought it politic to forgive his mistress her occasional bizarre behavior, in the light of these considerable advantages; and, for her part, Malvinia made every effort to overcome her congenital deficiency—which, of course, she could hardly have known was congenital.
The more The Beast haunted her, the more Malvinia bathed, seeking to purge herself of offensive odors; she applied harsh depilatories, to rid herself of ugly hairs, that sprouted in her armpits, and elsewhere, with brutal persistence. She found that The Beast was somewhat subdued, if she went for most of a day without eating, and drinking naught but water. And, when the unitary act was unavoidable, as a consequence of her companion’s natural lustful appetite, and his imbibing of copious quantities of alcohol, the cunning young woman acquired the discipline of lying immobile, as if paralyzed, or a veritable corpse, the better to overcome unspeakable inclinations: and so, much of the time, her pride was maintained. (For she could not bear it, that Orlando Vandenhoffen, who had adored her from the first as his “Princess”—his “Angel”—his “Snow White”—should have any true suspicion, of the degree to which The Beast ofttimes permeated her being.)
I shall not succumb, Malvinia grimly instructed herself, but, alas, she had not always the choice.
FIFTY-SEVEN
It was many years later, at a private dinner in a most sumptuous dining room, in one of the newer and more palatial Fifth Avenue mansions, that Mark Twain said of Malvinia Morloch that he “would, but for his rheumatism, fall down in worship at her feet: for he greatly admired such vivacious life, to the extent that his own heart was dead.”
This drawling observation was greeted with somewhat confus’d laughter, and, from her position farther down the table, the greatly flattered actress made a show of opening her silk embroidered fan, that she might display her slender fingers, upon which many a jewel licentiously glittered; and, cleverly choosing not to have heard these words with any precision, tilted her head coquettishly, and said, in a charming mock drawl (in a pretty imitation of Mr. Twain’s slow, twangy, Western speech): “It would be a regrettable waste, sir, that so distinguished a man of letters, attired, moreover, in so dazzlingly resplendent a white costume, might so misconstrue the natural order of things, as to concern himself with my feet.” A speech greeted with even more appreciative laughter, from both the ladies and the gentlemen present (for, I hardly need say, the “ladies” in attendance at a banquet of such a kind, were possessed of no more natural feminine reticence than Malvinia herself).
It may have been the case that Malvinia Morloch’s cheeks did betray a light rosy blush, as if in girlish consternation at such words; but the blush, I assure you, had been cosmetically applied, some hours earlier, by the young woman’s adroit hand.
Malvinia’s slight acquaintanceship with the famed man of letters harked back nearly a decade, when, as I have recorded, she played an agreeably fresh ingénue in Ah Sin, and caught the erstwhile playwright’s eye. She had, however, glimpsed him but rarely in the intervening years, less I might infer, as a consequence of the married gentleman’s moral disapproval of her liaison with Vandenhoffen, than of the fact that, business and professional exigencies having arisen, Mark Twain had found it more pragmatic to dwell, for much of the year, in Europe.
The great man’s public person was so widely known, and his frequent presence in New York City so noted, that even the self-absorbed Malvinia Morloch could hardly fail to be aware of him, and to admire him, rather more for his enormous success and prosperity, than for his writings. (There is a distinct possibility that, as a girl, she might have glanced through a copy of Roughing It, and The Innocents Abroad—that lively book being one of Judge Kiddemaster’s great favorites, for, as he phrased it, “he had badly needed instructions not to feel guilt, that Europe, with its interminable cathedrals, and madonnas, and gibbering jabbering culture, had left him stone cold every time.”) And, too, a merry imperative of Twain’s—Earn a character if you can, and if you can’t, assume one—had struck her innocent ears as altogether sensible, rather than cynical: tho’, for many years, she had believed it to be yet another of Franklin’s waggish epigrams.
Like all observers who gazed upon Mr. Twain, knowing in fact that he was Mr. Twain, and not a mere nobody with a sudden surplus of cash, that allowed him to hire a tailor, and give himself a swaggering mock-modest style, Malvinia admired his manly countenance, and thought him, for his age (he was fifty-eight years old, when Malvinia was thirty-three), wondrously appealing: with his thick unruly gray-white hair; and his bushy eyebrows that gave him a look of leonine but playful ferocity; and his slow, guarded, twangy “bumpkin” speech; and his bristling mustache—so large, it covered his entire upper lip, and subtly masked his expression—whether he smiled or grimaced, or merely pursed his lips, in habitual amused censure of the folly glimpsed on all sides. She could not fail, like any young woman of her ilk, to admire his ostentatious clothes, and his evident wealth, which displayed itself in the size and elegance of the carriages he hired, and, tho’ I must not give the impression that, over the years, Malvinia Morloch truly took note of the illustrious author, with anything approaching a systematic interest (being frantically absorbed in both her professional career, and her tumultuous private life), she would certainly have concurred with popular sentiment, because it was popular, that Mr. Mark Twain ranked with the highest literary geniuses of all time, whether American, or European; or whatever. (“I have read your books, Mr. Twain,” Malvinia said, upon the occasion of his taking her to dine at the Park Lane, on canvasback duck, turbot, and roast beef, “tho’ perhaps not all of them,” she allowed, so dipping her melodious voice, that her archness was for once infused with a most pleasant sweetness, “and, I must say, they have made me laugh, and made me think; and I am most grateful to you.” Mr. Twain then tugged at his generous, manly mustache, and allowed himself a small gratified smile, and inquired of his pretty companion which book of his she most cherished, Thrice-Told Tales, or The Fall of the House of Usher? Whereupon the shrewd Malvinia, sensing something amiss, pouted, and murmured that she did not like to be interrogated, let alone trifled with: for it was in her nature to be artless and sincere, and to speak her heart fully, with no thought of being quizzed or judge
d.)
THE OBSESSIVE PURSUIT of Miss Malvinia Morloch by Mr. Mark Twain was to occupy that bemused gentleman for but eight or nine months, out of a most complex and troubled lifetime; and within, as well, a particularly troubled year, so far as Mr. Twain’s chronic business difficulties were concerned (his investment in the doomed Paige typesetting machine taking precedence over other vexations); and his heartrending familial problems, of which he took care never to allude to, in Malvinia’s presence (for his faithful wife, Livy, at that time dwelling in Europe, continued to suffer ill-health, as did his epileptic daugther, Jean); and his own deepening perceptions as to the “malign thug” who ruled over the universe. (Such heretical usage giving me pause, as I hardly need inform the reader, in the very act of recording it: for is not one susceptible to wickedness merely by taking note of it?—and is the chronicler, however innocent, and proceeding but along the lines laid out by Duty, perhaps guilty of disseminating that very wickedness she would transcend?)