A Bloodsmoor Romance (77 page)

Indeed, yes: you are not mistaken in your memory, dear reader: but much mistaken, I am afraid, in your credulousness. For Malvinia no longer adored Vandenhoffen, nor did he adore—or, it may be, very clearly recall—his bewitching protégée, whose career he had overseen, and, most repulsive of all, a certain unspeakable
inclination
in her carnal being, that, at last, he experienced an altogether masculine repugnance for her; and squeezed out of his heart, forever, any sentimental illusion as regarding
love
for such a creature, let alone lightsome
romance.

In any case, this much-heralded union of two great “stars” had unloos'd itself, and dissolv'd utterly, to the malicious delight of all observers, some four or five years before the advent of Mr. Mark Twain.

 

I SHALL NOT
succumb,
Malvinia inwardly vowed, pacing about her hotel room like a caged tigress, as she awaited the ring of the telephone, and the discreet announcement, from the desk clerk, that her importunate suitor was in the lobby, and would shortly ascend, to rap at her door.
I shall not succumb to it again,
the near-frantic woman beseeched herself,
or, I swear, I will do away with myself at last: for what other punishment is equivalent to the crime?

FIFTY-SIX

A
fter her premature, and, indeed, unearned, ascent to theatrical fame, in the early Eighties, Malvinia Morloch inevitably found herself on a sort of plateau—high enough in itself, but possessed of very few acclivities; and some surprising declivities. She learned, to her untutor'd astonishment, that the theatergoing public could become ecstatic over a new, and younger, Juliet; that, the very season following the success of “Countess Fifine,” one “Baronne Zoë” might appear—a flaxen-haired Nordic beauty whose crown of braids, and whose somewhat affected Scandinavian accent, would inspire hundreds of imitators, amongst the fashionable female set.

Poor Malvinia could not help but feel that the public's clamorous interest in another young actress was a literal rejection of
her
—and one of her stormiest, and prolonged, sessions with Orlando Vandenhoffen, was a consequence of a simple notice in the
Tribune,
to the effect that, upon the removal of Miss Malvinia Morloch to a new play, her understudy Miss Nelly Lockwood had acquitted herself superbly: the suggestion that Malvinia leave the long-running
Bride of Llewellyn
to open in
Fatal Secret
having stemmed from Vandenhoffen, who stood accused, tho' he hotly contested the fact, of being a secret protector of Miss Lockwood! (The critic for the
Tribune
said of Nelly Lockwood: “This lovely young actress possesses in abundance a piquant maidenly charm quite in contrast to Malvinia Morloch's more tempestuous and, as it were, exhilarant, powers; and is altogether her
equal
in mesmerizing an entire theater. Miss Nelly Lockwood, a hearty welcome from one and all!”)—an amiable notice which inspired a most unamiable rage in Miss Morloch.

“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.