Henry and June: From "A Journal of Love" -The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin (1931-1932) (19 page)

His kisses are wet like rain. I have swallowed his sperm. He has kissed the sperm off my lips. I have smelled my own honey on his mouth.

I go to Allendy in a state of tremendous elation. I tell him first about the article I am doing for him, which I found discouragingly difficult. He tells me of a simpler way of doing it. Then I tell him of a dream I had in which I had asked him to come to Joaquin's piano concert because I needed him there. In the dream he was standing up in the aisle and towering over other people. My reading of his books has raised him very much in my estimation. I asked him if he would really come to the concert. I know he is tremendously busy, yet he accepted.

I told him about my "watery" dreams and the dream of a King's ball. He said the wetness symbolized fecundation, and the love of the King was the conquest of my father through other men. For the moment, he thought, I was on a peak and scarcely needed him. I told him I could not believe psychoanalysis worked so swiftly. I praised its effects extravagantly. His manner towards me affected me joyously, too. I observed again the beauty of his Celtic eyes. Then he made a masterful analysis of my marriage, from bits gleaned here and there.

"But," says Allendy, "now comes the test of absolute maturity: passion. You have molded Hugo like a mother, and he is your child. He cannot arouse your passion. He knows you so intimately that perhaps his passion, too, will turn to another. You have gone through phases together, but now you will drift apart. You yourself have experienced passion with someone else. Tenderness, understanding, and passion are not usually linked together. But then, tenderness and understanding are so rare."

"But they are immature," I said. "Passion is so powerful."

Allendy smiled, sadly, I thought. Then I said, "This analysis, it seems to me, might apply to Eduardo's feelings, too."

"No. Eduardo really loves you, and you love him, I believe."

Allendy was wrong. When I left him, still buoyant and courageous, I talked with Eduardo. "Listen, darling," I said. "I think we really love each other, fraternally. We can't do without each other, because there is so much understanding between us. If we had married, it would have been a marriage like that of Hugo and me. You would have worked, developed, been happy. We are so delicate and careful with each other. We also want passion. But I can never look at you as I look at other men. You cannot have a passion for me as you would for a woman whose soul you don't know. Believe me, I'm right. Don't be hurt. I feel close to you. You need me. We need each other. We'll find passion elsewhere."

Eduardo realizes I am partly right. We sit very close in the café. We walk together very close. We are half sad, half joyous. It is warm. He smells my perfume. I look at his beautiful face. We desire each other. But it's a mirage. It's only because we are so young, and it is summer, and we are walking body against body.

Hugo is coming to take me home, and so Eduardo and I kiss, and that is all.

At Joaquin's concert Eduardo sits next to me, so beautiful. My lover Henry is sitting where I cannot see him. When we all rise for the intermission, Allendy stands in the aisle. Our eyes meet. There is sadness in them, a seriousness, which moves me. As I walk about with feline movements I know I am seducing Allendy and Eduardo and Henry and others. There is a fiery, handsome Italian violinist. There is my father, who changes his seat to place himself in front of me. There is a Spanish painter.

One layer of physical confidence, one layer of timid seductiveness, one layer of childish despair, because Mother made such a scene when she saw Father arriving at the concert. And poor Joaquin was upset and nervous, but he played superbly.

Henry was intimidated by the crowd. I pressed his hand very hard. He seemed strange and distant. I faced my father with a statuelike poise. I felt the child in me still frightened. Allendy towered over the crowd. I wanted to walk up to him, as in the dream, and stand by his side. Would he give me strength? No. He himself has sometimes weakened. Everybody has his timidities, his self-doubts. I carry layers of feelings, sensations. The heavy lamé on my naked body. The caress of the velvet cape. The weight of the full sleeves. The hypnotic glow of the lights. I am aware of my trailing walk, of hands shaking mine.

Eduardo is drugged. With my words, my perfume (Narcisse Noir). When he met Henry, he drew himself up, proud, beautiful. In the car his leg seeks mine. Joaquin covers me with his cape. As I enter the Café du Rond Point everybody looks at me. I see I have fooled them. I have concealed the smaller me.

Hugo is paternal, protective. He pays for the champagne. I am longing for Henry, who could scatter all the layers stifling me, break open the oyster hypnotized with her fear of the world.

I said to Henry, "You have known much passion, but you have never known closeness, intimacy with a woman, understanding." "That's so true," he said. "Woman for me was an enemy, a destroyer, one who would take things from me, not one whom I could live with closely, be happy with."

I begin to see the preciousness of what Henry and I feel for each other, of what it is he gives me that he has not given June. I begin to understand Allendy's thoughtful smile when I depreciate tender love, friendship.

What he does not know is that I must complete the unfulfilled portions of my life, that I must have what I have missed so far, to complete myself and my own story.

But I cannot enjoy sexuality for its own sake, independent of my feelings. I am inherently faithful to the man who possesses me. Now it is a whole faithfulness to Henry. I tried to enjoy Hugo today, to please him, and I couldn't. I had to pretend.

If there were no June in the world today, I could know the end of my restlessness. I awoke one morning crying. Henry had said to me, "I really take no pleasure in your body. It isn't your body I love." And the sorrowfulness of that moment comes back. Yet, the last time we were together he had said wild things about the beauty of my legs and of my knowing so well how to fuck. Poor woman!

Both Hugo and Henry like to watch my face when they make love to me. But now, for Hugo, my face is a mask.

Allendy told Hugo at the concert that I was a very interesting subject, that I responded so sensitively and quickly. That I was almost cured. But that evening I again had the sensation of wanting to dazzle Allendy, while concealing some secret part of my real self. There must always be something secret. From Henry I conceal the fact that I rarely get ultimate sexual satisfaction because he likes my legs wide open, and I need to close them. I don't want to diminish his pleasure. Besides, I get a kind of disseminated pleasure which, even if it is less keen, lasts longer than an orgasm.

Henry wrote me a letter after the concert. I put it under my pillow last night: "Anaïs, I was dazzled by your beauty! I lost my head, I felt wretched. I have been blind, blind, I said to myself. You stood there like a Princess. You were the Infanta! You looked thoroughly disappointed in me. What was the matter? Did I look stupid? I probably was. I wanted to get down on my knees and kiss the hem of your dress. So many Anaïses you have shown me—and now this one!—as if to prove your Protean versatility. Do you know what Fraenkel said to me? 'I never expected to see a woman as beautiful as that. How can a woman of such femininity, such beauty, write a book [on D. H. Lawrence]?' Oh, that pleased me no end! The little tuft of hair coming up over the crown, the lustrous eyes, the gorgeous shoulder line, and those sleeves I adore, regal, Florentine, diabolistic! I saw nothing below the bosom. I was too excited to stand off and survey you. How much I wanted to whisk you away forever. Eloping with the Infanta—ye gods. Feverishly I sought out the Father. I think I spotted him. His hair was the clue. Strange hair, strange face, strange family. Presentiment of genius. Ah, yes, Anaïs, I am taking everything quietly—because you belong in another world. I see nothing in myself to recommend your interest. Your
love
? That seems fantastic to me now. It is some divine prank, some cruel jest you are playing on me ...
I want you."

I said to Allendy, "Don't analyze me today. Let's talk about you. I am enthusiastic over your books. Let's talk about death."

Allendy assents. Then we discuss Joaquin's concert. He said my father looked like a young man. Henry made him think of a famous German painter—too soft, perhaps double sided? an unconscious homosexual? Now I am surprised.

My article was good, says Allendy, but why do I not want to be analyzed? As soon as I begin to depend on him I want to win his confidence, analyze
him
, find a weakness in him, conquer him a little because I have been conquered.

He is right. "Yet," I protest, "it seems to me it is a sign of sympathy." He says yes, because that is the way I treat all those I love. Although I want to be conquered, I do all I can to conquer, and when I have conquered, my tenderness is aroused and my passion dies. And Henry? It is too soon to tell.

Allendy says that although I appeared to be seeking domination and cruelty and brutality in Henry (I found them in his writing), my real instinct told me there was a softness in the man. And that although I appear to be surprised that Henry should be so gentle, so scrupulous with me, I am now really glad. I have conquered again.

I have been cruel to Hugo. Yesterday I didn't want him to come home. I felt a terrible hostility. And it showed. Henry and his friend Fraenkel were there in the evening. I stopped Hugo when he was reading out loud, something too long, monotonously, and I changed the subject once so brusquely that Fraenkel noticed it. But Fraenkel liked Hugo, thought highly of him. Once Hugo moved his chair, after having put some books and manuscripts on the floor. Later he sat on it, and Henry's manuscript was right under a leg of the chair. That made me restless. I finally got up and tenderly picked it up.

There was a humorous moment when Fraenkel was talking about Henry's sound way of sleeping and how long he slept. I looked mischievously at Henry and said, "Is that so? Really?"

My Henry listened like a big bear to little, sinuous Fraenkel explaining complex abstract ideas. Fraenkel has a passion for ideas. Fraenkel, as Henry says,
is
an idea. A year ago those ideas would have filled me with joy. But Henry has done something to me, Henry the man. I can only compare what I feel to Lady Chatterley's feelings about Mellors. I cannot even think about Henry's work or Henry himself without a stirring in my womb. Today we had time only for kisses, and they alone melted me.

Hugo tells me his instinct assures him there is nothing between Henry and me. Last night when I slipped Henry's letter under my pillow, I wondered if the paper would crackle and Hugo would hear it, if he would read the letter while I lay asleep. I am taking great risks, with exhilaration. I want to make big sacrifices for my love. My husband, Louveciennes, my beautiful life—for Henry.

Allendy says, "Give yourself wholly to one person. Depend. Lean. Have confidence. Have no fear of pain."

I think I have, with Henry. And yet I still feel alone and divided.

He left me at the Gare St. Lazare last night. I began to write in the train, to balance the seven-leagued-boot leaping of my life with the ant activity of the pen. The ant words rushed back and forth carrying crumbs: such heavy crumbs. Bigger than the ants. "Have you enough heliotrope ink?" Henry asked. I should not be using ink but perfume. I should be writing with Narcisse Noir, with Mitsouko, with jasmine, with honeysuckle. I could write beautiful words that would exhale the potent smell of woman's honey and man's white blood.

Louveciennes! Stop. Hugo is waiting for me. Retrogression. The past: The train to Long Beach. Hugo in a golf suit. His legs stretched out near mine arouse me. I have brought iodine because he gets sudden toothaches. I wear an organdy dress, stiff and fresh, and a picture hat with cherries dangling on the right, in a dip of the large soft wing. The Sunday crowd is flushed, sunburnt, tattered, ugly. I return loaded with my first true kiss.

In the train again—this time to meet Henry. When I ride this way, with my pen and my journal, I feel extraordinarily secure. I see the hole in my glove and a mend in my stocking. All because Henry must eat. And I am happy that I can give Henry security, food. At certain moments, when I look into his unreadable blue eyes, I have a sensation of such torrential happiness that I feel emptied.

Eduardo and I were going to spend the whole afternoon together. We began with an abundant lunch in the Rotisserie de la Reine Pedaque, a place which makes one hungry. Malicious, psychoanalytical conversation. Fresh strawberries. Eduardo warming, melting, desirous. So I say, "Let's go to the movies. I know one we should see."

He is obstinate. But there is no more pity or weakness in me. I am just as obstinate. Eduardo with the Hotel Anjou in mind. I with Henry's blood in my veins. All during the lunch I thought how much I would like to bring Henry to the place. Give him food out of those enormous, fairy-tale banquet dishes. Eduardo is very angry, in a chill way. He says, "I'll take you to the Gare St. Lazare. You can make the two-twenty-five."

But I have a rendezvous with Henry at six. We walk a bit together and then we separate, both angry, with barely any words. I see him walking aimlessly and desolately. I cross the street and walk into the Printemps. I go to the counter with necklaces and bracelets and earrings, which dazzle me always. I stand like a fascinated savage. Glitter. Amethyst. Turquoise. Shell pink. Irish green. I would like to be naked and cover myself with cold crystal jewelry. Jewelry and perfume. I see two very broad flat steel bracelets. Handcuffs. I am the slave of bracelets. They are soon clasped on my wrists. I pay. I buy rouge, powder, nail lacquer. I do not think of Eduardo. I go to the coiffeur, where I can sit still and frozen. I write with a wrist encircled in steel.

Later, Henry asks questions. I refuse to answer. I resort to women's tricks. I keep the secret of my faithfulness. We press each other's arms as we walk through the streets of Paris. A dangerous hour. I have already experienced today the strange pleasure of hurting Eduardo. Now I want to stay with Henry and hurt Hugo. I can't bear to be going home alone, while Henry goes to Clichy. I am tormented by the desire we couldn't satisfy. It is he who is now afraid of my madness.