“I am going away. Yes, Tizzia, I am going away. I am going to know an entirely different life. I am going to have lovers. I shall sell myself to the highest bidder—to some man who will buy my body with his filthy dollars. I shall find out whether this creature, man, places more value upon a woman whom he actually buys at so much per pound, than upon the woman who comes to him with love in her heart. Yes, I shall know the world! I shall know. I shall go away.” Clarinda’s eyes narrowed. She went on slowly. Tizzia did not move from the edge of her chair.
“Peter, the lovely, gracious, Peter—the successful Peter, the Peter whom my father patted upon the back and told how wonderful he was—wonderful, because he could filch a few more dollars than another man. He shall know how I am doing. He shall be told, by me, of every step I take. He shall feel the degradation to which I shall fall—he, this lovely Peter, thinks because I am a woman—I shall weaken. He thinks no woman can stand up against the force projected by man. This wonderful person thinks that I being a woman should sue for pity, that in the end, I will come back to him, grovel at his feet and ask him to give me respectability. Men think this sort of thing because a woman has borne him a child. Poor, foolish creature! I am going to destroy myself not with a knife, nor a pistol, nor with poison. But I am going to destroy myself—kill all those finer things which are of me. I am going to the dregs. I shall suffer. O! I shall suffer miserably. I hate the touch of men, Tizzia! But I am going to teach myself to bear it.”
Clarinda stopped as if for breath. She still walked up and down the room at a furious pace.
“O! Madame, you can’t! You don’t know what you say,” Tizzia broke in, and there were tears in her voice.
“O, yes, I do. I know exactly what I say. More’s the pity,” Clarinda answered quickly. “Can you imagine me in a brothel? It is laughable. But I am going. I am going to have a lover. I want a lover. I’ve always wanted a lover. When I married I thought that was what I was getting. I did not. But now I shall have one. It will be wonderful to give oneself to a lover—a man! Probably I shall get one who has committed a great crime. We shall always live in fear of the police. Probably he may have killed some one for a lot of money. When I meet him he will have great piles of bills, and we will sneak out at night and spend it—always in fear. He will beat me. He will get drunk and be brutal. But he will be a man! And after all it may happen I shall learn to love him.” Clarinda laughed. Her laugh scared Tizzia, even more than her words. Tizzia did not believe she meant what she said. But when she laughed she thought it might be true. That she would do as she said.
Clarinda continued: “And this man—this criminal with whom I shall live, to whom I shall give my body, he will probably desert me when I am getting the least bit old. I will feel this age coming upon me, then I shall paint my face. I will fight age. I shall learn how it is done. Every year that comes upon me will make me suffer more—for I know men only love youth. They hate age. They want only the young. But that will be a long way off. I am only twenty-three! It might happen that this lover of mine, kills me in one of his drunken fits. What a glorious heritage to leave Peter’s boy. His mother killed in a brothel by a criminal, a murderer. What a headline for the newspapers. Mrs. Clarinda Thorbald, the wife of Mr. Peter Thorbald the successful banker, murdered in a brothel. I hope it happens. It would be a glorious end to a great career. O, it is wonderful!”
Clarinda walked over to the window, and said nothing further. She appeared to have talked herself out. A great calm descended upon her. Tizzia arose from her chair. She did not know what to do. She stood uncertainly in the middle of the room. Clarinda heard her as she moved. She turned.
“You will pack my things, Tizzia. Put all my jewelry in the bags. It is foolish to go without anything. That is quixotic. I must take my money, too. It is easier to get a lover with money than without.”
“You will change your mind about the rest, Madame. You are too good to do the horrible things you say. Madame is excited. When you have thought the matter over you will think again.”
Clarinda looked at Tizzia. “How little you know me,” she said. Her voice was weary. Tizzia could barely hear what she said. “How little everybody knows me. How different it might have been if Peter had known me. I regret Peter, for once I loved him. He was the one great thing in my life, but he has died.”