great effort to refrain from crying—less because of any real pain than out of frustration and outrage—as the barrel passed over him uncomfortably and in his opinion for far too long. Yet there also came a strange feeling of voluptuousness, which grew more pronounced when Lisa in cruel triumph palpated the victim with her foot to count the “broken” bones. Towering over him, she seemed bigger and no longer a child. Her face was barely recognizable; it had become that of a strange and beautiful woman.
Freed at last by their nanny—Lisa having proved more adept at tying than undoing—Henry gave vent to his displeasure; then Lisa was very sweet and contrite, but when she tried to kiss him, he shrank in consternation and made a show of temper to hide the queer new feelings he could neither express nor comprehend.
Later in life, Pinkerton was struck more than once by the beauty of a woman's face viewed from below, even when that facenormally held little appeal for him. He became aroused on these occasions and wished for the woman to “continue,” though he did not know precisely how. Nor could his desire be told, for however she might proceed, it had to be on her initiative, not his. The longed-for “continuation” never once took place; the woman would kiss him or in some other way deflect rather than give substance to what remained a tantalizing foretaste of desire. On this point Butterfly fared no better than others. In the early days of their marriage, it often excited him to see her masklike face hovering and swaying over him. For a brief moment, she would seem indeed to embody the erotic mysteries he so eagerly pursued. Light enough for him to lift with aplomb, she would stay on top for long periods, delighting him with her stamina and supple grace. But unaware of his mute, hidden desire, she like the others failed to draw it out, though unlike them, she had the artto make him forget it was ever there.
15
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----
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----
(The Nagasaki ms.)
One day I went down to breakfast a little earlier than usual and found Marika alone in her preparations. There was little for her to do in our well-staffed house, and as she had a room adjoining Kate's in a wing I seldom visited, I rarely saw her except in the morning, when she prepared freshly ground coffee on an alcohol burner, and little enough even then, for she was very discreet and—after looking me over so boldly the first day—hardly ever glanced in my direction. This suited me despite my curiosity, for I felt strongly her allure and clearly it would not do to flirt with Kate's maid.
On this morning, however, she smiled prettily when I entered,but left it to me to utter a greeting. I amused myself with the thought that slaves were perhaps not subject to the same rules of politeness as servants. Smiling back, I asked her in halting French where she was from and how long she had been in the country. She answered in English, in a mixed accent whose charm was enhanced by her low, purring voice.
Did she like America?
“Some things I like,” she replied in her decided manner. “I like the trees. The leaves are beautiful.” I waited, but nothing more came. She started to measure out the coffee beans.
Anything else?
She thought for a moment. “Peanut butter,” she said and lapsed back into silence.
And what didn't she like?
“Coffee,” came the instant reply. “No taste, no bouquet.” She sat down on a chair next to the sideboard with the coffee mill between her thighs. “And men,” she continued as she looked across into my eyes. “They are frustres ,like the trees. They don't know how to . . .” The rest got lost in a noisy burst of energetic cranking, but her eyes, still fixed on my face, glinted suggestively. After a minute or so of furious grinding, she left off and gave her hand a little shake.
“Hard work,” I sympathized.
"Ah oui!” she agreed, breathing deeply. “You want to grind for me?”
I had seated myself at the table a
Freed at last by their nanny—Lisa having proved more adept at tying than undoing—Henry gave vent to his displeasure; then Lisa was very sweet and contrite, but when she tried to kiss him, he shrank in consternation and made a show of temper to hide the queer new feelings he could neither express nor comprehend.
Later in life, Pinkerton was struck more than once by the beauty of a woman's face viewed from below, even when that facenormally held little appeal for him. He became aroused on these occasions and wished for the woman to “continue,” though he did not know precisely how. Nor could his desire be told, for however she might proceed, it had to be on her initiative, not his. The longed-for “continuation” never once took place; the woman would kiss him or in some other way deflect rather than give substance to what remained a tantalizing foretaste of desire. On this point Butterfly fared no better than others. In the early days of their marriage, it often excited him to see her masklike face hovering and swaying over him. For a brief moment, she would seem indeed to embody the erotic mysteries he so eagerly pursued. Light enough for him to lift with aplomb, she would stay on top for long periods, delighting him with her stamina and supple grace. But unaware of his mute, hidden desire, she like the others failed to draw it out, though unlike them, she had the artto make him forget it was ever there.
15
----
----
----
----
(The Nagasaki ms.)
One day I went down to breakfast a little earlier than usual and found Marika alone in her preparations. There was little for her to do in our well-staffed house, and as she had a room adjoining Kate's in a wing I seldom visited, I rarely saw her except in the morning, when she prepared freshly ground coffee on an alcohol burner, and little enough even then, for she was very discreet and—after looking me over so boldly the first day—hardly ever glanced in my direction. This suited me despite my curiosity, for I felt strongly her allure and clearly it would not do to flirt with Kate's maid.
On this morning, however, she smiled prettily when I entered,but left it to me to utter a greeting. I amused myself with the thought that slaves were perhaps not subject to the same rules of politeness as servants. Smiling back, I asked her in halting French where she was from and how long she had been in the country. She answered in English, in a mixed accent whose charm was enhanced by her low, purring voice.
Did she like America?
“Some things I like,” she replied in her decided manner. “I like the trees. The leaves are beautiful.” I waited, but nothing more came. She started to measure out the coffee beans.
Anything else?
She thought for a moment. “Peanut butter,” she said and lapsed back into silence.
And what didn't she like?
“Coffee,” came the instant reply. “No taste, no bouquet.” She sat down on a chair next to the sideboard with the coffee mill between her thighs. “And men,” she continued as she looked across into my eyes. “They are frustres ,like the trees. They don't know how to . . .” The rest got lost in a noisy burst of energetic cranking, but her eyes, still fixed on my face, glinted suggestively. After a minute or so of furious grinding, she left off and gave her hand a little shake.
“Hard work,” I sympathized.
"Ah oui!” she agreed, breathing deeply. “You want to grind for me?”
I had seated myself at the table a
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