They had the satisfaction of sleeping not only with a reputation or a stock of wisdom, not only with a federal judgeship, for example, or the presidency of a chamber of commerce, but also and simultaneously with a wounded soldier, with an imbecile child, with a lovely stinking little baby who still made messes in its bed. Even this cutie (Dr. Obispo shot a sideways glance in the direction of the soda fountain), even this one had something of the Florence Nightingale in her, something of the Gold Star Mother. (And that in spite of the fact that, with her conscious mind, she felt a kind of physical horror of maternity.) Jo Stoyte was a little bit her baby and her patient; and at the same time, of course, he was a great deal her own private Abraham Lincoln. Incidentally, he also happened to be the man with the cheque book. Which was a consideration, of course. But if he were only that, Virginia wouldn’t have been so nearly happy as she obviously was. The cheque book was made more attractive by being in the hands of a demigod who had to have a nanny to change his diapers.
“Turn round, please.”
Mr. Stoyte obeyed. The back, Dr. Obispo reflected, was perceptibly less revolting than the front. Perhaps because it was less personal.
“Take a deep breath,” he said; for he was going to play the farce all over again on this new stage. “Another.”
Mr. Stoyte breathed enormously, like a cetacean.
“And again,” said Dr. Obispo, reflecting as the old man snorted, that his own chief asset was a refreshing unlikeness to this smelly old gut-sack. She would take him, and take him, what was more, on his own terms. No Romeo-and-Juliet acts, no nonsense about Love with a large L, none of that popular-song claptrap with its skies of blue, dreams come true, heaven with you. Just sensuality for its own sake. The real, essential, concrete thing; no less, it went without saying, but also (and this most certainly didn’t go without saying for the bitches were always trying to get you to stick them on pedestals, or be their soul-mates), also no more. No more, to begin with, out of respect for scientific truth.
He believed in scientific truth. Facts were facts; accept them as such. It was a fact, for example, that young girls in the pay of rich old men could be seduced without much difficulty. It was also a fact that rich old men, however successful at business, were generally so frightened, ignorant and stupid that they could be bamboozled by any intelligent person who chose to try.
“Say ninety-nine again,” he said aloud.
“Ninety-nine. Ninety-nine.”
Ninety-nine chances out of a hundred that they would never find out anything. That was the fact about old men. The fact about love was that it consisted essentially of tumescence and detumescence. So why embroider the fact with unnecessary fictions? Why not be realistic? Why not treat the whole business scientifically?
“Ninety-nine,” Mr. Stoyte went on repeating. “Ninety-nine.”
And then, Dr. Obispo went on to reflect, as he listened without interest to the whisperings and crepitations inside the warm, smelly barrel before him, then there were the more personal reasons for preferring to take love unadorned, in the chemically pure condition. Personal reasons that were, also, of course, a fact that had to be accepted. For it was a fact that he personally found an added pleasure in the imposition of his will upon the partner he had chosen. To be pleasurable, this imposition of will must never be too easy, too much a matter of course. Which ruled out all professionals.
The partner had to be an amateur and, like all amateurs, committed to the thesis that tumescence and detumescence should always be associated with LOVE, PASSION, SOUL-MATING—all in upper-case letters. In imposing his will, he imposed the contradictory doctrine, the doctrine of tumescence and detumescence for tumescence^ and detumescence’s sake. All he asked was that a partner should give the thesis a practical tryout—however reluctantly, however experimentally, for just once only; he didn’t care. Just a single tryout. After that it was up to him. If he couldn’t make a permanent and enthusiastic convert of her, at any rate so far as he was concerned, then the fault was his.
“Ninety-nine, ninety-nine,” said Mr. Stoyte with exemplary patience.
“You can stop now,” Dr. Obispo told him graciously.
Just one tryout; he could practically guarantee himself success. It was a branch of applied physiology; he was an expert, a specialist. The Claude Bernard of the subject. And talk of imposing one’s will! You began by forcing the girl to accept a thesis that was in flat contradiction to all the ideas she had been brought up with, all the dreams-come-true rigmarole of popular ideology. Quite a pleasant little victory, to be sure. But it was only when you got down to the applied physiology that the series of really satisfying triumphs began.
You took an ordinarily rational human being, a good hundred-percent American with a background, a position in society, a set of conventions, a code of ethics, a religion (Catholic in the present instance, Dr. Obispo remembered parenthetically); you took this good citizen, with rights fully and formally guaranteed by the Constitution, you took her (and perhaps she had come to the place of assignation in her husband’s Packard limousine and direct from a banquet, with speeches in honor, say, of Dr. Nicholas Murray Butler or the retiring Archbishop of Indianapolis), you took her and you proceeded, systematically and scientifically, to reduce this unique personality to a mere epileptic body, moaning and gibbering under the excruciations of a pleasure for which you, the Claude Bernard of the subject, were responsible and of which you remained the enjoying, but always detached, always ironically amused, spectator.
“Just a few more deep breaths, if you don’t mind.”
Wheezily Mr. Stoyte inhaled, then with a snorting sigh emptied his lungs.
Chapter XI
THERE was silence after Mr. Stoyte’s departure. A long silence, while each of the three men thought his own private thoughts. It was Pete who spoke first.
“Things like that,” he said gloomily, “they get me kind of wondering if I ought to go on taking his money. What would you do, Mr. Propter, if you were me?”
“What would I do?” Mr. Propter reflected for a moment. “I’d go on working in Jo’s laboratory,” he said. “But only so long as I felt fairly certain that what I was doing wouldn’t cause more harm than good. One has to be a utilitarian in these matters. A utilitarian with a difference,” he qualified. “Bentham crossed with Eckhart, say, or Nagarjuna.”
“Poor Bentham!” said Jeremy, horrified by the thought of what was being done to his namesake.
Mr. Propter smiled. “Poor Bentham, indeed! Such a good, sweet, absurd, intelligent man! So nearly right; but so enormously wrong! Deluding himself with the notion that the greatest happiness of the greatest number could be achieved on the strictly human level—the level of time and evil, the level of the absence of God. Poor Bentham!” he repeated. “What a great man he would have been if only he could have grasped that good can’t be had except where it exists!”
“That sort of utilitarian you’re talking about,” said Pete, “what would he feel about the job I’m doing now?”
“I don’t know,” Mr. Propter answered. “I haven’t thought about it enough to guess what he’d say. And anyhow we haven’t yet got the empirical material on which a reasonable judgment could be based. All I know is that if I were in on this I’d be cautious. Infinitely cautious,” he insisted.
“And what about the money?” Pete went on. “Seeing where it comes from and who it belongs to, do you think I ought to take it?”
“All money’s pretty dirty,” said Mr. Propter. “I don’t know that poor Jo’s is appreciably dirtier than any one else’s. You may think it is; but that’s only because, for the first time, you’re seeing money at its source—its personal, human source. You’re like one of those city children who have been used to getting their milk in sterilized bottles from a shiny white delivery wagon. When they go into the country and see it being pumped out of a big, fat, smelly old animal, they’re horrified, they’re disgusted. It’s the same with money. You’ve been used to getting it from behind a bronze grating in a magnificent marble bank.
Now, you’ve come out into the country and are living in the cow shed with the animal that actually secretes the stuff. And the process doesn’t strike you as very savoury or hygienic. But the same process was going on, even when you didn’t know about it. And if you weren’t working for Jo Stoyte, you’d probably be working for some college or university. But where do colleges and universities get their money from? From rich men. In other words, from people like Jo Stoyte. Again, it’s
