The Mistress of Mankind
* * *Chapter II
* * *Sunlight shone through the giant windows that lined the walls of Caird Hall. On the stage, Isbel stood behind the glass podium, and looked at her audience. She pulled her shoulders back, held her neck up proudly, and began her speech.
“Hello, ladies of Notre Dame.
I’m thrilled to be your commencement speaker today. I know you have all worked very hard to get here.
I’m only a handful of years older than you. I’ve been incredibly fortunate in my life. I didn’t know what feminism was when I was a child. I was acting like a feminist in school before I even knew there was a word for it. I never thought I was anything less than equal to the boys in my class. But so many girls don’t have the same experience.
I learned so much when I was in college, as I hope you all have done. I took all the experiences I had with me, into my social life, into my acting, into my politics, into all aspects of my mind. I learned that through long struggle of women throughout history, you and I are free to explore the world and ourselves in any manner we choose.
However, there is still so much more to do. And it is not only up to me, it is up to all of you now, too. People are going to be listening to what you have to say. Everyone here must raise their voices in protest, together. You have to demand equal respect, equal leadership, and equal pay.
Even though women earn sixty percent of the college degrees each year, they make up only thirty percent of doctors, nineteen percent of congress, and fifteen percent of chief executive officers. Women still continue to fight for their rights all over the world. We must make men realise that we are in no way inferior to them. We cannot rest until women never have to ask a man permission for anything ever again.
Look at the women sitting on either side of you. They aren’t just your peers. They’re your equals. They’re also your greatest allies. The only way that we are going to succeed is by supporting each other’s dreams and ambitions.
As an actress, I feel a personal obligation and a social responsibility to speak up for equality. I will be blessed if I can set an example to you all. Thank you.”
Isbel smiled again as her audience broke into applause. Once the ceremony was over, she slowly made her way through the crowd of excitable girls who asked her for a photo or an autograph. As she talked to one of the school’s teachers, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to find a courier holding out an envelope.
“For you, Ms McCauley.” He said.
Inside, she discovered a handwritten note from Alexander Lydon. It was another invitation to meet with him. It had been several weeks since they had dined together, and Isbel had begun to wonder if he would ever be in touch. She noticed that the invitation was for that evening, at an uptown bar called The Blind Tiger.
She looked at her watch. If she left now, she would have just enough time to return to her apartment and retrieve the special folder she had prepared. She had spent several nights investigating this mysterious club of his, and there were a lot of questions for him to answer. She would also have time to change her outfit. She hurriedly made her excuses and left.
Evening was falling as Isbel’s taxi arrived at the address she had been given. Looking across the street, she wondered where she was meant to go. After some exploration, The Blind Tiger turned out to be an unmarked black door on the corner of the building. A large man in a black parka stood outside. As she walked closer, he nodded and opened the door. She imagined he had recognised her.
She found herself descending a dark, unfamiliar staircase. At the bottom she emerged into a cosy bar, styled like a Prohibition-era speakeasy. The walls were crowded with candle-lit bookcases. Behind the long bar, hand-painted painted on bare bricks, there was a sign stating, “RESTORATIVE LIBATIONS”. The room was crowded.
A waiter dressed in black greeted her.
“I have a reservation with a Mr Lydon.” He consulted his book and nodded. “This way, please.”
He led her to a table. It was empty. She took off her trench coat and sat down.
“Would you like a drink while you wait?” The waiter asked.
“Just water, please.”
Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Isbel fidgeted and tried not to glance at her watch.
In one corner of the room there was a small stage, on which a three-piece band were playing old-fashioned pop standards. They had just begun a rendition of “Beyond the Sea.”
Twenty minutes. Thirty. She felt foolish, sitting alone amongst the busy tables. Forty minutes had passed when the hunched figure of Mr Lydon finally appeared and took the seat opposite her. She pulled up her chin to look squarely at him, intending to to vent her irritation. But he blustered quickly into an abject apology.
“Ms McCauley, I’m so very sorry I’m late. Haven’t you ordered a drink yet?”
“Well, no. I wasn’t sure how long …”
“Please, allow me to order for us both. They mix a cocktail here I’m certain you’ll enjoy. Two Delicious Sours, please.” He told the waiter, before turning back to Isbel reproachfully.
“Let me apologise profusely again for my lateness.” He said.
“Don’t worry about it, Alex.”
He smiled and looked up and down approvingly.
“You’re very well dressed tonight, Isbel.”
She glanced down at the scarlet Hugo Boss dress she was wearing. It was high necked, but left her shoulders bare. She had added a broad white belt around her waist.
“Thank you. It’s just what I had on. I happen to like red.” She told him. That she had picked it out on purpose, she chose not to tell him.
“It becomes you. The colour of feminine enticement.”
The waiter returned with two large glasses, their contents an opaque amber.
“Hm,” Isbel said, as she tasted the cocktail. “What’s in it?”
“Applejack, peach brandy, lime, egg white, sugar, and soda water.” He replied.
“You’re right, I do like it.” She admitted, as she savoured the creamy feel of it in her mouth. It was sour and sweet all at once. She took another sip as Mr Lydon began to talk.
“I notice too, that you’ve been considering your essence and your bearing. I hope my suggestions regarding posture have had some benefit. I’m sorry it’s been so long. I’ve been busy working with a new policy think-tank. Please, remind me where we had left off.”
Isbel cast her mind back to their dinner, and their discussion regarding her membership of Wilmot’s. She picked carefully through her memories, considering where to begin.
“You promised me that you would answer any questions I had about the club.”
“Yes, I did.” He nodded. Isbel reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out her folder.
“Good, because I’ve looked into it. And what I’ve found out is really … well, outrageous.”
“Outrageous? Oh dear. I hope you’re not talking about the conspiracy theories!” He shook his head.
“So you’re telling me Wilmot’s isn’t some sort of “Skull and Bones” secret society, then? Only white male Protestants allowed? Presidents and gangsters and … god knows who else?”
“You’re picturing plots to topple governments and engineer wars being hatched over glasses of brandy, aren’t you? Your imagination has been running wild.”
“No, what I’m picturing is that everything I’ve read proves Wilmot’s is just full of the kind of patriarchal crap I fight against.” She snapped back.
“I’m afraid the truth isn’t so seditious. Wilmot’s was founded as a place for nineteenth century gentlemen to smoke and drink and gamble. I don’t deny it was exclusively for the upper classes at first, but there have never been secret meetings to worship ancient gods and goddesses, I promise you. Our members are harmless.”
“So who are the members?” Isbel asked. The musicians began to play a Sinatra ballad. She pulled her chair in closer so she could hear Mr Lydon’s answer.
“I’m sorry. You have to be a member to know the other members, I’m afraid.”
“Whatever.” She scoffed and she sipped again from her glass.
“I can tell you there are all sorts, from artists and writers to doctors and lawyers, in addition to lowly politicians as myself. There’s actually a twelve year waiting list.”
“Really. Am I meant to be flattered that you’ll let me jump to the head of the queue?”
“Well, if you want to phrase it like that!” He laughed.
“Well, if I do join, that kind of secrecy that will have to change. I want a light shone on the entire thing.”
“You’re right.” He agreed. “That’s exactly right. I knew your perspective would bring me positive ideas. That is something we will definitely do. Of course, some of the more elderly members won’t be happy. Stuck in their ways.”
“It’s one of my conditions.”
“So you’re more amenable now to my offer?” He asked with a crooked smile. Isbel crossed her arms.
“I didn’t say that.”
“All right. Permit me to tell you some of the history of the club. Our building was built in 1875 and was designed by Napoleon Le Brun. We have several bars and lounges over four floors, private dining rooms, a stage for shows, a gym, a banqueting room. There’s a floor of private bedrooms, and a roof garden.”
Isbel shifted to lean her chin on one hand, listening closely.
“We also have a large library, full of rare books and manuscripts dating back hundreds of years, donated by past club members.”
“Books of degrading pornography.” She sneered. He tilted his head and tented his fingers.
“Is that where your mind takes you, Isbel?”
She glowered, but waited for him to continue.
“New members must “justify their presence” by making a speech telling everyone in attendance why they are wholly unworthy to join the club.”
It was Isbel’s turn to laugh.
“You gave that speech? I can’t imagine a man with your ego would claim he was unworthy of anything.”
“It’s meant to be humorous. It’s something you’ll have to consider composing yourself. What will be in your speech, I wonder, when you accept.”
“If I accept.” She corrected him again. “So what else happens inside Wilmot’s?”
“In a moment, please. Something else comes to mind that I wanted to tell you.”
He was doing it again, jumping from one topic to another and back again. Just the way a mind like his must work, Isbel thought, although it did make it difficult for her to keep her head clear and focused, with all his contradictions and counterpoints. He finished his own drink.
“Our previous discussion about Ms Elizabeth Barry caused me to recall a poem Wilmot wrote. You remember what I told you about her?”
“Yes, I do.” Isbel nodded, as he fished out a small, leather-bound booklet.
“The poem he composed was titled, “The Imperfect Enjoyment.” Allow me to read one of the verses for you:
Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,I filled with love, and she all over charms;Both equally inspired with eager fire,Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.”
Once he finished, they sat there in silence, as the band played on the stage. Isbel decided to ignore the verse for now. It was time to return to her damning evidence. She opened her folder as he ordered another round of cocktails.
“I want you to explain this.” Isbel demanded, holding up a printed sheet of paper. He plucked it from her hand.
““Sex scandal results in the arrest of six.” He read aloud. “Oh, for god’s sake. This story is practically from the turn of the last century!”
“So the headline … “Deviant Sexual Behaviour”, it’s made up, is it? Tell me.”
Her companion sighed, sounding for once like a tired old man. Their drinks arrived, and he took a long draught before he chose to answer.
“Why would I know any more than you do? It happened before the Great War. All I can tell you is what the newspapers reported: the women involved all testified that everything that occured was consensual, and all six men were acquitted.”
“That’s bullshit. Nothing but a bunch of pimps protected by the old white men running things.”
“Consider this, Isbel. Many acts considered “deviant” then aren’t now. Society has progressed. And so has Wilmot’s. Of course it has. Besides, I would have thought you would be less judgemental.”
“What do you mean?” She asked.
“This very afternoon you yourself said … how did you put it? “We are all free to explore the world and ourselves in any manner we choose.””
Isbel was shocked that he had taken note of the speech she had given earlier that day.
“I don’t understand what that …” She started, but Mr Lydon interrupted.
“Please, let me finish. The women at that so-called “orgy” all said that they were willing participants. They were exploring their world in the manner they chose. Am I right?”
She exhaled a long breath, dismayed to follow his logic and find herself agreeing with him. But she wasn’t quite ready to admit defeat.
“Listen to this,” She said. ““A man identified in court as physician Saul Francis, admitted to leading an “Immoral life”, and “Practising criminality,” and detailed his alleged sexual encounters with numerous young women …””
“I wonder how much is fact or merely the invention of the reporter.” He interjected, but it was Isbel’s turn to talk over him.
““… women who described acts too lewd to be printed in this reputable journal of record, but can be safely described as after the fashion of the Marquis de Sade!””
She looked up to judge his reaction. He merely broke into gentle laughter.
“Ah, I understand now. You’re imagining dark rooms filled with cigar smoke, mingling with the scent of feminine arousal … naked women on their hands and knees …”
“I am not!” She cried. He kept on, louder now so she would be certain to hear over the music.
“… bare flesh shining in candle light … giving in to their natural biological urges to arouse and serve … the “Mistresses of Mankind.””
He finished, and stared at her keenly. Her eyes fell away. Eventually she broke the heavy silence.
“I swear to you, if anything like that still goes on today, and I find out, I’ll expose the whole shitty place. And people will listen to me.”
A waiter arrived with yet more drinks. Draining her glass and reaching for the next, Isbel felt the need to visit the toilet. She decided she could wait. She needed to hear his response.
“That is what I would want you to do. As a member, you will have complete access. You’ll find out everything there is to know. And then, tell anyone you want. Transparency is what Wilmot’s needs to survive. A woman with your attitude can tell me what changes have to be made. I promise I’ll listen.”
Isbel sat back and looked around the room. That seemed to her an acceptable answer. Another thought suddenly popped into her mind as she spotted one of the black shirted waiters.
“What about the bars inside Wilmot’s? Who works there? Please don’t tell me you only employ women.”
“We have waiting staff, yes. Of both sexes.”
“But you make them wear revealing outfits?”
“Of course not. They have a uniform, yes, just as the staff here do. But now that you have brought it up, I’m reminded of something else. Let me ask you about a role you played in one of your films.”
Again with the subject change, Isbel thought. She took another gulp of her cocktail and immediately regretted it when her bladder tightened further.
“Which film?” she sighed.
“The science fantasy. You were some kind of space pirate?” He waved his hand vaguely.
“The Secret of Planet P’Leh?” She answered. It had been one of her first starring roles, and had been an expensive commercial flop. She was honestly surprised he had seen it. Not many people had.
“Yes, that’s it. It was quite a departure from your usual romantic roles. As I recall, you wore a skin hugging outfit throughout the film. Was it latex or leather?”
“Leather.” She replied, uneasily.
“It left very little to the imagination. And you were naked underneath, yes?” He asked, in the matter-of-fact tone of a judge, as though he wasn’t at all interested in the answer, only that she answer truthfully.
“Well, yes … but it was all for the part. It was integral to the character.”
“Don’t deny to me that you didn’t enjoy wearing it. You can’t hide the truth. Remember, we already settled the question. You admited that wearing arousing clothing makes you aroused. Don’t lie.”
Isbel stayed silent. To her chagrin, he was right. She had agreed with him upon that. Heat rose in her cheeks. Her whole face felt incandescent.
“Think back now. Picture it in your mind. Remember the sensations. Tell me about wearing it.”
Isbel thought back. She recalled having to change her life fit into that suit.
“It dominated my entire year.” She admitted. “Ten months of daily visits to the gym. It took three people to squeeze me into it every morning. But I wanted to do it. If I had been forced to fit a certain ideal I wouldn’t have done it at all.”
“Of course. It was your choice. Just like your lovely red dress tonight. But admit the truth to me. It felt good, didn’t it?”
“It was … erotic.” She said, regretting the word even as it passed her lips.
“And your lack of underwear only added to that arousal. I can tell. Your naked breasts tightly bound … the leather rubbing your most intimate part …
“Stop …” She warned him.
“… and you accepted the role precisely because you knew who erotic you would look on screen.” He told her.
To shield herself from his awful words, Isbel buried her face in her hands. But Mr Lydon was looking away, calling out to a waiter. The cocktails were going to her head, she thought. Her belt felt tighter and tighter.
“Two more drinks, please.” He requested. He turned back to her.
“I believe you are utterly right when you said that a true feminist expresses herself to the fullest, in whatever manner she desires. You’ll agree your desires are biologically fundamental.”
Isbel nodded absent-mindedly as she made a move to stand up, but paused when Mr Lydon held up a palm. He changed the subject again.
“Let me tell you a little more about Elizabeth Barry. You seemed so interested in her during our last talk.”
Isbel silently acquiesced.
“You’ll remember I told you how the Earl of Rochester transformed her acting style. In one review of her early career, the critic Anton wrote, “For some time they could make nothing of her; she could neither sing nor dance, not even in a country dance. In his book, “The History of the Stage”, Curl mentioned the great pains Wilmot took in training Ms Barry.”
Isbel leaned her elbows on the table.
“She was his, “Mistress of exquisite charms”. As another poet said, Wilmot, “Brought down and greatly subdued her natural fierceness.”” Dutton Cook wrote some lines about Ms Barry I’d like you to hold in your mind carefully. Will you agree to hold them in your mind for me, Isbel?”
She nodded again, and he recited once more from his brown book.
“Astarte means to act no more,And this shall be no other play but her own tragedy.She will submit to none but your commands,And take commission only from your hands.”
Isbel wanted to stop him and ask who Astarte was, but the growing strain in her belly distracted her. And regardless, Mr Lydon had already launched onto another topic, and she just couldn’t interrupt.
“Now, you agreed with me that human behaviour has a biological base, else it could not exist. As in all of nature this is true. Did you know that among chimpanzees and orangutans, sex is initiated by the females?”
“No, but what does that …” She started.
“Can I assume you are a supporter of universal birth control?”
“Of course I am.” She replied.
“And you yourself take birth control?”
“None of your business. But, yes.”
“And that is to maintain control of your own sexual freedom, yes?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m only trying to understand more about how you choose to express yourself. You have given yourself the freedom to indulge in those biological urges you accept your own body tells you to follow. You have declared to yourself that physical pleasure is a far more important motive for sex than that of reproduction. Don’t you agree?”
Ibsel felt the pressure of her bladder grow ever more insistent. Her mind was numb. She nodded quickly.
“Excellent. I’m learning so much about you. Now, more about John Wilcot.”
She tried to mask a grimace. She really needed to relieve herself. When was he going to stop? She moaned internally.
“In 1864 he wrote an obscene play entitled, “Sodom, Or The Quintessence of Debauchery.” It’s a farce in which the king declares heterosexuality to be outlawed, only permitting sodomy in his domain.”
He leafed through the pages of his book. Isbel squeezed her thighs together, trying to hold onto her control. Just a little while longer, she hoped.
“Let me quote to you the opening of the second act: “Naked women are posed as classical statues. In the middle of the stage there is a woman: Representing a fountain, standing upon her head and pissing bolt upright”. Can you picture that in your mind, Isbel?”
“Please, stop reading me this smut.” She protested. But he continued and she kept listening.
“The women of the land gather to lament their “unhappy cunts”. They find some release in mutual masturbation, the use of dildos, and even bestiality. But it’s not satisfying, as one of the ladies complains:
What woman can a standing prick refuse?When love makes courtship, there it may command.What soul such generous influence can withstand?Had I but the bliss,Of once enjoying a prick such as this,I would his will eternally obey,And every minute my cunt should tribute pay.”
Mr Lydon stopped at last. She looked at him.
“Are you done? May I use the bathroom now?”
“Yes, yes, go make potty.” He laughed.
She practically ran to the toilets, feeling her face burn with mortification, indignant at his use of such a childish word. Her brow creased. Did I really just ask permission to urinate? She scolded herself angrily.
Isbel felt safe from further weaknesses of character when she entered the cool privacy of the toilet stall. She could hear the band playing. She hiked up the red dress to her thighs and pulled down her underwear. As she relieved herself, she tried to draw together all the different topics of conversation Mr Lydon had thrown at her all night, like strands of fine silk he had draped randomly over her body.
Scarlet thoughts crowded her mind, unsought and unwelcome. All this nonsense talk about chimpanzees and orangutans and dark rooms and biological urges and actresses posed like statues and Astarte and the mistress of mankind. She hardly knew if any of it really made sense. She felt dizzy.
I’ve had too much to drink. If Mr Lydon was done, she determined, she would make an excuse to leave. If he’s done? She thought. Done with what? Done tormenting me? She pressed her fists into her temples.
“I’m feeling quite tired, Alex. It’s been a long day.” She said curtly as she returned to their table, not wishing to reveal to him her lingering embarrassment.
“That’s fine.” He said. “We’ll continue another time. I know you’re getting closer to accepting my invitation. But before you leave, there’s something I would like to lend to you.”
“What?” She asked, waving her fingers through her dark hair to mask her discomfort.
From his pocket, he produced a small envelope. He placed it gently in her hands.
“This is an original letter written by Ms Barry to Wilmot. Please, you have to be delicate. Not only is it a precious antique, it’s not ever supposed to leave the club library. It should really be in a museum. I removed it in secret for you to read. Can I trust you with it?”
“Yes, of course you can.” She replied, heeding the concern she heard in his voice.
“I knew I could. Read it at your leisure. As often as you’d like. You can return it to me when we next meet.”
She carefully slid the envelope into her folder along with her newspaper clippings. She slipped into her coat and Mr Lydon bid her a good night.