The Abandoned Lover. But what shall the abandoned lover do? Let us take the case of A and B, and let A stand for any man and B for any woman; or, vice versa, let A be the woman and B the man, for in jealousy and love what applies to one sex is applicable with practically the same force to the opposite sex. Suppose A is intensely jealous of and deeply, passionately in love with B; but B is utterly indifferent and does not care what A may feel or do. A and B may be married or not; this does not alter the case materially.
Suppose B, if unmarried to A, goes off and marries another man, or, if married to A, goes off and leaves him; or suppose B does not love anybody else, but just remains indifferent to A's advances or repels him because she cannot reciprocate his love. Unrequited love alone can cause almost as fierce tortures as the most intense jealousy. And A suffers tortures. What shall he do? What shall he do to save himself—to save his health, his mind, his life? For he is unable to eat, unable to sleep, unable to work, and he feels that he is going to pieces. He has lost his position and is in danger of losing his reason.
What shall he do to escape insanity or a suicide's grave? There is but one remedy. Let him use all his energies to find a substitute. I mean a living substitute. Mere sexual desire may be sublimated, to a certain extent, into other channels, may be replaced by work, study, a hobby or some engrossing interest. A great unrequited love, with the element of jealousy present or absent, cannot be replaced by anything else except by another love. And where as great a love is impossible let it be a minor love or a series of minor loves. When Goethe, one of the world's great lovers, was unable to walk in the broad avenue of a great love he would walk in the by-paths of a number of little loves. The common talk about a person being unable to love more than once in his or her life is silly nonsense.
A man or a woman is able to love, and love very deeply, a number of times; and love simultaneously or successively. It is often a mere matter of opportunity. I know that there are loves that are eternal; that there are loves for which no substitute can be found. But these supreme, divine loves are so rare that among ordinary mortals they may be left out of account. They are the portion of supermen and superwomen. Ordinarily a substitute may be found. The substitute love may never reach the intensity of the original love, it may never give full or even half-full satisfaction; but it will help to dull the sharp cutting edge, it will act as a partial hemostatic to the bleeding heart, it will soothe and anesthetize the wound even if it cannot completely heal it.
And this is a valuable aid while the sufferer is coming to himself or herself, while the gathered fragments of a broken life are being cemented and while the cement is hardening. Yes, the man or woman who is in inferno on account of an unreciprocated or a betrayed love should lose no time in searching for a substitute love. I do not believe in people losing their health and their minds on account of suffering which does nobody any good.
But I will go still further. Where a substitute love—great or minor—cannot be found, then mere sex relations may help to diminish the suffering, to quiet the turbulent heart, to relieve the aching brain.
As everything connected with sex, so our ideas about illicit sex relations that are not connected with love, are honeycombed with hypocrisy and false to the core. While purchasable, loveless sex relations can, of course, not be compared to love relations, still under our present social, economic and moral code they are the only relations that thousands of men and women can enjoy, and they are better than none; and in quite a considerable percentage of cases an element of romance and greater or lesser permanency do become attached to them, and they act as a more or less satisfactory substitute for genuine love relations.
I am not spinning theoretical gossamer webs. I am speaking from experience—the experience of patients and confiding friends. I could relate many interesting cases. And I may, in a more appropriate volume. Here one or two will have to suffice.
He was twenty-six years old and a senior student in the College of Physicians and Surgeons, Columbia University, New York. He had been in love with and had considered himself engaged for four or five years to a young lady two years his junior. She was, of course, the most wonderful young lady in the world, the whole world; in fact, there was not another one to compare her to. She was unique; she stood all alone. But for a year or so she was getting rather cool towards him; which fanned his flame all the more. And suddenly he received a note asking him not to call any more, nor to try to communicate in any other way. He did write, but his letters were returned unopened. And soon after he read of her engagement to a prominent young banker. He nearly went insane, and this is used not in any figurative sense. His insomnia was complete, and resisted all treatment.
When his pulse became very rapid and his eyes acquired the wild look that they do after many sleepless nights an attempt was made to administer hypnotics, but they had practically no effect. Chloral, veronal, etc., only made him "dopy," irritable and depressed, but did not give him one hour of sound sleep. His appetite was gone, now and then his limbs would twitch, and he would sit and stare into space for hours at a time. To study or attend the clinics was out of the question, and he did not even attempt to take the final examinations. The parents felt distressed, but were unable to do anything for him. The least attempt at interference on their part, any attempt to console him, to induce him to pull himself together, made him more irritable, more morose; so that they finally left him alone.
He was practically a total abstainer, but one evening he went out and came home drunk; and after that he drank frequently and heavily. His parents could do nothing with him. One evening on Broadway he was accosted by a young street-walker. She had a pleasant, sympathetic face, and he went with her. That was his first sex experience. Up to that time he was chaste. He met her again the following evening. Gradually a sort of friendship grew up between them. She found out the cause of his grief, and with maternal solicitude she tried everything in her power to console him, and he began to look forward to the nightly meeting with her. His grief became gradually less acute, he gave up drinking, which he disliked, and which he had taken up only to deaden his pain; he began to pull himself together, and in six or eight months he took over his last year in Columbia and was properly graduated. He kept up the friendship with the girl for over two years, when she died of pneumonia.
He did not love her, but he liked to be with her, as her presence gave him physical and mental comfort. It is possible that she loved him genuinely, but there was never any sentimental talk between them, and there was never any question between them of the permanency of the relationship. They both knew that it was temporary. But he is absolutely certain that but for one of the representatives of the class that is despised, driven about and persecuted by brutal policemen and ignorant judges, he would have become a bum, or, most likely, he would have committed suicide—at the point of which he was several times; only pity for his mother and sisters restrained him.
Suppose B, if unmarried to A, goes off and marries another man, or, if married to A, goes off and leaves him; or suppose B does not love anybody else, but just remains indifferent to A's advances or repels him because she cannot reciprocate his love. Unrequited love alone can cause almost as fierce tortures as the most intense jealousy. And A suffers tortures. What shall he do? What shall he do to save himself—to save his health, his mind, his life? For he is unable to eat, unable to sleep, unable to work, and he feels that he is going to pieces. He has lost his position and is in danger of losing his reason.
What shall he do to escape insanity or a suicide's grave? There is but one remedy. Let him use all his energies to find a substitute. I mean a living substitute. Mere sexual desire may be sublimated, to a certain extent, into other channels, may be replaced by work, study, a hobby or some engrossing interest. A great unrequited love, with the element of jealousy present or absent, cannot be replaced by anything else except by another love. And where as great a love is impossible let it be a minor love or a series of minor loves. When Goethe, one of the world's great lovers, was unable to walk in the broad avenue of a great love he would walk in the by-paths of a number of little loves. The common talk about a person being unable to love more than once in his or her life is silly nonsense.
A man or a woman is able to love, and love very deeply, a number of times; and love simultaneously or successively. It is often a mere matter of opportunity. I know that there are loves that are eternal; that there are loves for which no substitute can be found. But these supreme, divine loves are so rare that among ordinary mortals they may be left out of account. They are the portion of supermen and superwomen. Ordinarily a substitute may be found. The substitute love may never reach the intensity of the original love, it may never give full or even half-full satisfaction; but it will help to dull the sharp cutting edge, it will act as a partial hemostatic to the bleeding heart, it will soothe and anesthetize the wound even if it cannot completely heal it.
And this is a valuable aid while the sufferer is coming to himself or herself, while the gathered fragments of a broken life are being cemented and while the cement is hardening. Yes, the man or woman who is in inferno on account of an unreciprocated or a betrayed love should lose no time in searching for a substitute love. I do not believe in people losing their health and their minds on account of suffering which does nobody any good.
But I will go still further. Where a substitute love—great or minor—cannot be found, then mere sex relations may help to diminish the suffering, to quiet the turbulent heart, to relieve the aching brain.
As everything connected with sex, so our ideas about illicit sex relations that are not connected with love, are honeycombed with hypocrisy and false to the core. While purchasable, loveless sex relations can, of course, not be compared to love relations, still under our present social, economic and moral code they are the only relations that thousands of men and women can enjoy, and they are better than none; and in quite a considerable percentage of cases an element of romance and greater or lesser permanency do become attached to them, and they act as a more or less satisfactory substitute for genuine love relations.
I am not spinning theoretical gossamer webs. I am speaking from experience—the experience of patients and confiding friends. I could relate many interesting cases. And I may, in a more appropriate volume. Here one or two will have to suffice.
He was twenty-six years old and a senior student in the College of Physicians and Surgeons, Columbia University, New York. He had been in love with and had considered himself engaged for four or five years to a young lady two years his junior. She was, of course, the most wonderful young lady in the world, the whole world; in fact, there was not another one to compare her to. She was unique; she stood all alone. But for a year or so she was getting rather cool towards him; which fanned his flame all the more. And suddenly he received a note asking him not to call any more, nor to try to communicate in any other way. He did write, but his letters were returned unopened. And soon after he read of her engagement to a prominent young banker. He nearly went insane, and this is used not in any figurative sense. His insomnia was complete, and resisted all treatment.
When his pulse became very rapid and his eyes acquired the wild look that they do after many sleepless nights an attempt was made to administer hypnotics, but they had practically no effect. Chloral, veronal, etc., only made him "dopy," irritable and depressed, but did not give him one hour of sound sleep. His appetite was gone, now and then his limbs would twitch, and he would sit and stare into space for hours at a time. To study or attend the clinics was out of the question, and he did not even attempt to take the final examinations. The parents felt distressed, but were unable to do anything for him. The least attempt at interference on their part, any attempt to console him, to induce him to pull himself together, made him more irritable, more morose; so that they finally left him alone.
He was practically a total abstainer, but one evening he went out and came home drunk; and after that he drank frequently and heavily. His parents could do nothing with him. One evening on Broadway he was accosted by a young street-walker. She had a pleasant, sympathetic face, and he went with her. That was his first sex experience. Up to that time he was chaste. He met her again the following evening. Gradually a sort of friendship grew up between them. She found out the cause of his grief, and with maternal solicitude she tried everything in her power to console him, and he began to look forward to the nightly meeting with her. His grief became gradually less acute, he gave up drinking, which he disliked, and which he had taken up only to deaden his pain; he began to pull himself together, and in six or eight months he took over his last year in Columbia and was properly graduated. He kept up the friendship with the girl for over two years, when she died of pneumonia.
He did not love her, but he liked to be with her, as her presence gave him physical and mental comfort. It is possible that she loved him genuinely, but there was never any sentimental talk between them, and there was never any question between them of the permanency of the relationship. They both knew that it was temporary. But he is absolutely certain that but for one of the representatives of the class that is despised, driven about and persecuted by brutal policemen and ignorant judges, he would have become a bum, or, most likely, he would have committed suicide—at the point of which he was several times; only pity for his mother and sisters restrained him.
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