CHAPTER X

.

FICTION IN ENGLISH (continued)

Sequel to Censorship

Just how specifically the skirmish of censorship and its attendant publicity affected subsequent work is difficult to say. The next few years saw in print nothing more outspoken than translations of Rachilde’s _Monsieur Vénus_ and Colette’s _Claudine at School_. This can probably be attributed to caution on the part of both publishers and authors. That antagonistic voices, first largely women’s and then men’s, swelled into a full chorus by 1933, might similarly seem a protracted echo of official disapproval. On the other hand, some tolerant treatments of variance were finding publication, and in 1934 it was these which constituted eight out of that year’s ten offerings. As to how much the rapidly augmenting flood—a total of over thirty variant titles in six years—was attributable to 1928’s focusing of attention on the controversial subject, how much merely to an inevitably growing preoccupation with it, no armchair theorizing can safely decide. But that it owed something to the former seems beyond question.

Among this six-years’ crop a handful of more or less negative contributions, all by American women, probably stemmed from Miss Lehmann’s _Dusty Answer_, whatever impetus they gained from later developments. All were novels of boarding school or women’s college life, all autobiographical in pattern, and none were confined to variant experience. In the first, Wanda Fraiken Neff’s _We Sing Diana_, the variant passages would seem a deliberate counterattack upon _Well of Loneliness_ except that the two appeared almost simultaneously in 1928. Mrs. Neff’s heroine, an orphan brought up by a passionless spinster, is already conditioned against heterosexual romance by her rearing and adolescent experiences before reaching college. There, during her freshman year, Nora is an inadvertent witness of an emotional scene between two brilliant and respected upperclassmen.

She was conscious of the drooping narrowness of Gwendolyn’s shoulders, the slenderness of her neck, as she threw herself against Minna’s bulky frame.... Nora had a sick memory of the fungi she had studied in botany, the rank growth, forms of life springing up in unhealthy places, feeding on rot....[1]

And of a girl who suddenly embraces Nora, the author says:

There was something about Emily which brought back ... her earliest childhood terror [a quite irrelevant incident involving a cat]. She detached herself violently and avoided the sight of Emily’s darkly flushing face.... Only instinct, like the swift revulsion of a young animal sniffing a poisonous weed ... held her back.[2]

(In reality the terror here is of her own response, and the whole picture, if the author faced it honestly, is that of the potential variant who will suffer infinitely rather than admit her own inclination.) She, like most of her friends, can achieve no adequate relations with men in their limited environment, and Nora herself, after a later somewhat unconvincing fortnight’s liaison terminated by her lover’s sudden death, drifts back via graduate study abroad to be dean in just such a college as she left.

A milder reaction is registered in _Against the Wall_ (1929) by Kathleen Millay, sister of Edna St. Vincent, whose variant publications were by then several years old. The younger Millay’s theme is mainly protest against the restricted position of women, including an arraignment of the women’s college, which should educate its students to be adult, but, while doing so, treats them as children. Her references to variance are belittling. The phenomenon seems confined to a handful of girls on the campus, one of whom is threatened with dismissal by the student president. But the heroine, Rebecca, has overheard during her freshman year that same president sob out her love for a boyish upperclassman, and she now threatens the disciplinarian with exposure unless her present harsh fiat is rescinded. In the course of an inevitable “bull session” after this incident, Rebecca expresses her opinion to timidly questioning fellow students.

“Is anything that doesn’t end in—babies—abnormal, perverted?”

“I suppose so, if you come right down to it.”

“If there’s so much of it I don’t see why it’s abnormal.”

“No,” said Rebecca, “neither do I. Only like a lot of other things, the word has come to be more important than what it stands for. Anyway, I think most women would be more happy with a man for a—best friend—than with a woman. What do you think?”[3]

To this Socratic question there is a chorus of affirmatives from everyone save a member of the suspect group who chances to be present.

Marion Patton-Waldron’s _Dance on the Tortoise_ (1930) is set in a boarding school. A girl just out of college, feeling herself emotionally unready for marriage, seeks greater maturity through a year of teaching, and inauspicious though the chosen milieu might seem, she achieves her goal. She is drawn early into emotional friendship with a French colleague, Helene. A similar bond exists between the headmistress and an older teacher, a pair unseparated since their college days, and Lydia learns that they have been seen passionately kissing; however, she shrinks from similar expression with her friend. Helene becomes involved in an affair with a countryman which ends with her death from induced miscarriage. It is only after this tragedy, the precise cause of which the innocent Lydia only half-guesses, that she wonders whether Helene might not have resisted seduction had she herself been able to give her friend the emotional release so badly needed. But she knows she could never have done so. In her distress she turns to the headmistress, only to find the latter growing overfond of her. In the end she accepts her deferred suitor eagerly:

“These bunches of women living together, falling in love with each other because they haven’t anyone else to fall in love with! It’s obscene! Oh, take me away!”[4]

Apparently she is alone in feeling so. Students and teachers consider the relation between the headmistress and her friend admirable and touching. Like those in Henry Handel Richardson’s Australian school two decades earlier, they are not only without immediate suspicion, but ignorant of any discreditable possibilities. This is very nearly the last work of fiction to claim such innocence for its characters.

In the same year Elisabeth Wilkins Thomas, in _Ella_, touched on variance so gingerly as to be almost ambiguous. Ella knows but two real drives throughout—one a love of poetry, the other a compulsion comparable to Mary MacLane’s “not to give up my me-ness.” In college she derives an intellectual thrill so keen as to carry strong emotional overtones in the philosophy classes of a casual, tailored, and sardonic woman professor. However, their relation is confined to the classroom. Later as a private-school teacher Ella is closely attached to an older colleague, and though the two speak frankly of loving one another, no passion is admitted between them. Madge has, in her youth, been deeply attached to a younger girl whom she helped and protected when both were students in Germany. When this ex-protégée, now married and a mother, pays a visit to the cottage where Madge and Ella are summering together, Ella finds herself dreading the visit. Her dread grows with Madge’s minute, feverishly excited preparations for her old love’s advent, and unconscious jealousy is clearly at its root. But the young mother and her closeknit little family barely pause for a meal, unaware, in their happy self-absorption, of the disappointment dealt by their refusal to accept further hospitality. Madge, long afflicted with a heart condition, has overexerted herself in preparation, and hidden grief at its futility brings on a fatal attack. Only the depth of Ella’s loneliness after her friend’s death brings home to her how much of her “me-ness” has been jeopardized in this relationship, and she determines to depend thereafter only upon herself and the solacing beauty of poetry. Her solitary orphaned childhood is the apparent explanation of her narcissistic fear of personal involvement.

Mary Lapsley’s _Parable of the Virgins_ (1931) devotes rather more space to variance than its predecessors. Its theme, like theirs, is the failure of women’s colleges to deal adequately with the emotional fevers bred of segregation during late adolescence. Along with a few grave heterosexual crises—one, an abortion which its subject faces without remorse because of the wholesome first-hand knowledge of life she has gained—there are variant entanglements involving half a dozen or more girls, though none of the relations are admitted to be lesbian. Mary, antagonistic to men, is obsessed by passion for Jessica, whom she induces to break a lukewarm engagement. Then Bob, a boarding school product “like a nice athletic boy,” precipitates tragedy by flirting with her adored. Mary’s furious jealousy moves an unsympathetic dean (had the author perhaps known one like Mrs. Neff’s “Nora”?) to separate her from Jessica by telling Mary that the latter is her victim, fearing and hating her but unable to break the unwholesome spell without help. In consequence, Mary hangs herself. Jessica then collapses, and her state is so aggravated by the harshness of the college’s woman physician that an understanding faculty member interferes and introduces a psychiatrist. Like Millay, the author puts her own comment into the mouth of a brilliant student:

If the college had known more about human nature it would ... have said to Mary, “Fight out your own salvation, you have as much right to it as Jessica.” But the college did not believe that, and Mary herself did not believe it.... Whatever one may think of the [homosexual] relation ... one thing is worse: to permit a human being to live in an atmosphere of constant disapproval.... When the moment to resist [suicide] came she was too weakened, too convinced that she had sinned.[5]

The second variant constellation centers about Crosby, “the college poet,” a senior of twenty-four who has already published some volumes of verse. (As Mrs. Lapsley’s college was Vassar, it is impossible not to identify Crosby with Edna St. Vincent Millay.) This histrionic aesthete has had experience with more than one man, but her chief interest is in cultivating “crushes” to bolster her ego. Her favorite, an idealistic freshman, is saved from grave harm by overhearing her cruelty to one or two other victims, and emerges with enough maturity to retain independence and yet not to hate her fallen idol.

* * * * *

Turning to items outside the college category, the briefest of 1929’s comments on variance was the bitter passage in Theiss’s translated _Interlude_, in which lesbianism is excoriated and held responsible for the failure of its victim’s first marriage. Equally hostile was Wyndham Lewis’s _Apes of God_ (1930). In substance Lewis’s sophisticated satire is related to those of Firbank in its concern with male homosexuals, and his writing about them has something of Firbank’s zany touch. But his references to a mannish middle-aged spinster are contemptuous, and his chapter “The Lesbian Ape,” in which an equally mannish sculptress keeps a male nude model posing until he faints, and then stands above his prostrate six-feet-two of Greek magnificence and leers asininely with her silly inamorata, is written with undiluted hate.[6]

In the single novel of these two years wholly devoted to variance, Naomi Royde-Smith’s _The Island_ (1929), implicit censure is more impersonal but equally harsh, and the influence of Freud is obvious. In the same author’s _Tortoiseshell Cat_, it will be remembered, an intellectual London girl narrowly escapes a lesbian attachment. Here the gauche and provincial Myfanwy Hughes succumbs, with distressing consequences. An orphan brought up by a prudish spinster aunt, the girl at nineteen is sent to a farm in Wales for her health. Because she is timid, awkward, and painfully shocked by talk of animal breeding, her uncle dubs her Goosey, a nickname she later tries to shed but never outlives.

Believing herself to be without the power to attract, she substituted a horror of the physical triumphs of sex for a regret that she could not hope to take her part in them.[7] [The classic refusal to compete.]

In the spring a combination of sunshine and physical well-being produces a momentary emotional release which the author equates explicitly with mystical religious experience. The transient mood crystallizes upon a handsome farmer riding by on a stallion, but he is too occupied with his restive mount to give her a second glance, and this failure to attract even when aglow with new physical awareness plunges Goosey back into complete heterosexual frustration.

Now all her thwarted impulses center upon a female summer boarder from Liverpool, an egomaniac of twenty-four who poses as petite and helpless. Goosey’s enslavement dates from her chance glimpse of the girl nude to the waist, but their association stays within an early-teen pattern of endless confidences and sentimental endearments. After Almond’s departure Goosey lives only for her letters. The country couple who saw no harm in the active friendship regards this preoccupation as so “morbid” that they ship the girl back to her Liverpool aunt to remove her influence from their daughter. In the city, Almond’s snobbishness and Goosey’s jealousy of her impending marriage separate the two for a few years, during which Goosey loses her aunt and is driven by loneliness to consider the suit of a widower many years her senior. She covets the prestige of marriage, and one gathers that her physical distaste for the idea might wane but for her occasional distant glimpses of Almond. She has reached the point of betrothal when Almond bursts into her life again, begging sanctuary from a cruel husband, whereupon Goosey dismisses her suitor and arranges a future _à deux_ with her adored in the huge ugly house she has inherited. However, at the “cruel” spouse’s first summons Almond is off again, and there follow decades of periodic returns made only when she wishes to spite her husband or, years later, an independent daughter. Goosey’s life is spent in waiting.

Early in this intermittent association the two women became intimate. For Goosey at first,

Here were no reluctances, no shame, no abashment. This was love without conditions, maternal in tenderness, marital in strength, but equal and unfettering.[8]

But as the relation progresses she has misgivings, never more specifically accounted for than that “now there was something else. They never spoke to one another about it—even at night. And in the daytime Goosey pretended it wasn’t true.”[9] Soon tensions and quarrels develop, and eventually, being left alone for long stretches, Goosey feels occasional attractions to other women. The strongest attraction is inspired by a new milliner from London, a charming and competent woman who, out of pity for her outmoded rival, considers taking Goosey into partnership. But she is regaled on all sides with well-founded gossip of Goosey’s long “queerness,” and while her decision is hanging fire, Almond once more appears and buys a hat in the new shop. Goosey sees this as not only black disloyalty to herself but as a move to captivate the new proprietress, and her jealous hysteria alienates both women permanently.

Now completely solitary, Goosey falls captive to a male evangelist’s magnetism. This maladjusted celibate labors for social as well as spiritual reform; his immediate goal is the suburb’s beautification, which has been hampered by reactionaries. Among them, Goosey had been one of the most stubborn, but now her religious near-conversion wakes a sense of guilt concerning her relations with Almond, and she resolves to give up the hideous house she has kept as a sanctuary for her friend. She makes an appointment with the revivalist, planning full confession and the sacrifice of her property, but before this occurs, Almond meets the man and so ensnares him that he marries her almost at once. Henceforth, Goosey shuts herself into her dreadful house, willfully defying love, beauty, and goodness, and ends as a mad old woman.

In _The Tortoiseshell Cat_ the lesbian aggressor was somewhat masculine, and had herself been seduced when young. In _The Island_ no hereditary traits are apparent in either woman, nor has either any variant history. Conditioning is over-labored in Goosey’s case, while Almond is an almost incredible monster of egotism. Whereas the earlier novel created the illusion of being drawn from life, this one smacks too strongly of a case history to come off well artistically.

A milder but scarcely happy picture is painted in _That Other Love_ (1930) by Geoffrey Moss (on internal evidence probably a woman). Phillida, daughter of a well-born Englishman (who dies while she is an infant) and a joyously vulgar actress, enjoys ten years of bohemia before her father’s relatives claim her. The widowed aunt who then assumes her upbringing is a perfectionist and very possessive. At sixteen, overprotected, a recluse, and too suddenly launched in the social life of the Twenties, Phillida is violently revolted by the advances of a professional seducer. In her panic she clings to a cool and serene sculptress who rescues her from the drunken party where she was molested. After some years in art school and an abortive romance with a man old enough to be her father, she again meets the sculptress at a seaside resort, is again drawn to her, and wants to paint her portrait. The older woman will not permit this until they have returned to the anonymity of London. There they become intimate (though this is not explicitly admitted), and subsequently live together for four years in an isolated cottage in Normandy.

Then Phillida becomes convinced of her need for children—“not a man—I could never love a man as I love you”—and she determines to marry one of her suitors, all of whom appear either naïve or indifferent to her variant interlude. The older woman, reluctant from the first to sacrifice her detached serenity but now as dependent on her young companion as the girl is on her, stoically accepts the inevitable and sets about readjusting herself to a life alone.

* * * * *

In addition to the translation of Colette’s second Claudine volume as _Young Lady of Paris_ (and Mrs. Lapsley’s college story), 1931 produced an interesting contrast: one novel of highest quality, Dorothy Richardson’s _Dawn’s Left Hand_, and one, the first of its kind in our immediate field, which was cheaply sensational. This last, Sheila Donisthorpe’s _Loveliest of Friends_, may be left for discussion with others of its ilk. Miss Richardson’s title was tenth in the dozen comprising _Pilgrimage_, her Proustian chronicle of an English girl’s development from childhood to maturity. This particular volume contrasts Miriam’s two simultaneous love affairs, one with a younger woman, one with a scientific-minded novelist-reformer, Hypo, whom literary gossip has identified as H. G. Wells. Though chronology is vague in this stream of consciousness record, Miriam must at this time have reached her middle or late twenties. By virtue of education and background she moves among the Bloomsbury literati, but since she supports herself as a dentist’s receptionist, she must live in an ordinary London boarding house, and it is against the latter background that the emotional drama with Amabel unfolds. This charming girl, half-Parisian, half-Irish, is also involved in a liaison with an Englishman of distinction. A beauty, and ultra-feminine, it is nevertheless she who takes the initiative in the rapidly flowering friendship. The quality of the relation is conveyed in such passages as the following:

... the Sunday following the evening at Mrs. Bellamy’s, where we were separated and mingling in various groups ... and suddenly met and were filled with the same longing, to get away and lie side by side in the darkness ... talking it all over until sleep should come without any interval of going off into the seclusion of our separate minds ... [then] waking and seeing with the same eyes at the same moment ... the wet gray roofs across the way.[10]

There is no suggestion of physical relations, and in another place the author describes as their most intimate moments the silences in which they were

suddenly and intensely aware of each other and the flow of their wordless communion, making the smallest possible movements of the head now this way now that, like birds in a thicket intensely watching and listening; but without bird-anxiety.[11]

In recording the affair with Hypo, on the other hand, considerable physical detail is given, as for example the first time the two saw one another unclothed:

This mutual nakedness was appeasing rather than stimulating. And austere. His body was not beautiful. She could find nothing to adore, no ground for response.... The manly structure, the smooth, satiny sheen in place of her own velvety glow was interesting as partner and foil, but not desirable.... It had no power to stir her as often she had been stirred by the sudden sight of him walking down a garden or entering a room.[12]

The climax of this affair occurs while Miriam is house guest of Hypo and his wife, a woman so selfless that she pretends blindness to his infidelities because they benefit his work. Miriam wakes in the night to find her host at her bedside, and suffers his possession in

an immense fathomless black darkness through which, after an instant’s sudden descent into her clenched and rigid form, she was now traveling alone on and on, without thought or memory or any emotion save the strangeness of this journeying.[13]

At another time

she demanded of herself whether she cared for him in the slightest degree or for anyone or anything so much as the certainty of being in communion with something always there, something in which and through which people could meet and whose absence, felt with people who did not acknowledge it, made life at once impossible, made it a death worse than dying....

There was a woman, not this thinking self who talked with men in their own language, but one whose words could be spoken only from the heart’s knowledge, waiting to be born in her.... Men want recognition of their work to help them believe in themselves.... Unless in some form they get it, all but the very few are miserable. Women ... want recognition of themselves ... before they can come fully to birth. Homage for what they are and represent.

He was incapable of homage.... It was his constricted, biological way of seeing sex that kept him blind.[14]

So specific a contrast between the psychology of the two sexes suggests that the whole volume may have been written as a contribution to the current dispute over the value of variant love. During Miriam’s total history (recorded in subsequent volumes) she loves two other men, but without physical intimacy. Neither is conspicuously male in appearance and both are preoccupied with subjective aspects of personal relations. Plainly Miss Richardson, like Mrs. Woolf, feels that between the most sharply differentiated members of the two sexes, the biological act can be the only bond.

Miss Richardson’s novel was sexually frank but took care to imply the absence of physical intimacy between its variant women. In the one acceptable sympathetic study of 1932 Naomi Mitchison employed other means of avoiding offense. “The Delicate Fire” is the title story in a collection of short narratives of ancient Greece. Miss Mitchison, daughter of a schoolmaster, wrote several volumes recapturing the life of the past, possibly designed for her father’s older students, but on an adult level with regard to historic mores. This particular tale covers some months in the late adolescence of Brocheo, daughter of the favorite of Sappho. Since her widowed mother cannot leave the country estate which supports them, Brocheo is sent to an aunt in Mitylene to be prepared for a fitting marriage. Sappho’s open quarrel over her brother’s alliance with the courtesan, Doricha, has inclined conservative mothers to entrust their daughters’ training to the conventional Andromeda, but a passionate friendship between Brocheo’s young cousin and Sappho’s daughter Kleis draws the older girl into contact with the famous poet. The precocious Kleis analyzes as the key to her mother’s temperament a desire to possess utterly anyone she loves, estranging her from one after another of her beloved friends when they marry, and making it difficult for Kleis to have either suitors or close friends. But Brocheo senses genius in Sappho’s intensity as compared to Andromeda’s polite talent, and becomes the great poet’s willing pupil. The story ends discreetly with the beginning of Brocheo’s tutelage, for some given details of a scene between Kleis and her young friend suggest that had it continued into the relation between Sappho and Brocheo it would have sailed in dangerous waters.

This was the year in which the German motion picture _Mädchen in Uniform_ was released and Weirauch’s _Scorpion_ translated. (The latter’s sequel, _The Outcast_, followed in 1933.) Except for these, 1932 boasted only a pair of titles on a level with Miss Donisthorpe’s mentioned above, which must wait for later consideration. After this season in which everything published, no matter what the quality, was relatively tolerant of variance, the pendulum swung back in 1933, when but one of five authors had even a moderate word to say for it.

The most nearly sympathetic was Thomas Beer, whose volume of short stories, _Mrs. Egg and Other Barbarians_, included “Hallowe’en,” written in 1927 but not, like the others, previously published in magazines. In this tale the monumental but endearing Mrs. Egg, inveterate eater of sweets and worshipper of her tall son, Adam, encounters on Hallowe’en night the striking Bill Sloan, village tomboy, whom she had known before her marriage and removal to New York some years earlier. Now divorced, Bill has come back to visit her girlhood chum, wife of a friend of Adam’s. Mrs. Egg elicits from Adam that Jane’s husband is “out of luck nights,” and they agree that the fault lies in the girl’s upbringing—“Jane’s mama was too much of a lady to say drawers in a King’s Daughters meetin’. I bet the darn truth is Janie’s scared of men yet.” Anent Bill’s divorce, they recall that

“Dr. Sloan raised Bill peculiar. He believed folks are just—s’perior kind of animals. No souls or nothin’. I never can get shocked any about sensible people’s morals.... I just want to say this for Bill. I bet she don’t do any harm.”[15]

This was written at the height of that psychological season when parents could do no right; but Beer concedes to the hereditary camp Bill’s height and absence of hips, and both girls’ tenor speaking voices. Mrs. Egg is called out from her grandson’s hilarious party for a farewell from Jane and Bill, who because they admire the wholesome woman profoundly, want her to be first to know they are leaving—“for good.” Jane begs Mrs. Egg to look after her husband, against whom she has nothing save that she cannot endure marriage and “loves someone else more.” Without protest Mrs. Egg busies herself with lunch for the night travelers—they are driving—and sends them off, perhaps significantly just before midnight of the witches’ holiday. But after they have gone she can say only

“They’re human beings, Dammy. [But] if they’d stayed a minute longer I’d ha’ screamed. Oh, Dammy, ain’t things peculiar!”[16]

She is consoled by learning that Adam thinks this the only solution for all concerned and has foreseen tragedy from the moment of Jane’s marriage.

The next episode, narrowly skirting the sensational level, was included in _Orient Express_ by the British Graham Greene,[17] who in 1933 was writing only psychological thrillers. A lesbian journalist, after supporting for four years a beautiful countrywoman picked up in a cinema, realizes she is about to lose her love to a man (“How could one hold her, with only a mouth?”) Philosophically cutting her losses, Mabel decides to capture Carol, a dancer traveling alone on the Express, and immediately begins to plan the redecoration of her London apartment in honor of her new conquest. The plot develops otherwise, however, and Mabel goes on alone.

In _Entertaining the Islanders_, Struthers Burt’s most sophisticated effort, he treats the modish theme less gently. After a three-year liaison with a rather hard woman journalist, the hero falls genuinely in love during a winter in the Bahamas, and returns to New York to break with his old flame. Even during their intimacy Marian “had made no pretense of faithfulness,” but what frees him of any remorse at severing the connection is his discovery that she is now involved with a married woman,

a small beautiful bronze young woman with square-cut yellow hair. Taut, condensed, masterful, engraved.... Her brilliant tawny eyes looked David up and down without interest. In the jacket of her dark suit was a white camellia.... Marian was nothing if not up to date, was she?[18]

He wonders how husbands put up with “childlike little ghosts.... Children making childlike little substitutions for reality ... and always so proud of their substitutions.”[19] This, of course, is close to quotation from Freud.

Sinclair Lewis hit even harder in _Ann Vickers_. The chief figure in his briefly sketched tragedy, Eleanor Crevecoeur, was in an early section of the novel devoted to the battle for suffrage, and was humorous, fearless, and intelligent, though “looking all the time like an anemic Bourbon princess.” Later during World War I she has one serious liaison with a man and an exhausting list of casual affairs. Then she meets a sleekly tailored woman executive of a department store with a Ph.D. in psychology. Dr. Herringdean frightens off the heterogeneous swarm of males and appropriates Eleanor for herself. But once her prey is caught, she loses interest, turns pettily cruel, and pursues other women. Eleanor wastes to a neurotic wraith and finally commits suicide. The whole episode occupies only ten pages, but is mordant and damning.

The final blow of the year was struck by George Jean Nathan, dramatic critic for the _American Statesman_, in a slapstick parody offered as a critique of the current British drama. Nathan had commented earlier (without special reference to England) on “the increasing number of women players who are of the sexual disposition of the Aeolian Greek colonizers,” and on their “freezing” presence on the stage—“all their emotional scenes are dead.”[20] In this skit, “Design for Loving,” (the title a jibe at Noel Coward’s _Design for Living_), the cast includes:

Lord Derek, a hermaphrodite; his father, an onanist; his mother, a lesbian; his sister, a flagellant; Lady Vi Twining, his sister’s friend, an auto-erotist with tribade tendencies; his servant, a homosexual and transvestist;[21]

et cetera. Though the dialogue is so caricatured as to mar the wit, it mentions the many one-sexed couples to be seen in any large hotel or restaurant, and the negligible action includes “significant” glances and caresses among the three women. Plays other than Coward’s (if any) that might have inspired this effort have not been discovered.

If Nathan hoped to purge the current theatre by ridicule, he was doomed to prompt disappointment. In 1934 a translation of _Mädchen in Uniform_ adapted to the legitimate stage was produced by high-grade amateur groups in more than one large American city and played to crowded houses, and late in the year Lillian Hellman’s _The Children’s Hour_ began its successful run on Broadway. This was subsequently taken over by Hollywood, and readers who saw only the film will wonder at its inclusion here. The mainspring of the plot was the same in both versions—the ruin of a thriving boarding school and of the two young women who own it through vicious slander circulated by a pupil, already a well-developed paranoiac at the age of twelve. In the film one of the women is accused of intimacy with her fiancé, the school physician.

In the play as Miss Hellman wrote it the charge is lesbianism between the two mistresses. This fabrication, fairly sophisticated for a twelve-year-old, is the fruit in part of surreptitious reading of _Mlle Maupin_, in part of an overheard quarrel between one of the young women and an aunt who taunts her with jealousy of her friend’s fiancé. The dreadful child’s garbled exaggerations galvanize her grandmother into hasty action. Over-night the school is emptied by horrified parents. The young women lose their suit for slander through the cowardly flight of the aunt, their chief witness. The younger woman breaks her engagement when she sees that her fiancé will never be sure but that a grain of truth underlay the slander. The other woman is tortured into realizing for the first time that she has never cared for men, and that unadmitted passion has in fact underlain her restrained love for her friend. Feeling irremediably soiled, she shoots herself. As its easy Hollywood transmutation proves, the core of this tragedy is not the persecution of variance. It is the destruction of two blameless individuals through hysterical prejudice, and the lesbian issue is only a super-explosive detonator of that hysteria. But is the older woman’s suicide a tragic waste chargeable to the social mores which made her feel so soiled? Or is it tragic merely because she is physically innocent—that is, does Miss Hellman, like Mendès, distinguish between light and darkness here on the strength of technicalities alone? The text provides no answer.

The rest of the year’s offerings were fiction ranging in quality from that of Henry Handel Richardson, Victoria Sackville-West and Isak Dinesen to the now frequent sensational penny-catchers. Probably most of the book of short stories, _The End of a Childhood_, which Miss Richardson gave to the public in 1934, were written earlier. The title group consists of fragments related to her _Richard Mahoney_ novels (1917-1929) which seem rather discards than sequels (as were those in Galsworthy’s _On Forsyte ’Change_). Another group entitled “Growing Pains” is more reminiscent of her _Getting of Wisdom_ of 1910. Indeed, of these eight sketches, six present so integrated an emotional sequence that although their girls bear different names one wonders whether they are not bits from a trial flight toward another novel centered about a woman. A noteworthy feature in all these sketches, as also in _The Getting of Wisdom_, is the absence of a father and the relative insignificance or incompatibility of the mother.

In “The Bathe” a beautiful child of six is sickened by the physical ugliness of two obese middle-aged women who strip and bathe nude, with self-conscious tittering, on an isolated beach. Until this moment the child has been eager for adult status, but now “oh never—never—no, not ever now did she want to grow up.” In “Preliminary Canter” one twelve-year-old girl adores another and is baffled and furious when the latter “flirts” with a farm hand. “Conversation in a Pantry” presents the uneasy efforts of a girl of fourteen to learn from one three years older what it is one must “take care about” when out with boys. She gets evasive answers, but they are sufficient to recall her disgust upon first realizing that married couples sleep in the same bed. On the other hand, as her informant speaks of her own love, “she had never known before that Alice was so pretty, with dimples round her mouth and her eyes all shady. Oh, could it mean that—yes, it must: Alice simply didn’t _mind_.” “The Wrong Turning” pictures the violent shock to another fourteen-year-old, invited to go rowing by an interesting new schoolfellow (male), when the pair blunder on a swimming hole where naked soldiers are indulging in harmless but rough horseplay, and the men shout suggestively after the embarrassed youngsters.

“And Women Must Weep” is the aftermath of an eighteen-year-old’s long-anticipated first ball. She has been a wallflower, and afterwards, locked in her room,

Oh the shame of it!... not to have “taken,” to have failed to “attract the gentlemen”—this was a slur that would rest on her all her life. And yet a small voice that wouldn’t be silenced kept on saying “It wasn’t my _fault_!” ... She had tried her hardest, done everything she was told to ... [but] really, truly, right deep down in her, she hadn’t wanted “the gentlemen” any more than they’d wanted her: she had only had to pretend to.... She cried till she could cry no more.[22]

The final and longest sketch, “Two Hanged Women,” gives as it were the cumulative result of such experiences. The word “hanged,” it should be noted, is merely a mild and dated Australian expletive equivalent to the American “darned,” and is applied to a pair of young women by a couple who find the two in their own favorite spot for petting, but its use in the title lends a telling _double entendre_. The older girl, nearing thirty, is tall and thin with straight bobbed hair and a man’s gait. The other, in her middle twenties, has been urged to marry by a dominating mother, but is nauseated by physical contact with her beau, Fred. Even if he sits too close she must “screw herself up” to bear it. On the other hand, she craves the social status of a regularly courted girl, and indulges in a brief fantasy of being escorted by the handsome and devoted man. People are sympathetic to that, she says, and “let us into the dark corner seats at the pictures as if we’d a right to them. And they never laugh. Oh, I can’t _stick_ being laughed at!”[23] After the bitter retort, “Gawd! Why not make a song of it?” her companion claims that it is the mother who has put these romantic notions into her daughter’s head. Whenever the two girls are out together the mother is furious, and “does she need to open her mouth? Not she! She’s only got to let it hang at the corners and you reek, you drip with guilt.”[24] The sketch ends with the younger girl shuddering and crying out that she would “rather die twice over” than submit to Fred’s passion. She clings to her friend, who holds her in a gentle and maternal embrace. Taken all together, these half-dozen vignettes present a most convincing etiology for a homosexual woman.

In Victoria Sackville-West’s _Dark Island_ (1934) the reserved and elusive Shirin, oldest child in a family best described as philistine, cultivates defensive reticence. She desires “quietly to remain unguessed, unknown, and thus to protect oneself from the pain of life.” During summers on the southwest coast of England she falls in love with a rocky island a mile offshore, tree-covered and crowned by the romantic pile of LeBreton castle, because it seems the embodiment of her dreams of privacy. After a successful decade in London society which includes marriage and children, she finds her life so pointlessly harried that she escapes it by a quixotic sacrifice of maternal ties and reputation. In her thirties she enters upon a second marriage with Sir Venn LeBreton, owner and virtual overlord of the island of Storn. It is largely for the sake of his island that she marries him, for to her it is still the remote and secret sanctuary for which she has hungered all her life. When, with the intuition of the fiercely proud, Sir Venn divines her motive, he makes clear at once that the property descends in the male line, wives are mere consorts and heir-bearers, and Storn is no more hers than any servant’s. Thus, she has merely involved herself in a barren and humiliating life imprisonment. Soon she discovers that her husband is at times a physical as well as a mental sadist, and her misery reaches desperation unrelieved by the bearing of two children.

Since her teens she has had one constant friend, Cristina, a tall, powerful and competent woman, but their relation has been so reserved, so impersonal, that only its persistence has raised it above mere acquaintance. In her loneliness Shirin turns, though without unburdening herself, to Cristina; and after his male secretary suddenly dies, she prevails upon her husband to engage her friend. The latter perceives at once that Shirin’s life is wretched, but she is vouchsafed no more explanation than becomes slowly evident to her loving eyes. More and more as time passes, however, Shirin comes to depend upon her for just such wordless but complete communion as that between Miriam and Amabel in _Dawn’s Left Hand_. Sir Venn presently becomes aware of this bond, and unable to move his wife from her determination that her friend shall stay with her or she herself will leave, he takes Cristina sailing on a day of squalls and returns alone with a story of her accidental drowning. Shirin accepts this story impassively and continues to live with him, outwardly composed but inwardly in torment. When, some years later, he taunts her with his having deliberately eliminated Cristina, she soon contrives his death in return by a long kiss after she is sure that she is stricken with diphtheria. He dies and she survives, but since Storn is now his son’s and the son is a replica of the father, she soon declines to a willful death.

Two points should be noted here: first, the stress laid on the impersonality of the two women’s relationship until Shirin’s marriage becomes a torture justifying any human solace; and second, the ingenuity employed to contrive her ominous situation. Sir Venn and his feudal domain are the stuff of post-Elizabethan tragedy on gothic romance, difficult of assimilation into a twentieth-century pattern. But the island’s isolation sets it apart from the present, just as Shirin’s withdrawn spirit separates her a little from current reality. Thus the tenuous variant union can flower without reference to society, and the triangular drama can be enacted beyond the world’s reach. This latter portion of the novel is in miniature as much of a _tour de force_ as Mrs. Woolf’s _Orlando_, and the similarity is particularly interesting in that the elusive Shirin is hauntingly reminiscent of Clarissa Dalloway in Mrs. Woolf’s book which her own preface proclaims to be tinged with autobiography.

As distinguished as the work of these two British women was _Seven Gothic Tales_ (1934) by the Danish Isak Dinesen (Baroness Karen Blixen), whose artistry in English is as remarkable as Conrad’s. She is also adroit in maintaining a continental outlook without offending her adopted audience, a feat she achieves by setting her tales in a day when the Romantic Period had the freshness of youth, and recounting them with a serene detachment which precludes “reader participation.” No more than discreet hints of male homosexuality lend flavor to “The Monkey,” and in “The Roads Around Pisa” the two feminine romances contributing to the involved plot are seen in retrospect, only one member of each pair actually appearing in the narrative. The younger of these two women, Agnese, is a transvestist who has traveled for a year as a man. Her reasons are disclosed gradually. Her beloved friend, like Lamartine’s Clothilde, was obliged to marry an elderly Croesus though she was in love with a young cousin. Afterward, when she occasionally slipped out to meet her love, her bosom friend, Agnese, allayed suspicion by occupying her bed, a safe enough favor since the husband was impotent and took his pleasure in toying with his “lovely pet” by day; at night merely inspecting her room to know she was there. To keep the world from guessing his humiliating secret he required a child, and sent a surrogate of his own choosing to effect that end one night when Agnese had taken his wife’s place. Already indifferent to men, Agnese was goaded by this violation to abandon the feminine role altogether and roam the country as a Byronic gentleman.

The very old lady whom a highroad accident leads to unburden herself to a fellow traveler while expecting death, has, like Agnese, been averse to men all her life, but social necessity has made her wife, mother, and now grandmother. The fact that her daughter died in childbirth has increased her animus against the male sex, and her granddaughter’s marrying in the face of her prohibition has estranged them. She tells her confidant, a melancholy Hamlet, that in her long life she has known but two passions, one for a girlhood friend from Denmark, the other for her beautiful grandchild. She cannot die without sending her forgiveness to the girl, and she extracts from the young Danish listener a promise to deliver her message. Contrary to her expectations, however, she lives, is happily reunited with her granddaughter, and through love for the latter’s infant son at last achieves tolerance for the opposite sex (cf. _Marie Bonifas_). She also discovers that her Danish messenger is nephew of her first beloved, who died a spinster. Since both these loves are recounted by one of their actors, they do not appear on the surface to have been lesbian, but there are certainly no implications to the contrary. The two women, young and old, appearing in the story are both somewhat masculine; of each pair of loving women, one never married; and for three of the four, the early variant love seems to have been the most vivid of their lives, surviving marriage or other liaisons.

Another contribution from the continent was the translation of Colette’s _Claudine s’en Va_ as _The Innocent Wife_. Properly it is fourth in its series, but it lacks the outright lesbian element of the third, which awaited publication in the following year. All the Claudine novels, it should be noted, were issued in the United States, while England risked no sympathetic treatments more overt than those of Geoffrey Moss, the two Richardsons, and Miss Sackville-West.

The remainder of the year’s crop were also American, two of good quality. One was Anthony Thorne’s heartening idyll, _Delay in the Sun_, in which forty-eight hours’ suspension of bus service in Spain resolves a variety of emotional conflicts in its English passengers’ lives. The variant couple are mannish Jean Porteous, daughter of a titled British family and a rebel against the social existence expected of her, and Betty Sale-Jones, blonde, helpless and fluttering, from “the plastery gentility of Kensington.” Thus far their common bond has been the determination to escape family strictures and win personal freedom. They are merely good companions with some tentative notions of sharing a flat in London on returning from their trip. Then their visit to an empty bull ring moves Jean to mimic with startling verisimilitude the Spanish performers both have seen.

In the hot Spanish sunlight she played at bull fighting for the sake of a pretty girl in a yellow dress who sat in the _barrera_. Playing together, they mocked a dangerous game. And dangerously they entered a secret world in which they had so great a need of each other.[25]

Later in the moonlight they visit the flower-drenched public gardens and lie on the warm grass, “fingers still linked as they lay looking upwards into the sparkling sky.” When they come back to lights and crowds they fall paralyzingly shy and dare not share their common room and bed. After a restless night apart, each comes to much the same conclusion:

What had happened to them last night was something beyond their control. Then let this strange force follow its own law—let it part them forever or join them forever. It was something too big for their reason, and too delicate.... Of no use to fight, reason, or wonder.[26]

And it is without further resolution of their problem that they let the suddenly-restored bus service carry them away from the scene of their inarticulate romance. The author has cannily left each reader to supply what sequel best satisfies his own philosophy, but the lingering mood is distinctly one of warm tolerance and sympathy rather than disapproval.

In _After Such Pleasures_, on the other hand, Dorothy Parker grazes the surface of variance with flippant malice. The final story, “Glory in the Daytime,” sketches the tentative advances of a New York sophisticate to a newly arrived and naïve little wife with a passion for stage celebrities. Using the long-famed Lily Wynton as bait, the Gothamite invites the provincial to tea—to the disgust of the latter’s husband, who always refers to the predatory Hallie as “Hank” and declares that all “those women” make him sick. Starry-eyed with anticipation, little Mrs. Murdock finds her hostess alone, clad in trousers and silk shirt. She is welcomed with a long kiss and the admonition, “Don’t tell Lily!” But the famous star on arrival proves to be middle-aged, withered, and brassy-haired. She is already too drunk to follow the conversation, demands brandy, and soon dozes off. Mrs. Murdock leaves in sad disillusion, with a new appreciation of her astringent mate, only to find that he has gone out in a temper for the first time to pursue his own ends.

The Worm’s Turning

Since the total count of variant titles in 1934, including the sensational items not yet touched upon, mounted to ten, it is not surprising that some public reaction should set in. It will be even less so after a rapid consideration of those omitted trivia, of which within as many years some half-dozen accumulated. Because the first was a fairly obvious rebuttal of _Well of Loneliness_, it deserves more attention than some others. It was _Loveliest of Friends_ (1931) by Sheila Donisthorpe, who was reputedly an English actress with a number of other romances to her credit, but its verbal idiom is not British and it was published only in New York.

Written with intense sentimentality, it pictures the ruin of Audrey, introduced as the happy wife of a doting but pedestrian husband whose hobby of gentleman-farming takes him often out of London. The couple’s intimate life is described in some detail as ideal, yet Audrey is given to playing Chopin in the dusk to relieve her unspent emotion. Presently she is assiduously courted by boyish, impudent and exquisitely-tailored Kim, similarly blessed with a husband who dotes upon her and allows her every freedom. Kim’s showers of gifts and passionate telephone calls intoxicate the inexperienced Audrey. Although the first attempted caress and Kim’s confession that she is a lover of women are profoundly shocking, Audrey soon succumbs without reservation. Then she discovers that there is a former beloved for whose daily letters Kim watches avidly; next, she learns that several of her own London circle have been loved and discarded by Kim; finally, a current rival is flaunted to rouse her jealousy. This cheap blonde American flirt is a transparent copy of the ex-chorus girl in _Well of Loneliness_, just as a vivid phrase applied to Kim—“a head so fiercely alive it seemed delicately to light the air around it”[27]—is lifted verbatim from the description of Jennifer in Miss Lehmann’s _Dusty Answer_.

Audrey spends several delirious weeks at a shore resort with Kim (described in detail) of an intensity impossible to support for long, and when immediately afterward the blonde recaptures Kim by the classic device of parading a rival—a repulsive caricature of the mannish and profane lesbian—Audrey’s overstrained nerves give way. A period in a sanatorium restores her temporarily, but, back in London again, she is helpless against her passion. After melodramatic incidents involving all four women, Audrey attempts suicide, and failing to achieve her end, she leaves home and husband to wander, derelict and outcast, for the rest of her days. Close to the end the author breaks out in vituperation against

those who clamor for recognition of the sinister group who practice ... these sadistic habits ... crooked, twisted freaks of Nature who stagnate in dark and muddy waters, and are so choked with the weeds of viciousness and selfish lust that, drained of all pity, they regard their victims as mere stepping stones to their further pleasure. With flower-sweet fingertips they crush the grape of evil till it is exquisite, smooth and luscious to the taste, stirring up subconscious responsiveness, intensifying all that has been, all that follows, leaving their prey gibbering, writhing, sex-sodden shadows of their former selves, conscious of only one desire in mind and body, which, ever festering, ever destroying, slowly saps them of health and sanity.[28]

This effusion is an obvious retort to Miss Hall’s relatively controlled plea for tolerance at the end of _Well of Loneliness_, and the volume gives every evidence of being written hastily to profit by whatever conservative reaction there was against the sympathy aroused among the literati by Miss Hall’s effort.

The next exhibit was from the pen of the American Tiffany Thayer, writer of near-erotica, and comprises one chapter in his _Thirteen Women_ (1932). A fragile beauty in whom puritanic sex-repression has induced tuberculosis is quickly cured by an affair with her Denver physician’s lesbian wife. The two have in common a hatred of men. The younger believes their love unique and blessedly free of the uncleanness of sex, and when, back in New York, she is bawdily enlightened by an old schoolmate who is now a vaudeville performer, she wastes swiftly to the death her abortive romance postponed.

Of the same calibre was _The Establishment of Madame Antonia_ (1932) by one Leyla Georgie, comprising life sketches of the inmates of Hamburg’s most élite bordello, and supposedly recorded by one of the group. Nearly all the women are titled or from the top level of European society, but have been reduced by malign chance. The variant pair are a Russian princess and a new recruit whom she protects and cherishes. Discovering that though her protégée loves her, she is unable to return her passion, the princess introduces the girl to a nobleman who marries her. Natacha then commits suicide. The whole volume is little more than a romanticizing of earlier foreign erotica which celebrated more fleshly relations among prostitutes.

The title of Idabel Williams’s _Hellcat_ (1934) accurately describes its heroine, who expends her efforts only on such persons as she can steal from someone else or can live upon without sacrifice on her part. One of the latter is a lesbian whom she scorns as long as men are handy, but whose hospitality she finally exploits for a long season, keeping her victim in a constant fever by pretending an innocence which sees in lesbians only fit subjects for police court or madhouse.

Gerald Foster’s _Strange Marriage_ (1934) deserves an extra word because here transvestism basically affects the plot for the first time since the fantastic German _Weiberbeute_ of 1906. A girl, expelled from college just before graduation, hides out in a lonely beach shack until she can go home without revealing her disgrace. Shingled and accustomed to trousers she lives as a boy for safety, but finds that even boys are not safe from the lifeguard who seeks her out at night. He is, however, delighted on discovering her real sex. His masterful possession of her, outrages her pride, but her body registers traitorous complaisance. In a fury of rebellion against a woman’s double disadvantage, she resolves to live as a man. By putting the width of the continent between her and her past life she contrives to get a college degree on the west coast and a job in a law office, continuing her studies at night. When the senior partner’s daughter falls in love with her she reciprocates with warmth, marries the girl (who is innocent to a degree), and lives as her husband for several years. Then the coincidental reappearance of the beach guard not only makes her apprehensive of recognition but revives the response he was the first to stir. A quick disappearance leaves her wife an apparent widow, and she marries the man. The bisexual experience here seems more indebted to earlier French trivia than to current psychological theory, which taxes unwilling defloration with negative rather than happy heterosexual results.

As Lilyan Brock’s _Queer Patterns_ (1935) has been revived in two different paperbound editions since 1950 and is thus easily available, a short description will suffice. A musical-comedy star tries marriage to one of those perfect husbands so useful in accentuating indelible variant leanings. She comes fully to life, however, only under the hands of a dynamic woman director of serious drama, with whom she enjoys two perfect years before gossip obliges them to part or face professional ruin. A long illness induced by the separation and by a subsequent wealthy husband’s drug-crazed violence provides opportunity for a trained nurse to fall in love with her. The nurse is driven to suicide from jealousy of the other woman. The drug-addict husband finally strangles the star. This is offered as an example of ineradicable inborn variance.

Quite the most melodramatic of the lot was _Male and Female_ by Jack Woodford (1935), in which a girl about to be married realizes that her comparative physical coolness to her fiancé stems from a hitherto unadmitted attraction to a girl friend. The latter, a brooding introvert afflicted with frequent migraine, is quite aware of her own feelings, and thrusts herself between the pair, after they marry, with incredible temerity. The young couple have a stormy year which would have wrecked their union—since the wife prefers feminine gentleness to masculine “brutality” in lovemaking—but for their occasional periods of ecstasy when the interloper is laid low by her chronic ailment. It finally appears that this “friend” is virtually a witch (a fictional throwback of a full millennium). In modern terms, she exercises some hypnotic power over the wife even at great distances. Since, however, she is not evil at heart, she finally commits suicide in a burning house by way of ending her own unhappiness and effectively terminating her fateful influence.

Virtually the last item of this sort from the point of date was Gawen Brownrigg’s _Star Against Star_ (1936), pretending to British authorship, but, like _Loveliest of Friends_, written in American idiom. It apes _Well of Loneliness_ closely in its dependence upon inheritance and childhood conditioning, but in this case Dorcas resembles a hot-blooded mother who has had many male lovers and who virtually seduces her own daughter at the age of nine or ten. A year in a Swiss boarding school when she is sixteen ends with the expulsion of Dorcas and her bisexual American roommate for lesbian intimacy. Two efforts at affairs with men leave Dorcas cold, and from one man she parts because he speaks with contempt of “Lezzies.” Later, in Paris, she meets a beautiful novelist already renowned at twenty-six, and within twenty-four hours the infatuated pair achieve complete intimacy. They return to live for a time in England; however, they encounter at once the same social disapprobation they had met among the British contingent even on the _rive gauche_. A literary critic warns Dorcas, moreover, that she will be jealous of Consuelo’s work, and that emotional release may have an adverse effect upon the latter’s creative powers—an interesting inversion of Miss Hall’s attributing Stephen Gordon’s sterility to lack of such release. Both predictions prove all too accurate, and the union goes completely on the rocks within a matter of months. Worthless as it is artistically, the novel stresses a detail previously hinted only in _That Other Love_: it is the younger girl who disrupts an older woman’s well adjusted and successful life. Also evil fruit from even completely happy physical expression is at odds with the Freudian theory which the author elsewhere makes show of accepting.

The final pair of tales have been left until last because of their direct bearing on censorship efforts which got under way during 1934 and 1935. One was _Love Like a Shadow_, which, although written under the name of Lois Lodge, exhibits many of the characteristics of male authorship listed earlier in discussing erotic writing. Of the college in which it begins, it reports “bull sessions” of crass vulgarity, raw petting parties and assignations after dances, and lesbian alliances kept only slightly undercover. In a New York residence club a burgeoning lesbian coterie includes a cigar-smoking physician who spouts variant biology and philosophy at every chance, a feminist poet with two girls—children under ten—whom she has already started on the path to Lesbos, and a variety of free-living artists, entertainers, and Park Avenue sensation-seekers. The heroine, Jean, is antagonistic towards men because of her father’s flaunted infidelities; another girl, because she was raped at twelve by her uncle. Jean is an idealist in search of a lasting alliance, but her first love (a college roommate) marries to scotch “queer” gossip in a midwestern home town; and her second proves compulsively promiscuous to the point of seducing Jean’s teen-age sister. Jean finally becomes the wife of her millionaire employer “in name only” because his fifteen-year-old daughter needs a mother, but she finds her stepdaughter already bisexually experienced, and the two are soon united in the Great Love of both their lives—approximately the fourth affair for each. The father conveniently dies (of extra-marital excesses) and leaves the pair free to roam the world at will and live happily ever after. This précis suggests but feebly the hundred-proof distillate of promiscuity, exhibitionism, hard drinking, wild lesbian propagandizing, and bad poetry which comprises the original.

Cut from the same cloth was _Mardigras Madness_ (1934) by Davis Dresser, a gentleman revealed by the Library of Congress catalog as writing under six pseudonyms, one of them feminine. It is a racy tale of Barbara from the country, whose aunt is a prude and whose “steady” is too puritanic to satisfy her ardent needs. The Mardigras season, which she spends with a girl friend in New Orleans, is a salacious riot including a midnight ritual orgy worthy of Peladan, but the variant episode occurs during the day when masquers roam the streets at will. She and her friend are picked up by two women, a tall harlequin, and a shingled pirate who says, “I’ll take you captive—before some nasty man beats me to it.” The women call each other Frankie and Johnny, and even before the party reaches their modest apartment Barbara senses a mystery, “an indefinable _something_ which set them apart from anyone she had ever known.”[29] In the apartment alcohol flows freely, and since Barbara has never before tasted so much as wine, her confused exaltation discreetly blurs her impressions of first a “sentimentality” which vaguely bothers her, then a crescendo of caresses until “the world faded into blackness under Frankie’s soothing touch.”[30] The whole incident occupies a half-dozen pages.

This title had a significant publishing history. In 1938 the same firm issued _One Reckless Night_ by Peter Shelley, one of Dresser’s many tags. Except that in this later volume the heroine and her friend bear different names, its text is that of the 1934 narrative verbatim, save for one alteration and a scant two percent deletions. The latter comprise vivid and specific bits of heterosexual detail. But the important change is the transmutation of the lesbians into a pair of men, “a striking couple, both extremely tall, and they carried their costumes with a swagger.”[31] They pick the girls up in a magnificent foreign roadster, the scene of the drinking party is a patio of corresponding grandeur, and as the heroine lapses from consciousness she dreams that it is her fiancé who possesses her. The obvious purpose of both versions, as of _Love Like a Shadow_ and the same grade of purely heterosexual writing, is to convince the callow reader that “everybody’s doing it, it’s smart in the Big Cities.” No matter how much one may deplore censorship in principle, one can hardly deny its justice in such cases as these. Actually, the second version of Dresser’s tale is no better than the first in moral impact, and the fact that the only change in plot required to make it acceptable for publication was the alteration of the lesbian episode, throws light upon the chief target of the snipers.

To be sure, variant fiction was not alone in its flamboyance, nor was it alone under attack. The heterosexual frankness in works of high quality during the twenties had been followed by lesser and lesser efforts, and finally by pseudonymous volumes such as _Naked Escape_, _Innocent Adulteress_, and _Born to be Bad_. Male homosexuality, as well, was represented in a handful of dubious volumes culminating in _Scarlet Pansy_. Non-fiction also took advantage of the open market with hastily penned volumes on sexual psychology and perversions, and revivals or new translations of Krafft-Ebing, Stekel, and lesser lights of the preceding half-century. A crop of short-lived presses—“Eugenic,” “Anthropological” and “Physicians”—sprang up to profit by the open season. Reaction was inevitable. Since earlier battles to prevent publication had, as we have seen, been lost in this country, censoring groups now trained their guns upon sales agencies wherever they had sufficient influence. In one city a single sale of a blacklisted item might lay a bookseller open to prosecution and seizure of all contraband stock. In another, supplying a title specifically requested by a patron might be safe, but having the same volume visible even on inconspicuous shelves within the shop was penalized. In a third it might be that no restrictions were imposed, as for example Atlantic City, where the excursionist from Boston or Philadelphia was apt to find all the books banished from his own city lavishly displayed in boardwalk windows. This uneven but increasing restraint was soon sufficient to make the production of sensational items a gamble instead of a sure profit; the fly-by-night presses withered as suddenly as they had grown, and what little trash was issued had to seek vanity publishing.

Above Reproach

Variant fiction of quality, however, suffered no very great check. In 1935, for instance, this country saw the publication of two sympathetic translations, Christa Winsloe’s _Girl Alone_ and Colette’s _The Indulgent Husband_, and also of Gale Wilhelm’s _We Too Are Drifting_. This last was a brief first novel by a young woman pictured frankly on the dust jacket as shingled and tailored, who was a stylistic disciple of Ernest Hemingway (by then a major influence). Her prose had a lean economy worthy of her master, and the grudging acclaim her novel received would certainly have been warmer and more voluminous except for her subject.

Her central figure is Jan Morale, an artist of thirty whose woodcuts have already merited a one-man showing. Jan’s childhood was pinched and sordid; the brother who always hid behind her skirts ended by being hanged; and she herself might have starved as a printer’s devil but for a helping hand from the established sculptor Kletkin. He would like to marry her, but recognizes that no man can hope to possess her. For she is the model for his prize-winning _Hermaphroditus_, and is more convincingly masculine in temperament than even Miss Hall’s Stephen Gordon. The disgraced brother was her twin, and effeminate, which implies heredity as the cause of her variance. At the opening of the story Jan is entangled with a society beauty who has raised marital deception to a fine art in the interests of her predatory lesbian habits. Jan has been no more than physically captivated; she is already restive, and tension increases when she falls romantically in love with the serene innocence of Victoria, just out of college and living with her conventional suburban family. Jan’s meticulous restraint in refusing to sweep the younger girl off her feet, and the slow development of their complete intimacy, are presented delicately but without evasion. The relationship survives the married woman’s jealous efforts to destroy it and persists for a time, but with increasing strain. For Jan holds to a lifelong rule against intruding her bohemian eccentricity upon conventional households, and Victoria finds frequent absences hard to explain at home. Victoria is an only child not only loved but loving, with all the pliant passivity of Verena Tarrant in _The Bostonians_. In her placid life the need for evasion or struggle has never before arisen, and they are alien to her now. Therefore the two girls’ long-nursed plans for a holiday together go down before a suddenly projected family trip. Jan, furtively hidden, must watch a transcontinental train pull out bearing her beloved, accompanied by her parents and the “nice boy” they wish her to marry. Here again, as in _Star Against Star_, the older and well-established woman is the one to suffer from a consuming intimacy.

The British contribution of the year was a brief section of Francis Brett Young’s _White Ladies_, in which the now familiar pattern of _Regiment of Women_ is discernible. Bella, descended from two generations of independent and passionate women and virtually orphaned, is sent to boarding school at sixteen because she is too much the tomboy to be manageable by her grandparents or the mistresses of her private day-school. The “first passionate devotion of her life” for a music mistress she outgrows upon discovering that the woman is a facile sentimentalist, but she falls at once into “instinctive adoration” of a crisp and ironic headmistress, who seems the antithesis of her former love. On closer acquaintance the contained Miss Cash reveals a “protean” range of mood, from childlike gaiety to “spiritual incandescence,” but her astringent scorn of admitted love preserves Bella’s illusion of emotional detachment through five years as pupil, teacher and secretary-companion. Then Miss Cash offers hysterical opposition to Bella’s associating with men, and this brings the girl to see her at last as

a faded middle aged woman of imperious and uncertain temper, pathetically nursing an illusion of emancipated youth and freedom and daring in what was really the arid life of a confirmed old maid.[32]

Later, in the company of a man she loves, Bella meets Miss Cash on the street with another worshipful young girl and recognizes a sinister element in these consuming attachments. When the man observes that though the schoolmistress has the face of an old woman she still moves like a girl, Bella replies that she is ageless because she is a vampire, living on young blood. Neither of the women here appears at all masculine, though Miss Cash is a feminist and a man-hater and Bella has a man’s practical intelligence and drive. Bella’s loves are substitutes for family ties, and the older woman is again the egotist in need of constant adulation.

In 1936 Rosamond Lehmann skimmed variance fleetingly in _Weather in the Streets_ with a dialogue between a divorcee of boyish appearance and her one-time schoolmate who plainly has suspicions about the cause of her marital difficulties;[33] the suspicions are, however, unfounded. Marcia Davenport gave her prima donna in _Of Lena Geyer_ just such a faithful adorer as Allie Wentworth in Huneker’s satiric _Painted Veils_, but she is careful to specify that though gossip attributed a lesbian color to the relationship it was actually blameless.[34] (One suspects that there may have been living models for both authors’ couples of singer and satellite in the New York musical world of the early century.)

The year’s most important item was the British edition (the American followed in 1937) of _Nightwood_ by Djuna Barnes, a young American of the Paris group of expatriates following more or less in the literary footsteps of Gertrude Stein and James Joyce. Fortunately Miss Barnes’s work is intelligible without a key, her kinship being perhaps closer with T. S. Eliot, who wrote the preface for this, her first full-length narrative. On initial reading, the first hundred pages of _Nightwood_ may seem only a crowded canvas of figures romantic in their eccentricity and linked by little save Left Bank geography. Gradually one perceives that their dual axis is a pair of young women, one an American. Nora Flood owns a decaying homestead near enough New York to be crowded, whenever she is there, with the gifted bohemians her hospitality welcomes. The scene of _Nightwood_, however, is mainly Paris, where Nora acts as publicity agent for a small circus. Of the enigmatic Robin Vote, who moves through the story in a kind of somnambulism, one learns little save that sometimes she breaks absently into fragments of debased song in any of a half-dozen languages, and exhibits a compulsive lesbian promiscuity, the two together suggesting a dubious background. At twenty she drifts into marriage with a wealthy Jew, but childbirth wakes her violently to the knowledge that neither marriage nor motherhood is tolerable to her.

She and Nora are drawn to one another on sight, wander about the continent happily together, and settle for some years in Paris. But Robin is increasingly involved in transient contacts, though she suffers them without volition and is happy only on return to Nora. Then a fading and greedy widow captures and attempts to hold her, and Robin is so torn between her two emotional poles that her always precarious stability is destroyed. The occasion of Nora’s first meeting her was a circus performance from which the girl fled in inarticulate panic because the animals were magnetically drawn to her side of their cages, and a lioness stretched paws through the bars and fixed her “with brimming eyes of love.” The book ends with Nora’s tracing Robin’s final headlong flight from Paris to her own American country place, where she finds the deranged girl engaged in poetically beautiful but spine-chilling play with Nora’s great dog. The volume _in toto_ is a tragic prose poem of the lost—all those whose sole métier is instinct and emotion, misfit and outcast in a culture whose law is social regimentation.

Perceptibly related in style, although far inferior in artistry, is Helen Anderson’s _Pity for Women_ (1937). In this story, an over-sensitive motherless girl attempts to make her way alone in New York, living in a residence club more sinister in its inbred hysteria than any woman’s college dormitory. The hysterical manifestations are not only variance but the reckless struggles of older girls to capture men. The “blind dates” to which Ann submits, the drinking and promiscuity and aftermaths of abortion and suicide which she sees among her housemates, so sicken her that when she acquires a roommate to assuage her loneliness, she clings to the cool and serene Elizabeth as a savior. The two girls enjoy a period of innocent friendship precious to both, but it is jeopardized when an older woman galvanizes Elizabeth into passionate tension. This imperious Judith soon brings Ann also under her spell. She then drops the more contained Elizabeth, and takes Ann as her housemate outside the club. This move estranges the two girls and also terminates a promising acquaintance between Ann and the one man whose company she has been able to enjoy.

There is at first the usual period of honeymoon ecstasy between the two housemates but then bit by bit Ann pieces together Judith’s crowded history, one only to have been expected, but prostrating to the naïve Ann. She is particularly shaken by the story of Judith’s dearest love, a girl as young as herself, whose marriage for the sake of a child drove Judith to attempt suicide. She also suffers from their social isolation, which is complete save for Judith’s still adoring older friends. No new contacts on Ann’s part are permitted. From an agony of jealousy Ann wastes so alarmingly that Judith, to reassure her, goes through a species of marriage ceremony, using the familiar passage from the _Book of Ruth_. But this gesture is worse than futile. Ann’s state has been induced not by need of permanence but by unconscious terror of it, which warred with her passion. As she feels the fetters closing, her mind gives way. Of the three women depicted, Judith is an innate homosexual and the two younger girls are diverted from normal orbits by contact with her. Elizabeth has stamina enough to regain her balance, although had she remained Judith’s choice the outcome must have been dubious. The immature and unstable Ann is wrecked beyond hope of recovery.

After these two studies, ultra-modern in manner and somewhat morbid in substance, to read Elisabeth Craigin’s _Either is Love_ (1937) is to step back into another century. The almost expository narrative moves against a background in which horses still provide the means of transportation, and there is little to indicate that it is not the discreetly disguised autobiography which it claims to be. Indeed its prose style suggests an already established reputation in fields of non-fiction. It covers a decade in the life of its author, beginning with her late twenties. An employee of the federal government, she is singled out by a younger colleague who shows her the small attentions normally proffered by a man. As the acquaintance develops, its emotional tone disturbs Elisabeth, who recognizes it as what would ordinarily be called “falling in love.” (However, as she explains, in the United States at that time the only available literature on psychology was written by William James; Krafft-Ebing and Havelock Ellis were barely heard of, and even the feminism of Olive Schreiner and Ellen Key was “only for the very emancipated.”) For two years the pair struggle against circumstance, the need for secrecy, and their own increasing passion. To the young Rachel, the experience of variant (if not lesbian) love is not wholly new. Heretofore her friends have been attracted by her boyishness, but now Elisabeth is averse to any travesty of a heterosexual relation. Theirs must be an honest love between two women. Finally some months together abroad give them a typical interlude of complete and perfect union.

Then family complications separate them, and the brief periods they can snatch together are fevered by the effort to crowd too much ardor into too little time. During a long stretch with the width of the Atlantic between them, Rachel falls back into her youthful pattern of responding to the dynamic reaction she involuntarily rouses in other women. This infidelity to what is still her great love induces loss of faith in herself, and finally she suffers so acute a sense of guilt that she turns against all physical expression and follows the lead of a new friend (a mystic enamored of self-abnegation) into the church. Elisabeth could have foregone intimacy if that was required to preserve their friendship; but Rachel’s retroactive conviction that their whole association was wrong seems to her sheer sacrilege. She feels that the Rachel known to her is dead, and a decade passes before she is able to enter upon another emotional relationship.

This second love is heterosexual, and the other half of the volume records its course, terminating in marriage. The two experiences, though different in detail, are subjectively identical and quite justify the title, _Either is Love_. The author’s final comment upon variance is well-considered enough to warrant quotation:

I do not even now understand the expression “sinful” as I hear it in connection with love between women.... I should think sin was something that did harm in some form, to other people or, of course, to oneself.... Lust demoralizes both participants.... Married life does not preclude it, God knows, and there are great numbers of extra-marital forms. I can understand how lust might develop between women, and if that exists it is deplorable enough. But because incest occurs, is all family life vicious? Because there are brothels, is all sexual life unclean? A so-called Lesbian alliance can be of the most rarified purity, and those who do not believe it are merely judging in ignorance of the facts.[35]

This special pleading, more philosophic than Miss Hall’s, is so much of a piece with the rest of the text that it is not obtrusive, and the volume raised no outcry in our press.

Nevertheless, in the same year the imported French film _Club de Femmes_, its story by Jacques Deval, was drastically cut for New York showing. The review in _Time_ said:

Manhattan censors promptly spotted Sapphic overtones ... in the character played by beauteous Else Argall, Deval’s wife. Censorship deleted her best scene, which shows her successfully fighting the urge to join the girl of her desire.[36]

This latter is the central figure, who is seduced by a man and bears his illegitimate child. “Considered fit for Manhattan cinema-goers was the shot in which [the lesbian] poisons the procuress telephone operator.” If, as Ernst and Lindey claim in _The Censor Marches On_, the deletion of the “best” scene left an implication that the lesbian yielded to her desires, then as revived in 1948 the film must have been still further cut (as indeed a certain incoherence suggests), for all that it then showed was the older woman’s maternal solicitude for the naïve newcomer.

In 1938 the important contributions came from Gale Wilhelm and Kay Boyle. To be sure, Dorothy Baker in _Young Man with a Horn_ hinted, in passing, at an alliance between a light-skinned Harlem beauty and the white graduate student who later proves so unsatisfactory a wife to the hero. Ernest Hemingway also, in “Sea Change,” one of the briefest pieces in _The Fifth Column and the First Forty-nine Stories_, shows a lesbian interlude breaking in upon a satisfactory heterosexual affair. The man tells his errant partner, “It’s a vice.” The girl, promising to return to him, denies the charge. “We’re made up of all sorts of things. You’ve known that. You’ve used it well enough.” But neither of these treatments was very important, and there seem not to have been others.

Miss Wilhelm’s second novelette, _Torchlight to Valhalla_, resembles her first in length and style, but differs in that both its girls are masculine in little more than attire, and variant largely through conditioning. The older is even more closely bound to her father than was Gillian in _The Tortoiseshell Cat_. In her desperate loneliness after his death, she yields to a young musician (male) who seems an ideal partner, but finds herself frozen and shamed by the experiment. The younger girl has been forced since the age of fifteen to assume a man’s responsibility for herself and her once distinguished aunt, now a bemused alcoholic. The two girls immediately find in one another the answer to their needs and achieve a union which promises lasting happiness. There is nothing here like Jan’s bohemian existence in _We Too Are Drifting_ or her barren entanglement with the married woman. Despite these seeming efforts to placate the prejudiced, Miss Wilhelm’s second title fared no better at the hands of reviewers than her first.

Kay Boyle, then another of the American literary expatriates in France, was already a writer of established reputation when she entered the variant field in 1938 with two titles. Earlier, in _Gentlemen, I Address You Privately_ there had been hints of male homosexuality. Incorporated in _Monday Night_ there is a much more explicit lesbian episode, seen in part through the eyes of an eight-year-old boy whose father is serving a life sentence for a crime of which he is innocent. The rather pathetic wife and mother enjoys a summer interlude with a _soi-disant_ Russian princess, fugitive from the Revolution of 1917. This Baya, world-vagabond, automobile racer and aviator, even masquerades on occasion in the father’s World War I uniform,

the visored cap ... tipped on the side of her head, even the boots seeming to fit exactly, and the crop stuck under her armpit, and the face small, tough and reckless ... “His uniform, his wife, his kid, the life he can’t live handed me like a present,” she said scarcely aloud, the casual rakish smile neat as a boy’s.[37]

Then the other woman shows interest in a man, and after some stubborn haunting of the apartment, Baya slams out, “banging the hall-door behind her so that the pictures jumped on the walls.”

Miss Boyle’s second narrative, “The Bridegroom’s Body,” did not appear in book form until 1940 when it was included in the volume _The Crazy Hunter_, but the _Southern Quarterly_ printed it in 1938. Here Lady Glourie, thirty-five but emotionally naïve as a child, is mistress of an isolated manor with a swannery dating from the sixteenth century, and wife to a man whose only interest is sport. He and his cronies spend their days with rod and gun and their nights in carousal from which she is excluded, so that she feels herself isolated in a world of men given over to nothing but killing. When illness in the swanherd’s family makes it necessary to import a nurse, Lady Glourie anticipates the company of another woman with pathetic eagerness. The arrival of a young and beautiful Irish girl is a blow, the more bitter because Lord Glourie is instantly smitten. There is also a handsome farmer on the place, reputed to be irresistible to women; so when Lady Glourie learns that Miss Cafferty is given to long walks by night as well as by day she infers the worst. The Irish girl’s shyly professed admiration for herself she takes as a studied attempt at ingratiation.

It is the swans’ mating season and the perennial battle is on between old warriors and young cobs. On a night when the nurse is neither in her room nor with her patient, Lady Glourie is called from her bed to deal with a battle to the death between a young “bridegroom” and the fiercest of the old cobs. Thinking she may be in time to save the young swan, she wades out waist deep to the rescue and narrowly escapes dangerous attack by the old one. She emerges from the icy water with the dead swan to find Miss Cafferty there, softly hysterical, pouring out a torrent of endearment. She learns that from the first the girl has been interested in her alone, fighting off the men because she too hates their predatory cruelty. Her long walks she has taken

“to think about you here, alone where there might be something left of you ... some mark of you on the ground. I couldn’t sleep in the room, I couldn’t bear closing the door after I’d left you.... I’ve walked the country alone ... talking out loud to you night and day, asking you to give me everything I haven’t, peace and strength and that look in your eyes ... one hint of what it is you have that nobody else has, just one weapon to fight the others ...”[38]

Lady Glourie quiets her,

but these were things she had heard once or once imagined.... She stood waiting, scarcely breathing, waiting for the words to start again. The chill she had not yet felt on her flesh entered her heart for the instant that the words abandoned this anonymous but exact description of love.[39]

When the girl does speak again it is to beg Lady Glourie to come away with her, escape from the manor, continue to “lend me what you can spare.” The surcharged moment is interrupted by the noisy arrival of Lord Glourie with a lantern, demanding “What’s up?” and annoyed to find them both drenched to the skin. “Lady Glourie looked down at her own strange flesh and suddenly she began shaking with the cold.” Here the narrative ends, and as in _Delay in the Sun_, the reader must supply for himself the ultimate outcome.

Nineteen-thirty-nine saw the publication of two dissimilar novels, the American and anonymous _Diana_,[40] and _Promise of Love_ by a new English author, Mary Renault. Of the latter, the main theme is the struggle of a nurse and a laboratory pathologist to work out satisfactory heterosexual relations against the odds of hospital discipline and of their individual homosexual interests. Vivian closely resembles a brother of uncommon charm, irresistible to both sexes but disinclined to take his relations with either seriously. Thus Mic, who has enjoyed a transient intimacy with the brother and seen his interest fade, is wary of allowing Vivian any hold upon him. She, for her part, is being gracefully courted by a fellow nurse, tall, tailored and debonair, and there are discreet intimations of her momentarily succumbing. One of the factors inclining Vivian toward Mic is Colonna’s sudden and much deeper attachment to a new supervisor of nurses, and the completeness of this connection and the perilous professional risks it entails are left in no doubt. Vivian’s growing intimacy with Mic narrowly escapes disaster when, in a spirit of deviltry, she dresses in men’s clothes and gets the abrupt and brutal reaction the experiment invites. In the end, the two weather all storms and marry. The supervisor also accepts a male suitor, and Colonna is left to face the fact that as she grows older her Maupin pose will be less becoming and her conquests fewer.

_Diana_ is an autobiography almost of the “true confession” type, though it carried a preface by Dr. Victor Robinson endorsing at least its subjective authenticity. Diana grows up the only girl in a household of brothers and she is very close to her father until his death. When in early adolescence she falls in love with a high school chum and recognizes her feelings as those of a boy, her reaction is one of shame not alleviated by an older brother’s introducing her to the works of Havelock Ellis. In college she avoids friendships with women and evades one girl’s advances by pretending ignorance. Delighted to find the attentions of a male graduate student acceptable, she is engaged to him for a couple of years, but an unsuccessful trial of intimacy eliminates marriage from her future plans.

During a year of study abroad, initiation by another American girl shows her where her fulfillment lies; this contact, however, is broken at once by the reappearance of an earlier flame of her new friend. Wounded and angry, Diana is ripe for a less sophisticated alliance with a girl who is shocked by lesbianism and refuses to recognize anything of it in their love. When intimacy finally develops, it is not too satisfactory, since Jane’s scruples preclude any intelligent effort on her part to meet Diana’s needs. Nevertheless, the two attempt for a year to live together after their return to the States. In the women’s college where Diana teaches, their rooming off-campus stirs so much gossip that for the next year Diana must choose between Jane and her position.

Diana’s second conscientious effort, in a coeducational college, to become interested in men is unsuccessful. Somewhat later she finds a young woman graduate student with whom she achieves happiness after a period of meticulous restraint reminiscent of _We Too Are Drifting_. Suspense is supplied by Leslie’s mother’s denouncing the pair and disowning her daughter, and by the reappearance of Jane, who attempts to capture Leslie out of wanton spite. Diana and Leslie are so eminently suited to one another, however, that they finally come through even more closely united. This narrative is certainly no literary masterpiece, and perhaps its strongest point is Diana’s honest analysis along the way of the arguments against, rather than for, her chosen way of life. Since homosexuals need not fear pregnancy or assume responsibility for a home and family, they are free to make and break connections lightly.[41] Only true sympathy, loyalty, and dedication to their unions can restrain them from snatching at facile satisfaction, and human nature being what it is, no lesbian alliance has more strength than the weaker of its two partners. These observations are not particularly original, of course, having often enough been demonstrated by example in a half century’s fiction. Even the precepts themselves had appeared by 1939 in a good many hortatory manuals of sex psychology. Heretofore, however, they were voiced by strenuous opponents of homosexual intimacy. For a defender to present them with cool logic, and, in spite of them, to justify the calculated risk, marks an advance in psychological perspective since Radclyffe Hall’s wholly emotional plea for tolerance a decade earlier.

Another War’s Shadow

For the next three years the preoccupations of war—plus the paper shortage—crowded variant fiction almost completely from the market, and even after readers and publishers once more hit a modified stride, the bulk of such fiction remained condemnatory for the rest of the decade. Angela DuMaurier’s _The Little Less_ (1941) reports effects as devastating as those in _The Island_ from a long variant enslavement, even though in this case there is no physical intimacy. Toward the end of the book a spasm of lesbian debauchery marks one woman’s repudiation of her Catholic faith in defiance of a deity who permitted her child to die. The orgy is followed by her suicide. In Fanny Hurst’s _Lonely Parade_ (1942), the picturesque trio of bachelor girls are solaced by mutual devotion of a variant cast, though never actually lesbian; but their unwedded lives are not especially happy.

The inexplicable burst of five titles in 1943 was largely damning, the minority report being Dorothy Cowlin’s in _Winter Solstice_, a thinly disguised case history of a paralytic whose eight years’ invalidism, of hysterical origin, is cured by a sudden emotional interest in a woman aviator. The relationship is brief and innocent, and is followed by marriage for both women. Craig Rice used the lesbian advances of an eccentric heiress to a Greenwich Village “poet” as a neat red herring in her murder mystery _Having a Wonderful Crime_, in which the heiress is the victim. In Jane Bowles’s _Two Serious Ladies_, an inhibited Brooklyn housewife finds her first experience outside the States so inebriating that she defies her husband and lingers in the prostitutes’ quarters of Colon, determined to “learn all the things she didn’t know,” even though she realizes they will not make her happy.

On a level to be taken seriously, Arthur Koestler in _Arrival and Departure_ conveyed, through his hero’s contact with a woman psychoanalyst, his estimate of both the good and the bad in an all-tolerant psychiatric viewpoint. Peter, heroic political refugee shattered by his ordeal in the hands of the enemy, is taken in and cared for in a neutral European city by his countrywoman, Dr. Bolgar. He falls in love and has a restoring liaison with a young girl who frequents the doctor’s apartment, and he plans to follow Odette to the United States when a passport can be secured. His relapse into neurosis upon her leaving him without notice or farewell Dr. Bolgar repairs by a swift and skillful analysis of his lifelong martyr complex. Chance, however, reveals to Peter that the doctor is Odette’s real love and he but a passing fancy. So, instead of following the girl, he returns to his perilous but “real” underground activities. The doctor is described as tall, full-blown, and masterful; Odette, as childishly slender, with a “boyish” unpainted mouth. In the end,

Above all he felt a sadness ... and pity for Odette, with her vacant look, her slimness and vulnerability—Odette the victim, drowned in the carnivorous flower’s embrace.[42]

Certainly best-known of the year’s titles is Dorothy Baker’s _Trio_, on which a play was based, since its stage history virtually duplicated that of _The Captive_ seventeen years earlier. Its opening in Philadelphia was well attended and reviewed, and the play ran on Broadway for a little more than a month before being closed through pressure from a combination of religious interests. One of the _New Yorker_ staff interviewed various signers of the petition for its withdrawal, and found that several had neither seen the play nor read the novel from which it was made before lending their names to the protest.

The story presents the struggle between a Frenchwoman on an American university faculty and a young art photographer for possession of a girl who is departmental assistant to the former. Pauline Maury has just published a brilliant study of the _fin de siècle_ French decadents, notably Verlaine and Rimbaud. Like them, she is an advocate of exploring the limits of sensibility under all possible stimuli from alcohol to sexual passion, with veiled hints at drugs and flagellation, but naturally this aspect of her life is well concealed. The girl Janet, at first a passionate intellectual and emotional devotee, has been reduced by intimacy with Pauline to the limit of stability when a whirlwind courtship by Ray Mackenzie and a wholesome heterosexual liaison with him save her from further exploitation. Though Ray reacts with blind rage and contempt to her confession of her past relations with Pauline, there is at least a chance that he will come around enough to marry her when he has cooled. The defeated and frustrated Frenchwoman shoots herself.

This is the essence of the drama, artistically in need of no accessories, but probably to avoid elaboration of its morbid emotional elements Mrs. Baker added an offense more permissible of stress. The substance of Pauline’s monograph was stolen from the dissertation of a married friend to whose premature death her own relations with the woman contributed, and the widowed husband retaliates by exposing her plagiarism. This disgrace provides adequate motivation for the suicide which makes so effective a dramatic climax, but it lessens the power of the whole. Pauline as a self-defeating decadent is an unsavory but convincing personality. With the added onus of literary theft she too nearly degenerates into mere villain. Of this century’s four widely circulated dramas, then—_The Captive_, _Mädchen in Uniform_, _The Children’s Hour_, and _Trio_—only the German film succeeded in being good theatre without blurring in some way the variant theme.

Two passing references in 1944 were Erskine Caldwell’s single flippant paragraph in _Tragic Ground_: a bartender’s account of discovering his wife at play in the back room of her beauty salon with two of her young patrons,[43] and Jean Stafford’s vignette in _Boston Adventure_ of a Back Bay dowager who fawns upon each season’s debutantes without once suspecting her own motivation. The heroine, however, bearing scars still unhealed from her childhood under the spell of a neurotic mother now in a sanatorium, is literally sickened by the woman’s fulsome caresses.[44]

In 1945 Nora Lofts inserted in her historical novel _Jassy_ a disparaging middle section, “Complaint from Lesbia,” involving a triangle of two middle-aged school mistresses and the romanticized title figure, then a kitchen maid of thirteen. From girlhood the now-widowed Mrs. Twysdale has worshipped her intellectual cousin, Katherine, and in youth chose as husband the suitor who most resembled her. The two women have jogged along undramatically enough for twenty years in their joint school enterprise when the advent of the remarkable Jassy moves Katherine to unadmitted passion and Mrs. Twysdale to vengeful jealousy. It is the precocious Jassy herself, now a favored student through Katherine’s efforts, who at fifteen accepts unjust dismissal without protest because she recognizes that Katherine will ultimately be better off keeping her lifelong business partner. Here Mrs. Twysdale, pettily feminine and feline, is alone identified with “Lesbia,” (semantically unrelated to Catullus), while the other two exhibit traits implied by Miss Lofts to be masculine.

In the same year Mary Renault in _The Middle Mist_ provided a tonic relief with a variant portrait as piquant as any since _Mlle de Maupin_. Leo (christened Leonora) can, at twenty-five, be mistaken for a teen-age boy even by her own sister after a long separation. She makes a good living by writing “westerns,” lives on a houseboat within commuting distance of London, and avoids situations requiring feminine costume. For seven years she has maintained a comfortable domestic ménage with a nurse who once saved her life. Neither girl’s single brief experiment with a man was happy, and both find their common life wholly satisfying. Still they do not avoid the company of men, and a good part of the story is concerned with the growth of Leo’s friendship with a fellow author into a love which leads finally to marriage. Her difficult choice between her two very real loves, determined largely by her desire for children, is movingly presented.

Her initial attempt at masculine independence was occasioned by intolerable friction between her parents, and her own temperament made it a success. When her younger sister, kept feminine and helpless by a doting mother, follows Leo’s pattern of flight, she simply presents herself on Leo’s doorstep and stays for a long season without realistic thought of who is paying for her keep. Her own adolescent means of escape from family tension has been a steady diet of cheap fiction, and she can see her future only in its sugary terms. When real heartbreak ends a stupid little romance built on nothing more than wishful dreaming, she creeps back to the parental nest, where one imagines her withering into bathetic spinsterhood, haunting rental libraries in search of more stories with happy endings. The parallel development of the two sisters’ lives constitutes a strong argument in favor of lesbian intimacy as against inhibited Victorian romancing. One of the most vivid features of _The Middle Mist_ is its humor, a quality hitherto conspicuously lacking in variant fiction. (Gautier, Gunter, Bennett and Mackenzie are the exceptions.) Leo’s taking a conceited young doctor down a notch by flirting successfully with the nurse he brings to a party and then neglects for other women would be hilarious in any setting. In a variant novel it gleams as an unmatched gem.

Second Crescendo

The end of the war produced no such immediate effect on variant fiction as did the beginning, but gradually quantity increased with the accelerating speed of a geometric progression. Consequently, many of the thirty-odd novels which appeared from 1946 through 1954—all still relatively accessible—must receive short shrift. Brief and disparaging variant or lesbian passages were included in Remarque’s _Arch of Triumph_ (1945 in English), Edmund Wilson’s _Memoirs of Hecate County_ (1946), Felix Forrest’s _Carola_ (1948), Philip Wylie’s _Opus 21_ (1949) and _Disappearance_ (1951), Theodora Keogh’s _Meg_ (1950), Robert Wilder’s _Wait for Tomorrow_ (1952), Joan Henry’s _Women in Prison_ (1952) and Maurice Druon’s _Rise of Simon Lachaume_ (1951; in English, 1952). Characters varied from prostitutes to socialites; action, from sentimental philandering to a jealous knifing.

Longer derogatory treatments were presented by an equal number of authors. In 1946 Jean Paul Sartre’s _No Exit_ (a translation of _Huis Clos_, 1945) had a brief but unchallenged run in New York. Its three characters, impounded in a small room in hell, are: a cowardly political traitor who has also heaped every humiliation on a devoted wife; a woman who has broken several men for her own amusement and killed her unwanted child; and a manhating lesbian who has stolen her cousin’s wife and then talked her victim into a joint suicide pact. Since the lesbian’s sins seem less heinous than those of the other two, her emotional anomaly must be viewed as evening the balance.

Christopher LaFarge’s _The Sudden Guest_ (1946) is concerned with a colossal egotist who closes her doors against victims of a New England hurricane. Desperation emboldens them to enter despite her, but she is untouched by their several stark tragedies. Only one handsome and cultured woman is welcome, for reasons half snobbish, half emotional. This Mrs. Cleever has with her an infant son, but is indifferent to his welfare because of her grief at the drowning of his nursemaid, with whom she was obviously infatuated. The last waifs to arrive are a low-class boy and a girl of fifteen whom he has saved from drowning and carries naked in his arms. Galvanized from her stupor, Mrs. Cleever snatches the beautiful figure from him and, unassisted, carries the girl off to her room. Later the spinster-hostess finds the two sleeping nude in each other’s arms, and this alone has the power to move her—but only to jealousy and self-pity for her own loneliness.

Three comparatively mediocre works of 1947 were equally severe. George Willis’s _Little Boy Blues_ recounts the machinations of a lesbian to achieve marriage and motherhood as a “front” to protect her reputation and as a means of securing her future. She then deserts her victim and uses the child as a financial hold upon him while pursuing her own inclinations, until he is goaded into killing her. Ethel Wilson in _Hetty Dorval_ pictures the near-capture of a Canadian girl of eighteen by a courtesan on vacation from her profession and posing as a respectable woman in Vancouver. In _Not Now but NOW_, Mary F. K. Fisher’s chief figure is a woman as ageless as Orlando and a ruthless egomaniac in all eras and settings. It is in a small Ohio town during the Twenties that she involves a college girl in a lesbian scandal.

The title figure in James Ronald’s _The Angry Woman_ (1948) externally resembles Sinclair Lewis’s Dr. Herringdean, and, like her, is a successful business executive. Her hold upon Fern Oliphant dates from a bedridden year in the latter’s teens and continues till her suicide a decade later. Lesley uses every means to increase Fern’s dependence upon her, and tries first to prevent and then to break up a marriage arranged by the girl’s mother. Unlike Lewis’s unalloyed monster, however, this woman insists she has never been a lesbian. Her own marriage failed on its first night (cf. the French _Méphistophéla_), and her passion for the girl has also gone unfulfilled. She sees her own fondness as the only truly maternal devotion Fern has ever known. To everyone else it wears the aspect of subjective cannibalism.

A more complex case appears in Margaret Landon’s _Never Dies the Dream_ (1949). But for its expressed horror of variant passion this novel would belong among the favorable studies, for its mainspring is a love as constructive and as delicately presented as that in the _Book of Ruth_. Like its author’s now famous _Anna and the King of Siam_, it is laid in Siam, but in this work the heroine is an unmarried American missionary. India gives sanctuary in her mission school to a countrywoman a decade her junior, widow of a Siamese of high rank, because the girl is in danger of violence from her husband’s relatives and of sexual molestation by a European. When India isolates herself with the girl to nurse her through an attack of typhoid, she is accused by a rival mission teacher of being “enamored” of her patient. Agonized soul-searching forces her to admit she feels Angela to be “bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh,” but she can find nothing blameworthy in her love. The maternal element is further stressed when Angela, upon returning to America, leaves her most treasured possession as a parting gift to “my mother-in-love.” It should be admitted that passion of any sort is regarded darkly in the volume—quite justifiably in view of its uglier recorded manifestations—but one can only regret an astigmatism which sees so vividly the beauty of a selfless passion (for its incandescent intensity is undeniably passionate) and is still blind to its essential nature.

Hugh Wheeler’s _The Crippled Muse_ (1952) does not condemn lesbianism per se so much as one of the personalities involved. This is another sparkling comedy of Capri. The three figures significant here are all Americans. Liz Lewis is a wealthy and domineering shrew of apparently innate masculinity, whose record as a finishing school teacher was as technically immaculate as Clare Hartill’s in _Regiment of Women_, until her dismissal at perhaps thirty. This was occasioned by the conspicuous infatuation of a student in her late teens after the girl was violently orphaned. At the time of this story these two have lived together for a decade and the younger, Loretta, is more than tired of the arrangement; yet she stays because she feels responsible for their plight. A sympathetic young professor induces her to break away and marry him. He is not shocked by her history but is hotly antagonistic to the woman who has so long exploited her sense of guilt to hold her captive. (Incidentally, Liz had used Christina Rossetti’s _Goblin Market_ in her original capture of Loretta by stressing their parallelism—unconvincing—to Lizzie and Laura).

Less tolerance of lesbianism marks Sara Harris’s _The Wayward Ones_ (1952), a social worker’s study of homosexuality in a reform school. Termed “the racket” by the adolescent inmates, it at first terrifies and repels a sixteen-year-old girl committed to the institution for unmarried motherhood. She sees, however, that the pairing of “moms” and “pops” brings solace and a sense of belonging to many of the girls involved, and that the authorities make no effort to check the practice, to which they remain questionably blind. When at last she “marries” one of the “pops” to gain protection from an unbalanced housemate who has attempted to kill her, her assumption of the new status marks the beginning of rapid deterioration. She becomes a ruthless liar and schemer, and makes plans to become a “call girl” for both men and women when she is released from the school.

Perhaps the most virulent attack was launched by Simon Eisner in _Naked Storm_, another paper-backed original of the same year. A predatory woman novelist, on the eve of departing for California, first seduces a young art student whom she leaves ill with self-loathing. On the transcontinental train she repeats the experiment with an older woman, who is highly intelligent but emotionally starved. This woman is also courted by a shy and unhappy man, but his rival’s expert sophistication rapidly reduces his chances. At this point an ex-war correspondent decides to play _deus ex machina_. Moved by savage hatred of all lesbians and this arrogant specimen in particular, he takes advantage of a sixty-below-zero blizzard which stalls the train for some thirty hours in the Donner Pass, goads the self-sufficient lesbian into going out into the night for snow to ice her liquor, and furthermore, manages so to confuse her that she loses her bearings in the arctic blackness and freezes to death. The author plainly enjoys this dénouement as much as Belot enjoyed killing off Mme. Blangy.

The latest condemnation is incorporated in _Strange Sisters_ (1954), a pot-boiling murder story by a writer who calls himself “Fletcher Flora.” Opening with the knifing of a man by a girl who has led him to embrace her but then finds her sexual revulsion unconquerable, it flashes back to the causes of her inhibition. The earliest was childhood idolatry of the more or less innocently seductive aunt who raised her (cf. the mother-daughter relation in _Star Against Star_). The second was deliberate seduction by a women’s college instructor when the girl was a lonely and maladjusted freshman; the third a repetition with a department store personnel manager as agent. Each of these older women, in increasing degrees, was interested only in her own emotional needs and not at all in her victim’s welfare. The girl ends with complete mental breakdown and suicide.

All these condemnatory treatments were balanced by as many mildly or strongly sympathetic studies. The briefest of these are two short stories, one “Orestes” in Rhys Davies’s _A Trip to London_ (1946), in which a lesbian waitress frees a middle-aged bachelor from his paralyzing mother fixation precisely because her attitude toward him is so free of feminine seduction. The other is Isabel Bolton’s “Ruth and Irma” (1947), a reminiscent and gently ironic sketch of an infatuated pair of girls roaming the Riviera during the Twenties, which lays their histrionics directly to their saturation with that decade’s fiction. A more important role is assigned to lesbianism in Lucie Marchal’s prize-winning French novel of 1948 translated in 1949 as _The Mesh_, a Freudian study of a domineering woman’s influence on the lives of her son and daughter. The son’s marriage to a timid widow proves a fruitless gesture of defiance. The daughter, always jealous of the mother’s preference for her brother, is gradually liberated from her own fixation by an increasing interest in the pitiful and helpless young wife. In the end her protective impulses become passionate and she takes the girl away to live with her. It is plain, however, that she, like her mother, will soon tyrannize over her captive as stringently as she herself has been dominated.

Another paper-backed original was _Women’s Barracks_ (1950) by Toreska Torres (according to _Publishers Weekly_ the pseudonym of an established author). This purports to be a description of life in the London headquarters for women recruits of the Free French forces; however, it is not a translation. An important thread in the meandering plot is the love of a shy girl of seventeen for a much older woman, wholesome and maternal though vulgar, who has consoled herself while married to a “pansy” by intimacies with both men and women. One or two completely lesbian couples in the house refuse to recognize Claude as one of themselves—“She’s a pervert, a curiosity seeker.” Nevertheless her influence on Ursula is beneficent. Soon the girl turns to men, the lesbian interlude having cracked the shell of her naïve reserve and matured her for other experience.

Easily the eeriest of all references to variance is Shirley Jackson’s in her remarkable study of late adolescence, _Hangsaman_ (1951). Here a girl, as precariously balanced as Ann in _Pity for Women_, is inhibited by a father fixation, and driven farther from normal experience by a cryptically-described incident, perhaps actual assault, but more likely only heavy petting, by an older man at a cocktail party in her own home. In a “progressive” college, quite unsupervised, she becomes more and more solitary and withdrawn until her sudden friendship with an ideally sympathetic girl companion. This alter ego, whose allure she finally recognizes as physical and fights off, proves actually to be only the other half of her own split personality. In other words, the drama in _Hangsaman_ is that of an abnormally sensitive girl’s narrow escape from schizophrenia.

In the same year Whit and Hallie Burnett included in _Sextet: Six Story Discoveries_ John Eichrodt’s “Nadia Devereux,” which its author describes as a feminine “parody” of Thomas Mann’s _Death in Venice_. It need not, then, be further discussed than to say that it treats understandingly the secret infatuation of an internationally-renowned woman lecturer on international law for an exquisite girl on the clerical staff of the United Nations. Like its model, it follows the older woman’s gradual disintegration and death from the violence of her inhibited yet undisciplined passion.

Appearing also in 1951 was a sensational trifle reminiscent of the worst of the 1930s, _Strange Fires_ by Jack Woodford. This is a sexual riot with lesbian action prominent, in which, as in _Love Like a Shadow_, one girl is essentially “monogamous” in spirit. Rhoda and her finishing-school roommate, both initiated by their physical education teacher, “marry” one another and are briefly happy. But the discovery that her partner and Miss Pat are continuing their relation wounds Rhoda deeply, and their taking her to an “orgy” in a Park Avenue socialite’s apartment completes her disillusion. She finally marries a man (implying that she is still “normal”), and the two other young women continue in a mutually free alliance.

A sympathetic treatment which bows to orthodox standards by ending tragically is presented in _Spring Fire_ (1952), paper-backed original by Vin Packer, admitted pseudonym of an established male author. Here a lonely boyish co-ed in a midwestern university is willingly seduced by her sorority-house roommate and finds the lesbian relation a happy one as long as it remains secret. It is the seducer, neurotic daughter of a promiscuous widow, who feels guilt and carries on simultaneously an excessive affair with a man to prove herself normal. The unsophisticated Mitch is urged to do likewise, but she cannot follow through her two squeamish efforts, and she reacts with loathing to drunken violation by a fraternity man. When suspicion of lesbianism falls on the two girls the neurotic accuses her victim of having been the seducer. Mitch is expelled from the sorority, and only the understanding dean of girls and the college physician avert disaster. In his naturalistic picture of campus sex life in general the author treats the lesbian aspect with comparative sympathy and attributes its destructive effects to the neurotic girl’s sense of guilt. This is induced by her mother’s influence and ripens into a full-blown psychosis. She ends in a mental institution.

Two much happier episodes were featured in novels of 1952. In Fay Adams’s paper-backed original, _Appointment in Paris_, an American orphan in her teens is matured sufficiently to weaken a spinster aunt’s dominance through her intimacy with a wholesome, if irresponsible, French courtesan living in a neighboring apartment. She then enjoys a liaison with a Frenchman and later happily marries an American. Both men know her history. May Sarton’s infinitely superior novel, _A Shower of Summer Days_, includes the brief infatuation of an American girl, half-through college, for her Anglo-Irish aunt. Sent abroad by her mother to terminate an undesirable romance at home, she at first truculently resists her aunt’s overtures and her own impulses toward friendliness. The aunt, once a great beauty, childless, and still bound to her husband by mutual passion which has survived two decades of marriage, is an irresistible personality and comes to exert great influence on the girl. As with Lily Briscoe in _To the Lighthouse_, it is partly the relation between wife and husband which fascinates the girl; however, her emotions crystallize upon the woman. Her aunt recognizes the unmistakable signs of passion, and far from being shocked, even wishes it were possible for her to respond. By the end of the summer the girl is cured, not only of her callow heterosexual obsession, but of the variant love also, and emerges with adult appreciation of what married love can be.

There remain a half-dozen novels in which variance plays so large a part that they should not be ticked off too briefly. The first is _Ladders to Fire_ (1946) by Anaïs Nin, a stylistic disciple (in some measure) of Gertrude Stein. There is a minimum of action, the work being not so much a plotted narrative as a series of character analyses in poetic prose. The author states her theme in a prologue: woman’s struggle to understand her own nature. Hitherto, she says,

## Action and creation, for woman, was ... an imitation of man. In this

imitation ... she lost contact with her nature and her relation to man. Man appears only partially in this volume, because for the woman at war with herself he can only appear thus.... Woman at war with herself has not yet been related to man, only to the child in man, being capable only of maternity.[45]

Of such “incomplete” women there are five in the novel. One, a cinema star with heterosexual experience, is still subjectively imprisoned within herself. A second, Lillian, is successively involved with three others. This woman drifts on the current of conventional existence into marriage and motherhood without once finding emotional fulfillment for her passionate temperament. Her first true outlet is her friendship with Djuna, whose difficult youth has disciplined and matured her but left no time or strength for emotional experience. Each personality finds its complement in the other, and their relationship is fruitful for a time, but it achieves no expression because in Lillian “sensuality was paralyzed.... She was impaled on a rigid pole of puritanism.” Soon Lillian becomes so jealous of any woman Djuna looks at that the friendship perishes of its own intensity. At one point Djuna sees that

she wants something of me that only a man can give her.... She has lost her ways of communicating with man. She is doing it through me.[46]

The association with Djuna so alters Lillian’s perspective that she separates from her family and finds a man sufficiently immature to call out her maternal instincts. She humors and bears with him through all manner of vicissitudes, including his many transient affairs with other women. Cured now of her fear of sensuality, she plays the man with one of his flames whose influence she fears may be lasting, in order to distract her rival’s attention from him. She succeeds only too well, and must finally terminate the affair to free herself of a second emotional dependent.

Once again she had worn the man’s costume ... to protect a core of love. [The man] had not made her woman, but the husband and mother of his weakness.[47]

To one of his later fancies, a woman who “lived according to her caprices” and, like a man, refused to be “in bondage to the one,” Lillian falls captive also, again, as with Djuna, loving in the other the opposite of all she is herself. This affair reaches physical completeness; even so, it does not bring the pair the unity both crave. Instead it makes them aware that they are lovers of the same man, and their one night together, though more satisfying than either has known with him, ends in a jealous quarrel. Thus the author diagnoses four degrees of emotional incompleteness: lowest is the inability to escape from self; next, the capacity for subjective but not overt abandon; third, the power only to imitate man’s role, whether with man or woman; and last, freedom to play the woman but only with another woman. Just this relative rating of maturity appears original with Miss Nin.

A little later Josephine Tey, who with Dorothy Sayers and Ngaio Marsh raised British psychological mysteries to the level of serious fiction, made variance the key to two successive plots. In _Miss Pym Disposes_ (1948) the title figure goes as visiting lecturer to a college of physical education where a formerly worshipped school friend is principal. Her interest is caught at once by an inseparable pair of seniors who lead their class, of whom an older foreign classmate says:

That David and Jonathan relationship—it is a very happy one, no doubt, but it _excludes_ so much. _Nice_, of course, quite irreproachable. But normal, no.[48]

“Beau,” tall, beautiful and boyish, is the headstrong darling of wealthy parents. Mary is a reserved and sensitive introvert, only child of a struggling country physician. She is the logical recipient of the best position open for the following year, but the principal arbitrarily assigns the post to a fawning satellite of her own.

While practicing for a gymnastic exhibit, this favored candidate is fatally injured by the collapse of some heavy apparatus. Police investigation indicates accidental death, but a bit of circumstantial evidence discovered by Miss Pym points to Mary as being responsible for the accident. Her knowledge of Mary precludes such an idea, so she calls Mary in for an explanation. This interview is a masterpiece of reticent indirection. However, Miss Pym gets a seeming admission of guilt—though she is assured that death was never conceived as a possibility—and a promise that Mary will spend her life in self-sacrificing atonement. Since a conviction of manslaughter would not only destroy Mary but shatter her friend, her family, and the school, Miss Pym shoulders the heavy responsibility for keeping her secret and so becomes an accessory after the fact.

A bit later she discovers that it was not Mary but “Beau” who had tampered with the apparatus, and “Beau” is apparently little disturbed by the dire consequences. Mary has therefore sacrificed her life plans to save her friend. But she terminates the friendship. Murder or sudden death resulting from variance is not new in fiction. Miss Pym’s and her author’s circumventing its melodramatic consequences is distinctly original.

The same author’s _To Love and Be Wise_ (1950) again connects variant passion with murder, although this time the crime is unachieved. A disturbingly beautiful young American, Leslie Searle, inveigles his way into a literary household near London for the announced purpose of meeting England’s best-loved radio broadcaster. Almost everyone in the book—and the cast is large—finds this young man irresistible, but they also sense that he is, in some way, uncanny. To one, he recalls certain milder legends of demonology; another is certain that “he must have been something very wicked in ancient Greece.”[49] His presence breeds complications in both household and community.

Shortly Searle disappears, and Scotland Yard suspects murder. In the end it turns out that the young Searle is a woman, who for years has lived intermittently as a man, and for many of those years nursed an obsessive passion for her cousin, a British actress whom she saw only sporadically. The latter, once a fiancée of the broadcaster, committed suicide after he jilted her, and Leslie has come to England with a well-laid plan for eliminating him in revenge. In the course of her association with his friends, however, and in particular with one who had opportunity to know her cousin better than she did, she discovers that her adored idol was largely a figment of her own imagination, the real woman having been ruthless and destructive.

In consequence, Leslie has abandoned her purpose, and merely escaped into her alternate feminine role. Despite the intuitive questions Leslie Searle raises in everyone’s mind (somewhat overstressed in aid of the plot), she is presented as a wholly sympathetic character, and can take her place with the medieval Ide and Mlle de Maupin as a successful transvestist and charmer. It is Miss Tey’s engaging Inspector who brings home to her the basic immaturity of her protracted disguise, and, one infers, converts her to a more adult pattern of life.

In the year between Miss Tey’s two volumes an anonymous _Olivia_ (1949) was so reminiscent in style of _Either Is Love_ as almost to suggest identical authorship. It too is an autobiographical record of experience long past, that of a Victorian adolescent suddenly transplanted to a finishing school on the outskirts of Paris. The Gallic freedom and gaiety of her new life release the girl’s nascent emotions, and she falls deeply in love with one of the two French headmistresses. The book’s value lies in the fidelity and vividness with which it pictures this first innocent passion. Narrative interest is supplied by tension between the two mistresses, who have lived happily together for fifteen years until a scheming newcomer on the staff turns one against the other for her own ends. Mlle Julie, Olivia’s beloved, has always had favorites among the students whom Mlle Cara has somewhat resented, but only now, while Olivia is Julie’s chosen, does Cara’s jealousy reach the point of hysteria. After an accumulation of petty grievances magnified by the newcomer, Cara dies of a overdose of sedative almost certainly self-administered. Beside her deathbed Julie cries out, “She is the only one I have ever loved!”—a cry prostrating to Olivia, who has had reason to believe herself also cherished. Later Julie provides some comfort by telling the girl that she has always been “victorious” over the emotional temptations presented by students, but that now she wishes she had yielded. This shows her cry to have meant that with Cara alone she was physically intimate. She predicts that Olivia will not be victorious under similar circumstances, and as at the outset of the story Olivia has said, “I don’t pretend that this experience was not succeeded by others ... but at that time I was innocent,” it is obvious that Mlle Julie’s understanding of her nature was accurate.

A less innocent adolescent record written by Françoise Mallet, a married woman of twenty, was published in Paris (1951) as _Le Rempart des Béguines_, in New York (1952) as _The Illusionist_, and in paper-covers (1953) as _The Loving and Daring_. This evidence of wide popularity makes it necessary to say little here save that it describes the initiation of a French girl of fifteen by her father’s mistress, a Russian woman twenty years older with a certain masculine hardness sometimes approaching sadism. The latter is captivated by Helene’s resemblance to a young English girl whom she once adored and whose defection left an unhealed wound. As long as Tamara is independent and masculine, Helene is her slave, cutting school, deceiving her father, even reluctantly accompanying her adored to a lesbian night club. Then Tamara becomes Helene’s stepmother, and, relaxing at last under the influence of security, she becomes much more feminine. Consequently, Helene ceases to worship and looks forward to taking the dominant role herself, her weapon the lesbian relationship which her preoccupied father has believed merely an innocent “good influence.” Though the experience is hardly constructive _in toto_, both Helene and her author consider it beneficial inasmuch as it brings the lonely adolescent out of a phase of erotic reverie into wholesome contact with reality, and so has a maturing effect.

A last sensational and ill-written item of the penny-dreadful type was Carol Hales’s _Wind Woman_ (1953). Here a psychoanalyst treats incipient neurosis induced in a young composer by her passion for a woman who will permit no caresses, and her resultant frustrated longing for an ideal lesbian relationship. In Laurel’s history, as revealed to Dr. Frances Garner, the author heaps Pelion upon Ossa in the matter of anti-male conditioning, not without purpose. For in the end the beautiful young analyst proves more than understanding; she makes no effort either to dispel her patient’s prejudice or to terminate her transference, and on the final page of the volume she comes as near to open proposal of intimacy as an author could risk without being sued by the psychiatric profession.

The final tale to be considered, Claire Morgan’s _The Price of Salt_ (1951), while occasionally understated, still gives a convincing account of love between a married woman approaching thirty and a girl a decade younger. At eight Therese was consigned to an orphanage when her widowed mother remarried; she has since felt more alone than a true orphan. Ambitious to become a stage designer, she earns her keep in New York by temporary jobs and studies art at night. When the book opens, she is involved in a physically complete but unsatisfactory affair with a male art student whom she will not marry. She has had other male attention, and refuses a second offer of marriage before the story closes. Carol Aird is in process of divorcing an incompatible husband (and his domineering family), and negotiations are dragging over the custody of a seven-year-old daughter now with his family. The two women meet in a department store where Therese is employed as a seasonal “extra,” and across an unromantic toy counter they are smitten with an infatuation as sudden as Gillian’s in _Tortoiseshell Cat_. The older woman’s reaction is less obvious, but within a day or two she has taken the girl to lunch and invited her to spend Christmas in her suburban house. Presently she suggests a motor trip to her family home on the west coast. Therese without hesitation closes the doors on her own life and accompanies her.

Intimacy develops perhaps a week after they set out and a month after their first encounter. Another week of happiness ensues before they discover a detective trailing them. Through pique at her leaving him, Carol’s husband is bent on evidence which will give him full custody of the child. Even so, in their new intoxication the two women find amusement at first in eluding their shadow, and make a game of searching each new room for recording devices. When Carol finally attempts to buy the detective off, she is told that several incriminating records have already been sent to New York and that she had best get back to protect her interests. Promising to return in a fortnight, she leaves Therese in South Dakota to wait for her. But Carol’s return is repeatedly postponed, and she finally writes that in order to see anything of her child hereafter she must promise to break with Therese entirely. She begs the girl to give her up and start afresh. “I would be underestimating you to think you could not.”

In reaction to the shock, Therese feels not only abandoned but betrayed, as though Carol’s picking her up and dropping her had been a coldly deliberate game. Stunned and adrift she stops to work for a time in Chicago until circumstances necessitate her return to New York. She means not to see Carol again, and though news that Carol has been ill moves her, it does not weaken her resolve. Her immediate efforts toward employment in stage designing now meet with prompt, if modest, success, for even her brief association with the more cultured woman has increased her savoir-faire, and the emotional experience has given her self-confidence such as none of her contacts with men had ever done. She finally goes to an unavoidable meeting with Carol, dreading the strain but unafraid of yielding, and even when she learns that Carol has repudiated her husband’s humiliating list of conditions and thus forfeited all hold upon her child, Therese still refuses her offer of a shared apartment.

Therese has placed a design for a stage set and is on her way to a theatrical cocktail party to celebrate. She meets a British actress there in whose eyes she sees a swift flash of interest comparable to her own reaction on meeting Carol. Invited at once by the star to an ensuing private party she accepts, feeling herself now quite able to handle any foreseeable developments. But in the moment of its birth this new sense of adequacy precipitates its own sequel. Knowing herself no longer helplessly subject to Carol, she feels free to rejoin her at will. She slips away without a word to her potential conquest and returns to her early love.

Featuring as it does two women who have both had heterosexual experience, and ultimately bringing them through many more tensions than are indicated here, this narrative offers as strong an argument for the validity of variant love as _Diana_. In a letter to Therese after a legal session, Carol summarizes the essence of the argument:

The rapport between two men or two women can be absolute and perfect, as it can never be between man and woman, and perhaps some people want just this, as others want that more shifting and uncertain thing that happens between men and women. It was implied yesterday that my present course would bring me to the depths of human vice and degradation.... It is true, if I were to go on like this and be spied upon, attacked, never possessing one person long enough so that the knowledge of the person ... [could be more than superficial]—that is degradation. Or to live against one’s grain, that is degeneration....[50]

This takes no account of the Freudian charge of immaturity against the easier unisexual rapport, and its failure to do so cannot be laid in this day and time to ignorance of Freud. It has rather the sound of indifference, if not defiance.

The majority of favorable treatments of variance since the beginning of World War II have been little concerned with avoiding overt lesbianism, just as other fiction over an even longer period has been tolerant of a certain amount of heterosexual freedom. This fact, along with the rapid quantitative increase of variance in current fiction, may point, as has been suggested, to its gradual acceptance as a legitimate area of human experience. On the other hand it is precisely toward such casual acceptance that censoring groups have directed their fire. Prize-winning or widely acclaimed works with foreign settings such as _The Mesh_ and _The Illusionist_ have not been heavily attacked; neither have condemnatory treatments even of such low calibre as _Naked Storm_ and the reprint of _Queer Patterns_. But blacklists have lumped _Spring Fire_, _Appointment in Paris_, and _Women’s Barracks_ with the heterosexual excesses of Mickey Spillane for censure (justified, if at all, only in the case of the first book), and these titles seem to have been withdrawn from sales-racks. Even if the pendulum swings back to greater conservatism, however, as it has done periodically in the course of literary history, its new position will not be identical with any earlier one. The overworked metaphor of spiral progress may apply here as to all other historical trends. To those who have witnessed changing attitudes toward homosexuality since 1900, it is a matter of regret that the ultimate swing of the new cycle must extend beyond our ken.

CONCLUSION

Periodic fluctuations in quantity, substance and style of variant writing have already been summarized in the sections sketching its history. It is now time to review certain more subjective aspects of the long record. For example, does variant literature lend support to hereditary theories of variance? At first glance, one recurrent physical type seems to do so: the woman fitted by nature to play the man. Tall, long of limb, narrow-hipped, wide-shouldered, direct-eyed, this figure has persisted from the dim era in which the Greeks conceived Artemis to 1950 when an Englishwoman created Leslie Searle. But the figure appears also in many settings other than variant literature. We meet it in the pages of romance and on the walls of galleries, on the silver screen and in élite advertisements. And, of course, many knights-errant, courtiers, dandies, athletes, matinée idols and swift-shooting cowboys are built on a similar pattern. Here the militant feminist will observe bitterly that in this man’s world even our ideal of beauty is male. But the figure is not so much male as intermediate, and above all youthful. Many of the attributes catalogued above are those of adolescence just arrived at adult stature. In combination with adult savoir-faire they are appealing enough in the young man whose advantage is merely aesthetic. In a young woman, for whom the statistical norm of height and strength falls short of her brother’s, they represent also superiority to her own kind in power and, therefore, in independence.

Because this type so captivates the general imagination, its appearances in variant literature are impressive out of proportion to their frequency. A complete count, from the valiant Ide to the undaunted Leo or Leslie, numbers roughly a score, and when one has subtracted those like Bradamante and Rosalind to whom lesbianism was never really attributed, the tally is reduced to a round dozen—hardly three percent of the variant total. Among the remainder, of whom a good many played a comparatively positive emotional role, no marked type recurs often enough to have any significance. A few figures are stocky and strong, but others may cast “a shadow thin as a blade;” some are voluptuously feminine. Nor does any one physical trait—except possibly height—accompany variance with any regularity. In fact, beyond the skeletal proportions already noted, the only somatic attributes mentioned in describing boyish women (and these not often) are deep voices and underdeveloped breasts. Other unfeminine details such as a striding gait or a brusque address, though they may owe something to hip articulation or vocal register, are usually mere mannerisms; that is, they are imitative rather than inborn. Of course these fictional data will not support conclusions as valid as those based on scientific observation, since beside the license natural to creative writing one must allow also for the reluctance of disapproving authors to provide their _mauvais sujets_ with any hereditary excuses. Still, the long procession comprises variants individually convincing enough to give weight to their physical diversity. It is clear that the majority of variant or lesbian women observed by the writing fraternity are not masculine in physique.

Does sexual behavior, then, fall into patterns which might argue for some uniformities in endocrine balance? Again, it is impossible to classify the majority honestly, even by the simplest divisions into

## active and passive, homosexual and bisexual, and feel confident that the

operative factors are innate. One may separate those whose passion is masculine in violence from the cool, the gentle, the maternally tender; but among the last may fall such conspicuously masculine figures as Stephen Gordon and Jan Morale. Or the aggressive Maupins or Leos may prove bisexual, the gentle Mettas and Miss Caffertys immutably set upon their own kind, and a petite and delicate Flordespine or Almond may be bold in her sexual advances. It is, however, possible to detect certain rough patterns not in physique or in sex behavior but in psychological attitude. There are masterful spirits who need to prove themselves the equal of any man, or to dominate rather than follow. There are rebels and lone wolves who defy authority or public opinion and are usually jealously possessive of the few they love. There are the more detached egotists and narcissists who see others only in terms of their own advantage and abandon themselves to no one. There are the shy and clinging who crave protection. And there are the maternal types, forgetful of self and eager to cherish and support.

If not heredity, what explanation does literature offer for these variants? Sometimes none. Lyric poets in particular simply register their sentiments and leave readers to search elsewhere for explanations of the enigma. In a different fashion the same is true in unsympathetic narratives, and those where interest lies in plot alone. In these cases, too, variants are presented, as it were, Minerva-born, but are assumed to be a recognized type sure to generate dramatic tensions. Usually, however, as in more conventional fiction, authors supply some personal history for main characters and often directly or implicitly hold it responsible for their anomalies. This last is, of course, especially noticeable in recent years since the spread of Freudian psychology. Even where no notion of causality seems to exist in the author’s mind, the same sort of background may recur in more than one narrative. Thus it is possible to identify a number of conditions, some fairly universal, some characteristic of their period, which appear repeatedly as antecedents or accompaniments of variance.

Of the universal class the most prevalent factor is some degree of negative reaction to men. In psychiatric casebooks this is often the result of sexual violation in childhood or adolescence, or of the witnessing of intercourse at an early age, which is almost equally traumatic. But such experiences and their sequelae of neurotic antipathy are rare in fiction. There a less compulsive aversion may result from rough or undesired caresses, or from their antithesis, pointed physical repudiation. Or it may grow from social neglect or slighting by men, or from deliberate indoctrination by a puritanic guardian. It may also stem indirectly from conjugal discord at home or elsewhere, through observation of a hated man’s unfaithfulness or cruelty, a beloved woman’s frigidity or suffering.

The next most frequent causal factor comprises a large and varied constellation of troubled family relations. Among our hundreds of variant women, those who enjoyed the sort of family life that social psychologists now exhort all parents to provide could be counted on one hand. Even those living with both parents on any terms would not multiply the number many times. Most often, the mother is found wanting in some way; indeed, the percentage of outright motherless girls is impressive. But, it may well be asked, what about the number in ordinary fiction? In novels of psychological cast dealing with the vicissitudes of young unmarried women the count is certainly high. The margin in favor of variant novels is further narrowed when one considers that few of these are literary masterpieces, and that minor fiction has, from its beginnings, capitalized heavily on the orphaned or motherless heroine. The reasons are obvious: a girl thus deprived can be a sympathetic character despite unconventional conduct; this conduct affords the reader escape-through-identification; and the author is guilty of no profanation of the revered mother image. Nevertheless, after all these allowances are duly made, a lack of maternal tenderness and understanding bulks large among influences leading to variant behavior.

The comparable lack of a father is seldom stressed. Paternal harshness appears rather oftener than the same trait in the mother, and the father is also sometimes a party to general parental indifference or neglect, but by and large the variant girl actively mistreated by either or both parents is fairly rare. A father fixation, on the other hand, though infrequent, is significant when it does occur, and Balzac’s Seraphita bears witness that it is not confined to the Freudian twentieth century. The badgering of a lone girl by a parental surrogate—stepmother, relative or guardian—is featured now and then, as in _The Scorpion_, but this sympathy-begging device is less overworked in variant than in other minor fiction. The influence of siblings in producing either sexual fixation or aversion is negligible, unless their conspicuous absence is significant, for a considerable number of variant girls are presented as actually or virtually “only” children.

All this wide variety of subjective situations apparently contributes to the equally diverse range of variant experiences; yet none in the two lists is so consistently paired as to establish certainty of explicit cause and effect. In fact, more than one family factor and a measure of sex antagonism often occur simultaneously or successively in the same narrative.

In addition to subjective influences there remains the category of external circumstances which encourage variance. And while the psychological situations remain fairly constant from one period to another, environmental factors vary considerably with time. The more strictly convention limits a woman’s activities, the more certain is her mere overstepping its bounds to produce significant results. From medieval times through the nineteenth century, to wear men’s clothing was taboo. Therefore, when Clémentine or Fragoletta assumed man’s dress, grave emotional consequences were inevitable. Today the donning of slacks or hunting costume produces little emotional impact. Similarly in nineteenth-century France or early twentieth-century England, when modesty forbade revealing the feminine body, a glimpse of uncovered breasts might stir a woman to passion, or Proust’s Albertine and her friend might enjoy a half-hour’s dalliance in a beach cabin because they had undressed together. Today, when beach, pool and gymnasium showers are communal affairs, their dressing-cubicles are unlikely to be the scene of tender passages. Furthermore, in days when woman’s sphere was definitely the home, girls who claimed independence outside it exerted a strong imaginative appeal. Artists, actresses or mere bachelor girls attracted one another as strongly as they fascinated more sheltered women. But how many such “bohemians” have aroused general excitement since the 1920s? Few, certainly, in fiction.

One objective setting, however, has for decades remained basically constant as a hotbed of variance—those institutions which restrict young women to the company of their own sex. Until well into the nineteenth century, convents or convent schools were the segregating agency. After 1850, secular boarding schools took over the role, without the occasional compensating outlet of religious emotion. With the spread of higher education in our own times, women’s colleges joined the list, and the latest additions have been reform schools, military barracks, sorority houses and metropolitan residence clubs. The results of a cloistered existence, then, might seem to argue for environment as a cause of variance just as strongly as recurrence of the “Maupin” type argued for heredity. But we have already seen that when many women wear men’s clothes at one time or another, the effect of even the most boyish is less pronounced than it used to be. As for environment, excepting disciplinary and military quarters, twentieth-century cloisters allow their residents so much more freedom than their predecessors that variant or lesbian developments within them can no longer be laid wholly to pressure of circumstance.

Thus, it appears that literary testimony from a score of centuries confirms the current psychiatric verdict: variance is one possible solution of pressing emotional problems; but arrival at this particular solution depends upon so many variables that as yet no certain predictive formula has been derived.

An aspect of the current scene not yet duly recognized in literature is the relation of variant experience to gainful employment. In the heyday of feminism a good deal of concern was voiced by anti-feminists lest women’s financial and social independence might breed lesbianism on a grand scale. But a comparison of French fiction from 1870 to 1900, when women were still dependent, with the English and American record since World War I suggests that the fear was unjustified. The issue at stake in our own time is not the influence of earning upon variance but the reverse effect of variance on a woman’s capacity to hold a paid position. Before 1900 it was normal for the unmarried girl or the estranged wife to be supported by her parents or her long-suffering husband. For the last fifty years more and more women have been obliged to earn their own livings in ordinary unromantic jobs, and to this trend fiction has not done full justice. To be sure, creative license has always allowed the freedom of an independent income to more persons than are so favored in everyday life. It is true also that in recent variant novels a good many occupations have at least made an appearance. We have met actresses, modiste’s assistants, novelists, interior decorators, social workers, a number of teachers, a trio of nurses, a department store executive and a minor clerk, and several girls employed in business offices. But in general these positions have served only as realistic backdrops for action which did not impinge upon them. In less than half a dozen cases has variance interfered with earning capacity. It gravely affected the actresses in _Queer Patterns_; the schoolmistresses in _The Children’s Hour_; a college instructor in _Diana_; and it constituted a serious risk for nurses in _Promise of Love_ and government employees in _Either is Love_. This meagre proportion, especially at the level of mere risk, does not reflect “things as they are” according to factual evidence in psychiatric literature, and the failure of variant fiction to come to grips with this aspect of reality is a count against it. It is also a waste of one fertile potential source of dramatic tension.

There remains a final ticklish question which leads straight into controversial territory, but to which a wide range of possible answers must be considered: why are variant belles-lettres so generally ignored? When so much has been written on the theme, why has it been slighted in library collections, histories of literature, and bibliographic records? One immediate answer will be that it is generally inferior, which is to a certain extent true; but it is not inferior to a deal of ordinary literature which has not been so slighted, notably that by the same authors who have produced variant titles. According to their generation or to their more considered convictions, different persons will explain this comparative neglect by claiming that variance is immoral, or abnormal, or the concern of an eccentric few and of no importance or interest to humanity at large. None of these claims can be summarily dismissed as negligible.

Without going deeply into what the term “abnormal” connotes in different intellectual fields, it may be stated categorically that many psychiatrists no longer regard ordinary homosexual experience as pathological. Nor is the phenomenon too remote even from a statistical norm. In addition to literary evidence, anthropology and uncensored history and biography indicate that homosexuality has existed if not flourished in all times and places; and Dr. Kinsey’s quantitative studies show that twenty-eight percent of women now living have experienced “sexual arousal” by their own kind at some time in their lives. Only rarely in either literature or life are women who have known this experience distinguishable from their fellows, and many who are perceptibly masculine in physique and temperament have never known it. Variants, then, are fairly numerous, not “abnormal” in an alienist’s sense of the term, and not perceptibly eccentric.

The moral charge is less simply disposed of because it is so generally and often so unthinkingly advanced. It should be stated at once that in this discussion the morality of a course of action is referred to its effect upon the actor and his social group, as social anthropologists believe it was referred originally in the shaping of moral codes now regarded in some quarters as absolute. It should also be said, and underlined, that marriage and motherhood, despite the frequent failure of the one and the heavy burdens imposed on women by the other, appear more ultimately satisfying to the majority of women than other emotional experiences, and are certainly more beneficial to society. They are therefore the goals toward which personal and social effort should be directed, and obstacles to their success should be minimized. To what extent is variance such an obstacle and how pernicious is it in other respects?

Since human survival depends upon childbearing, if any large number of women should substitute homosexual relations for marriage and motherhood, the long range results would be socially deleterious. But heterosexual and maternal drives seem an effective guarantee against any such eventuality, and as long as numerous groups are advocating birth control as a check to overpopulation, this sociological argument against variance operates only in the realm of pure abstraction. As to conventional strictures upon all sex activity save legitimate intercourse, their apparent function is to curtail the social dangers of heterosexual license. Since even the most active lesbianism cannot be the cause of illegitimate offspring or of abortion, there is no valid case against variance on this score. A more practical argument stems from the now generally admitted psychological bearing of early upon later sexual experience. A number of marriage counselors, for instance, maintain that extensive pre-marital petting and homosexual activity are handicaps to later marital adjustment, and are therefore harmful to the young. So far as is known this claim has not been unquestionably validated by quantitative evidence, and certain authorities pronounce it a rationalization of unadmitted prejudice, but it must be recognized as the consensus of a good many popular advisors. For married women also, of course, lesbian relations or merely a consuming variant passion can prove as detrimental to marital happiness as similar heterosexual infidelities. On the other hand, for women deterred from marrying by lack of opportunity, financial or family burdens, inadequate sex appeal, or invincible disinclination, variant attachments may provide the sole chance for the experience of passionate love, and some psychiatrists consider such fulfillment preferable to lifelong deprivation.

Clearly, then, variance is not, like sadism for example, a limited aberration consistently destructive per se. It seems more nearly a lesser category of emotional experience parallel to the heterosexual and capable of as much variety. If governed by the standards of moderation, integrity, and mutual consideration which should prevail in all passionate relationships, it should not be harmful oftener than heterosexual passion. But in actual experience utopian conditions seldom prevail. We have heard from “Diana” some reasons why variant passion, unregulated by any legal or social codes of its own, is apt to be irresponsible and impermanent. Working against it also is the negative influence of sweeping social condemnation. Most neuroses among variant women have resulted from the conflict between their impulses and feelings of anxiety, guilt, or even sin. Thus the forces which would control variance are often responsible for making it a destructive experience.

* * * * *

Here actually is an important reason for such inferiority as variant literature exhibits. The age-long prejudice against variance, deriving as it does from religious taboo, retains something of the hysteria which motivated witch-burning and inquisition. For this reason the whole subject is surrounded by a surcharged atmosphere to which no sensitive mind is impervious. Even the best authors are scarcely able to free their work of all controversial overtones, and partisanship in creative writing has never made for artistry. As we have seen, lesser writers on both sides of the issue may descend to outright zealotry. Fervent antagonists choose variants who would be hateful without emotional irregularity, and who, with it, become monsters, usually the more dangerous for being picturesque to the eye or otherwise seductive. Negative writing of better quality presents less-sinister characters, but manipulates circumstances to the end that variant experience shall always prove disastrous. In _Mme. Adonis_ and _Die Schwester_ the relatively sympathetic title figures meet violent death; in _Méphistophéla_, _The Island_, _The Captive_, and _Pity for Women_, they end in madness or severe neurosis. In minor French tales of the last century, variant couples destroy one another by excessive physical indulgence, and in virtually all censorious novels they bring much harm or suffering to those with whom they are associated.

Frank champions of variance are guilty of parallel artistic offenses. Some make society the villain and variants its romanticized victims, and become shrill in denunciation of the one and defense of the other. Even _Diana_ and _Either is Love_, temperate as they are in tone, would be artistically disqualified by their inclusion of outright argument even were they more excellent than they are. The subtler defenders are also no better than their opponents. Fearing public opinion too much to betray unqualified sympathy, they, too, strain circumstance to prevent their appealing characters from enjoying happiness. Granted that in life popular prejudice makes the chance of happiness precarious, case studies and other factual records show no such proportion of suicide and tragedy as do tolerant variant novels of the minor sort. Even writers of power sometimes fall into similar tragic exaggeration, as for example Miss Sackville-West in _Dark Island_ or Masefield in _Multitude and Solitude_.

There are, however, a fair number of works guilty of no gross shortcomings, and a few of outstanding excellence. When their authors’ total output merits serious literary study, critics as far as possible ignore those titles in which variance figures. Where no inclusive critical appraisals of an author are made, reviewers of individual variant works are apt to exercise less restraint, praising them grudgingly for their manner but deprecating their matter with disapproval, regret, or—what is worse—ironic or patronizing superiority. It has already been remarked that sympathetic literary treatments of variance are seldom written by men. Now the parallel circumstance must be noted—most literary criticism and the majority of book reviews are masculine work. It is only natural that men should react negatively to writing so oblivious of their own kind as is much variant literature. And this reaction must not be viewed as mere prejudice; its roots go deeper. Statistical studies of the reading done by some 20,000 persons have established the fact that the prime factor affecting reading interests, more basic than education, occupation or age, is sex.[1] The personality inventories constructed by psychologists and derived from probably even more numerous observations show that sex also determines many other interests and attitudes.[2] Thus men and women live to a certain extent in different subjective worlds—a fact recently dramatized by Philip Wylie in _Disappearance_.

With regard to variant literature, this means that men, who pass some nine-tenths of the judgments upon it, are attempting to evaluate a realm of experience in which first-hand knowledge is impossible to them. Naturally, they do best in rating variant material written by men, and next best with unsympathetic works by women. Some few project themselves with comparative success into tolerant studies by women whose mental idiom and emotional outlook is somewhat masculine. Djuna Barnes, Henry Handel Richardson, Mary Renault, and even Gail Wilhelm in her first novel, fared rather well at the hands of reviewers. In contrast, pertinent titles by Rosamond Lehmann, Elizabeth Bowen, Dorothy Richardson, Helen Anderson, Anaïs Nin and Kay Boyle, were either slighted or treated with unjustified harshness considering the admitted quality of their authors’ other work. “Thin,” “nebulous,” “unconvincing,” “insignificant,” “futile,” “overwrought,” and “hysterical” were among the evaluative terms applied to these titles by male reviewers.[3] Women on the other hand had much to say in their favor, the most significant and frequent comment being that they were peculiarly sensitive and accurate in emotional interpretation.

Neither group of critics should be labeled “right” and the other “wrong.” To most women and to such men as are endowed with unusual imaginative sensibility, perceptive and well-written variant works will always seem good literature. And they _are_ good by the established canons of truth to experience, sound character analysis, artistic structure, convincing background, vivid objective detail, and beauty of expression. To most men and—for a different reason—some women, such works will seem bad in varying degrees from non-essential to intolerable. They _are_ bad, then, in that they lack universality of appeal. For the same reason much non-variant fiction written by men—work predominantly objective in plot and violent in action, full of casual and unimaginative sex activity—is uninteresting or distasteful to the majority of women, though it too may fulfill the other requirements of good literature.

Variant fiction is of course not alone among feminine efforts in being disparaged by the opposite sex. The battle over the quality of feminine writing is old; to do it full justice would require a small volume in itself. But a brief comment is required to conclude this long discussion. Male critics (who comprise better than nine-tenths of the whole) can be roughly divided into three schools of opinion. The least charitable maintain that women lack creative power in all artistic fields because nature has designated them for biological creation alone. (Otto Weininger[4] is the extreme example of this school, but he is not alone in his opinions.) The largest group make the point that women’s artistic efforts are almost exclusively imitative rather than original, and, without investigating reasons, they argue that this fact demonstrates patent creative inferiority. A few—Nathaniel Hawthorne was among the first—feel that

Generally women write like emasculated men and are only to be distinguished from men by greater feebleness and folly; but when they throw off [imitative] restraints ... and come before the public stark naked as it were—then their books are sure to possess character and value.[5]

Hawthorne did not, however, live up to his convictions; he gave up writing fiction in the 1850s and fled the country because it was full of “damned scribbling females.” The average quality of the scribbling perhaps justified his flight, but his apostasy was symbolic of his sex.

The women who began in the mid-nineteenth century to write like women were writing also largely _for_ women, and on a level to be printed in newspapers and in the newly born “home” magazines. They wrote from the limited conventional experience that was known to them and their numerous audience; sentimental religious exaltation and dreams of romantic love supplied the only emotional color in their lives. The common lot of marriage brought mainly domestic drudgery and constant childbearing, with the loss of so many children that even the universal experience of the death of a child lost its keen edge. Had such lives been presented with the austere truth to experience demanded of good literature, the results would have been read no more widely than are starkly realistic novels at any time. And most of those women authors needed to earn money. Thus, feminine fiction concentrated upon blameless romantic passion, took wild liberties with reality, and was altogether unrelated to art. But it sold in the hundreds of thousands, and it set a style in popular feminine narrative which has altered in detail from decade to decade but has not yet gone out. Until well after 1900 few women authors rose above this level save those who more or less successfully imitated men, and chiefly such men as Dickens and Trollope. This sentimental tide has always been completely alien to men, both as individuals and as critics, and it has done much to solidify the majority male opinion that women are not creative artists. Even those men who achieve some intellectual appreciation of the best feminine writing find that, in general, they, like Hawthorne, cannot accept it completely. One might say that, beginning with Dorothy Richardson and Katherine Mansfield, women have attempted to raise essentially feminine writing to a level of absolute quality. No pretense will be made here to trace this growing trend, or to separate the more from the less “feminine” authors. The trend has run to more and more subjective content, as is evident in such current authors as Shirley Jackson and Jean Stafford.

Variance is, of course, more than any other subject, exclusively feminine. Had it not suffered the handicap of taboo, probably more literature of high quality would have grown up around it. Indeed, had such inhibited spirits as Emily Brontë, Emily Dickinson and Rose O’Neill, to mention only the most obvious, been less paralyzed emotionally, they might have had richer experience from which to write as well as more courage to write about it. This is not a plea for the cultivation of either homosexual experience or variant literature. It is simply a suggestion that if those women who are irremediably so constituted, and who happen also to be artists, were less shackled, the world’s literature might be by that slight degree the richer. Before that comes to pass, of course, two changes must occur: public opinion in general must come closer to the most lenient psychiatric evaluation of variance. And men must become aware of the unconscious prejudice in their literary evaluation of all, and particularly of variant, feminine writing. If they cannot surmount this prejudice, they should leave the variant field to feminine critics. Also, more women should enter the field of literary criticism.

* * * * *

To conclude: we have seen that feminine variance has persisted in human experience since the beginning of literary records. It has repeatedly aroused sufficient interest to be the subject of literature, some of it good enough to have survived through many centuries against all odds. The odds have been of two very different sorts—religious taboo and masculine distaste. The first operated stringently from the beginning of the Christian era to the Renaissance, and is not yet dead. The second was apparent in classical times and has been especially evident whenever the neo-classical spirit prevailed, for that spirit exalts objective and intellectual experience, stresses the physical aspects of sex, and is contemptuous of subjective emotional preoccupation. In Romantic periods when emotion was glorified—that is, when essentially feminine values prevailed—variant literature has at least comparatively flourished. In our own day the ancient religious taboo has weakened and psychiatric values have to some extent been substituted. Now immaturity rather than sin is the socio-ethical argument against variance. To each age its own new wisdom seems a social panacea more cogent than all that have gone before, but none has ushered in Utopia. Momentarily, however, we have attained—or at least it seems to us that we have attained—to somewhat more tolerance than the elder moralists. If variance is to be always with us, calm acceptance of that fact may become as prevalent as the recognition of human evolution has come to be. And since variant literary expression appears equally persistent, it may conceivably become a narrow but similarly recognized field, permitted to come to fruition according to its own laws, and to contribute the best of which it is capable to the total sum of world literature.

NOTES

Notes refer to items in the bibliography by letter and number only.

Foreword

1. An earlier edition of C 72

Introduction

1. C 111

2. C 153, C 154

I. Ancient Record

1. A 250

2. A 251

3. B 199

4. A 213

5. A 251:15

6. A 250 & B 199, notes

7. A 251:67

8. _ibid._:39

9. _ibid._:97, 3

10. _ibid._:90

11. A 250

12. B 174:134; B 199:319

13. A 250:155

14. _ibid._:166

15. _ibid._:155 & note

16. B 173:209

17. A 251:30

18. A 28:209, note 2; A 28a:235, note 1

19. A 28:210; A 28a:236

20. B 39 v.2:665

21. B 18

22. B 162 v.1:101

23. C 72 v.1 pt.4:197

24. A 7 v.2 (VII):718; v.4 (XII):365

25. A 8 v.2:151; C 72 v.2 pt.2:41

26. B 69 v.2 Chap. 6

27. B 199:108, 109

28. A 8 v.1:203 & B 65

29. Bloomington, Ind., newspaper

30. C 192

31. A 8 v.1:395

32. _ibid._ v.2:191-93

33. _ibid._ v.2:41

34. _ibid._ v.2:89

35. A 214 v.l:35-41

36. _ibid._ v.2:107-13

37. _ibid._ v.1:91-92

38. _ibid._ v.2:51-60

39. _ibid._ v.2:60, note

40. _ibid._ v.1:199-205

41. A 140

42. A 183: I.

43. _ibid._:VII

44. A 7 v.2:11, 345, 450

45. A 171 v.1 (V): 100-05

46. _ibid._ (XII): 130-42

47. A 2:192

II. Dark ages to Age of Reason

1. B 148

2. _ibid._

3. B 97

4. B 119

5. B 18

6. B 71

7. A 211x

8. B 76

9. A 9 v.2:9

10. A 261:174-75

11. B 27

12. A 280:35

13. A 191a

14. A 191; C 72 v.1 pt.4:245

15. A 96:47

16. _ibid._:29

17. A 37:128

18. A 117 v.2:89

19. A 277:145

20. A 187

III. Romantic to modern

1. C 220

2. C 72 v.1 pt.4:66-67

3. C 213; C 72 v.l pt.4 1896 ed.; C 119

4. B 74:21

5. _ibid._:16

6. A 74 pref.

7. C 72 v.1 pt.4:199

8. B 134

9. B 82:18

10. A 310:44

11. _ibid._; 51

12. B 192:120

13. A 310:97

14. _ibid._:76

15. _ibid._:187

16. B 160:82, 88

17. _ibid._:232

18. _ibid._:313

19. A 20:23

20. A 14:110

21. _ibid._:164

22. _ibid._:425

23. B 185:11

24. A 107

25. B 47 v.1:52-61

26. A 150 v.2

27. C 72 v.1 pt.4:200 p. 415, notes 28-51

28. A 150 v.2:223

29. _ibid._:166

30. B 127 Chap. 6

31. C 158:396

32. A 98:46-47

33. _ibid._:47

34. _ibid._:204

35. _ibid._: 205

36. _ibid._:209

37. _ibid._:244

38. _ibid._:273

39. C 158:396

40. B 90:147

41. B 16:24-51

42. A 50:85-86

43. B 185:249-303

44. A 22

45. B 185 loc. cit.

46. B 8:42

47. A 281:121-22

48. B 120 v.1:307

49. B 210:238

50. A 269:115

51. _ibid._:164

IV. Later 19 Century

1. B 78

2. A 25:242

3. A 319:356

4. _ibid._:376

5. C 269:285

6. See B 155

7. A 32a:37 (nothing further in French language edition)

8. B 56

9. A 230a:91

10. A 230:xvi

11. A 230a:9

12. B 141 v.5, 1892 mai

13. B 153:221ff.

14. _ibid._: footnotes on pp. 42, 84, 145-46, 170, 217

14a. A 118:58

15. B 160:128

16. A 256:351-52; see also A 256x:202 for a young married woman’s reverie of being a man.

17. A 137:vi, ix

18. _ibid._:144

19. _ibid._:283

20. _ibid._:325

21. _ibid._:ix

22. A 267:301

23. _ibid._: pref.

24. B 155

25. B 165:v-ix

26. A 189:348

27. _ibid._:488

28. _ibid._:12

29. _ibid._:6-9

30. Paris, E. Dentu, 1890

31. B 34:150; B 108 v.1:301

32. B 141 v.23:523, 1897

V. Conjectural interlude

Labé

1. B 64 v.41:72; B 152 v.28:347-49

2. B 152 loc. cit.

3. A 37:205

4. A 146a: dedication

5. See note 1. above

6. A 146a: 78

7. _ibid._:87

8. _ibid._: introd.

9. B 152 v.7:82-83 (_Bourges_)

10. A 146 v.2

Charke

1. C 72 v.1 pt.4:245

2. A 45:77

3. _ibid._:52

4. _ibid._:90

5. _ibid._:80-89, 139

Llangollen

1. B 95

2. A 24

3. B 145:22-27

4. A 51:155, 161

5. _ibid._:177

Günderode

1. A 10:1-67

2. A 11

3. A 113

4. B 64 v.97:167-231

5. See note 1. above

6. A 11; A 113, biog. introd.

7. A 298 v.1.; A 298a.

Sand

1. A 249 v.13:187-373

2. _ibid._:267-68

3. B 196

4. B 181:244

5. B 138:163

Brontë

1. B 20x:42 (both quotations)

2. B 144 Chap. 20

3. _ibid._:84

4. _ibid._:86

5. _ibid._:89

6. B 168: pref.

7. _ibid._:255-56

Eliot

1. B 94

Fuller

1. B 3

2. B 197:xv

3. _ibid._:196

Menken

1. B 212 Chap. 4

2. B 115

3. B 212:57

4. _ibid._:58

5. B 107 v.1:278

6. A 190:75-76

7. _ibid._:28

8. _ibid._:13

9. B 203

10. B 212:65

Field

1. A 92:xvi

2. _ibid._:27

3. A 91:50

4. A 92:ix

5. _ibid._:16

6. _ibid._:57

7. _ibid._:63

VI. 20 Century. Int. & Poetry

1. C 123

2. B 74:16

3. C 164 - C 175

4. C 146:119

5. See especially C 276, the best available brief résumé of the current psychoanalytic opinion on homosexuality

6. A 20:22-26

7. _ibid._:176ff.

8. B 86 no. 4

9. _ibid._ no. 8

10. B 85 Dec. 12

11. A 19:10ff: In these quotations and some later ones from poetry, line indentations and stanza divisions have been disregarded for economy.

12. _ibid._:108

13. _ibid._:19

14. _ibid._:111

15. B 79

16. A 283 v.2:78-80

17. _ibid._:112

18. B 48

19. A 283 v.2:52-55

20. _ibid._:50

21. _ibid._ v.1:38-39

22. _ibid._:36

23. _ibid._:87-88

24. _ibid._:31

25. _ibid._:32

26. _ibid._:195

27. B 141 v.49, mars.

28. _ibid._ v.50, avril.

29. _ibid._ v.89:181-82

30. A 283 v.2:219

31. _ibid._:189

32. _ibid._:230

33. B 141 v.89:181-82

34. A 19:235

35. A 20; B 49

36. B 151x v.9:488 (Je.20, 1914)

37. A 240

38. B 49:249

39. B 25 Chap. 13

40. A 176

41. A 122 v. 1:7-27

42. _ibid._ v.2:176-80

43. A 263, from B 101 v.5

44. A 257:53

45. B 74:46; from W. L. George, Literary chapters, 1918, p. 127

46. A 167:97-105

47. B 144:189-90

48. B 212:288

49. A 212:114

50. The Loves of Edwy

51. B 217:60

52. Harold Cook (B 217 introd.) and Elizabeth Atkins (B 10:34 footnote & 242)

53. A 197:20-21

54. A 196:17

55. A 194:55

56. B 10:37-38

57. A 193:38, 39; A 194:70, 71

58. A 194:70, 71

59. A 196:20

60. _ibid._:42

61. Djuna Barnes & Natalie C. Barney. See A 196:index

62. B 10:200

63. A 185:52-53

64. _ibid._:54

65. A 3:21

66. A 248:24

67. _ibid._:9

68. _ibid._:29

69. _ibid._:5

70. A 179:142-43

71. _ibid._: 17-18

VII. Fiction in France

1. A 52a:289

2. A 54:220

3. A 55 Chap. 18, end.

4. A 51:185-218

5. B 35

6. A 55a:244-50

7. A 56:117

8. B 141 v.38:229-34; B 101 v.3:439

9. B 141 v.40:781-82

10. B 101 v.5:1120

11. B 141 v.45-50, var. pag.

12. B 141 v.55:254; B 101 v.9:584

13. A 227

14. A 228

15. A 222

16. A 227

17. A 225

18. A 20:74; A 51:186

19. A 242:155

20. _ibid._:102

21. _ibid._:153

22. _ibid._:164-65

23. A 182:22-23

24. _ibid._:191-97 passim

25. _ibid._:128-144 passim

26. A 148:201

27. A 31:x

28. _ibid._:149-50

29. Seen only via advertising résumés in C.-E.’s other novels, back pages.

30. B 136 v.35:176-213

VIII. Fiction in Germany

1. A 292 v.5:285-87

2. B 101 v.2:41ff

3. _ibid._ v.3:431

4. _ibid._ v.3:462

5. _ibid._ v.3:449

6. _ibid._ v.5:1115

7. _ibid._ v.3:453?

8. _ibid._ v.3:489

9. B 25 Chap. 13

10. B 101 v.5:1080

11. _ibid._ v.5:1106

12. _ibid._ v.5:1070

13. C 121:171-79

14. B 101 v.7:885

15. _ibid._ v.9:606

16. _ibid._ v.9:613

17. B 144x:317

18. A 178:222

19. _ibid._:229

20. A 295:188

21. B 98

22. B 101 v.17:129

23. A 274:10

24. _ibid._:11

25. _ibid._:11-12

IX. Fiction in English (1)

1. A 116:pref.

2. C 153, 154

3. A 102:12

4. _ibid._:13

5. _ibid._:14

6. _ibid._:56-57

7. A 175:6

8. _ibid._:288

9. _ibid._:269-70

10. _ibid._:135

11. _ibid._:182

12. A 215:833

13. B 204

14. A 256:4

15. _ibid._:7

16. _ibid._:13

17. _ibid._:8

18. _ibid._:9

19. _ibid._:57

20. _ibid._:88

21. A 184:79

22. _ibid._:108

23. A 239:271

24. A 260:262

25. _ibid._:390

26. Publ. in book form by Century

27. A 155:324

28. B 143

29. A 294:334

30. A 61:37-38

31. _ibid._:37

32. _ibid._:402-03

33. _ibid._:407

34. A 173:267-68

35. _ibid._:37

36. _ibid._:276-81

37. A 97:22, footnote

38. _ibid._:348

39. A 6:304

40. _ibid._:305

41. A 131:69-70

42. _ibid._:268

43. _ibid._:290-91

44. A 129:320-21, 149

45. A 98:125-256

46. _ibid._:148

47. _ibid._:222

48. A 210:198

49. A 311:46-47

50. _ibid._:48, 50-52

51. _ibid._:53

52. A 245:139-40

53. _ibid._:287

54. B 63:64 and New York Times, Sun. Nov. 7, 1926, VIII:10, col. 1

55. New York Times Feb. 1, 1927, p. 3, col. 6

56. A 313:29

57. _ibid._:300

58. A 116:pref.

59. B 54

60. A 312:117-18

61. _ibid._:138

62. _ibid._:221-22

63. _ibid._:298

64. _ibid._:258

X. Fiction in English (2)

1. A 207:63

2. _ibid._:64

3. A 199:348-44

4. A 218:266

5. A 152:333

6. A 160:221-36

7. A 244:24

8. _ibid._:158

9. _ibid._:167

10. A 237:243

11. _ibid._:245

12. _ibid._:231-32

13. _ibid._:257

14. _ibid._:230-31

15. A 23:49

16. _ibid._:58

17. British edition: Stamboul Train, late 1932

18. A 42:382

19. _ibid._:380-81

20. Nov. 1932 p. 2 col. 4.

21. A 206:2

22. A 238:132-33

23. _ibid._:137

24. _ibid._:138

25. A 276:162

26. _ibid._:230

27. A 76:32; A 157:125

28. A 76:234

29. A 78:74

30. _ibid._:82-83

31. A 78a:72; cf. also p. 79-80

32. A 316:107

33. A 158:112-14; cf. also p. 38

34. A 64:208, 219

35. A 59:147

36. Time Mag. Oct. 25, 1937:26-28

37. A 36:203, 205

38. A 35:203

39. _ibid._:204

40. A 104

41. e.g. _ibid._:196-97

42. A 144:156

43. A 43:92

44. A 264:320, 396

45. A 209:[7]

46. _ibid._:107

47. _ibid._:136

48. A 271:24

49. A 272:23

50. A 203:246

Conclusion

1. e.g. B 71

2. See C 105, C 139, C 207, C 254, C 255, C 257, C 273, C 287, C 300

3. Cf. excerpts in Book Review Digest for any title in _A_ list.

4. C 284

5. B 158:111

BIBLIOGRAPHIES

* An asterisk indicates titles of which only a review, an abstract, or a précis was seen.

_List A_: Primary belletristic titles, in some cases including biographical or critical material. The editions listed are those used in the study. Original dates of publication or composition appear in the text.

_List B_: Bibliographic, biographical, critical and historical references, including psychiatric studies of specific authors or titles.

_List C_: Medical, psychological, psychiatric and psychoanalytic background reading, with special reference to etiology (e.g., in studies of exclusively male subjects.)

A. PRIMARY MATERIAL

1. ADAMS, FAY. Appointment in Paris. N. Y., Fawcett, 1952.

2. ALCIPHRON. Letters from town and country. (tr. F. A. Wright) Lond., Routledge, n.d.

3. ALDINGTON, RICHARD. The loves of Myrrhine and Konallis. Chic., Pascal Covici, 1926.

4. ANDERSON, HELEN. Pity for women. N. Y., Doubleday, 1937.

5. ANDERSON, SHERWOOD. Dark laughter. N. Y., Boni & Liveright, 1925.

6. ——. Poor white. N. Y., B. W. Huebsch, 1920.

7. ANTHOLOGIA GRAECA. (tr. R. W. Paton) N. Y., Putnam, 1915-26. 5v.

8. APOLLODORUS. The library. (tr. J. G. Fraser) Cambridge, Mass., Harvard Univ. Press, 1946, 2v.

9. ARIOSTO, LUDOVICO. Orlando furioso. (tr. W. S. Rose) Lond., Bell, 1907. v. 2.

10. ARNIM, ELISABETH VON. Goethe’s correspondence with a child. Bost., Ticknor & Fields, 1859.

11. ——. Die Günderode. (Sämmtliche Werke, bd. 2) Berlin, Propylaenverlag, 1920.

12. BAKER, DOROTHY. Trio. Bost., Houghton, 1943.

13. ——. Young man with a horn. N. Y., New American Library, 1953.

14. BALZAC, HONORÉ DE. Cousin Betty. (tr. James Waring) Bost., Dana Estes, 1901.

15. ——. Seraphita. Lond., Dent, 1897.

16. ——. The girl with the golden eyes. (tr. Ernest Dowson) [N. Y.], DeLuxe Editions, 1931.

17. BARBEY D’AUREVILLY, JULES. Les diaboliques. Paris, Dentu, 1874.

18. BARNES, DJUNA. Nightwood. N. Y., Harcourt, 1937.

19. BARNEY, NATALIE CLIFFORD. Actes et entr’actes. Paris, Sensot, 1909.

20. ——. Aventures de l’esprit. Paris, Emile-Paul, 1929.

21. BAUDELAIRE, CHARLES. Prose and poetry. (tr. Arthur Symons). N. Y., Boni, 1926.

22. ——. Les fleurs du mal. (tr. George Dillon and Edna St. Vincent Millay) N. Y., Harper, 1936.

23. BEER, THOMAS. Mrs. Egg and other barbarians. N. Y., Knopf, 1933.

24. BELL, MRS. G. H., ed. The Hamwood papers of the ladies of Llangollen and Caroline Hamilton. Lond., Macmillan, 1930.

25. BELOT, ADOLPHE. Mlle Giraud, ma femme. Paris, Dentu, 1870.

26. BENNETT, ARNOLD. Elsie and the child. N. Y., Doran, 1924.

27. ——. The pretty lady. N. Y., Doran, 1918.

28. BIBLE. Revised version. Oxford, University Press, 1891.

28a. ——. American standard version. N. Y., Nelson, 1901.

29. BOLTON, ISABEL. Ruth and Irma. New Yorker 23:21-24. Jan. 26, 1947.

30. *BORYS, DANIEL. Carlotta Noll. Paris, Albin Michel, 1905.

31. BOURDET, EDWARD. The captive. (tr. Arthur Hornblow, jr.) N. Y., Brentano, 1927.

32. BOURGET, PAUL C. J. Un crime d’amour. Paris, Lemerre, 1886.

32a. ——. A love crime. Paris, Société des Beaux Arts, 1905.

33. BOWEN, ELIZABETH. The hotel. N. Y., MacVeigh, 1928.

34. BOWLES, JANE. Two serious ladies. N. Y., Knopf, 1943.

35. BOYLE, KAY. The bridegroom’s body. (In: The crazy hunter. N. Y., Harcourt, 1940)

36. ——. Monday night. N. Y., Harcourt, 1938.

37. BRANTÔME, P. DE B. DE. Lives of fair and gallant ladies. (tr. A. R. Allinson) N. Y., Liveright, 1933.

38. BROCK, LILYAN. Queer patterns. N. Y., Greenberg, 1935.

39. BRONTË, EMILY. Complete poems. (edited from manuscripts by C. W. Hatfield) N. Y., Columbia University Press, 1941.

40. ——. Gondal poems. (ed. Helen Brown and Jean Mott) Oxford, Blackwell, 1938.

41. BROWNRIGG, GAWEN. Star against star. N. Y., Macaulay, 1936.

42. BURT, STRUTHERS. Entertaining the islanders. N. Y., Scribner, 1933.

43. CALDWELL, ERSKINE. Tragic ground. N. Y., Duell, 1944.

44. CASANOVA DE SEINGALT, G. G. Memoirs. (tr. Arthur Machen) N. Y., Regency House, 1938. 8v.

45. CHARKE, CHARLOTTE. Narrative of the life of ... written by herself. Lond., W. Reeve, 1755.

46. CHARLES-ETIENNE. La bouche fardée. Paris, Editions Curio, 1926.

47. ——. Les désexuées. Paris. Editions Curio, 1924.

48. —— & NORTAL, ALBERT. Inassouvie. Paris, Editions Curio, 1927.

49. [CHOISEUL-MEUSE, FÉLICITÉ DE]. Julie, ou j’ai sauvé ma rose. Priv. print., 1882.

50. Coleridge, S. T. Christabel. (In: Page, C. H. British poets of the nineteenth century. N. Y., Sanborn, 1917)

51. COLETTE, SIDONIE GABRIELLE. Ces plaisirs. Paris, Ferenczi, 1932.

52. ——. Claudine à l’école. Paris, Ollendorff, 1903.

52a. ——. Claudine at school. N. Y., Boni, 1930.

53. ——. Claudine à Paris. Paris, Ollendorff, 1903.

53a. ——. Young lady of Paris. N. Y., Boni, 1931.

54. ——. Claudine en ménage. Paris, Mercure de France, 1902.

54a. ——. The indulgent husband. (In: Short novels of Colette. Glenway Wescott, ed. N. Y., Dial, 1951).

55. ——. Claudine s’en va. Paris, Ollendorff, 1903.

55a. ——. The innocent wife. N. Y., Farrar, 1934.

56. ——. La retraite sentimentale. Paris, Mercure de France, 1947.

57. COUPERUS, LOUIS. The comedians. N. Y., Doran, 1926.

58. COWLIN, DOROTHY. Winter solstice. N. Y., Macmillan, 1943.

59. CRAIGIN, ELIZABETH. Either is love. N. Y., Harcourt, 1937.

60. CUISIN, P. Clémentine, orpheline et androgyne. Bruxelles, J. J. Gay, 1883.

61. DANE, CLEMENCE. Regiment of women. N. Y., Macmillan, 1917.

62. DASCOM [BACON], JOSEPHINE. Smith College stories. N. Y., Scribner, 1916.

63. *DAUTHENDEY, ELISABETH. Vom neuen Weib und seiner Liebe. ed. 3. Berlin, Schuster & Löffler, 1903.

64. DAVENPORT, MARCIA. Of Lena Geyer. N. Y., Scribner, 1936.

65. DAVIES, RHYS. The trip to London. N. Y., Howell Soskin, 1946.

66. *DEHMEL, RICHARD. Weib und Welt. (In: Gesammelte Werke, bd. 2. Berlin, Fischer, 1913).

67. DESVIGNONS, MAX. Plaisirs troublants. Paris, Librairie Artistique, n.d.

68. DEVAL, JACQUES. Club de femmes [film]. Review: Time v. 30 pt. 2, Oct. 25, 1937.

69. DICKINSON, EMILY. Bolts of melody; new poems. N. Y., Harper, 1945.

70. ——. Letters of ... (Mabel Loomis Todd, ed.) Cleveland, World Publ. Co., 1951.

71. ——. Letters to Dr. and Mrs. Josiah Gilbert Holland. Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1951.

72. ——. Life and letters of ... by her niece, Martha Dickinson Bianci. Bost., Houghton, 1924.

73. ——. Poems. (Martha Dickinson Bianci and Alfred L. Hampson, ed.) Bost., Little Brown, 1937.

74. DIDEROT, DENIS. La religieuse. Paris, Editions de Cluny, 1938.

75. DINESEN, ISAK. Seven Gothic tales. N. Y., Smith and Haas, 1934.

76. DONISTHORPE, SHEILA. Loveliest of friends. [N. Y.], Claude Kendall, 1931.

77. DOSTOEVSKY, FEODOR. The friend of the family. Lond., Heinemann, 1920.

78. DRESSER, DAVIS. Mardigras madness. N. Y., Godwin, 1934.

78a. ——. Peter Shelley. One reckless night. N. Y., Godwin, 1938.

79. DRUON, MAURICE. The rise of Simon Lachaume. (tr. Edward Fitzgerald) N. Y., Dutton, 1952.

80. DUBUT DE LAFOREST, J. J. La femme d’affaires. Paris, Dentu, 1890.

81. *——. Mlle Tantale. Paris, Dupont, 1897.

82. *DUC, AIMÉE. Sind es Frauen? Berlin, Echstein, 1903.

83. DUMAURIER, ANGELA. The little less. N. Y., Doubleday, 1941.

84. *EICHHORN, MARIA. Fräulein Don Juan.

85. EICHRODT, JOHN. Nadia Devereux. (In: Sextet. Whit and Hallie Burnett, ed. N. Y., McKay, 1951.)

86. EISNER, SIMON. Naked storm. N. Y., Lion Books, 1952.

87. ELLIS, JOHN BRECKENRIDGE. The Holland wolves. Chic., McClurg, 1902.

88. EULENBERG, HERBERT. Der Maler Rayski. (In: Casanovas letztes Abenteuer. Dresden, Reissner, 1928.)

89. FEYDEAU, ERNEST. La comtesse de Chalis. Paris, Michel Levy, 1871.

90. FIELD, MICHAEL. Long ago. Portland, Me., Mosher, 1897.

91. ——. Underneath the bough. ibid. 1898.

92. ——. Works and days. From the journal of Michael Field. (T. and D. C. Sturge Moore ed.) Lond., Murray, 1933.

93. FIRBANK, RONALD. Five novels. Norfolk, Conn., New Directions, 1949.

94. FIRMINGER, MARJORIE. Jam today. Paris, n. publ., 1931.

95. FISHER [PARRISH], MARY. F. K. Not now but NOW. N. Y., Viking, 1947.

96. FITZMAURICE-KELLY, JAMES. The nun ensign. Lond., Fisher Unwin, 1908.

97. FITZROY, [SCOTT] A. T. Despised and rejected. Lond., Daniel, 1918.

98. FLAUBERT, GUSTAVE. Salammbo. N. Y., Rarity Press, 1932.

99. FLORA, FLETCHER. Strange sisters. N. Y., Lion Books, 1954.

100. FORREST, FELIX. Carola. N. Y., Duell, 1948.

101. FOSTER, GERALD. Strange marriage. N. Y., Godwin, 1934.

102. FOWLER, ELLEN T. The Farringdons. N. Y., Appleton, 1900.

103. *FRAUMAN, LUZ. Weiberbeute. Budapest, Schneider, 1906.

104. FREDERICS, DIANA. Diana; a strange autobiography. N. Y., Dial, 1939.

105. FULLER [OSSOLI], MARGARET. Günderode. Boston, Peabody, 1942.

106. ——. Memoirs. Bost., Phillips, Sampson, 1852. 2v.

107. GAUTIER, THÉOPHILE. Mlle de Maupin. Chic., Franklin, n.d.

108. GEORGIE, LEYLA. The establishment of Madame Antonia. N. Y., Liveright, 1932.

109. GIDE, ANDRÉ. The school for wives; Robert; Genevieve ... (tr. Dorothy Bussy) N. Y., Knopf, 1950.

110. GOURMONT, REMY DE. Le songe d’une femme. Paris, Mercure de France, 1899.

111. *GRAMONT, LOUIS DE. Astarte; opéra en quatre actes ... (Académie Nationale de Musique, Feb. ?, 1901).

112. GREENE, GRAHAM. Orient express. N. Y., Doubleday, 1933.

113. GÜNDERODE, KAROLINE. Gesammelte Werke. Berlin, Goldschmidt-Gabrielli, 1920-22. 2v.

114. GUNTER, A. C. A Florida enchantment. N. Y., Home Publ. Co., 1892.

115. HALL, RADCLYFFE. The unlit lamp. N. Y., Jonathan Cape, 1924.

116. ——. The well of loneliness. N. Y., Covici, Friede, 1929.

117. HAMILTON, ANTHONY. Count de Grammont. Lond., Grolier Society, n.d.

118. HARDY, THOMAS. Desperate remedies. N. Y., Harper, 1896.

119. HARRIS, SARA. The wayward ones. N. Y., Crown, 1952.

120. HELLMAN, LILLIAN. The children’s hour. (In: Plays. N. Y., Random, 1942.)

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122. HILLE, PETER. Gesammelte Werke. Berlin, Schuster & Löffler, 1904. 2v.

123. HENRY, JOAN. Women in prison. N. Y., Permabooks, 1953.

124. *HOECHSTETTER, SOPHIE. Selbstanzeige. Die letzte Flamme. Jena, Landhausverlag, 1917.

125. HOLMES, O. W. Elsie Venner. N. Y., Burt, n.d.

126. ——. The guardian angel. Bost., Houghton, 1890.

127. ——. A mortal antipathy. Bost., Houghton, 1892.

128. HULL, HELEN R. The fire. _Century Magazine_ 95:105-114, Nov. 1917.

129. ——. Labyrinth. N. Y., Macmillan, 1923.

130. ——. Quest. N. Y., Macmillan, 1922.

131. HUNEKER, J. G. Painted veils. N. Y., Modern Library, n.d.

132. HUON OF BORDEAUX. (tr. Lord Berners) Lond., Trubner & Co., 1884.

133. *HURLBUT, THOMAS. Hymn to Venus. Review: New York Times, Nov. 7, 1926; VIII:10.

134. HURST, FANNIE. Lonely parade. N. Y., Harper, 1942.

135. IRA, IRIS. Lesbos: Gedichte. Priv. print., 1930.

136. JACKSON, SHIRLEY. Hangsaman. N. Y., Farrar, 1951.

137. JAMES, HENRY. The Bostonians. N. Y., Dial, 1945.

138. ——. The turn of the screw. (In: Novels and tales. N. Y., Scribner, 1922. v. 12.)

139. *JANITSCHEK, MARIA. Neue Erziehung und alte Moral. (In: Die neue Eva. Leipzig, Seeman, 1903.)

140. JUVENAL. Satires ... (tr. Lewis Evans) Lond., Bell, 1895.

141. KALTNEKER, HANS. Die Schwester: ein Mysterium. Berlin, Zsolnay, 1924.

142. KEOGH, THEODORA. Meg. N. Y., New American Library, 1952.

143. [KING, WILLIAM]. The toast ... Written in Latin by Frederick Scheffer. Done into English by Peregrine O’Donald, Esq. Dublin, 1732.

144. KOESTLER, ARTHUR. Arrival and departure. N. Y., Macmillan, 1943.

145. LABÉ, LOUISE. The debate between Folly and Cupid. (tr. E. M. Cox) Lond., Williams & Norgate, 1925.

146. ——. Oeuvres, publiées par Charles Boy. Paris, Lemerre, 1887. 2v. (v. 2: Recherches sur la vie et les oeuvres de Louise Labé.)

146a. ——. Oeuvres complètes ... (P. C. Boutens, ed.) Maestricht, Stols, 1928.

147. ——. Love sonnets. (tr. Frederic Prokosch) N. Y., New Directions, 1947.

148. LACRETELLE, JACQUES DE. Marie Bonifas. Lond., Putnam, 1927.

149. LAFARGE, CHRISTOPHER. The sudden guest. N. Y., Coward-McCann, 1946.

150. LAMARTINE, A. M. L. Regina. (In: Nouvelles confidences. Paris, Levy, 1855.)

151. LANDON, MARGARET. Never dies the dream. N. Y., Doubleday, 1949.

152. LAPSLEY [GUEST], MARY. Parable of the virgins. N. Y., R. R. Smith, 1931.

153. LATOUCHE, HENRI DE. Fragoletta. Paris, Lavasseur, 1829. 2v.

154. *LAVAUDÈRE, JANE. Les demi-sexes. (In: Le Figaro) 1896.

155. LAWRENCE, D. H. The rainbow. N. Y., Modern Library, n.d.

156. LEE, JENNETTE. The cat and the king. _Ladies Home Journal_ 36:10, Oct. 1919.

157. LEHMANN, ROSAMOND. Dusty Answer. N. Y., Holt, 1927.

158. ——. The weather in the streets. N. Y., Literary Guild, 1936.

159. LEWIS, SINCLAIR. Ann Vickers. N. Y., Doubleday, 1933.

160. LEWIS, WYNDHAM. The apes of God. Lond., Arthur Press, 1930.

161. *LIEBETREU, O. Urningsliebe. Leipzig, Fischer, 1905.

162. LODGE, LOIS. Love like a shadow. N. Y., Phoenix, 1935.

163. LOFTS, NORA. Jassy. N. Y., Knopf, 1945.

164. LOUŸS, PIERRE. Aphrodite. Priv. print., 1925.

165. ——. Les aventures du roi Pausole. Paris, Fayard, n.d.

166. ——. The songs of Bilitis. N. Y., Godwin, 1933.

167. LOWELL, AMY. A dome of many-colored glass. Bost., Houghton, 1912.

168. ——. Pictures of the floating world. N. Y., Macmillan, 1919.

169. ——. Sword blades and poppy seeds. Bost., Houghton, 1914.

170. ——. What’s o’clock. Bost., Houghton, 1925.

171. LUCIAN. (tr. C. Jacobitz) v. 1, The ass, Dialogues of the courtesans, and The amores. Athens, Athenian Society, 1895.

172. MACKENZIE, COMPTON. Extraordinary women. Lond., Secker, 1932.

173. MACLANE, MARY. I, Mary MacLane. N. Y., Stokes, 1917.

174. ——. My friend Annabel Lee. Chic., Stone, 1903.

175. ——. The story of Mary MacLane; by herself. Chic., Stone, 1902.

176. MADELEINE, MARIE. Auf Kypros. Berlin, Vita, n.d.

177. MALLET, FRANÇOISE. The illusionist. (tr. Herma Briffault) N. Y., Farrar, 1952.

178. MANN, HEINRICH. Die Göttinnen: _Venus_. Berlin, Zsolnay, 1925.

179. MANSFIELD, KATHERINE. The scrapbook ... N. Y., Knopf, 1940.

180. ——. Journal. N. Y., Knopf, 1928.

181. MARCHAL, LUCIE. The mesh. (tr. Virgilia Peterson) N. Y., Appleton, 1949.

182. MARGUERITTE, VICTOR. La garçonne. Paris, Flammarion, 1922.

182a. ——. The bachelor girl. Lond., A. M. Philpot, 1924.

183. MARTIAL. Epigrams. (tr. W. C. Aker) Lond., Heinemann, 1930, 2v.

184. MASEFIELD, JOHN. Multitude and solitude. N. Y., Macmillan, 1925.

185. MASTERS, EDGAR LEE. Domesday book. N. Y., Macmillan, 1929.

186. MAUPASSANT, GUY DE. La femme de Paul. (In: La maison Tellier. Paris, Ollendorff, 1899.)

186a. ——. Paul’s mistress. (In: Works of ... Aldus de luxe ed. N. Y., National Library, 1909. v. 4.)

187. [MAYEUR DE ST. PAUL?] Confessions d’une jeune fille; Suite; Suite et fin. (In: [Mairobert, M. F. P. de? et al.] L’espion anglais. Lond., n. publ., 1784. t. 10.)

188. *MEEBOLD, ALFRED. Dr. Erna Redens Thorheit und Erkenntnis. (In: Allerhand Volk. Berlin, Vita, 1900.)

189. MENDES, CATULLE. Méphistophéla. Paris, Dentu, 1890.

190. MENKEN, ADA ISAACS. Infelicia. Phila., Lippincott, 1875.

191. MIDDLETON, THOMAS AND DEKKER, THOMAS. The roaring girl. Lond., Vizetelly, 1890.

191a. ——. Ibid. (In: Works. A. H. Bullen, ed. Lond., Nimmo, 1885-86. v. 4.)

192. MILLAY, EDNA ST. VINCENT. Fatal interview. N. Y., Harper, 1931.

193. ——. A few figs from thistles. N. Y., Harper, 1922.

194. ——. The harp-weaver and other poems. N. Y., Harper, 1923.

195. ——. The lamp and the bell. N. Y., Harper, 1921.

196. ——. Letters. (Alan Ross Macdougall, ed.) N. Y., Harper, 1952.

197. ——. Renascence. N. Y., Kennerly, 1924.

198. ——. Second April. N. Y., Kennerly, 1924.

199. MILLAY, KATHLEEN. Against the wall. N. Y., Macaulay, 1929.

200. MITCHISON, NAOMI. The delicate fire. N. Y., Harcourt, 1932.

201. *MØLLER, O. W. Wer kann dafür? (tr. from Danish, Richard Meienreis) Leipzig, Spohr, 1901.

202. MONTFORT, CHARLES. Le journal d’une saphiste. Paris, Offenstadt, 1902.

203. MORGAN, CLAIRE. The price of salt. N. Y., Coward-McCann, 1952.

204. MOSS, GEOFFREY. That other love. N. Y., Doubleday, 1930.

205. *MÜHSAM, ERICH. Die Psychologie der Erbtante. Zurich, Schmidt, 1905.

206. NATHAN, GEORGE JEAN. Design for loving. American Spectator 1:2-3, April 1933.

207. NEFF, WANDA FRAIKEN. We sing Diana. Bost., Houghton, 1928.

208. *NIEMANN, AUGUST. Zwei Frauen. Dresden, Pierson, 1901.

209. NIN, ANAÏS. Ladders to fire. N. Y., Dutton, 1924.

210. O’HIGGINS, HARVEY. Julie Cane. N. Y., Harper, 1924.

211. OLIVIA. [Dorothy Bussy] Olivia. N. Y., William Sloane, 1949.

211x. Oriental stories. (La fleur lascive orientale) ... trans. from Arabian ... (etc.) Athens, priv. print., 1893.

212. O’NEILL, ROSE. The master-mistress. N. Y., Knopf, 1922.

213. OVID. Heroides and Amores. (tr. Grant Showerman) Lond., Heinemann, 1931.

214. ——. Metamorphoses. (tr. Frank Justus Miller) Lond., Heinemann, 1946. 2v.

215. Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. (A. T. Quiller-Couch, ed.) Oxford, University Press, 1912.

216. PACKER, VIN. Spring fire. N. Y., Fawcett, 1952.

217. PARKER, DOROTHY. After such pleasures. N. Y., Viking, 1934.

218. PATTON [WALDRON], MARION. Dance on the tortoise. N. Y., Dial, 1930.

219. PELADAN, JOSEPHIN. La gynandre. Paris, Dentu, 1891.

220. ——. La vertu suprême. Paris, Flammarion, 1900.

221. *POUGY, LIANE DE. Idylle saphique. Paris, Librairie de la Plume, 1901.

222. PROUST, MARCEL. The captive. (tr. C. K. Scott-Moncrieff) N. Y., Modern Library, 1929.

223. ——. Cities of the plain (tr. ibid.) N. Y., Modern Library, 1930.

224. ——. The Guermantes way. (tr. ibid.) N. Y., Modern Library, 1925.

225. ——. The past recaptured. (tr. F. A. Blossom) N. Y., Boni, 1932.

226. ——. Swann’s way. (tr. C. K. Scott-Moncrieff) N. Y., Modern Library, 1928.

227. ——. The sweet cheat gone. (tr. ibid.) N. Y., Boni, 1930.

228. ——. Within a budding grove. (tr. ibid.) N. Y., Modern Library, 1924.

229. RACHILDE. [Marguérite Eymery Vallette]. Madame Adonis. Paris, Ferenczi, 1929.

230. ——. Monsieur Vénus. (Maurice Barrès, ed.) Paris, Felix Brossier, 1889.

230a. ——. Monsieur Vénus. (tr. Madeleine Boyd, Maurice Barrès, pref.) N. Y., Covici, Friede, 1929.

231. REMARQUE, ERICH. Arch of triumph. N. Y., Appleton, 1945.

232. RENAULT, MARY. The middle mist. N. Y., Morrow, 1945.

233. ——. Promise of love. N. Y., Morrow, 1939.

234. *REUSS, PAULE. Le génie de l’amour. Paris, Oeuvres Représentatives, 1935.

235. *REUTER, GABRIELE. Aus guter Familie. Berlin, 1897.

236. RICE, CRAIG. Having wonderful crime. N. Y., Simon & Schuster, 1943.

237. RICHARDSON, DOROTHY. Dawn’s left hand. N. Y., Knopf, n.d. (In: Pilgrimage, v. 4).

238. RICHARDSON, HENRY HANDEL. The end of a childhood ... Lond., Heinemann, 1934.

239. ——. The getting of wisdom. N. Y., Duffield, 1910.

240. *RIGAL, HENRY. Sur le mode saphique. Paris, Mercure de France, 1902.

241. ROLAND-MANUEL, SUZANNE. Le trille du diable. Paris, Deux Rives, 1946.

242. ROLLAND, ROMAIN. Annette and Sylvie. (tr. B. R. Redman) N. Y., Holt, 1935.

243. RONALD, JAMES. The angry woman. N. Y., Bantam, 1950.

243x. ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA. Goblin Market (In: Stephens, James, et al., ed. Victorian and later English poets. N. Y., American Book Co., 1937.)

244. ROYDE-SMITH, NAOMI. The island. N. Y., Harper, 1930.

245. ——. The tortoiseshell cat. N. Y., Boni, 1925.

246. *RÜLING, THEODOR. Rätselhaft. (In: Welcher unter Euch ohne Sünde ist. Leipzig, Spohr, 1906.)

247. SACKVILLE-WEST, VICTORIA. The dark island. N. Y., Doubleday, 1934.

248. ——. King’s daughter. N. Y., Doubleday, 1930.

249. SAND, GEORGE. Gabriel-Gabrielle. (In: Oeuvres complètes. Paris, Perrotin, 1843. v. 13).

250. SAPPHO. (tr. and ed. J. M. Edmonds) (In: Lyra Graeca. Cambridge, Mass., Harvard Univ. Press, 1934, v. 1).

251. ——. The songs of Sappho, in English translation by many poets. Mt. Vernon, N. Y., Peter Pauper Press, n.d.

252. ——. Songs; including the recent Egyptian discoveries. (tr. Marion Mills Miller, into rimed verse; [ed. &] tr. into prose by D. M. Robinson) N. Y., Macon, 1925.

253. SARTON, MARY. A shower of summer days. N. Y., Rinehart, 1952.

254. SARTRE, JEAN PAUL. No exit. The flies. (tr. Stuart Gilbert) N. Y., Knopf, 1947.

255. SAYERS, DOROTHY. The Dawson pedigree. N. Y., Harcourt, [c1928].

256. SCHREINER, OLIVE. Story of an African farm. Bost., Little, Brown, 1920.

256x. ——. From man to man. N. Y., Harper, 1927.

257. SCHWABE, TONI. Komm kühle Nacht. München, Miller, 1908.

258. *SEYDLITZ, R. VON. Pierre’s Ehe: psychologisches Problem. München, Schupp, n.d.

259. SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. The complete works of ... (ed. W. G. Clark and W. A. Wright) N. Y., Cumberland Publ. Co., n.d.

260. SIDGWICK, ETHEL. A lady of leisure. Bost., Small, Maynard, 1914.

261. SIDNEY, PHILIP. The Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia. Cambridge (England), University Press, 1912.

262. *SINOWJEWA, ANNIBAL. Dreiunddreissig Scheusale. St. Petersburg, 1907.

263. *STADLER, ERNST. Freundinnen. Ein lyrisches Spiel. _Magazin für Literatur_, 2 Feb., 1904.

264. STAFFORD, JEAN. Boston adventure. N. Y., Harcourt, 1944.

265. STEIN, GERTRUDE. Things as they are. Pawlet, Vt., Banyan Press, 1950.

266. STERLING, GEORGE. Strange waters. Priv. print., n.d.

267. STRINDBERG, AUGUST. The confession of a fool. (tr. Ellie Schleussner) N. Y., Viking, 1925.

268. ——. Lady Julie. (In: Lucky Peter’s travels and other tales. Lond., Cape, 1930.)

269. SWINBURNE, A. C. Lesbia Brandon. (Randolph Hughes, ed.) Lond., Falcon Press, 1952.

270. ——. Poems and ballads. Series I. London, Chatto, 1893.

271. TEY, JOSEPHINE. Miss Pym disposes. N. Y., Macmillan, 1948.

272. ——. To love and be wise. N. Y., Macmillan, 1951.

273. THAYER, TIFFANY. Thirteen women. N. Y., Claude Kendall, 1932.

274. THEISS, FRANK. Interlude. (tr. Caroline Fredrick) N. Y., Knopf, 1929.

275. THOMAS, ELISABETH W. Ella. N. Y., Viking, 1930.

276. THORNE, ANTHONY. Delay in the sun. N. Y., Literary Guild, 1934.

277. TILLY, ALEXANDRE DE. Memoirs. (tr. Françoise Delisle) N. Y., Farrar, 1952.

278. TOLSTOI, L. N. Anna Karenina. N. Y., World, 1931.

279. TORRES, TORESKA. Women’s barracks. N. Y., Fawcett, 1950.

280. (D’URFÉ). MAGENDIE, MAURICE. L’Astrée d’Honoré d’Urfé. Paris, Société Française d’Editions Littéraires ..., 1929.

281. VERLAINE, PAUL. Parallèlement. Paris, Leon Vanier, 1894.

282. VIRGIL. Aeneid. Minor poems. (tr. H. R. Fairclough) Lond., Heinemann, 1925. 2v.

283. VIVIEN, RENÉE. Poésies complètes. Paris, Lemerre, 1948. 2v.

284. ——. Brumes de fjords. Paris, Lemerre, 1902.

285. ——. Du vert au violet. Paris, Lemerre, 1903.

286. ——. Le Christ, Aphrodite, et M. Pépin. Paris, Sansot.

287. *——. Une femme m’apparut. Paris.

288. *[—— and NYEVELT, HÉLÉNE DE] “Paule Riversdale.” Echos et reflets. Paris, Lemerre, 1903.

289. *——. L’être double. Paris, Lemerre, 1904.

290. *——. Netsuké. Paris, Lemerre, 1904.

291. *——. Vers l’amour. Paris, Maison des Poètes, 1903.

292. WAGNER, ERNST. Isidora. (In: Sämmtliche Schriften. Leipzig, Fleischer, 1828. v. 5.)

293. *WASSERMANN, JACOB. Geschichte der jungen Renate Fuchs. Berlin, Fischer, 1930.

294. WEBSTER, H. K. The real adventure. Indianapolis, Bobbs Merrill, 1916.

295. WEDEKIND, FRANK. Erdgeist. (In: Gesammelte Werke. München, Miller, 1919. v. 3.)

296. ——. Mine-haha. München, Langen, 1905.

297. ——. Franziska. München, Miller, 1913.

298. WEIRAUCH, ANNA ELISABET. Der Skorpion. Berlin, Askanischer Verlag, 1930, 3v.

298a. ——. The scorpion. (tr. Whittaker Chambers) N. Y., Greenberg, 1932.

298b. ——. The outcast. (tr. S. Guyendore) N. Y., Greenberg, 1933.

299. WELLS, CATHERINE. The beautiful house. Harper’s Magazine 124:503-11, 1912.

300. WHEELER, HUGH C. The crippled muse. N. Y., Rinehart, 1952.

301. WILDER, ROBERT. Wait for tomorrow. N. Y., Bantam, 1953.

302. WILHELM, GALE. Torchlight to Valhalla. N. Y., Random, 1938.

303. ——. We too are drifting. N. Y., Random, 1935.

304. WILLIAMS, IDABEL. Hellcat. N. Y., Dell, 1952.

305. WILLIS, GEORGE. Little boy blues. N. Y., Dutton, 1947.

306. WILSON, EDMUND. Memoirs of Hecate County. N. Y., Doubleday, 1946.

307. WILSON, ETHEL D. Hetty Dorval. N. Y., Macmillan, 1948.

308. WINSLOE, CHRISTA. The child Manuela. (tr. Agnes N. Scott) N. Y., Farrar, 1933.

309. ——. Girl alone. (tr. Agnes N. Scott) N. Y., Farrar, 1936.

310. WOLLSTONECRAFT, MARY. Mary, a fiction. Lond., Johnson, 1788.

311. WOOLF, VIRGINIA. Mrs. Dalloway. N. Y., Modern Library, 1928.

312. ——. Orlando. N. Y., Harcourt, 1928.

313. ——. To the lighthouse. N. Y., Modern Library, 1937.

314. WYLIE, PHILIP. Disappearance. N. Y., Rinehart, 1951.

315. ——. Opus 21. N. Y., Rinehart, 1949.

316. YOUNG, F. B. White ladies. N. Y., Harper, 1935.

317. ZOLA, EMILE. La curée. Paris, Charpentier, 1887.

318. ——. Nana. N. Y., Pocket Books, 1942.

319. ——. Pot-bouille. Paris, Charpentier, 1883.

Addenda

320. FLORA, FLETCHER. Strange sisters. N. Y., Lion Books, 1954.

321. HALES, CAROL. Wind woman. N. Y., Woodford Press, 1953.

322. SHAW, WILENE. The fear and the guilt. N. Y., Ace Books, 1954.

323. WOOD, CLEMENT. Strange fires. N. Y., Woodford Press, 1951.

324. WOODFORD, JACK. Male and female. N. Y., Woodford Press, 1935.

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107. HUNEKER, J. G. Steeplejack. N. Y., Scribner, 1928.

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110. KARSCH, F. Mlle de Maupin. Jahrb. sex. Zwisch. 5:694-706, 1903.

111. KIEFER, OTTO. Sexual life in ancient Rome. Lond., Routledge, 1935.

112. KINSLEY, EDITH E. A story of Branwell Brontë and his sisters. N. Y., Dutton, 1939.

113. KLEIN, VIOLA. The feminine character: history of an ideology. Lond., Kegan Paul, 1946.

114. KOCK, HENRY DE. Histoire des courtisanes célèbres. Paris, Bunel, Vernay, 1869.

115. KUNITZ, S. J. & HAYCRAFT, HOWARD, ed. American authors, 1600-1900. N. Y., H. W. Wilson.

116. ——. British authors before 1800. N. Y., H. W. Wilson.

117. ——. British authors of the nineteenth century. N. Y., H. W. Wilson.

118. ——. Twentieth century authors. N. Y., H. W. Wilson, 1942.

119. LACLAVIÈRE, R. DE M. Les femmes de la renaissance. Paris, Perrin, 1898.

120. LAFOURCADE, GEORGES. La jeunesse de Swinburne. Oxford, Humphrey Milford, 1928. 2v.

121. LAMBALLE, MARIE T. L. DE S. C. Secret memoirs of ... ed. and annotated by Catherine ... Hyde, marquise de ... Scolari. N. Y., M. W. Dunne, 1901.

122. LANGDON-DAVIES, JOHN. A short history of women. N. Y., Literary Guild, 1927.

123. LANGE, VICTOR. Modern German literature: 1870-1940. Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1945.

124. LANSON, GUSTAVE. Histoire de la littérature française. Paris, Hachette, 1916.

125. LAW, ALICE. Emily Jane Brontë and the authorship of Wuthering Heights. Altham, Old Parsonage Press, n.d.

126. LEBRETON, ANDRE. Le roman au dix-septième siècle. Paris, Hachette, 1890.

127. LEWANDOWSKI, HERBERT. Das Sexualproblem in der modernen Literatur und Kunst ... seit 1800. Dresden, Aretz, 1927.

128. LEWIS, C. S. The allegory of love: a study in medieval tradition. Lond., Oxford University Press, 1951.

129. LEWIS, EILUNED & PETER. The land of Wales. N. Y., Scribner, 1937.

130. LICHT, HANS. [Paul Brandt] Sexual life in ancient Greece. Lond., Routledge, 1932.

131. LINFORD, MADELINE. Mary Wollstonecraft. Bost., Small, Maynard, 1924.

132. [Literature and sexual inversion. Untitled editorial.] Urol. & Cutan. Rev. 37:920-21, 1933.

133. LUCAS, F. L. The decline and fall of the romantic ideal. N. Y., Macmillan, 1936.

134. LUNDBERG, FERDINAND & FARNHAM, MARYNIA. Modern woman: the lost sex. N. Y., Harper, 1947.

135. MARCHAND, H. L. Sex life in France, including a history of its erotic literature. N. Y., Panurge Press, 1933.

136. MARGES (PARIS). Enquêtes sur l’homosexualité en littérature. Marges, mars-avril, 1926.

137. MARTENAU, HEINZ. Sappho und Lesbos. Leipzig, Eva-Verlag, 1931.

138. MAUROIS, ANDRÉ. Lélia: the life of George Sand. N. Y., Harper, 1953.

139. ——. The seven faces of love. N. Y., Didier, 1944.

140. MAURRAS, CHARLES M. P. Romantisme et révolution ... Paris, Nouvelle Librairie Nationale, 1922.

141. Mercure de France, v. 1-106, 1890-1913; v. 131-144, 1919-20: all reviews of Poèmes, Romans, Théâtres, v. 107-130, 1914-1918; v. 145- : sampling of reviews.

142. MONTAIGNE, MICHEL DE. Journal of Montaigne’s travels in Italy ... in 1580 and 1581. Lond., John Murray, 1903. v. 1.

143. MOORE, HARRY T. The life and works of D. H. Lawrence. N. Y., Twayne, 1951.

144. MOORE, VIRGINIA. The life and eager death of Emily Brontë. Lond., Rich & Cowan, 1936.

144x. MORE, PAUL ELMER. Selected Shelburne essays. N. Y., Oxford Univ. Press, 1935. (Christina Rossetti, pp. 47-62.)

144y. MORECK, CURT.... Sittengeschichte der neuesten Zeit. Dresden, Aretz, 1929.

145. MORTON, H. C. V. In search of Wales. N. Y., Dodd, 1932.

146. MULJI, KARSANDAS. History of the sect of Maharajas ... in western India. Lond., Trubner, 1865.

147. MURAT, MARIE. La vie amoureuse de Christine de Suède. Paris, Flammarion, 1930.

148. MURRAY, MARGARET A. The witch cult in western Europe: a study in anthropology. Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1921.

149. Mythology of all races. (L. H. Gray, ed.) Bost., Marshall Jones, 1916-32. 13v.

150. NEUMANN, ALFRED. Christina of Sweden. Lond., Hutchinson, 1935.

151. NITZE, W. K. & DARGAN, E. P. A history of French literature ... N. Y., Holt, 1922.

152. Nouvelle Biographie Générale. (Dr. Hoefer, ed.) Paris, Firmin Didot, 1853-66. 46v.

153. OBERNDORFF, CLARENCE P. Psychiatric novels of Oliver Wendell Holmes. N. Y., Columbia University Press, 1943.

154. ——. Psychoanalysis in literature. (In: Psychoanalysis and the social sciences: an annual. Geza Roheim, ed. v. 1, 1947.)

155. OFFENBACHER, E. Contributions to the origin of Strindberg’s Miss Julie. Psychoanal. Rev. 31:81-87, 1944.

156. O’CONNOR, DOROTHY. Louise Labé: sa vie et son oeuvre. Paris, Les Presses Françaises, 1926.

157. O’MALLEY, ISABEL B. Woman in subjection: a study of the lives of Englishwomen before 1832. Lond., Duckworth, 1933.

158. PATTEE, F. L. The feminine fifties. N. Y., Appleton, 1940.

159. PAULY, A. F. VON. Encyclopaedie der classischen Altertumwissenschaft. Stuttgart, Metzler, v.d. v. 9, 1916.

160. PENNELL, ELIZABETH R. Mary Wollstonecraft. Bost., Roberts, 1888.

161. PERCEAU, LOUIS. Bibliographie du roman érotique au XIX siècle. Paris, Fourdrinier, 1930. 2v.

162. PLUTARCH. Lives. (tr. A. H. Clough) N. Y., Colonial Co., 1905. 5v.

163. PORCHÉ, FRANÇOIS. L’amour qui n’ôse pas dire son nom. Paris, Grasset, 1927.

164. [PORCHÉ, SIMONE BENDA]. Emily Brontë: pièce en 3 actes ... Paris, Nagel, 1945.

165. POTTIER, EDMOND. Mme. Dieulafoy [biographical note]. (In: Dieulafoy, Jane. La reine de Castille. Paris, Hachette, 1920.)

166. PRAZ, MARIO. The romantic agony. Lond., Oxford University Press, 1951.

167. PUNER, HELEN. Freud: his life and mind. Lond., Grey Walls Press, 1949.

168. RATCHFORD, FANNIE E. The Brontës’ web of childhood. N. Y., Columbia University Press, 1941.

169. REINACH, SALOMON. [Renée Vivien]. Notes & Quer., ser. 11. 9:488, 1914.

170. REYNIER, GUSTAVE. La femme au XVII siècle. Paris, Tallandier, 1927.

171. REUILLY, JEAN DE. La Raucourt et ses amies. Paris, Daragon, 1909.

172. “Revue de la quinzaine.” Mercure de France 89:181-82, 1911.

173. RILKE, R. M. The notebook of Malte Laurids Brigge. Lond., Hogarth Press, 1930.

174. ROBINSON, D. M. Sappho and her influence. Bost., Marshall Jones, 1924.

175. ROSS, T. A. A note on the Merchant of Venice. Brit. Med. Psychol. 14:303-11, 1934.

176. ROUGEMONT, DENIS DE. Love in the western world. N. Y., Harcourt, 1940.

177. RÜLING, ANNA. Welches Interesse hat die Frauenbewegung an der Lösung des homosexuellen Problems? Jahrb. sex. Zwisch. 7:131-51, 1905.

178. SAURAT, DENIS. Modern French literature: 1870-1940. N. Y., Putnam, 1946.

179. SCHERMERHORN, ELIZABETH. Seven strings of the lyre: the romantic life of George Sand. Bost., Houghton, 1927.

180. SENIOR, DOROTHY. The life and times of Colley Cibber. N. Y., Henkle, 1928.

181. SEYD, FELIZIA. Romantic rebel: the life of George Sand. N. Y., Viking, 1940.

182. SHORTER, CLEMENT K. The Brontës and their circle. N. Y., Dutton, 1914.

183. SIMPSON, CHARLES W. Emily Brontë. N. Y., Scribner, 1929.

184. SINCLAIR, MAY. Three Brontës. Bost., Houghton, 1912.

185. SPOELBERGH DE LOVENJOUL, ALFRED C. J. DE. Les lundis d’un chercheur. Paris, Calmann Lévy, 1894.

186. STEAD, CHRISTINA, comp. Modern women in love. N. Y., Dryden Press, 1945.

187. STERN, MADELEINE B. The life of Margaret Fuller. N. Y., Dutton, 1942.

188. SUSMAN, MARGARETE. Frauen der Romantik. Jena, Diederichs, 1929.

189. SYMONS, ARTHUR. Studies in strange souls. Lond., C. J. Sawyer, 1929.

190. TAGGARD, GENEVIEVE. The life and mind of Emily Dickinson. N. Y., Knopf, 1930.

191. TAYLOR, ALBERT B. An introduction to medieval romance. Lond., Heath Cranton, 1930.

192. TAYLOR, G. R. S. Mary Wollstonecraft: a study in economics and romance. Lond., Secker, 1911.

193. TREVERRET, ARMAND DE. L’Italie au XVI siècle. Ser. I. Paris, Hachette, 1877.

194. VARIN, RENÉ. Anthologie de l’érotisme: de Pierre Louÿs á J. P. Sartre. Paris, Nord-Sud, 1948.

195. ——. L’érotisme dans la littérature étrangère de D. H. Lawrence à H. Miller. Paris, Nord-Sud, 1951.

196. *VINCENT, M. L. George Sand et l’amour. Paris, Champion, 1919. (Review: Mercure de France 194:690).

197. WADE, MASON. Margaret Fuller: whetstone of genius. N. Y., Viking, 1940.

198. WARDLE, RALPH W. Mary Wollstonecraft: a critical biography. Lawrence, Kans., University of Kansas Press, 1951.

199. WEIGALL, ARTHUR. Sappho of Lesbos: her life and times. N. Y., Stokes, 1933.

200. WEINDEL, HENRI DE & FISCHER, F. P. L’homosexualité en Allemagne. Paris, 1906.

201. WELLS, H. W. Introduction to Emily Brontë. Chic., Hendricks House, 1947.

202. WILLAMOWITZ-MOELLENDORFF, ULRICH. Sappho und Simonides. Berlin, Wiedmann, 1913.

203. WILLARD, FRANCES & LIVERMORE, MARY. Woman of the century: 1470 biographical sketches.... N. Y., C. W. Moulton, 1893.

204. WILSON, EDMUND. Gertrude Stein as a young woman. New Yorker 27:108-15, Sept. 15, 1951.

205. ——. Postscript on Edna St. Vincent Millay. (In: The shores of light. N. Y., Farrar, 1952.)

206. ——. The ambiguity of Henry James. (In: The triple thinkers. N. Y., Oxford University Press, 1948.)

207. WILSON, MONA. Sir Philip Sidney. London, Duckworth, 1931.

208. WILSON [O’BRIEN], ROMER. All alone: the life and private history of Emily Jane Brontë. Lond., Chatto, 1928.

209. WINWAR, FRANCES. The life of the heart: George Sand and her times. N. Y., Harper, 1945.

210. ——. Poor splendid wings: the Rossettis and their circle. Bost., Little, 1933.

211. WOOD, CLEMENT. Amy Lowell. N. Y., Vinal, 1926.

212. ——. Poets of America. N. Y., Dutton, 1925.

213. *WOODS, MISS MARIANNE and MISS JANE PIRIE, vs. DAME HELEN CUMMINGS GORDON. Trial. Edinburgh, 1811-19. [Citation; U. S. Surgeon General’s Catalog of the Army Medical Library, ser. I, v. 14, 1893].

214. WOOLF, VIRGINIA. The common reader. N. Y., Harcourt, 1925.

215. WRIGHT, F. A. Feminism in Greek literature from Homer to Aristotle. Lond., Routledge, 1923.

216. WRIGHT, RICHARDSON. Forgotten ladies. Phila., Lippincott, 1928.

217. YOST, KARL. A bibliography of the works of Edna St. Vincent Millay. With an essay in appreciation by Harold Lewis Cook. N. Y., Harper, 1937.

218. ZOLA, EMILE. Ein Brief an Dr. Laupts über die Frage der Homosexualität. Jahrb. sex. Zwisch. 7:371-84, 1905.

C. SCIENTIFIC AND PSYCHIATRIC MATERIAL

(Exclusively male studies included for references to etiology)

*—seen only in abstract.

1. ADLER, ALFRED. Das Problem der Homosexualität. Leipzig, Hirzel, 1930.

2. ——. Zum Thema: sexuelle Perversionen. Int. Ztschr. individ. Psychol. 10:401-409, 1932.

3. ALLEN, CLIFFORD. The sexual perversions and abnormalities. Lond., Oxford, 1940.

4. ALLEN, F. H. Homosexuality in relation to the problem of human differences. Amer. J. Orthopsychiat. 10:129-36, 1940.

5. ALLPORT, GORDON. Personality: a psychological interpretation. N. Y., Holt, 1937.

6. “Anomaly.” The invert and his social adjustment. Balto., Williams & Wilkins, 1929.

7. BACK, GEORG. Sexuelle Verirrungen des Menschen und der Natur. Berlin, Standard, 1910. 2v.

8. BARAHAL, H. S. Constitutional factors in male homosexuals. Psychiat. Q. 13:391-400, 1939.

9. *——. Testosterone in psychotic male homosexuals. Psychiat. Q. 14:319-29, 1940.

10. BAUR, JULIUS. Homosexuality as an endocrinological, psychological and genetic problem. J. Crim. Psychopathol. 2:188-97, 1940.

11. BENDER, LAURETTA & PASTER, SAMUEL. Homosexual trends in children. Amer. J. Orthopsychiat. 10:730-44, 1941.

12. BENEDEK, THERESE. Psychosexual functions in women. N. Y., Ronald, 1952.

13. —— & RUBENSTEIN, BORIS. The sexual cycle in women ... National Research Council, 1942.

14. BERGLER, EDMUND. The basic neurosis ... N. Y., Grune & Stratton, 1949.

15. ——. Eight prerequisites for psychoanalytic treatment of homosexuality. Psychoan. Rev. 31:353-86, 1944.

16. ——. Lesbianism, facts and fiction. Marr.... Hyg. 1:197-202, 1948.

17. ——. Neurotic counterfeit sex ... N. Y., Grune & Stratton, 1951.

18. ——. The present situation in genetic investigation of homosexuality. Marr. Hyg. 4:16-29, 1937.

19. ——. The respective importance of reality and fantasy in the genesis of female homosexuality. J. Crim. Psychopathol. 5:27-48, 1943.

20. ——. The writer and psychoanalysis. N. Y., Doubleday, 1950.

21. *——. Kinsey’s myth of female sexuality. N. Y., Grune & Stratton, 1954.

22. BESTERMAN, THEODORE. Men versus women: a study of sexual relations. Lond., Methuen, 1934.

23. BLANCHARD, PHYLLIS & MANASSES, CAROLYN. New girls for old. N. Y., Macaulay, 1930.

24. BLOCH, IWAN. Anthropological studies in the strange sexual practices of all races in all ages ... N. Y., Anthropological Press, 1933.

25. BLOCH, IWAN. Der Ursprung der Syphilis. Jena, G. Fischer, 1911.

26. BONAPARTE, MARIE. Female sexuality. N. Y., International Universities Press, 1953.

27. BOURGET, PAUL. Physiologie de l’amour moderne. Paris, Crès, 1918.

28. BRACHFELD, OLIVER. Sexuelle Lebensschwerigkeiten. Int. Ztschr. individ. Psychol. 8:142-151, 1930.

29. BRIERLEY, MARJORIE. Specific determinants in feminine development. Int. J. Psychoanal. 17:163-80, 1936.

30. BRILL, A. A. Homoerotism and paranoia. Amer. J. Psychiat. 13:957-74, 1934.

31. ——. Sexual manifestations in neurotic and psychotic symptoms. Psychiat. Q. 14:9-16, 1940.

32. BRODY, M. W. Analysis of the psychosexual development of the female, with special reference to homosexuality. Psychoan. Rev. 30:47-58, 1943.

33. BROMLEY, DOROTHY D. & BRITTEN, FLORENCE E. Youth and sex: a study of 1300 college students. N. Y., Harper, 1938.

34. BROSTER, L. H. et al. The adrenal cortex and intersexuality. Lond., Chapman, 1938.

35. BROWNE, F. W. STELLA. Studies in feminine inversion. J. Sexol. & Psychoan. 1:51-58, 1923.

36. BRUNON, ROGER. L’inversion est-elle un snobisme? Med. Variétés 68:245; annexe:iv-v, 1928.

37. BURGESS, E. W. & COTTRELL, L. S. Predicting success or failure in marriage. N. Y., Prentice-Hall, 1939.

38. *BRYAN, D. Bisexuality. Int. J. Psychoan. 11:150-166, 1930.

39. BUTTERFIELD, O. L. Love problems of adolescence. N. Y., Emerson, 1939.

40. CAPRIO, FRANK. Female homosexuality. N. Y., Citadel Press, 1954.

41. CARPENTER, EDWARD. The intermediate sex. N. Y., Kennerly, 1912.

42. ——. Intermediate types among primitive folk. N. Y., Kennerly, 1914.

43. ——. Love’s coming of age. N. Y., Kennerly, 1911.

44. *CASAN, V. S. El amor lesbio. ed. 8. Barcelona, 1896.

45. CASE, IRENE & SHERMAN, MANDEL. The factor of personal attachment in homosexuality. Psychoan. Rev. 13:32-37, 1925.

46. CAWADIAS, A. P. Hermaphroditos: the human intersex. Lond., Heinemann, 1943.

47. CHESSER, EUSTACE. Sexual behavior, normal and abnormal. N. Y., Roy, 1949.

48. CHIDECKEL, MAURICE. Female sex perversions ... N. Y., Eugenics Publishing Co., 1935.

49. CLENDENING, LOGAN. Love and happiness: intimate problems of the modern woman. N. Y., Knopf, 1938.

50. COLLINS, JOSEPH. The doctor looks at love and life. N. Y., Garden City, 1929.

51. COREAT, I. H. Homosexuality, its psychogenesis and treatment. N. Y. Med. J. 97:589-94, 1913.

52. CORRÉ, ARMAND. L’ethnographie criminelle ... Paris, Reinwald, [1894].

53. COSTLER, A. et al. Encyclopedia of sexual knowledge. N. Y., Coward-McCann, 1934.

54. CURRAN, DESMOND. Homosexuality. Practitioner 141:280-87, 1938.

55. DAUTHENDEY, ELISABETH. Die urnische Frage und die Frau. Jahrb. sex. Zwisch. 8:285-99, 1906.

56. DAVIS, KATHERINE B. Factors in the sex life of 2,200 women. N. Y., Harper, 1929.

57. ——. The periodicity of sex desire. Amer. J. Obstet. & Gyn. 14:345-60, 1927.

58. DEUTSCH, HELENE. Homosexuality in women. Psychoan. Q. 1:484-510, 1932.

59. ——. Psychology of women. v. 1. N. Y., Grune & Stratton, 1944.

60. DEVEREUX, GEORGE. Institutionalized homosexuality of the Mojave Indians. Human Biol. 9:498-527, 1937.

61. —— & MOOS, M. C. Social structure of prisons and the organic tensions. J. Crim. Psychopathol. 4:306-24, 1942.

62. DICKINSON, R. L. & BEAM, LURA. One thousand marriages: a study of sex adjustment. Balto., Williams & Wilkins, 1931.

63. ——. The single woman: a medical study in sex education. Balto., Williams & Wilkins, 1934.

64. DICKS, G. H. & CHILDERS, A. T. Social transformation of a boy who lived his first fourteen years as a girl. J. Psychol. 18:125-30, 1944.

65. DUNBAR, FLANDERS. Emotions and bodily changes. N. Y., Columbia Univ. Press, 1938.

66. ——. Mind and body: psychosomatic medicine. N. Y., Random, 1947.

67. EAST, W. N. Sexual offenders. (In: Mental abnormality and crime. Lond., Macmillan, 1944. Ch. 9.)

68. ELIASBERG, W. The closeup of psychosexual gratification. J. Nerv. & Ment. Disease. 99:179-196, 1944.

69. ELLIS, ALBERT. Sexual psychology of the human hermaphrodite. Psychosom. Med. 7:108-25, 1945.

70. ——. The folklore of sex. N. Y., Boni, 1951.

71. ELLIS, HAVELOCK. Sexual inversion in women. Alienist & Neurologist 16:141-58, 1895.

72. ——. Studies in the psychology of sex. N. Y., Random, 7v. in 2, 1940.

73. FENICHEL, OTTO. Outline of clinical psychology. N. Y., Norton, 1934.

74. ——. The psychology of transvestism. Int. J. Psychoan. 11:211-27, 1930.

75. FÉRÉ, C. S. Social and esoteric studies of sexual degeneration in mankind and in animals. N. Y., Anthropological Press, 1932.

76. FIELDING, WILLIAM J. Sex and the love life. N. Y., Dodd, 1927.

77. FINESINGER, J. E. et al. Clinical, psychiatric and psychoanalytic study of a case of male pseudohermaphroditism. Amer. J. Obstet. & Gynec. 44:310-17, 1942.

78. FLUGEL, J. C. A hundred years of psychology. N. Y., Macmillan, 1933.

79. FORD, C. A. Homosexual practices of institutionalized females. J. Abnorm. Psych. 23:442-48, 1929.

80. FORD, C. S. & BEACH, FRANK A. Patterns of sexual behavior. N. Y., Harper, 1951.

81. FOREL, A. H. The sexual question. N. Y., Medical Art Agency, 1922.

82. FREUD, SIGMUND. The basic writings of.... N. Y., Modern Library, 1938.

83. ——. Certain neurotic mechanisms in jealousy, paranoia, and homosexuality. Int. J. Psychoan. 4:1-10, 1923.

84. ——. Psychogenesis of a case of female homosexuality. Int. J. Psychoan. 1:125, 1920.

85. FRIEDMANN, A. Beitrag zur pädagogischen Menschenkenntnis. Int. Ztschr. individ. Psychol. 7:129-43, 1929.

86. *FROMM, ERIKA & ELONEN, ANNA. Projective techniques in the study of a case of female homosexuality. J. Project. Tech. 15:185-230, 1951.

87. GALLICHAN, WALTER. The great unmarried. N. Y., Stokes, 1916.

88. ——. The poison of prudery; an historical survey. Bost., Stratford, 1929.

89. GATES, R. R. Human genetics. N. Y., Macmillan, 1946.

90. *GEISE, HANS. Zur Psychopathologie der homosexuellen Partnerwahl. Jahrb. Psychol. Psychother. 1:223-25, 1953.

91. GILBERT, J. A. Homosexuality and its treatment. J. Nerv. & Ment. Dis. 52:297-322, 1920.

92. GOLDSCHMIDT, R. Intersexualität und menschliches Zwittertum. Deutsch. med. Woch. 30:1288-92, 1931.

93. GRANT, V. W. A major problem of human sexuality. J. Soc. Psychol. 28:79-101, 1948.

94. ——. Preface to a psychology of sexual attachment. J. Soc. Psychol. 33:187-208, 1951.

95. GREENSPAN, HERBERT & CAMPBELL, J. D. The homosexual as a personality. Amer. J. Psychiat. 101:682-89, 1945.

96. GROVES, ERNEST. Marriage. N. Y., Holt, 1933.

97. ——, & GROVES, GLADYS. Sex in childhood. N. Y., Macaulay, 1933.

98. GUYON, RENÉ. The ethics of sexual acts. N. Y., Knopf, 1948.

99. ——. Sexual freedom. Lond., Lane, 1939.

100. HALL, W. S. & WINTER, JEANNETTE. Girlhood and its problems.... Phila., Winston, 1919.

101. HAMILTON, D. M. Some aspects of homosexuality in relation to total personality development. Psychiat. Q. 13:229-44, 1939.

102. HAMILTON, G. V. A research in marriage. N. Y., Boni, 1929.

103. HAMMER, WILHELM. Die Tribadie Berlins. Berlin, Seemann Nachfolger, 1906.

104. ——. Über gleichgeschlechtliche Frauenliebe mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Frauenbewegung. Monatschr. f. Harnskr. u. sex. Hyg. 4:395-405, 439-447, 1907.

105. Harvard University Psychological Clinic. Explorations in personality ... N. Y., Oxford, University Press, 1938.

106. HENNESSEY, M. A. R. Homosexual charges against children. J. Crim. Psychopathol. 2:524-32, 1941.

107. HENRY, G. W. and GALBREATH, H. M. Constitutional factors in homosexuality. Amer. J. Psychiat. n.s. 13:1249-70, 1934.

108. HENRY, G. W. The homosexual delinquent. Ment. Hyg. 25:420-42, 1941.

109. ——. Psychogenic and constitutional factors in homosexuality. Psychiat. Q. 8:243-64, 1934.

110. ——. Psychogenic factors in overt homosexuality. Amer. J. Psychiat. 93:889-908, 1937.

111. ——. Sex variants: a study of homosexual patterns. N. Y., Hoeber, 1941. 2v.

112. —— & GROSS, A. A. Social factors in case histories of 100 under-privileged homosexuals. Ment. Hyg. 22:591-611, 1938.

113. HESNARD, A. L. M. Psychologie homosexuelle. Paris, Stock, 1929.

114. ——. Strange lust: the psychology of homosexuality. N. Y., Amethnol Press, 1933.

115. HILL, W. W. Status of hermaphrodite and transvestite in Navaho culture. Amer. Anthrop. 37:273-79, 1935.

116. HINKLE, BEATRICE. On the arbitrary use of the terms masculine and feminine. Psychoan. Rev. 7:15-30, 1919.

117. HINSIE, LELAND. Concepts and problems of psychotherapy. N. Y., Columbia University Press, 1937.

118. [HIRSCHFELD, MAGNUS]. Numa Praetorius. Die Homosexualität in dem romanischen Ländern. Sex. Probleme, 5:183-203, 1909.

119. HIRSCHFELD, MAGNUS. Die objektive Diagnose der Homosexualität. Jahrb. sex. Zwisch. 4:35, 1899.

120. ——. Sexual pathology: being a study of the abnormalities of the sexual function. Newark, Julian Press, 1932.

121. ——. Die Transvestiten; eine Untersuchung über den erotischen Verkleidungstrieb ... Berlin, Pulvermacher, 1910.

122. ——. Le troisième sexe; les homosexuels de Berlin. Paris, Rousset, 1908.

123. HODANN, MAX. History of modern morals. Lond., Heinemann, 1937.

124. HOFFMANN, M. H. Intersexual manifestations of non-endocrine origin. Journal-Lancet 62:446-49, 1942.

125. HORNEY, KAREN. Flight from womanhood; masculinity complex in women, as viewed by men and by women. Int. J. Psychoan. 7:324-39, 1926.

126. ——. The neurotic personality of our time. N. Y., Norton, 1937.

127. ——. On the genesis of the castration complex in women. Int. J. Psychoan. 5:50-65, 1924.

128. HORTON, C. B. & CLARKE, E. K. Transvestism or eonism. Amer. J. Psychiat. 10:1025-1030, 1931.

129. HOWARD, W. L. Effeminate men and masculine women. N. Y., Med. J. 71:686, 1900.

130. HURLOCK, E. B. and KLEIN, E. R. Adolescent crushes. Child Devel. 5:63, 1934.

131. HUSTED, H. H. Personality and sex conflicts. N. Y., McBride, 1952.

132. HUXLEY, ALDOUS. Do what you will, and other essays. N. Y., Doubleday, 1930.

133. HUTTON, LAURA. The single woman and her emotional problems. Balt., Wood, 1935.

134. IOVETZ-TERESCHENKO, N. M. Friendship-love in adolescence. Lond., Allen & Unwin, 1936.

135. “JACOBUS, X.” Crossways of sex: a study in erotic pathology. N. Y., American Anthropological Society, 1935.

136. ——. Untrodden fields of anthropology ... Paris, Carrington, 1898.

137. JASTROW, JOSEPH. Character and temperament. N. Y., Appleton, 1915.

138. JOHNSON, WENDELL. People in quandaries: the semantics of personal adjustment. N. Y., Harper, 1946.

139. JOHNSON, WINIFRED, et al. Highlights in the literature of sex differences published since 1920. Psych. Bull. 36:569, 1939. [Precis of paper read at American Psychological Assoc. 47th annual meeting].

140. JONAS, C. H. An objective approach to personality and environment in homosexuality. Psychiat. Q. 18:626-41, 1944.

141. JONES, ERNEST. Early development of female sexuality. Int. J. Psychoan. 8:459-72, 1927.

142. JONES, WILLIAM. Fox texts. Amer. Ethnol. Soc. Publications 1:51-52, 1907.

143. JOUX, OTTO DE. Die hellenische Liebe in der Gegenwart. Leipzig, Spohr, 1897.

144. JUNG, C. G. Psychology of the unconscious. N. Y., Dodd, Mead, 1925.

145. KAHN, SAMUEL. Mentality and homosexuality. Bost., Meador, 1937.

146. KALLMANN, FRANZ J. Heredity and health in mental disorder ... N. Y., Norton, 1953.

147. ——. Modern concepts of genetics in relation to mental health and abnormal personality development. Psychiat. Q. 21:535-53, 1947.

148. KARDINER, ABRAM. Sex and morality. N. Y., Bobbs Merrill, 1954.

149. KARSCH, F. Uranismus oder Päderastie und Tribadie bei den Naturvölkern. Jahrb. sex. Zwisch. 3:72-201, 1901.

150. *KEISER, SYLVAN and SCHAFFER, DORA. Environmental factors in homosexuality in adolescent girls. Psychoan. Rev. 36:383-95, 1949.

151. KIERNAN, J. G. Sexology [current notes]. Urol. & Cutan. Rev. 18:550, 1914.

152. KINSEY, A. C. Homosexuality: criteria for hormonal explanation of the homosexual. J. Clin. Endocrinol. 1:424-28, 1941.

153. ——. Sexual behavior in the human female. Phila., Saunders, 1953.

154. ——. Sexual behavior in the human male. Phila., Saunders, 1948.

155. KNIGHT, R. P. Relationship of latent homosexuality to the mechanism of paranoid delusions. Bull. Menninger Clin. 4:149-59, 1940.

156. KNOPF, OLGA. The art of being a woman. Bost., Little, 1932.

157. *KOUVER, B. J. Die sociale waardering van die sexuele inversie. Nederl. Tjdschr. Psychol. 7:364-78, 1952.

158. KRAFFT-EBING, RICHARD VON. Psychopathia sexualis. Brooklyn, N. Y., Physicians & Surgeons Publishing Co., 1935.

159. KRETSCHMER, ERNST. Physique and character. New York, Harcourt, 1925.

160. KRICH, A. M., ed. Women; the variety and meaning of their sexual experience. N. Y., Dell, 1953.

161. LAIDLAW, R. N. A clinical approach to homosexuality. Marr. & Fam. Living 14:39-45, 1952.

162. LANDES, RUTH. Cult matriarchate and male homosexuality. J. Abnorm. & Soc. Psych. 35:386-397, 1940.

163. LANDIS, CARNEY, et al. Sex in development: a study ... of 153 normal women and 142 female psychiatric patients. N. Y., Hoeber, 1940.

164. *LANG, THEODOR. [Genetic factors in homosexuality] Ztschr. Ges. Neurol. & Psychiat. 155:702-13, 1936.

165. *——. [... further studies] ibid. 157:557-74, 1937.

166. *——. [Short methodological remarks on my work on genetic theory] ibid. 160:804-09, 1938.

167. *——. [Genetic factors in homosexuality] Dritter Beitrag. ibid. 162:627-45, 1938.

168. *——. Ergebnisse neuer Untersuchungen zum Problem der Homosexualität. Monatsschr. Krim. Biol 30:401-13, 1939.

169. *——. [Hereditary conditioning of homosexuality and basic significance of research on intersexuality for human genetics] Allgem. Ztschr. Psychiat. 112:237-54, 1939.

170. *——. Vierter Beitrag zur Frage nach der genetische Bedingheit der Homosexualität. Zeitschr. Ges. Neurol. & Psychiat. 166:255-70, 1939.

171. *——. Weitere methodologische Bemerkung zu meinen Arbeiten über die genetische Bedingheit der Homosexualität. ibid. 169:567-75, 1940.

172. *——. Fünfter Beitrag zur Frage nach der genetischen Bedingheit der Homosexualität. ibid. 170:663-71, 1940.

173. ——. Studies in the genetic determination of homosexuality. J. Nerv. & Ment. Disease 92:55-64, 1940.

174. *——. Erbbiologische Untersuchungen über die Entstehung der Homosexualität. Med. Wochenschr. 88:961-65, 1941.

175. *——. Untersuchungen an männlichen Homosexuellen und deren Sippschaften mit besondere Berücksichtung der Frage des Zusammenhangs zwischen Homosexualität und Psychose. ibid. 171:651-79, 1941.

176. *LAYCOCK, S. R. Homosexuality: a mental hygiene problem. Canad. Med. Assoc. J. 63:245-50, 1950.

177. LELAND, C. G. The alternate sex, or female intellect in man and the masculine in woman. N. Y., Funk & Wagnalls, 1904.

178. LEUBA, J. Hermès ou Aphrodite? Le côté biologique du problème. Rev. Franç. Psychoan. 8:194-207, 1935.

179. LEVETSOW, KARL VON. Louise Michel. Jahrb. sex. Zwisch. 7:307-70, 1905.

180. LICHTENSTEIN, P. M. The “fairy” and the “lady lover.” Med. Rev. of Revs. 27: 369-74, 1921.

181. —— and SMALL, S. M. Handbook of psychiatry. N. Y., Norton, 1943.

182. *LIEBIG, C. Die Frau als Ehemann. Krim. Monatshefte 9:131-33, 1935.

183. LOMBROSO, CESAR, & FERRERO, WILLIAM. The female offender. London, Unwin, 1895.

184. LONDON, L. S. Psychosexual pathology of transvestism. Urol. & Cutan. Rev. 37:600-04, 1933.

185. LORAND, SANDOR. Perverse tendencies and fantasies: their influence on personality. Psychoan. Rev. 26:178-90, 1939.

186. LOWIE, G. H. The Assiniboine. Amer. Mus. Nat. Hist. Anthropol. Papers 4:223, 1909.

187. LUCKA, EMIL. The evolution of love. Lond., Allen & Unwin, 1922.

188. LYDSTON, F. The biochemical basis of sex aberrations. Urol. & Cutan. Rev. 23:384, 1919.

189. MCDOUGALL, WILLIAM. Introduction to social psychology. Bost., Luce, 1912.

190. MCHENRY, F. A. A note on homosexuality, crime, and the newspapers. J. Crim. Psychopathol. 2:533-48, 1941.

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192. MCMURTRIE, DOUGLAS. Legend of lesbian love among North American Indians. Urol. & Cutan. Rev. 18:192-93, 1914.

193. ——. Manifestations of sexual inversion in the female ... ibid. 18:424-26, 1914.

194. ——. Principles of homosexuality and sexual inversion in the female. Amer. J. Urol. 9:144-53, 1913.

195. ——. Record of a French case of feminine sexual inversion. Maryland Med. J. 57:179-81, 1914.

196. ——. Sexual inversion among women in Spain. Urol. & Cutan. Rev. 18:308, 1914.

197. ——. Sexually inverted infatuation in a middle-aged woman. ibid. 18:601, 1914.

198. ——. Some observations on the psychology of sexual inversion in women. Amer. J. Urol. 9:38-45, 1913.

199. MALINOWSKI, BRONISLAW. Sex and repression in savage society. N. Y., Harcourt, 1927.

200. MANTEGAZZA, PAOLO. The sexual relations of mankind. N. Y., Eugenics Publ. Co., 1936.

201. MARKEY, B. & NOBLE, H. An evaluation of the masculinity factor in boarding-home situations. Amer. J. Orthopsychiat. 6:2, 1936.

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204. MEAD, MARGARET. Male and female. N. Y., Morrow, 1950.

205. ——. Sex and temperament in three primitive societies. N. Y., Morrow, 1939.

206. MEAGHER, J. F. W. Homosexuality: its psychobiological and pathological significance. Urol. & Cutan. Rev. 33:505-18, 1929.

207. MENNINGER, K. A. Somatic correlations with the unconscious repudiation of femininity in women. J. Nerv. & Ment. Disease 89:514-27, 1939.

208. MERZBACH, H. Homosexualität und Beruf. Jahrb. sex. Zwisch. 4:187-98, 1902.

209. MEYER, J. J. Sexual life in ancient India. N. Y., Dutton, 1930. 2v.

210. Modern attitudes in psychiatry. N. Y., Columbia University Press, 1946.

211. MOLL, ALBERT. Handbuch der Sexualwissenschaft. Leipzig, Vogel, 1912.

212. ——. Libido sexualis ... N. Y., American Ethnological Press, 1933.

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214. ——. Perversions of the sexual instinct. Newark, N. J., Julian Press, 1931.

215. ——. The sexual life of the child. N. Y., Macmillan, 1912.

216. MONAHAN, FLORENCE. Women in crime. N. Y., Ives Washburn, 1941.

217. *MÜLLER, F. C. Ein weiterer Fall von conträrer Sexualempfindung. Friedrichs Blät. f. Gerichtl. Med. 4; 1891.

218. MÜLLER-FREIENFELS, RICHARD. The evolution of modern psychology. New Haven, Conn., Yale Univ. Press, 1935.

219. *NEDONIA, KAREL. Homosexuality in sexological practice. Int. J. Sexol. 4:219-24, 1951.

220. NEUGEBAUER, FRANZ VON. Zusammenstellung der Literatur über Hermaphroditismus beim Menschen ... Jahrb. sex. Zwisch. 7 (1):471-670, 1905.

221. NEUSTADT, R. & MYERSON, A. Quantitative sex hormone studies in homosexuality, childhood, and various disturbances. Amer. J. Psychiat. 47:524-51, 1940.

222. NIEMOLLER, A. F. American encyclopedia of sex. N. Y., Panurge Press, 1935.

223. NUNBERG, H. Homosexuality, magic and aggression. Int. J. Psychoanal. 19:15, 1938.

224. OBERNDORF, C. P. Diverse forms of homosexuality. Urol. & Cutan. Rev. 33:518-22, 1929.

225. OPHUIJSEN, J. H. W. VAN. Contributions to masculinity complex in women. Int. J. Psychoanal. 5:39-49, 1924.

226. OWENSBY, N. M. Homosexuality and lesbianism treated with metrazol. J. Nerv. & Ment. Disease 29:65-66, 1940.

227. PAGE, J. & WERKENTIN, J. Masculinity and paranoia. J. abnorm. & soc. Psychol. 33:527-31, 1938.

228. PARENT-DUCHÂTELET, A. J. De la prostitution dans la ville de Paris. Paris, J. B. Baillière, 1857. 2v.

229. PARKE, J. R. Human sexuality. Phila., Professional Publ. Co., 1906.

230. PERLOFF, W. H. The role of the hormones in human sexuality. Psychosom. Med. 11:133-39, 1949.

231. PLANT, J. S. Personality and the cultural pattern. N. Y., Commonwealth Fund, 1937.

232. PLOSS, D. H. & BARTELS, MAX. Das Weib in der Natur- und Völkerkunde. Leipzig, Grieben, 1905. 2v.

233. *POE, J. S. Successful treatment of a ... homosexual based on the adaptational view of sexual behavior. Psychoanal. Rev. 39:23-33, 1952.

234. POTTER, LAFOREST. Strange loves; a study in sexual abnormalities. N. Y., Dodsley, 1937.

235. Problems of sexual behavior. N. Y., American Social Hygiene Assoc., 1948.

236. REIK, THEODOR. A psychologist looks at love. N. Y., Rinehart, 1944.

237. ——. The psychology of sexual relations. N. Y., Rinehart, 1945.

238. REISS, MAX. The role of sex hormones in psychiatry. J. Ment. Science 86:787-90, 1940.

239. RHEINE, THEODOR VON. Die lesbische Liebe.... Berlin, Aris & Ahrens, 1933.

240. RIGGALL, R. M. Homosexuality and alcoholism. Psychoanal. Rev. 10:157-69, 1923.

241. *ROBIE, T. R. Oedipus and homosexual complexes in schizophrenia. Psychiat. Q. 1:468-84, 1927.

242. ROBINSON, VICTOR, ed. Encyclopedia sexualis. N. Y., Dingwall-Rock, 1936.

243. ROBINSON, W. R. America’s sex and marriage problems. N. Y., Eugenics Publ. Co., 1928.

244. ROHLEDER, H. Die Homosexualität: eine biologische Variation oder eine Krankheit? Jahrb. sex. Zwisch. 22:3-4, 16-21, 1922.

245. ROSANOFF, A. J. Human sexuality, normal and abnormal, from a psychiatric standpoint. Urol. & Cutan. Rev. 33:523-30, 1929.

246. ROSENZWEIG, S. An hypothesis regarding cycles of behavior in a schizophrenic patient. Psychiat. Q. 16:463-68, 1942.

247. RUDOLPH, G. DE M. Experimental effect of sex hormone therapy upon anxiety in homosexual types. Brit. J. Med. Psychol. 18:317-22, 1941.

248. RÜLING, ANNA. Welches Interesse hat die Frauenbewegung an der Lösung des Homosexuellen Probleme? Jahrb. sex. Zwisch. 7:131-51, 1905.

249. SCHMALHAUSEN, S. D. & CALVERTON, V. F., ed. Woman’s coming of age; a symposium. N. Y., Liveright, 1931.

250. SCHWARTZ, OSWALD. Über Homosexualität. Leipzig, Thieme, 1931.

251. *——. Zur Psychologie des Welterlebens und der Fremdheit: 2. Über die weibliche Homosexualität. Ztschr. Ges. Neurol. & Psychiat. 143:478-505, 1933.

252. SELLING, L. S. The pseudo family. Amer. J. Sociol. 37:247-53, 1931.

253. SELTZER, C. C. Relationship between masculine components and personality. Amer. J. Phys. Anthropol. 32:33-47, 1945.

254. SHELDON, W. H. Varieties of human physique. N. Y., Harper, 1940.

255. ——. Varieties of human temperament. N. Y., Harper, 1942.

256. SILVERMAN, DANIEL, & ROSANOFF, W. R. Electro-encephalographic and neurological studies of homosexuals. J. Nerv. & Ment. Disease 101:311-21, 1945.

257. SMITH, S. Age and sex differences in children’s opinion concerning sex differences. J. Genet. Psychol. 54:17-25, 1939.

258. SPRAGUE, G. S. Varieties of homosexual manifestations. Amer. J. Psychiat. 92:143-54, 1935.

259. STEINACH, EUGEN. Sex and life; forty years of biological and medical experiments. N. Y., Viking, 1940.

260. STEKEL, WILHELM. Bi-sexual love. Milwaukee, Caspar, 1933.

261. ——. Die Geschlechtskälte der Frau. Berlin, Urban, 1927.

262. ——. Is homosexuality curable? Psychoanal. Rev. 17:443-51, 1930.

263. ——. The homosexual neurosis. N. Y., Physicians & Surgeons Book Co., 1935.

264. STRAIN, FRANCES. The normal sex interests of children from infancy to adolescence. N. Y., Appleton-Century, 1948.

265. STRAKOSCH, FRANCES M. Factors in the sex life of seven hundred psychopathic women. Utica, N. Y., Hospitals Press, 1934.

266. STRECKER, E. A. Fundamentals of psychiatry. Phila., Lippincott, 1943.

267. SYMONDS, J. A. A problem in Greek ethics. Lond., priv. print., 1908.

268. ——. A problem in modern ethics. Lond., [priv. print.], 1896.

269. TALMEY, BERNARD. Love: a treatise on the science of sex attraction. N. Y., Practitioners Publ. Co., 1919.

270. TARNOVSKI, V. M. L’instinct sexuel et ses manifestations morbides. Paris, Carrington, 1904.

271. ——. Anthropological, legal and medical studies of pederasty in Europe. N. Y., Falstaff Press, 1933.

272. TENNENBAUM, JOSEPH. The riddle of woman: a study in the social psychology of sex. N. Y., Lee Furman, 1936.

273. TERMAN, L. M. & MILES, CATHERINE C. Sex and personality: studies in masculinity and femininity. N. Y., McGraw Hill, 1936.

274. THOM, D. A. Normal youth and its everyday problems. N. Y., Appleton, 1932.

275. THOMPSON, C. J. S. Mysteries of sex: women who posed as men and men who impersonated women. Lond., Hutchinson, 1938.

276. THOMPSON, CLARA. Changing aspects of homosexuality in psychoanalysis. Psychiatry 10:183-89, 1947.

277. THORPE, L. P. Psychological foundations of personality. N. Y., McGraw Hill, 1938.

278. [ULRICHS, KARL]. Numa Numantius. Vindex; Inclusa, 1864; Vindicta; Formatrix; Ara spei, 1865; Gladius furens, 1867; Memnon I, II, 1868; Incubus; Argonauticus, 1869; Prometheus; Araxis, 1870. [All privately printed.]

279. VELIKOWSKY, I. Tolstoy’s Kreutzer Sonata and unconscious homosexuality. Psychoanal. Rev. 24:18-25, 1937.

280. VORONOFF, SERGE. Rejuvenation by grafting. Lond., Allen, Unwin, 1925.

281. ——. The study of old age and my method of rejuvenation. Lond., Gill, 1928.

282. WATSON, JOHN. Psychological care of infant and child. N. Y., Norton, 1928.

283. WEINDEL, HENRI DE. L’homosexualité en Allemagne. Paris, C. Juven, 1908.

284. WEININGER, OTTO. Sex and character. N. Y., Putnam, 1906.

285. WESTERMARCK, E. Homosexualität. Sex-Probleme 4:248-80, 1908.

286. WESTPHAL, C. VON. Die conträre Sexualempfindung. Archiv. f. Psychiat. & Nervenkrankh. 2(1):73-108, 1869.

287. WHITE, LYNN. Educating our daughters. N. Y., Harper, 1950.

288. WHITE, W. A. Twentieth century psychiatry: its contribution to man’s knowledge of himself. N. Y., Norton, 1936.

289. WILE, I. S. Sex life of the unmarried adult.... N. Y., Vanguard, 1934.

290. *WINNER, ALBERTINE L. Homosexuality in women. Med. Praxis. 217:219-220, 1947.

291. WITSCHI, E. & MENGERT, W. F. Endocrine studies on human hermaphrodites and their bearing on the interpretation of homosexuality. J. Clin. Endocrin. 2:279-86, 1942.

292. WITTELS, FRITZ. Mona Lisa and feminine beauty. Int. J. Psychoanal. 15:25-40, 1934.

293. ——. Motherhood and bisexuality. Psychoanal. Rev. 21:180-93, 1934.

294. ——. The position of the psychopath in the psychoanalytic system. Int. J. Psychoanal. 19:471-88, 1938.

295. WORTIS, JOSEPH. Intersexuality and effeminacy in the male homosexual. Amer. J. Orthopsychiat. 10:567, 1940.

296. WRIGHT, C. A. Endocrine aspects of homosexuality; further studies. Med. Record 147:449-52, 1938.

297. WULFFEN, ERICH. Woman as a sexual criminal. N. Y., American Ethnological Press, 1934.

298. YARROS, RACHELLE S. Modern woman and sex: a feminist physician speaks. N. Y., Vanguard, 1933.

299. YAWGER, N. S. Transvestism and other cross-sex manifestations. J. Nerv. & Ment. Disease 42:41-48, 1940.

300. YOUNG, KIMBALL. Personality and problems of adjustment. N. Y., Crofts, 1940.

301. ZILBOORG, GREGORY. A history of psychiatric medicine. N. Y., Norton, 1941.

302. ——. Masculine and feminine: biological and cultural aspects. Psychiatry 7:257-296, 1944.

303. ——. Mind, medicine and man. N. Y., Harcourt, 1943.

304. *ZIMMERLEIN, K. Verschämte “lesbische” Liebe als Brandstiftmotiv. Krim. Monatsch. 7:112-113, 1933.

INDEX

_A l’Heure des Mains Jointes_, 159, 168

Abercrombie, Lascelles, 280

_Actes et Entr’actes_, 155, 156

Adams, Fay, 333

Adler, Alfred, 152, 269

_Aeneid_, 25

_After Such Pleasures_, 307

_Against the Wall_, 184, 289-290

_Albertine Disparue_, 208

Alciphron, 27, 28, 29, 38

Aldington, Richard, 155, 189

Alighieri, Dante _see_ Dante Alighieri

_All Alone; the Life of Emily Brontë_, 131

_Allerhand Volk_, 219

Alpers, Anthony, 192

amazons, 25, 32, 36, 39, 99, 155

_Les Amies_, 77

_El Amor Lesbio_, 53

_Amores_, 28

_L’Amour et le Plaisir_, 203

_Anna and the King of Siam_, 329

Anderson, Helen, 317-318, 351

Anderson, Sherwood, 264-265, 273

_L’Androgyne_, 108

_The Angry Woman_, 329

_Ann Vickers_, 300

_Anna Karenina_, 223

_Annette and Sylvie_, 205-207, 273

Anthon, Kate Scott, 146, 148

Anthony, Catherine, 136

anthropology, 25, 52, 347

anti-feminism, 91-93, 95-99, 256, 351

antipathy to men, 25, 26, 40, 76, 79, 89, 93, 94, 100, 159, 208-210, 219, 236, 244-246, 253, 261, 278, 279-280, 297, 305, 309, 312, 314, 315, 320, 321, 323, 328, 331, 338

_The Apes of God_, 292

_Aphrodite_, 112-113, 193

Apollodorus, 24, 25, 26

_Appointment in Paris_, 333, 341

_Arcadia, The Countess of Pembroke’s_, 36-38

_Arch of Triumph_, 328

Aretino, Pietro, 46

Ariosto, Ludovico, 35-36, 109, 117

Arnim, Elisabeth von, 125-127

_Arrival and Departure_, 325

_As You Like It_, 40

_Astarte_, 201

_Astrée_, 38-39

_Atalanta_, 26

Athene, 25, 26

Atkins, Elizabeth, 185, 186

Aubigny, Madeleine de Maupin d’, 65-66

_Auf Kypros_, 174

“Aurel,” 155

_Aus guter Familie_, 218, 220

author’s disapproval explicit, 27, 73, 77, 80-82, 96-98, 104-108, 176, 191, 203, 226, 235, 249, 261, 276, 292, 300, 308-309 implied, 26, 55, 63, 75, 80, 86, 95-96, 110, 111, 189, 201, 204, 224, 227, 235, 236, 241, 256, 257-260, 266, 281-282, 288-291, 292, 293-294, 301, 307, 314, 315, 320, 325-326, 328-331

author’s tolerance explicit, 56-59, 60, 159-173, 193-200, 204-210, 213, 219, 254, 263, 279-281, 286, 309, 319, 324 implied, 21, 34-35, 39, 49, 50, 60-61, 64, 65, 66-67, 89-90, 112-113, 178, 188, 190, 202, 249-250, 255, 263, 265, 267-269, 270, 272, 273-274, 282-283, 291-292, 298, 302-303, 304-307, 320, 321, 322-323, 324, 327, 331-334, 338, 339-340

_Aventures de l’Esprit_, 155, 156, 205

_Les Aventures du Roi Pausole_, 113, 114, 193

_The Bachelor Girl_, 207

Bacon, Josephine Dascom _see_ Dascom (Bacon), Josephine Dodge

Baker, Dorothy, 320, 325-326

Baker, Ida, 192

Balzac, Honoré de, 53, 62-64, 66, 72, 104, 114, 127, 218, 224, 345

Barnes, Djuna, (186, note 61), 316-317, 351

Barbey, d’Aurevilly, Jules, 83

Barney, Natalie Clifford, 62, 154-158, 161, 163, 164, 166, 171, 172, 174, 177, 178, (186, note 61), 192, 205

Barrès, Maurice, 88, 89, 94

Basler, Roy, 74

Baudelaire, Charles, 76-77, 78, 104, 105, 110, 114

Beard, Mary, 23

“The Beautiful House,” 255

Beer, Thomas, 298-299

Belot, Adolphe, 81-83, 97, 114, 220, 331

Bennett, Arnold, 263-264, 271-272, 280, 327

Benson, E. F., 130

Bernard, Dr. Claude, 53

Betham, Edwards, Mathilda, 192, 246

bisexuality defined, 11, 91 men preferred, 35, 36, 44, 49, 96, 106-108, 113, 220, 221, 223, 227, 256, 281, 309, 310, 311, 322, 333 no preference, 27, 28, 45, 46, 49, 84, 85, 87, 90, 96-98, 99, 110, 112-113, 151, 153, 174-177, 180-192, 204-208, 224, 235, 279, 282, 286, 296, 318-319, 326, 327 women preferred, 19-21, 82-83, 86, 100-104, 113, 122, 176, 201, 204, 212, 213, 214, 216, 220, 221, 295, 299, 310, 311, 312, 316, 328, 339

Blixen, Baroness Karen _see_ Dinesen, Isak

Bloch, Iwan, 38

Blood, Fanny, 55-59

_A Blythedale Romance_, 136

Boccaccio, Giovanni, 46, 47

Bodin, Charles, 103

Boiardo, Matteo, 35

Bolton, Isabel, 331

_Bolts of Melody_, 148

Bona Dea, 27, 71

_La Bonifas_, 208, 211, 216, 222, 234, 277, 278

_Book Review Digest_, (351, note 3)

Borys, Daniel, 204, 219

_Boston Adventure_, 326

_The Bostonians_, 15, 95-96, 110, 112, 114, 257, 315

_La Bouche Fardée_, 213

Bourdet, Edouard, 208, 211-213, 277

Bourges, Clémence de, 117, 118, 119, 120, 126

Bourget, Paul, 87

Bowen, Elizabeth, 279, 282-283, 287, 351

Bowles, Jane, 324

Boyd, Ernest, 90

Boy, Charles, 119, 120

Boyle, Kay, 320-322, 351

Bradley, Katherine, 141-145

Brantôme, Pierre de Bourdeille de, 43-44, 104, 118

Brentano, Bettina _see_ Arnim, Elisabeth von

Breuer, J., 151

Breville, Pierre de, 201

“The Bridegroom’s Body,” 321-322

Brock, Lilyan, 311

Brontë, Anne, 132, 134

Brontë, Branwell, 130, 132, 134

Brontë, Charlotte, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135

Brontë, Emily, 129-135, 136, 178, 179, 245, 353

_The Brontës’ Web of Childhood_, 132, 133, 188

Browne, Stella, 199

Browning, Robert, 142, 143, 144, 188

Brownrigg, Gawen, 311

_Brumes de Fjords_, 159, 166

Brun, Charles, 172

_The Buck in the Snow_, 187

Burnett, Hallie and Whit, 332

Burt, Struthers, 299-300

Burton, Sir Richard, 78

Butler, Lady Eleanor, 123-124

Caldwell, Erskine, 326

Callisto, 25, 26

Camilla, 25

Cape, Jonathan, 279

Capri, 182, 281-282, 330

_The Captive_ (Bourdet), 211-213, 277, 325, 326, 349

_The Captive_ (Proust), 204

_The Careless Husband_, 121

_Carlotta, Noll_, 204, 219

_Carola_, 328

Carpenter, Edward, 149

Caryll, Mary, 123

Casan, V. S., 53

Casanova de Seingalt, Giacomo, 43, 45, 46

_Casanovas letztes Abenteuer_, 236

Casper, J. L., 53, 86

“The Cat and the King,” 255

Catholic League for Decency, 241

_Cendres et Poussières_, 158, 164

_The Censor Marches On_, 319

censorship, 15, 21, 29, 76, 78, 81, 87, 150, 186, 228, 241, 243, 256, 262, 265, 277, 279-280, 311, 313-314, 319, 325, 341

_Century Magazine_, 266

_Ces Plaisirs_, 124, 170, 199, 205, 219

Chabrillan, Célèste Venard de, 68

Chadwick, H. M. and Nora K., 23

Channing, W. H., 137

Charcot, Jean, 52, 86, 98, 149, 151

Charke, Charlotte, 120-122

Charlemagne, 30, 33

Charles, Emile, 172

Charles-Etienne, 208, 213-214

_The Child Manuela_, 236-238

_The Children’s Hour_, 127, 301-302, 326, 347

Choiseul-Meuse, Félicité de, 49

_Le Christ, Aphrodite et M. Pépin_, 159, 172

“Christabel,” 73-74, 75

Christina, Queen of Sweden, 48

Cibber, Colley, 120, 121

_Cinq Petits Dialogues Grecs_, 155

_The City of Flowers_, 155

Clarke, James Freeman, 137

_Claudine à l’Ecole_, 194-195

_Claudine à Paris_, 194, 195-196

_Claudine at School_, 194-195, 288

_Claudine en Ménage_, 194, 196-197, 200, 203

_Claudine S’en Va_, 194, 197-198, 200, 204

_Clémentine, Orpheline et Androgyne_, 60-61, 83

_Club de Femmes_, 319

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 73, 114

Colette, Sidonie Gabrielle, 124, 143, 170, 171, 193-200, 205, 214, 219, 239, 288, 295, 306, 314

_The Comedians_, 277

_La Comtesse de Chalis_, 71-72, 82, 100

_The Confession of a Fool_, 96-98

Cooper, Clarissa, 173

Cooper, Edith, 141-145

Corey, Donald W., 14

Couperus, Louis, 277

courtesans and prostitutes, 27, 28, 84, 86, 98, 108, 112-113, 202, 245, 309, 325, 328, 333

courtly love, 31, 32

_Cousin Betty_, 63-64, 218

Coward, Noel, 300

Cowlin, Dorothy, 324

Craigin, Elisabeth, 318-319

_The Crazy Hunter_, 321

_Un Crime d’Amour_, 87

“The Crimson Curtain,” 83

_The Crippled Muse_, 330

Cuisin, P., 60-61, 83

_La Curée_, 84

“Cynara,” 176

_La Dame à la Louve_, 159

Damophyla, 24

_Dance on the Tortoise_, 290

Dane, Clemence, 257-260, 261

_Dans un Coin de Violettes_, 159

Dante Alighieri, 31

_The Dark Island_, 303-305, 350

_Dark Laughter_, 273

Darwin, Charles, 52, 109, 149

Dascom (Bacon), Josephine Dodge, 255

_Daughter of Time_, 192

Dauthendey, Elisabeth, 219

Davenport, Marcia, 316

David, André, 87, 90

Davies, Rhys, 331

_Dawn’s Left Hand_, 295-297, 304

death of variant, 62, 66, 87, 171, 203, 214, 309, 324, 331, 333, 349 of others, 61, 89, 100, 164, 201, 214, 252, 336 from sexual excess, 82, 203, 213, 326

_Death in Venice_, 332

Dehmel, Richard, 112, 177

Dekker, Thomas, 40-41

Delarue-Mardrus, Lucie, 155

_Delay in the Sun_, 306-307, 322

_The Delicate Fire_, 298

_Les Demi-Sexes_, 114

_La Dernière Journée de Sapho_, 203

_Les Désexuées_, 213

_Design for Living_, 300

“Design for Loving,” 300-301

_Desperate Remedies_, 93-94

_Despised and Rejected_, 261-263

DesVignons, Max, 208, 214

Deval, Jacques, 319

_Les Diaboliques_, 83

_Dialogues of the Courtesans_, 28

Diana, 25, 26, 97, 244

_Diana_, 322, 323-324, 340, 347, 349, 350

Diane de Poitiers, 118

Dickens, Charles, 140

Dickinson, Emily, 145-148, 179, 353

Diderot, Denis, 54-55, 60, 82, 104

Dieulafoy, Mme. Jeanne, 98-99, 200

Dinesen, Isak, 125, 305-306

Dioscorides, 27

_Disappearance_, 328, 350

_A Dome of Many-Colored Glass_, 178

_Domesday Book_, 188-189

Donisthorpe, Sheila, 295, 298, 308-309

dormitory segregation, 54, 66-67, 82-83, 92, 100, 197, 200, 203, 225, 237-238, 251, 253, 255, 262, 275, 278-279, 288-292, 317, 322, 330, 332, 333

Dorval, Marie, 129

Dostoevsky, Feodor, 223

Douglas, Norman, 281

Dowson, Ernest, 176

_The Drag_, 277

dramas, 39-42, 48, 156, 176, 185, 201, 225, 234-237, 277, 301, 325, 328

_Dreiunddreissig Scheusale_, 223

Dresser, Davis, 312-313

Droin, Alfred, 172

drugs, 77, 79, 86, 100, 102, 204

Druon, Maurice, 328

_Du Vert au Violet_, 159

Du Bois, Mary Constance, 255

Dubut de Laforest, J. J., 86-87, 98, 99-100, 270

Duc, Aimée, 220-221

Dudevant, Aurore _see_ Sand, George

DuMaurier, Angela, 324

_Dusty Answer_, 278-279, 288, 308

_Earth Spirit (Erdgeist)_, 225

_Echos et Reflets_, 168

Edmonds, J. M., 17

egotism, 99, 216, 234, 257-260, 282-283, 292-294, 328, 329, 331

Eichhorn, Maria, 220

Eichrodt, John, 332

Eisner, Simon, 331

_Either is Love_, 318-319, 337, 347, 350

Eliot, George, 135-136

Eliot, T. S., 316

_Ella_, 290-291

Ellis, Havelock, 24, 41, 53, 55, 66, 83, 84, 87, 116, 120, 149, 150, 153, 279, 281, 318, 323

Ellis, John Breckenridge, 247, 251, 255

_Elsie and the Child_, 271-272

_Elsie Venner_, 91-92

Emerson, R. W., 136, 137

emotional aggression, 36, 43, 83, 87-90, 92, 95, 100-103, 155-158, 177, 200, 206, 213, 216, 220-222, 226-227, 234, 236, 261, 296, 325, 330, 343

_The End of a Childhood_, 302-303

endocrinology, 151-152, 178, 222, 343

_Entertaining the Islanders_, 299-300

Eon, Chevalier d’, 90

_Epigrams_, 27

Erauso, Catalina, 41-43, 120

_Erdgeist_, 225

Erinna, 24

“Dr. Erna Redens Thorheit und Erkentnis,” 219

Ernst, Morris, 319

erotica, 24, 44-49, 54

_L’Espion Anglais_, 48-49

Essen, Siri von, 96, 99

_The Establishment of Madame Antonia_, 309

etiology (explicit), 22, 56, 60, 62, 64, 66-67, 82, 84, 89, 91, 93, 100-108, 121, 128, 194, 205, 208-211, 216, 220, 226, 229, 230, 234, 237-238, 260, 261, 262, 264, 267, 280-281, 282, 294, 299, 311, 312, 314, 318, 331, 338, 339, 343-346

_L’Être Double_, 168

_Études et Préludes_, 158, 164

Eulenberg, Herbert, 236

Eulenberg, Philip von, 150, 228

Evans, Mary Ann _see_ Eliot, George

_Evocations_, 158, 164, 165

_Explorations in Personality_, 152

_Extraordinary Women_, 279, 282-283

_Les Factices_, 90

family tension, 22, 42, 47, 55, 56, 64, 92, 94, 97-98, 101, 120, 123, 128, 137, 146, 160, 207, 215, 216, 223, 227, 229-231, 245, 267, 271, 277, 303-304, 306, 312, 318, 321, 322, 327, 339

Farnham, Marynia, 56

_The Farringdons_, 243-244

_Fatal Interview_, 186-187

father lacking, 18, 86, 125, 253, 298, 302 loved, 136, 254, 275, 278, 280, 320, 323 unsympathetic, 26, 34, 68, 113, 121, 207, 208, 211, 215, 227, 229, 235, 245, 312

Fauré, Gabriel, 203

_Les Fausses Vierges_, 204

feminism, 40, 91-99, 215, 240, 312, 315

_La Femme d’Affaires_, 99-100

“La Femme de Paul,” 85-86

_Une Femme M’Apparut_, 159, 168

“Femmes Damnées,” 76-77, 252

Feydeau, Ernest, 71-72, 81, 82

“Field, Michael,” 141-145, 192

_The Fifth Column and the First Forty-Nine Stories_, 320

_Le Figaro_, 81

Firbank, Ronald, 268-269, 292

“The Fire,” 255, 266-267

Fisher, Mary F. Kennedy, 329

Fiske, Minnie Maddern, 247

Fitz-Maurice Kelly, James, 41-43

Fitzroy (Scott), A. T., 261-263

Flach, Johannes, 218

_Flambeaux, Éteints_, 159, 169

Flaubert, Gustave, 53, 68-71, 96, 100

_La Fleur Lascive Orientale_, 34

_Les Fleurs du Mal_, 76-77, 252

Flora, Fletcher, 331

_A Florida Enchantment_, 109-111, 247

“The Flower Beneath the Foot,” 268-269

Forrest, Felix, 328

Foster, Gerald, 310

Fowler, Ellen Thorneycroft, 243-244

_Fragoletta_, 61-62, 91

_Franziska_, 226-228

_Fräulein Don Juan_, 220

Frauman, Luz, 221-222

Fraser, Sir James, 25

Frederics, Diana, 322

Freud, Sigmund, 12, 22, 109, 151, 152, 153, 200, 214, 227, 233, 240, 241, 261, 269, 270, 281, 292, 311, 331, 341, 344

_Die Freundin_, 229

“Freundinnen: Lyrisches Spiel,” 176

_A Friend of the Family_, 223

frigidity, 57, 81-83, 100-104, 203, 212, 219, 220, 262, 292-297

Frith, Mary, 40-41, 83, 120

Fuller, Margaret, 136-138, 139

Fuseli, Henry, 57, 58, 59

_Gabriel-Gabrielle_, 127-128

Galton, Sir Francis, 149

Garcia, Pauline, 129

_La Garçonne_, 207-208, 269

_Garda_, 182

Garden, Mary, 266

Gauthier-Villars, Henri, 169, 172, 193, 194, 198, 199, 203, 214

Gautier, Théophile, 15, 64-65, 72, 82, 104, 112, 114, 140, 327

_Geneviève_, 215-216

_Le Génie de l’Amour_, 173

_Gentlemen, I Address You Privately_, 320

Georgie, Leyla, 309

Germain, André, 159, 160, 161, 165, 166, 172

_Geschichte der jungen Renate Fuchs_, 220

_The Getting of Wisdom_, 252-253, 302

Gide, André, 215-216

Gilbert (Dickinson), Sue, 146-147

Gilder, Richard Watson, 95

Gilman, Dr. James, 74

_Girl Alone_, 238, 314

_The Girl with the Golden Eyes_, 63, 64, 72, 82, 114, 223

“Glory in the Daytime,” 307

_Goblin Market_, 75-76, 330

_The Goblin Woman_, 182

Godwin, William, 55, 56, 58, 59, 137

_Goethe’s Briefwechsel mit einem Kind_, 125

_The Golden Bough_, 25

_Gondal Poems_, 133

Gordon, Dame Helen Cumming, 127

_Die Göttinnen: Diana; Minerva_, 223

_Die Göttinnen: Venus_, 223-224

Gourmont, Rémy de, 110-111, 114, 155, 156, 161, 262

_Grammont, Memoirs of the Count de_, 44

Gramont, Louis de, 202, 212

_The Great Adventure_, 257, 267

_The Greek Anthology_, 24, 27

Greene, Graham, 299

Gregory VII, Pope, 47

Gregory, Nazianzen, 21

Griswold, Hattie Tyng, 140, 141

_The Guardian Angel_, 91, 92, 93

Guérard, Albert, 72

_The Guérmantes Way_, 204

Günderode, Karoline von, 124-127, 138, 230

Gunter, Archibald Clavering, 109-110, 246, 327

_La Gynandre_, 104-108, 223, 281

_Haillons_, 159, 170

Hales, Carol, 338

Hall, G. Stanley, 151

Hall, Radclyffe, 116, 241, 271, 279-281, 287, 308, 309, 314, 319

“Hallowe’en,” 298-299

Hamilton, Anthony, 44, 47, 268

Hamilton, Emma, 61, 62

_Hangsaman_, 332

Hanson, Elizabeth and Lawrence, 136

Hardy, Blanche C., 122

Hardy, Thomas, 93, 252

_The Harp Weaver and Other Poems_, 184

_Harper’s Magazine_, 255, 270

Harris, Sara, 330

Harvard Psychological Clinic, 152

Hatfield, C. W., 133, 134

_Having Wonderful Crime_, 324

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 136, 352

_Hellcat_, 309

Heller, Kurt, 228

Hellman, Lillian, 127, 301-302

Hemingway, Ernest, 320

Henry III of France, 47

Henry, G. W., 12, 152

Henry, Joan, 328

heredity, 35-36, 61, 100, 149-152, 189, 209-211, 222, 239, 280-281, 282, 311, 314, 315, 343

_Heredity in Health and Mental Disorder_, 152

hermaphroditism, 27, 52, 60-61, 62, 173, 314

_Heroides_, 18

_Hetty Dorval_, 329

Hille, Peter, 176, 183

Hirschfeld, Magnus, 14, 53, 84, 113, 149, 153, 174, 215, 218, 221, 222, 281

Hitler, Adolf, 228

Hoche, Jules, 204

Hoechstetter, Sophie, 228

_The Holland Wolves_, 251

Holmes, Dr. Oliver Wendell, 91-93, 94, 136

“homoerotische Roman, Wo bleibt der ...?”, 228

_The Homosexual in America_, 14

homosexual “marriage,” 35, 44, 112, 122, 123, 202, 221, 310, 317, 330, 333

homosexuality (only), 41-43, 53, 61-62, 154-158, 159-169, 208-211, 219, 224-235, 239, 245-246, 248-250, 263, 279-280, 293-294, 314

Horace, 21

Horney, Dr. Karen, 152

_Les Hors Nature_, 90

_The Hotel_, 279, 282-283

Hughes, Langdon, 79

_Huis Clos_, 328

Hull, Helen R., 255, 266-268

Huneker, James Gibbons, 140, 141, 214, 265-266, 268, 316

_Huon of Bordeaux_, 34, 36, 337

Hurlbut, Thomas, 277

Hurst, Fannie, 324

_Hymn to Venus_, 277

hypnotism, 52, 221-222, 311

_I, Mary MacLane_, 247, 260-261

_Idylle Saphique_, 202-203

_The Illusionist_, 338, 341

Imlay, Gilbert, 55, 59

_Inassouvie_, 213

_The Indulgent Husband_, 194, 196-197, 314

_Infelicia_, 140-141

_The Innocent Wife_, 194, 197-198, 306

“Interim,” 183, 184, 186

_Interlude_, 235, 292

“Iphis and Ianthe,” 26-27

Ira, Iris, 177

_Isidora_, 218

_The Island_, 292-294, 324, 349

Jackson, Shirley, 332, 353

_Jahrbuch für sexuelle Zwischenstufen_, 14, 113, 174, 201, 202, 203, 204, 215, 218, 219, 220, 228, 229

James, Henry, 15, 91, 95-96, 110, 111-112, 114, 159, 243, 257

Janitschek, Maria, 220

_Jassy_, 326-327

_Jean Christophe_, 205

_Jocelyn_, 67

_Le Journal d’une Saphiste_, 203, 214

Jouvenel, Henry de, 199

Joyce, James, 269

“Julie Cane, The Story of,” 270

_Julie, ou J’ai Sauvé ma Rose_, 49

Jung, Karl, 152

Juvenal, 27, 29

Kallman, I. F., 152

Kaltneker, Hans, 234-235

Kelly, James Fitz-Maurice _see_ Fitz-Maurice Kelly, James

Keogh, Theodora, 328

King, Sir William, 47

_King’s Daughter_, 189-191

_The King’s Henchman_, 186

Kinsey, A. C., 12, 153, 242, 347

_Les Kitharèdes_, 158, 165

_Klinische Novellen_, 53, 86

Koestler, Arthur, 325

_Komm kühle Nacht_, 176-177

Krafft-Ebing, Richard von, 14, 53, 71, 72, 84, 149, 313, 318

Labé, Louise, 117-120, 126, 176, 181

_Labyrinth_, 267-268

Lacretelle, Jacques, 208, 213, 216, 234, 239, 277, 278, 281

_Ladders to Fire_, 334-335

_Ladies’ Home Journal_, 255

_A Lady of Leisure_, 253-255, 271

LaFarge, Christopher, 328

Lafourcade, Georges, 79

Lalo, Pierre, 201

Lamartine, A. M. L. de, 66-67, 114, 160, 218

Lamballe, Louise, Princesse de, 48, 122

_The Lamp and the Bell_, 185

Landon, Margaret, 329-330

Lang, Theodor, 152

Lapsley (Guest), Mary, 291-292, 295

LaSalle, Antoine de, 46

_The Lass of the Silver Sword_, 255

Latouche, Henri de, 61, 114

La Vaudère, Jane de, 114, 193, 208

Lawrence, D. H., 255-257, 261, 280

_Leaves of Grass_, 139

LeDantec, Yves, 172

Ledrain, Eugene, 172

Lee, Jennette, 255

Lee, Vernon, 141

Lehmann, Rosamond, 277, 278-279, 288, 308, 316, 351

Leigh, Arrand and Isla _see_ “Michael Field”

_Lena Geyer, Of_, 316

_Léon dit Léonie_, 213

LePage, Francis, 204

Leroux, Xavier, 201

_Lesbia Brandon_, 79-80, 83, 114

_Lesbiacorum Liber_, 174

Lesbianism defined, 13 explicit, in author’s milieu, 27, 47, 49, 55, 62, 63, 64-65, 77, 78, 82-83, 85-86, 90, 96-98, 101-103, 104-108, 159-173, 174, 194, 196, 202, 203, 204-207, 213, 217, 220, 222, 235, 238, 241, 249-250, 256, 265-266, 280-282, 299, 300, 308, 309, 310, 311, 312-313, 316, 318, 320, 322, 325, 328-331, 338 explicit, elsewhere, 25, 26, 28, 73, 78, 112-113, 173, 177, 201, 218, 268, 285 implied, 17-22, 38, 42, 43, 64, 75, 79, 87, 95, 97-99, 111, 122, 125-126, 129, 140, 157-159, 173-174, 177, 178-179, 212, 234, 263, 268, 270, 276, 279, 286, 292, 293-294, 295, 296, 300, 305-306, 319, 338

“Lesbos,” 77

_Lesbos: Gedichte_, 177

_Letters from Town and Country_, 28

_Lettres à l’Amazone_, 155

_Lettres à une Connue_, 154

_Lettres Intimes à l’Amazone_, 155

Lewandowski, Herbert, 67, 218

Lewis, Sinclair, 300, 329

Lewis, Wyndham, 292

Liebetreu, O., 222

_The Life and Eager Death of Emily Brontë_, 181

Lindey, Alexander, 319

_Little Boy Blues_, 329

_The Little Less_, 324

_Lives of Fair and Gallant Ladies_, 44

“Llangollen, The Ladies of,” 122-124, 125

Lodge, Lois, 311-312

Lofts, Nora, 326-327

_Lonely Parade_, 324

_Long Ago_, 143

Louis XIII of France, 48

Louis XV of France, 48

Louÿs, Pierre, 112-113, 114, 154, 173, 174, 177, 189, 193

_A Love Crime_, 87

_Love Like a Shadow_, 311-312, 313, 333

_Loveliest of Friends_, 295, 308-309, 311

_The Loves of Edwy_, 182

_The Loves of Myrrhine and Konallis_, 189

_The Loving and Daring_, 338

Lowell, Amy, 178-179, 180, 181, 192

Lucian, 27, 28, 29, 34

Lundberg, Ferdinand, 56

_Lyra Graeca_, 17

_The Lyric Year_, 184

McIntosh, Elizabeth _see_ Tey, Josephine

Mackenzie, Compton, 279, 327

MacLane, Mary, 244-247, 255, 260-261

_Madame Adonis_, 89-90, 114, 349

_Mädchen in Uniform_, 236-237, 259, 298, 301, 326

Madeleine, Marie, 174, 177, 192

_Mademoiselle de Maupin_, 15, 64-66, 72, 76, 82, 91, 104, 266, 301, 323, 327, 337, 346

_Mlle Giraud, Ma Femme_, 81-83, 100, 113, 203, 220

“Mademoiselle Tantale,” 86-87, 98, 99, 104, 110

_Mlle Vladimir, Mon Mari_, 113

_Magazin für Erfahrungsseelenkunde_, 52

Magendie, Maurice, 38

Magnan, Valentin, 149

Magny, Olivier de, 117, 118

_La Maison Tellier_, 85

_Male and Female_, 310-311

male homosexuality, 23, 24, 28, 47, 52-53, 78, 90, 109, 195, 199, 204-205, 213, 228, 242, 262, 269, 275, 278-279, 292, 322, 332

male sexual attitudes, 45-47, 105, 108, 155-156, 177, 297, 312, 335, 350-353

“Der Maler Rayski,” 236

Mallet, Françoise, 338

Manicheism, 30

Mann, Heinrich, 223-224, 239

Mann, Thomas, 223, 228, 332

Mansfield, Katherine, 191-192, 352

Marchal, Lucie, 331-332

_Mardigras Madness_, 312-313

_Marges_, 214, 215

Marguerite, Victor, 207-208, 269

Marie Antoinette, 48

_Marie Bonifas_, 208-211, 229, 281, 306

Martial, 27, 29, 34

_Mary; a Fiction_, 55-60, 66, 83, 94

Mary, The Virgin, 32, 34, 172

masculine attributes somatic, 26, 61, 65, 86, 88-90, 92, 100, 105-108, 112, 131, 154, 166, 178, 199, 219, 222, 227, 268, 280-281, 292, 314, 316, 322, 327, 336-337, 342-343 other, 25, 26, 83, 92, 105-108, 131, 154-156, 219, 221, 227, 263, 280-281, 314, 322, 327, 336-337, 342-343

masculine habits, tastes, 25, 28, 31, 65, 88-90, 105-108, 117-118, 139, 208-210, 221, 246, 271, 315, 318, 327, 337

“masculine protest,” 24, 27, 40-43, 64-66, 90, 91, 94, 118, 141, 242, 261

Masefield, John, 251-252, 255

Mast, Jane, 277

_The Master Mistress_, 180, 182

Masters, Edgar Lee, 188-189

Maupassant, Guy de, 15, 85-86, 91, 96, 100, 114

Maurois, André, 129

Maximus of Tyre, 21

Mayeur de St. Paul, 48-49

_Mazeppa_, 139

Meebold, Alfred, 219

_Meg_, 328

_Memoirs of Hecate County_, 328

Mendel, Gregor, 149

Mendès, Catulle, 15, 100-104, 109, 114, 302

Menken, Adah Isaacs, 79, 138-141

_Méphistophéla_, 15, 100-104, 113, 223, 329, 349

_Mercure de France_, 90, 110, 113, 168, 173, 201, 202, 204, 215

_The Mesh_, 331-332, 341

Messalina, 27

_Metamorphoses_, 26, 27

Mew, Charlotte, 179

_The Middle Mist_, 327-328

Middleton, Thomas, 40-41

“Milesian Tales,” 46

Millay, Edna St. Vincent, 182-188, 190, 191, 192, 292

Millay, Kathleen, 184, 289-290, 292

Miller, Marion Mills, 165

_Mine-ha-ha_, 224-225

_Miss Julie_, 98

_Miss Pym Disposes_, 335-336

_Mrs. Dalloway_, 273-275, 305

_Mrs. Egg and Other Barbarians_, 298

Mitchison, Naomi, 297-298

_Modern Woman, the Lost Sex_, 55-56

Moll, Albert, 53, 84, 149

Møller, O., 219-220

“Molly the Bruiser,” 123

_La Môme Picrate_, 203

Monckton-Miles, Richard, 78

_Monday Night_, 320-321

_La Monja Alférez_, 41, 42

_Monsieur Vénus_, 87-89, 94, 100, 223, 288

Montaigne, Michel de, 44

Montfort, Charles, 203, 208, 214

Moore, Virginia, 121, 132, 135, 178, 179

Morel, Maurice, 203

Moréno, Marguérite, 156, 199

Morgan, Claire, 339-341

_A Mortal Antipathy_, 91, 92-93

Moss, Geoffrey, 295, 306

mother lacking, 68, 73, 113, 130, 194, 203, 208, 211, 229, 258, 264, 275, 317, 320, 338 loved, 26, 37, 121, 130, 184, 215, 237, 271, 311, 332 unsympathetic, 63, 85, 86, 89, 245, 253, 254, 267, 272, 278, 280, 281, 299, 302, 323, 326, 332, 333, 339

Mühsam, Erich, 222

_Multitude and Solitude_, 251-252, 350

murder by variant, 63, 204, 319, 331, 336 (planned) of variant, 63, 82, 90, 219 (attempted), 226, 310, 329

Murry, John Middleton, 191, 192

_My Friend Annabel Lee_, 246-247

mythology, 25, 26, 29, 96, 244

_Mythology of All Nations_, 25

“Nadia Devereux,” 332

_Naked Storm_, 331, 341

_Nana_, 84-85, 86, 266

narcissism, 11 (defined), 72, 87, 89, 94, 110, 207, 228, 234, 253, 261, 262

Nathan, George Jean, 300-301

Nathan, James, 137

Neff, Wanda Fraiken, 288-289, 291

“Neue Erziehung und alte Moral,” 220

_Die neue Eva_, 220

neurosis, 87, 103, 111, 204, 259, 308, 317, 326, 332, 338, 349

_Never Dies the Dream_, 329-330

_New York Times_, 277

_The New Yorker_, 325

Niemann, August, 220

Nievelt, Hélène de Zuylen de, 166

_Nightwood_, 316-317

Nin, Anaïs, 334-335, 351

_No Exit_, 328

Noailles, Anna de, 173

_Not Now but NOW_, 329

_Notes and Queries_, 172

_Notre Dame de Lesbos_, 213

_Nouvelles Confidences_, 66

_The Nun-Ensign_, 41-43

Nussey, Ellen, 130, 131, 132, 135

Oberndorf, Dr. Clarence, 91, 92

_Of Lena Geyer_, 316

O’Higgins, Harvey, 270-271

_Olivia_, 337

_Omphale_, 201

_One Reckless Night_, 313

O’Neill, Rose, 180-182, 192, 353

_Opus 21_, 328

“Orestes,” 331

_Orient Express_, 299

oriental literature, 12, 33, 34-35, 46

_Orlando_, 279, 283-287, 305, 329

_Orlando Furioso_, 35-36

Orleans, House of, 55

orphan, 40, 49, 60, 61, 64, 83, 88, 91, 92, 93, 94, 111, 203, 205, 213, 224, 234, 270, 288, 293, 310, 314, 315, 330, 331, 333

Ossoli, Marchesa d’ _see_ Fuller, Margaret

_The Outcast_, 233-234, 298

Ovid, 18, 19, 20, 21, 23, 24, 26, 27, 34, 35

Oxyrinchus papyri, 19, 20

Packer, Vin, 333

Paget, Violet _see_ Lee, Vernon

_Painted Veils_, 214, 265-266, 316

_Pandora’s Box_, 225

“The Pansy and the Prayer Book,” 246-247

_Parable of the Virgins_, 291-292

_Parallèlement_, 77

Parker, Dorothy, 307

Parrish, Mary F. K. _see_ Fisher, M. F. K.

_La Passade_, 169

_The Past Recaptured_, 204, 269

Patchett, Elizabeth, 135

Patterson, Rebecca, 146-148

Patton (Waldron), Marion, 290

“Paul’s Mistress,” 15, 85-86

Peladan, Josephin, 104-108, 109, 114, 157, 214, 239, 281

_Pensées d’une Amazone_, 155

_Pérez de Montalban, Juan_, 41

Perrin, Ennemond, 117, 118

personal attitudes ascetic, 88, 176, 252, 288, 297, 315, 318, 329 puritanic, 137, 238, 261, 293, 299, 309, 312, 329, 334

Philaenis, 27

_Pictures of the Floating World_, 179

_Pilgrimage_, 295

_Pierre’s Ehe_, 219

Pirie, Jane, 127

_Pity for Women_, 317-318, 332, 349

_Plaisirs Troublants_, 214

Plato, 17, 23

Plehn, Marianne, 174

Plutarch, 24

_Poèmes—Autres Alliances_, 155

_Poems and Ballads, I._, 78, 80

_Poets of America_, 180

Poggio, G. F., 46

_Pointed Roofs_, 269

Polaire, 200

Polignac, Princesse de, 48

Ponsonby, Sarah, 123-124

_Poor White_, 264-265, 273

pornography, 15, 46, 50

_Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man_, 269

_Pot-Bouille_, 85

Pougy, Liane de, 202-203

_The Pretty Lady_, 263-264

_The Price of Salt_, 339-341

“The Princess Amany,” 34

_La Prisonnière_ (Bourdet), 208, 211-213, 277

_La Prisonnière_ (Proust), 208

_Promise of Love_, 322-323, 347

Proust, Marcel, 43, 156, 194, 204-205, 208, 211, 214, 239, 250, 269, 295, 345

psychiatric theory (except Freud), 91, 152-153, 230, 259, 325, 338, 346

_Die Psychologie der Erbtante_, 222

_Psychopathia Sexualis_, 14, 53

psychosis (insanity), 204, 294, 318, 331, 333, 349

psychosomatic theory, 152

_Publishers’ Weekly_, 332

_Puck_, 181

Puttkamer, Baroness von _see_ Madeleine, Marie

Puvis de Chavannes, 247

_Queer Patterns_, 310, 341, 347

_Quelques Sonnets et Portraits de Femmes_, 155

_Quest_, 267

Quillard, Pierre, 173

Rabelais, François, 46, 47

Rachilde, 87-91, 98, 109, 113, 114, 115, 168, 177, 193, 199, 202, 213, 214, 215, 288

Rahv, Philip, 95, 96

_The Rainbow_, 255-257, 280

Ratchford, Fannie, 132, 133

“Rätselhaft,” 223

Reade, Charles, 140

_The Real Adventure_, 257

_La Recherche de Temps Perdu_, 204, 269

Redmond, Fergus, 109-110

_Regiment of Women_, 257-260, 267, 269, 277, 283, 315, 330

“Regina,” 66-67, 160, 218

Régnier, Henri de, 203

Reinach, Saloman, 172, 186

religious attitudes, 29, 30, 36, 47, 99, 104-105, 136, 182, 214, 241, 281, 325, 349

_La Religieuse_, 54, 82

Remarque, Erich, 328

_Le Rempart des Béguines_, 338

_Renascence_, 183, 184, 186

Renault, Mary, 322-323, 327-328, 351

Rétif de la Bretonne, 46

_La Retraite Sentimentale_, 194, 198-199

Reuss, Paule, 173

Reuter, Gabriele, 218, 220

Rice, Craig, 324

Richardson, Dorothy, 269, 295-297, 306, 351, 352

Richardson, Henry Handel, 252-253, 255, 302-303, 306, 351

Ricketts, Charles, 142, 143

_The Riddle of Emily Dickinson_, 146-148

Rigal, Henry, 173

Rilke, Rainer Maria, 22, 78, 176, 183

Rimbaud, Arthur, 90, 325

_The Ring and the Book_, 188

_The Rise of Simon Lachaume_, 328

Riversdale, Paule, 158, 166, 168

“The Roads Around Pisa,” 305-306

_The Roaring Girl_, 40-41

_Robert_, 215

Robinson, Dr. Victor, 323

Roland-Manuel, Suzanne, 215, 216-217

Rolland, Romain, 205-207, 213, 214, 239, 273

_Le Roman Expérimental_, 53

romantic attitudes, 33, 45, 52, 59-60, 106, 110, 122, 125, 162, 163, 173, 195, 198, 212, 216, 236, 251, 257, 261, 275, 278, 295, 305, 314, 318, 322, 324, 339

Ronald, James, 329

Rossetti, Christina, 75-76, 114, 115, 330

Rothenstein, Sir William, 143

Rousseau, J. J., 52

Royde-Smith, Naomi, 273, 275-277, 292-294

Rüling, Theodor, 223

_Ruth, The Book of_, 22-23, 29, 64, 317, 329

“Ruth and Irma,” 331

Sackville, Thomas, 284

Sackville-West, Victoria, 189-191, 192, 284, 302, 303-305, 306

_St. Nicholas Magazine_, 182, 183, 186, 255

_Sálammbô_, 68-71, 113

Sand, George, 127-129, 136, 138, 141

Sansot, Edward, 159, 172

_La Sapho_, 67

_Sapho de Lesbos_, 203

Sappho, 15, 17-22, 23, 29, 47, 79, 104, 116, 156, 165, 176, 177, 192, 242, 270

_Sappho_, 158

_Sappho: Greichische Novelle_, 218

_Sappho of Lesbos: Her Life and Times_, 18-19

Sarton, May, 333-334

Sartre, Jean Paul, 328

_Satana_, 113

Scaliger, 21

_The School for Wives_, 215

Schreiner, Olive, 91, 94, 115, 177, 318

Schwabe, Toni, 176-177, 192

_Die Schwester_, 234-235, 349

scientific attitudes, 51-54, 84, 149-153, 241, 242, 347

_The Scorpion_, 229-233, 234, 272, 298, 345

Scott, Mrs. Cyril _see_ Fitzroy (Scott), A. T.

_Scrapbook_, 191, 192

_Second April_, 184

_Selbstanzeige_, 228

_Seraphitus-Seraphita_, 62, 66, 114, 127, 218, 224

_Seven Gothic Tales_, 125, 305-306

sex-change, 27, 34, 74, 109-110, 284-286

sex disguise, 36, 40

_Sex Life in England_, 38

sex manuals, 12, 200, 324

_Sex, Symbolism and Psychology in Literature_, 74

_Sex variants_, 11-12, 152

_Sextet_, 332

sexual excesses, 27, 31, 82, 100, 102-103, 213, 224, 308, 324, 350

_Das Sexualproblem in der modernen Literatur ... seit 1800_, 67, 218

sexual trauma physical, 26, 105, 297, 312, 333, 338 subjective, 123, 207, 262, 295, 332, 338

Seydlitz, R. von, 219

Shakespeare, William, 40, 180

Shannon, Charles, 142, 143

Shelley, Peter, 313

Shilleto, Violet, 159-165, 167, 171

_A Shower of Summer Days_, 333-334

Sidgwick, Ethel, 253-255

Sidney, Sir Philip, 36-38, 39

_Sillages_, 159, 169

_Sind Es Frauen?_, 220-221

Sinowjewa, Annibal, 223

_Der Skorpion_, 229-234, 298

_Smith College Stories_, 255

social disapproval explicit, 19, 28, 37, 44, 74, 76, 78, 81, 89, 123, 129, 150, 175, 188, 202, 209-210, 214, 220, 225, 228, 230-234, 235, 237, 241, 256, 280, 309, 333, 339-340, 346-347, 348-349 implied, 80, 82, 85, 117, 135, 137, 142-143, 160-161, 173, 183, 211-212, 223, 251, 273-274, 282, 301, 302-303, 328

social tolerance explicit, 44, 77, 84-86, 104-108, 124, 172, 193-200, 208, 214, 242, 252, 253, 280 implied, 35, 39, 45, 62, 64-65, 77, 100-108, 204-207, 213, 224, 238, 242, 243-255, 266, 270, 290, 295, 333, 334

_Sodome et Gomorrhe_, 208

_Le Songe d’une Femme_, 110-111, 156, 262

_The Songs of Bilitis_, 112, 173, 174, 177, 189, 193

_A Soul Enchanted_, 205

_South Wind_, 281

_The Southern Quarterly_, 321

_Spring Fire_, 333, 341

Stadler, Ernst, 176

Stafford, Jean, 326, 353

_Star Against Star_, 311, 315, 331

_Steeplejack_, 140

_Stein, Gertrude_, 247-251, 255, 269, 334

Steinach, Eugen, 151

Stern, Daniel, 129

Stirling, George, 189

_The Story of an African Farm_, 94

“The Story of Julie Cane,” 270

_The Story of Mary MacLane_, 244-247

“The Story of Opal,” 244

_Strange Fires_, 333

_Strange Marriage_, 310

_Strange Sisters_, 331

_Strange Waters_, 189

Strindberg, August, 91, 96-99, 114

_Studies in the Psychology of Sex_, 41, 150

Sturge Moore, D. C. and T., 142, 145

_The Sudden Guest_, 328

suicide of variant, 79, 115, 127, 179, 203, 204, 219, 222, 223, 230, 237, 259, 277, 300, 309, 310, 311, 324, 326, 328, 329, 331 attempted, 35, 101, 170, 226, 308, 317 of another, 86, 227, 276, 317

_Sur le Mode Saphique_, 173

_Swann’s Way_, 204

_The Sweet Cheat Gone_, 204

Swinburne, A. C., 78-80, 114, 140

_Sword Blades and Poppy Seeds_, 179

_Sylvia Scarlett_, 251

Symonds, John Addington, 149

_Der Tag_, 228

Talmey, Bernard, 86

Tarkington, Booth, 182

Tarn, Pauline _see_ Vivien, Renée

Taylor, Deems, 186

_Le Temps_, 201

Tey, Josephine, 335-337

_That Other Love_, 295, 311

Thayer, Tiffany, 309

Theiss, Frank, 235, 292

_Things As They Are_, 247-251

_Thirteen Women_, 309

Thomas, Elisabeth W., 290-291

Thompson, Dr. Clara, (153, note 5)

Thorne, Anthony, 306-307

Tilly, Alexandre de, 45

_Time Magazine_, 319

_To Love and Be Wise_, 336-337

_To the Lighthouse_, 278, 334

_The Toast_, 47

Tolstoi, L. N., 223

_Torchlight to Valhalla_, 320

Torres, Toreska, 332

_The Tortoiseshell Cat_, 273, 275-277, 293, 294, 320, 339

_Tragic Ground_, 326

transvestism defined, 12 no deception, 24, 40, 85, 88, 90, 98, 105-108, 117-118, 128, 310, 320 sex deception, 26, 34-35, 37, 42, 44, 60, 61-62, 64-65, 90, 92, 120-122, 219, 221-222, 251, 310, 336-337

_Die Transvestiten_, 221

_Le Trille du Diable_, 215, 216-217

_Trio_, 325-326

_A Trip to London_, 331

Trowbridge, J. T., 246

_The Turn of the Screw_, 111-112, 114, 243

_Twelfth Night_, 40

_Two Serious Ladies_, 324

Ulrichs, Karl, 53, 149

_Underneath the Bough_, 143

_The Unlit Lamp_, 271, 281

Urfé, Honoré d’, 38-39, 109

_Urningsliebe_, 222, 226

_Vainglory_, 268

Valkyrie, 32

Valle, Pietro della, 42

Vallette, Alfred, 90

Vallette, Marguérite Eymery _see_ Rachilde

Vanderbilt, Mrs. Gertrude, 147

Van Doren, Mark, 148

variance (not lesbianism) defined, 12 explicit, 35, 37, 56-60, 61, 92, 93, 95-96, 100-101, 122-124, 128-129, 130, 140, 141-145, 176, 183-185, 188, 215, 225-226, 237-238, 243-244, 246, 252, 253, 254, 255, 257-261, 262, 263, 264, 267, 271, 272, 273-274, 276, 278, 288-292, 298, 302-303, 309, 316, 319, 329, 332, 333, 336, 337 implied, 40, 117-120, 125-127, 133-135, 137-138, 146-147, 173, 180-181, 187, 191, 223, 278, 283, 304-305, 321, 327 unrealized by variant, 22-23, 56-59, 62, 93, 132, 255, 278-279, 315, 321, 329-330 by author, 22-23, 329-330

Vassar College, 184, 186, 292

Vedder, Elihu, 182

Venette, Nicolas de, 46

_Le Vent des Vaisseaux_, 159

_La Vénus des Aveugles_, 158, 166

Vergil, 25

Verlaine, Paul, 77-78, 83, 90, 112, 114, 201, 325

_La Vertu Suprême_, 108

_Le Vice Mortel_, 204

Vigny, Alfred de, 129

_A Vindication of the Rights of Women_, 55, 56, 59, 136

The Virgin Mary _see_ Mary, Virgin

virginity, 25, 39, 44

Vivien, Renée, 154, 155, 158-173, 174, 175, 177, 178, 192

Vizetelly, H. R., 150

_Vom Neuen Weib_, 219

Voronoff, Serge, 151

Wade, Mason, 137

Wagner, Ernst, 218

_Wait for Tomorrow_, 328

Wassermann, Jacob, 220

Watts-Dunton, Theodore, 80

_The Wayward Ones_, 330

_We Sing Diana_, 288-289

_We Too Are Drifting_, 314-315, 320, 323

_The Weather in the Streets_, 316

Weber, Joseph and Fields, Lew, 245, 246

Webster, H. K., 257

Wedekind, Frank, 224-228, 235, 239

_Weiberbeute_, 221-222, 310

Weigall, Arthur, 18, 19, 21, 22, 24

Weininger, Otto, 351

Weirauch, Anna Elisabet, 229-234, 298

_Welcher unter Euch ohne Sünde Ist_, 223

_The Well of Loneliness_, 78, 241, 271, 279-281, 287, 288, 308, 309, 311

Wells, Catherine, 255

Wells, H. G., 295

_Wer Kann Dafür?_, 219-220

Westphal, C. von, 53, 81

_What’s O’Clock?_, 179

Wheeler, Hugh C., 330

White, Nelia Gardner, 192

_White Ladies_, 315-316

Whitman, Walt, 139, 141

Wilde, Oscar, 112, 150, 160

Wilder, Robert, 328

Wilhelm, Gale, 314-315, 320, 351

Willard, Frances, 141

Williams, Idabel, 309

Willis, George, 329

Willy _see_ Gauthier-Villars, Henri

Wilson, Edmund, 247, 248, 250, 269, 328

Wilson, Ethel Davis, 329

Wilson, Harry Leon, 181, 182

Wilson, Romer, 130, 131, 178, 245

_Wind Woman_, 338

Winsloe, Christa, 236-238, 259, 314

_Winter Solstice_, 324

Wise, Thomas, 78

Wissenschaftlich-humanitäres Komitee, 14, 229

witchcraft, 31, 33, 47, 73-74, 311

_Within a Budding Grove_, 204

“_Wo bleibt der homoerotische Roman?”_, 228

Wollstonecraft, Mary, 55-60, 66, 94, 115, 116, 136, 137, 141

_Woman in the Nineteenth Century_, 136

_Woman of the Century_, 141

_The Woman who Lives with Me_, 155

women, attitudes toward, 23, 30-32, 45-46, 153-154, 350-352

_Women’s Movement_, 51, 55-56, 91, 94, 95-98, 153, 239, 253

_Women in Prison_, 328

_Women Poets of the Twentieth Century in France_, 173

_Women’s Barracks_, 332, 341

Wood, Clement, 139, 141, 178, 180, 181

Woodford, Jack, 310-311, 333

Woods, Marianne, 127

Woolf, Leonard, 280

Woolf, Virginia, 273-275, 278, 279, 280, 283-287, 297, 305

_Works and Days_, 142, 143, 145

_Wuthering Heights_, 131, 133

Wylie, Elinor, 182

Wylie, Philip, 328, 350

Yost, Karl, 183

Young, Francis Brett, 315-316

_Young Ladies of Paris_, 194, 295

_Young Man with a Horn_, 320

Yourcenar, Marguérite, 173

Zola, Emile, 53, 83-85, 91, 96, 112

_Zwei Frauen_, 220

Transcriber’s Notes

Two footnotes cannot be found in the NOTES section: [52] in _Chapter III_ and [8] in _Chapter V, Emily Brontë_. Likewise, two literature references are not in the BIBLIOGRAPHIES section: _B 151x_ and _B 20x_.

The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical errors were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here (before/after):

[p. 14]: (multiple cases) ... Humanitären Wissenschaftliche Komittee, 1899-1921. There, under ... ... Wissenschaftlich-humanitäres Komitee, 1899-1921. There, under ...

[p. 20]: ... men. Once, to be sure, in attempting to hearten a girl on the eve of of ... ... men. Once, to be sure, in attempting to hearten a girl on the eve of ...

[p. 28]: ... altogether a man.” Leana admits have received proof of this, but ... ... altogether a man.” Leana admits to have received proof of this, but ...

[p. 90]: ... published in book form as Les Hors Natures dealt with men.) In the ... ... published in book form as Les Hors Natures) dealt with men. In the ...

[p. 108]: ... achieved a fear-reaching psychological victory, he risks clinching it by ... ... achieved a far-reaching psychological victory, he risks clinching it by ...

[p. 110]: ... cousin Lilly for her fortune, and challenges him to duel intended to ... ... cousin Lilly for her fortune, and challenges him to a duel intended to ...

[p. 126]: ... deeply in love, the wife, with “sterbende Gute,” agreed to release ... ... deeply in love, the wife, with “sterbender Güte,” agreed to release ...

[p. 135]: ... nervously ill and perhaps left the school, (inexplicable in the middle ... ... nervously ill and perhaps left the school (inexplicable in the middle ...

[p. 139]: ... bound to the back of a fiery Arab steed, feet in his name, head ... ... bound to the back of a fiery Arab steed, feet in his mane, head ...

[p. 162]: ... Je devine tons corps—les lys ardents des seins, ... ... Je devine ton corps—les lys ardents des seins, ...

[p. 175]: ... um meiner dunklen Schein. ... ... um meiner Augen dunklen Schein. ...

[p. 175]: ... Und um uns hier ist Hass und Hohn, ... ... Und um uns her ist Hass und Hohn, ...

[p. 175]: ... und nun, da du so ganz erlodert bist, ... ... und nun, da du so ganz entlodert bist, ...

[p. 177]: ... Vivien or Madeleine, and they seldom equal Barney or Schwäbe in ... ... Vivien or Madeleine, and they seldom equal Barney or Schwabe in ...

[p. 223]: ... famous Thomas. His Die Göttinnen (1902-03) is trilogy within whose ... ... famous Thomas. His Die Göttinnen (1902-03) is a trilogy within whose ...

[p. 231]: ... of course, had none of her letters, but had received many scurrilous ... ... of course, none of her letters, but had received many scurrilous ...

[p. 263]: ... mood of the Englishwomen with whom Hoape is thrown . One of ... ... mood of the Englishwomen with whom Hoape is thrown together. One of ...

[p. 268]: ... more designed to conceal that are a dancer’s veils to hide the form ... ... more designed to conceal than are a dancer’s veils to hide the form ...

[p. 280]: ... Paris, but neither find tolerable the bohemian existence which is ... ... Paris, but neither finds tolerable the bohemian existence which is ...

[p. 284]: ... (as was Thomas Sackville, of the family living even than at Knole). ... ... (as was Thomas Sackville, of the family living even then at Knole). ...

[p. 343]: ... variants? Sometimes none. Lyrics poets in particular simply register ... ... variants? Sometimes none. Lyric poets in particular simply register ...

[p. 362]: ... 6. ——. Poor white. N. Y., B. W. Heubsch, 1920. ... ... 6. ——. Poor white. N. Y., B. W. Huebsch, 1920. ...