This earned her, also, strange antipathies. Cabmen and railway porters, especially in Paris and Rome, would suddenly treat her with brutal rudeness, when she was alone. They seemed to look on her with sudden violent antipathy. They sensed in
her curious impertinence, an easy, sterile impertinence towards the things they felt most. She was so assured, and her
flower of maidenhood was so scentless. She could look at a lusty, sensual Roman cabman as if he were a sort of grotesque, to make her smile.
She knew all about him, in Zola. And the peculiar condescension with which she would give him her order, as if
she, frail, beautiful thing, were the only reality, and
he, coarse monster, was a sort of Caliban floundering in the mud on the margin of the pool of the perfect lotus, would suddenly
enrage the fellow, the real Mediterranean who
prided himself on his beauté male, and to whom the phallic mystery was still the only mystery. And he would turn a terrible face on her, bully her in a brutal, coarse fashion--hideous. For to him she had only the
blasphemous impertinence of her own sterility.