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Confession by W. Gilmore Simms

W >> W. Gilmore Simms >> Confession




"They may well put on this appearance now; but are such their looks
when they meet, sometimes for a whole morning, in the painting-room?"
Even here, the fiend was silenced by a fact which was revealed to
me in one of my nocturnal watches.

"Clifford not at home?" said Edgerton one evening as he entered,
addressing my wife, and looking indifferently around the room. "I
wished to tell him about some pictures which are to be seen at ----'s
room--really a lovely Guido--an infant Savior--and something, said
to be by Carlo Dolce, though I doubt. You must see them. Shall I
call for you tomorrow morning?"

"I thank you, but have an engagement for the morning."

"Well, the next day. They will remain but a few days longer in the
city."

"I am sorry, but I shall not be able to go even the next day, I am
so busy."

"Busy? ah! that reminds me to ask if you have given up the pencil
altogether? Have you wholly abandoned the studio? I never see you
now at work in the morning. I had no thought that you had so much
of the fashionable taste for morning calls, shopping, and the like."

"Nor have I," was the quiet answer. "I seldom leave home in the
morning."

"Indeed!" with some doubtfulness of countenance, almost amounting
to chagrin--"indeed! how is it that I so seldom see you, then?"

"The cares of a household, I suppose, might be my sufficient excuse.
While my liege lord works abroad, I find my duties sufficiently
urgent to task all my time at home."

"Really--but you do not propose to abandon the atelier entirely?
Clifford himself, with his great fondness for the art, will scarcely
be satisfied that you should, even on a pretence of work."

"I do not know. I do not think that MY HUSBAND"--the last two words
certainly emphasized--"cares much about it. I suspect that music
and painting, however much they delighted and employed our girlhood,
form but a very insignificant part of our duties and enjoyments
when we get married."

"But you do not mean to say that a fine landscape, or an exquisite
head, gives you less satisfaction than before your marriage?"

"I confess they do. Life is a very different thing before and after
marriage. It seems far more serious--it appears to me a possession
now, and time a sort of property which has to be economized and
doled out almost as cautiously as money. I have not touched a brush
this fortnight. I doubt if I have been in the painting-room more
than once in all this time."

This conversation, which evidently discomfited William Elgerton, was
productive to me of no small satisfaction. After a brief interval,
consumed in silence, he resumed it:--

"But I must certainly get you to see these pictures. Nay, I must
also--since you keep at home--persuade you to look into the studio
tomorrow, if it be only to flatter my vanity by looking at a sketch
which I have amused myself upon the last three mornings. By-the-way,
why may we not look at it tonight?"

"We shall not be able to examine it carefully by night," was the
answer, as I fancied, spoken with unwonted coldness and deliberation.

"So much the better for me," he replied, with an ineffectual attempt
to laugh; "you will be less able to discern its defects."

"The same difficulty will endanger its beauties," Julia answered,
without offering to rise.

"Well, at least, you must arrange for seeing the pictures at ----'s.
They are to remain but a few days, and I would not have you miss
seeing them for the world. Suppose you say Saturday morning?"

"If nothing happens to prevent," she said; "and I will endeavor
to persuade Mr. Clifford to look at them with us."

"Oh, he is so full of his law and clients, that you will hardly
succeed."

This was spoken with evident dissatisfaction. The arrangement,
which included me, seemed unnecessary. I need not say that I was
better pleased with my wife than I had been for some time previous;
but here the juggling fiend interposed again, to suggest the painful
suspicion that she knew of my whereabouts, of my jealousy, of my
espionage; that her words were rather meant for my ears than for
those of Edgerton; or, if this were not the case, her manner to
Edgerton was simply adopted, as she had now become conscious of her
own feelings--feelings of peril--feelings which would not permit
her to trust herself. Ah! she feared herself: she had discovered
the passion of William Edgerton, and it had taught her the character
and tendency of her own. Was there ever more self-destroying
malice than was mine? I settled down upon this last conviction. My
wife's coldness was only assumed to prevent Edgerton from seeing
her weakness; and, for Edgerton himself, I now trembled with the
conviction that I should have to shed his blood.






CHAPTER XXIV.

A GROUP.





This conviction now began to haunt my mind with all the punctuality
of a shadow. It came to me unconsciously, uncalled for; mingled
with other thoughts and disturbed them all. Whether at my desk, or
in the courts; among men in the crowded mart, or in places simply
where the idle and the thoughtless congregate, it was still my
companion. It was, however, still a shadow only; a dull, intangible,
half-formed image of the mind; the crude creature of a fear rather
than a desire; for, of a truth, nothing could be more really
terrible to me than the apparent necessity of taking the life of
one so dear to me once, and still so dear to the only friends I had
ever known. I need not say how silently I strove to banish this
conviction. My struggles on this subject were precisely those which
are felt by nervous men suddenly approaching a precipice, and,
though secure, flinging themselves off, in the extremity of their
apprehensions of that danger which has assumed in their imaginations
an aspect so absorbing. With such persons, the extreme anxiety
to avoid the deed, whether of evil or of mere danger, frequently
provokes its commission. I felt that this risk encountered me. I
well knew that an act often contemplated may be already considered
half-performed; and though I could not rid myself of the impression
that I was destined to do the deed the very idea of which made me
shudder, I yet determined, with all the remaining resolution of
my virtue, to dismiss it from my thought, as I resolved to escape
from its performance if I could.

It would have been easy enough for me to have kept this resolution as
it was enough for me to make it, had it not clashed with a superior
passion in my mind; but that blindness of heart under which I
labored, impaired my judgment, enfeebled my resolution, baffled
my prudence, defeated all my faculties of self-preservation. I was,
in fact, a monomaniac. On one subject, I was incapable of thought,
of sane reasoning, of fixed purpose. I am unwilling to distinguish
this madness by the word "jealousy." In the ordinary sense of the
term it was not jealousy. Phrenologists would call it an undue
development of self-esteem, diseased by frequent provocation into
an irritable suspiciousness, which influenced all the offices of
thought. It was certain, to myself, that in instituting the watch
which I did over the conduct of my wife and William Edgerton, I
did not expect to discover the commission of any gross act which,
in the vulgar acceptation of the world, constitutes the crime of
infidelity. The pang would not have been less to my mind, though
every such act was forborne, if I perceived that her eyes yearned
for his coming, and her looks of despondency took note of his
absence. If I could see that she hearkened to his words with the
ears of one who deferred even to devotedness, and found that pleasure
in his accents which should only have been accorded to mine. It is
the low nature, alone, which seeks for developments beyond these,
to constitute the sin of faithlessness. Of looks, words, consideration,
habitual deference, and eager attention, I was quite as uxorious
as I should have been of the warm kiss, or the yielding, fond
embrace. They were the same in my eyes. It was for the momentary
glance, the passing word, the forgetful sigh, that I looked and
listened, while I pursued the unhappy espionage upon my wife and
her lover. That he was her lover, was sufficiently evident--how
far she was pleased with his devotion was the question to be asked
and--answered!

The self-esteem which produced these developments of jealousy, in
my own home, was not unexercised abroad. The same exacting nature
was busy among my friends and mere acquaintance. Of these I had
but few; to these I could be devoted; for these I could toil; for
these I could freely have perished! But I demanded nothing less from
them. Of their consideration and regard I was equally uxorious as
I was of the affections of my wife. I was an INTENSIFIER in all my
relations, and was not willing to divide or share my sympathies.
I became suspicious when I found any of my acquaintance forming
new intimacies, and sunk into reserves which necessarily produced
a severance of the old ties between us. It naturally followed that
my few friends became fewer, and I finally stood alone. But enough
of self-analysis, which, in truth, owes its origin to the very
same mental quality which I have been discussing--the presence and
prevalence of EGOISME. Let us hurry our progress.

My wife advised me of the visit which William Edgerton had proposed
to the picture collection.

"I will go," she said, "if you will."

"You must go without me."

"Ah, why? Surely, you can go one morning?"

"Impossible. The morning is the time for business. THAT must be
attended to, you know."

"But you needn't slave yourself at it because it is business,
Edward. But that I know that you are not a money-loving man, I should
suppose, sometimes, from the continual plea of business, that you
were a miser, and delighted in filling old stockings to hide away
in holes and chinks of the wall. Come, now, Saturday is not usually
a busy day with you lawyers; steal it this once and go with us. I
lose half the pleasure of the sight always, when you are not with
me, and when I know that you are engaged in working for me elsewhere."

"Ah, you mistake, Julia. You shall not flatter me into such a faith.
You lose precious little by my absence."

"But, Edward, I do; believe me--it is true."

"Impossible! No, no, Julia, when you look on the Carlo Dolce and
the Guido, you will forget not only the toils of the husband, but
that you have one at all. You will forget my harsh features in the
contemplation of softer ones."

"Your features are not harsh ones, Edward."

"Nay, you shall not persuade me that I am not an Orson--a very wild
man of the woods. I know I am. I know that I have harsh features;
nay, I fancy you know it too, by this time, Julia."

"I admit the sternness at times, Edward, but I deny the harshness.
Besides, sternness, you know, is perfectly compatible with the
possession of the highest human beauty. I am not sure that a certain
portion of sternness is not absolutely necessary to manly beauty.
It seems to me that I have never yet seen what I call a handsome
man, whose features had not a certain sweet gravity, a sort of
melancholy defiance, in them which neutralized the effect of any
effeminacy which mere beauty must have had; and imparted to them
a degree of character which compelled you to turn again and look,
and made you remember them, even when they had disappeared from
sight. Now, it may be the vanity of a wife, Edward, but it seems
to me that this is the very sort of face which you possess."

"Ah! you are very vain of me, I know--very!"

"Proud, fond--not vain!"

"You deceive yourself still, I suspect, even with your distinctions.
But you must forego the pleasure of displaying my 'stern beauties,'
as your particular possession, at the gallery. You must content yourself
with others not so sterm, though perhaps not less beautiful, and
certainly more amiable. Edgerton will be your sufficient chaperon."

"Yes, but I do not wish to be troubling Mr. Edgerton so frequently;
and, indeed, I would rather forego the pleasure of seeing the
pictures altogether, than trespass in this way upon his attention
and leisure."

"Indeed, but I am very sure you do not trespass upon either. He
is an idle, good fellow, relishes anything better than business,
and you know has such a passion for painting and pictures that its
indulgence seems to justify anything to his mind. He will forget
everything in their pursuit."

All this was said with a studious indifference of manner. I was
singularly successful in concealing the expression of that agony
which was gnawing all the while upon my heart. I could smile, too,
while I was speaking--while I was suffering! Look calmly into her
face and smile, with a composure, a strength, the very consciousness
of which was a source of terrible overthrow to me at last. I was
surprised to perceive an air of chagrin upon Julia's countenance,
which was certainly unstudied. She was one of those who do not
well conceal or cloak their real sentiments. The faculty of doing
so is usually much more strongly possessed by women than by men--much
more easily commanded--but SHE had little of it. Why should she
wear this expression of disappointment--chagrin! Was she really
anxious that I should attend her? I began to think so--began to
relent, and think of promising that I would go with her, when she
somewhat abruptly laid her hand upon my arm.

"Edward, you leave me too frequently. You stay from me too long,
particularly at evening. Do not forget, dear husband, how few female
friends I have; how few friends of any sort--how small is my social
circle. Besides, it is expected of all young people, newly married,
that they will be frequently together; and when it is seen that
they are often separate--that the wife goes abroad alone, or goes
in the company of persons not of the family, it begets a suspicion
that all is not well--that there is no peace, no love, in the family
so divided. Do not think, Edward, that I mean this reproachfully--that
I mean complaint--that I apprehend the loss of your love: oh no!
I dread too greatly any such loss to venture upon its suspicion
lightly, but I would guard against the conjectures of others--"

"So, then, it is not that you really wish my company. It is be-cause
you would simply maintain appearances."

"I would do both, Edward. God knows I care as little for mere
appearances, so long as the substances, are good, as you do; but I
confess I would not have the neighbors speak of me as the neglected
wife; i would not have you the subject of vulgar reproach."

"To what does all this tend?" I demanded impatiently.

"To nothing, Edward, if by speaking it I make you angry."

"Do not speak it, then!" was my stern reply.

"I will not; do not turn away--do not be angry:" here she sobbed
once, convulsively; but with an effort of which I had not thought
her capable, she stifled the painful utterance, and continued
grasping my wrist as she spoke with both her hands, and speaking
in a whisper--

"You are not going to leave me in anger. Oh, no! Do not! Kiss
me, dear husband, and forgive me. If I have vexed you, it was only
because I was so selfishly anxious to keep you more with me--to be
more certain that you are all my own!"

I escaped from this scene with some difficulty. I should be doing
my own heart, blind and wilful as it was, a very gross injustice,
if I did not confess that the sincere and natural deportment of
Julia had rendered me largely doubtful of the good sense or the
good feeling of the course I was pursuing. But the effects of it
were temporary only. The very feeling, thus forced upon me, that I
was, and had been, doing wrong, was a humiliating one; and calculated
rather to sustain my self-esteem, even though it lessened the
amount of justification which my jealousy may have supposed itself
possessed of. The disease had been growing too long within my
bosom. It had taken too deep root--had spread its fibres into a
region too rank and stimulating not to baffle any ordinary diligence
on the part of the extirpator, even if he had been industrious and
sincere. It had been growing with my growth, had shared my strength
from the beginning, was a part of my very existence! Still, though
not with that hearty fondness which her feeling demanded, I returned
her caresses, folded her to my bosom, kissed the tears from her
cheek, and half promised myself, though I said nothing of this to
her, that I would attend her to the picture exhibition.

But I did not. Half an hour before the appointed time I resolved to
do so; but the evil spirit grew uppermost in that brief interval,
and suggested to me a course more in unison with its previous counsellings.
Under this mean prompting I prepared to go to the gallery, but not
till my wife had already gone there under Edgerton's escort. The
object of this afterthought was to surprise them there--to enter at
the unguarded moment, and read the language of their mutual eyes,
when they least apprehended such scrutiny.

Pitiful as was this design, I yet pursued it. I entered the picture
room at a moment which was sufficiently auspicious for my objects.
They were the only occupants of the apartment. I learned this
fact before I ascended the stairs from the keeper of the gallery,
who sat in a lower room. The stairs were carpeted. I wore light
thin pumps, which were noiseless. I may add, as a singular moral
contradiction, that I not only did not move stealthily, but that
I set down my feet with greater emphasis than was usual with me,
as if I sought, in this way to lessen somewhat the meanness of my
proceeding. My approach, however, was entirely unheard; and I stood
for a few seconds in the doorway, gazing upon the parties without
making them conscious of my intrusion.

Julia was sitting, gazing, with hand lifted above her eyes, at a
Murillo--a ragged Spanish boy, true equally to the life and to the
peculiar characteristics of that artist--dark ground-work, keen,
arch expression, great vivacity, with an air of pregnant humor which
speaks of more than is shown, and makes you fancy that other pictures
are to follow in which the same boy must appear in different phases
of feeling and of fortune.

I need not say that the pictures, however, called for a momentary
glance only from me. My glances were following my thoughts, and
they were piercing through the only possible avenues, the cheeks,
the lips, the tell-tale eyes, deep down into the very hearts of
the suspected parties. They were so placed that, standing at the
door, and half hidden from sight by a screen, I could see with
tolerable distinctness the true expsion in each countenance, though
I saw but half the face. Julia was gazing upon the pictures, but
Edgerton was gazing upon her! He had no eyes for any other object;
and I fancied, from the abstracted and almost vacant expression
of his looks, that I without startling him from his dream. In his
features, speaking, even in their obliviousness of all without, was
one sole, absorbing sentiment of devotion. His eyes were riveted
with a strenuous sort of gaze upon her, and her only. He stood
partly on one side, but still behind her, so that, without changing
her position, she could scarcely have beheld his countenance.
I looked in vain, in the brief space of time which I employed in
surveying them, but she never once turned her head; nor did he once
withdraw his glance from her neck and cheek, a part only of which
could have been visible to him where he stood. Her features,
meanwhile, were subdued and placid. There was nothing which could
make me dissatisfied with her, had I not been predisposed to this
dissatisfaction; and when the tones of my voice were heard, she
started up to meet me with a sudden flash of pleasure in her eyes
which illuminated her whole countenance.

"Ah I you are come, then. I am so glad!"

She little knew why I had come. I blushed involuntarily with the
conviction of the base motive which had brought me. She immediately
grasped my arm, drew me to the contemplation of those pictures
which had more particularly pleased herself, absolutely seeming to
forget that there was a third person in the room. William Edgerton
turned away and busied himself, for the first time no doubt, in
the examination of a landscape on the opposite wall. I followed
his movement with my glance for a single instant, but his face was
studiously averted.






CHAPTER XXV.

THE OLD GOOSE FINDS A YOUNG GANDER.





We will suppose some months to have elapsed in this manner--months,
to me, of prolonged torture and suspicion. Circumstanees, like
petty billows of the sea, kept chafing upon the low places of my
heart, keeping alive the feverish irritation which had already done
so much toward destroying my peace, and overthrowing the guardian
outposts of my pride and honor. How long the strife was to bo
continued before the ocean-torrents should be let in--before the
wild passions should quite overwhelm my reason--was a subject of
doubt, but not the less a subject of present and of exceeding fear.
In these matters, I need not say that there was substantially very
little change in the character of events that marked the progress
of my domestic life. William Edgerton still continued the course
which he had so unwittingly begun. He still sought every opportunity
to see my wife, and, if possible, to see her alone. He avoided me
as much as possible; seldom came to the office; absolutely gave
up his business altogether; and, when we met, though his words and
manner were solicitously kind, there was a close restraint upon the
latter, a hesitancy about the former, a timid apprehensiveness in
his eye, and a generally-shown reluctance to approach me, which I
could not but see, and could not but perceive, at the same time,
that he endeavored with ineffectual effort to conceal. He was
evidently conscious that he was doing wrong. It was equally clear
to me that he lacked the manly courage to do right. What was all
this to end in? The question became momently more and more serious.
Suppose that he possessed no sort of influence over my wife! Even
suppose his advances to stop where they were at present--his course
already, so far, was a humiliating indignity, allowing that it
became perceptible to the eyes of others. That revelation once
made, there could be no more proper forbearance on the part of the
husband. The customs of our society, the tone of public opinion--nay,
outraged humanity itself--demanded then the interposition of the
avenger. And that revelation was at hand.

Meanwhile, the keenest eyes of suspicion could behold nothing in
the conduct of Julia which was not entirely unexceptionable. If
William Edgerton was still persevering in his pursuit, Julia seemed
insensible to his endeavors. Of course, they met frequently when
it was not in my power to see them. It was my error to suppose that
they met more frequently still--that he saw her invariably in his
morning visits to the studio, which was not often the case--and,
when they did meet, that she derived quite as much satisfaction
from the interview as himself. Of their meetings, except at night,
when I was engaged in my miserable watch upon them, I could say
nothing. Failing to note anything evil at such periods, my jealous
imagination jumped to the conclusion that this was because my
espionage was suspected, and that their interviews at other periods
were distinguished by less prudence and reserve. And yet, could
I have reasoned rightly at this period, I must have seen that,
if such were the case, there would have been no such display of
EMPRESSMENT as William Edgerton made at these evening visits. Did
he expend his ardor in the day, did he apprehend my scrutiny at
night, he would surely have suppressed the eagerness of his
glance--the profound, all-forgetting adoration which marked his
whole air, gaze, and manner. Nor should I have been so wretchedly
blind to what was the obvious feeling of discontent and disquiet
in her bosom. Never did evenings seem to pass with more downright
dullness to any one party in the world. If Edgerton spoke to her,
which he did not frequently, his address was marked by a trepidation
and hesitancy akin to fear--a manner which certainly indicated
anything but a foregone conclusion between them; while her answers,
on the other hand, were singularly cold, merely replying, and
calculated invariably to discourage everything like a protracted
conversation. What was said by Edgerton was sufficiently harmless--nor
harmless merely. It was most commonly mere ordinary commonplace,
the feeble effort of one who feels the necessity of speech, yet
dares not speak the voluminous passions which alone could furnish
him with energetic and manly utterance. Had the scales not been
abundantly thick and callous above my eyes, how easily might these
clandestine scrutinies have brought me back equally to happiness
and my senses! But though I thus beheld the parties, and saw the
truth as I now relate it, there was always then some little trifling
circumstance that would rise up, congenial to suspicion, and
cloud my conclusions, and throw me back upon old doubts and cruel
jealousies. Edgerton's tone may, at moments, have been more
faltering and more tender than usual; Julia's glance might sometimes
encounter his, and then they both might seem to fall, in mutual
confusion, to the ground. Perhaps she sung some little ditty at
his instance--some ditty that she had often sung for me. Nay, at
his departure, she might have attended him to the entrance, and
he may have taken her hand and retained his grasp upon it rather
longer than was absolutely necessary for his farewell. How was
I to know the degree of pressure which he gave to the hand within
his own? That single grasp, not unfrequently, undid all the
better impressions of a whole evening consumed in these unworthy
scrutinies. I will not seek further to account for or to defend
this unhappy weakness. Has not the great poet of humanity said--

Letter: Gender roles in the Cinderella story

Doctors assure us that wherever you find an elderly, pompous old writer long past his prime you will find a bottle of scotch nearby. If only that were the case. Hilly hid mine after I fell up the stairs when I came home from the Garrick yesterday, and I've had to make do with a bottle of Blue Nun I found in the maid's parlour. Not that I am an alcoholic. Dipsomaniacs are a breed of the lower orders you meet on street corners: people like myself are bon viveurs who happen to like a drink. Or 12.

My primary observation is that drinking makes the daily grind of dealing with people so much easier. You drink a pint of whisky and become the life and soul of the party. You then start insulting people, before sweating heavily and wetting yourself involuntarily. You will usually find that everyone quickly avoids you, thereby relieving you of the need to make conversation. This is why I prefer to do much of my drinking at home. It saves so much time.

There are a great many drinks on the market - spirits, wines and beers - and I've probably drunk them all. Usually in some kind of combination with one another. Mixing cocktails is one of my favourite hobbies. Here's one I invented last week for my great sycophant, Christopher Hitchens.

The Hitch

One bottle of Babycham

One bottle of absinthe

Five shots of Angostura very bitters

Two tablespoons of bile

Two or three glasses of this tincture can give you a lifetime of self-satisfaction.

At some time you will probably be forced to invite people to your home and they may expect a drink. My advice is to offer them the cheapest tipple you can find; my local off-licence does a ghastly Mosel at 70p a bottle. I've never cared for even the best wines, and this should guarantee those poncing off you neither ask for top-ups nor stay long, thereby leaving you more money and time for the pub.

It is well known that only the very dullest of petit-bourgeois minds fail to over-imbibe on a daily basis, so I regard hangovers as a price worth paying for my brilliance. That said, I have found ways of coping with this metaphysical malaise. The first is to fuck someone; preferably somebody else's wife, but if your own is the only one around then she will do. The second is to read a book by that little shit Mart; it will either remind you you're not that bad a writer or give you some sleep.

The one downside to drinking is that it can make you fat. This is remedied by cutting out food entirely and drinking all spirits without mixers. My weight has gone down to 19st with this diet. There isn't much more to say, but as I'm being paid by the column I'd better repeat myself. And now that I'm dead, there's no harm in Bloomsbury repackaging the same material several times in the same collection.

I don't really like wine. Gin is for pansies, though a snifter with water doesn't go amiss. Liqueurs are best left to patent-shoed Wops. Or Americans. Champagne is an overrated girl's drink, though it can be drunk with any food; as such, it's a perfect breakfast drink because a scotch before 10am is very non-U.

I loathe pubs with loud music, but my utmost detestation is reserved for sanctimonious ex-topers. There's nothing worse than a man who doesn't drink. I once tried not drinking for several hours and my wives and mistresses said how dull it was that I was conscious and they were spared removing my soiled trousers from my bloated legs.

Whisky is my favourite tipple, though I recommend never giving it to a Welshman as it's wasted on someone with an IQ of less than 80. Have I mentioned that I'm partial to a Macallan? Gosh is that the time? Hilly's coming to change my IV drip before I fall unconscious again. The publisher can bloody well pad out the rest of the book with a pointless quiz without me.

Q: Who will buy this?

A: No one.

The digested read digested: The old pub bore.

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Jury clears judge of libelling mother
Sales of 'misery memoirs' fall after they boomed beyond all expectations since Dave Pelzer wrote A Child Called It

Constance Briscoe wins Ugly libel case

A judge who was sued for libel by her mother over allegations of childhood cruelty and neglect in her bestselling "misery memoir" won her case yesterday.

Constance Briscoe burst into tears at the high court in London as a jury unanimously cleared her and publishers Hodder & Stoughton over the claims in Ugly, which her mother Carmen Briscoe-Mitchell, 74, had alleged were a "piece of fiction".

During the 10-day trial, Briscoe, 51, who was one of the first black women judges in the UK, told the court her mother repeatedly beat her with a stick for bed-wetting and called her a "dirty little whore", a "potato-head" and "miss piss-a-bed".

She described trying to kill herself by drinking diluted bleach after failing to get taken into care, and told the jury she used a university grant to have plastic surgery to remove the "ugliness" her mother had taunted her over.

Briscoe, of Clapham, south London, also said that when she was nine, her mother had deliberately cut her on the inside of her arm with a knife in a row over the preparation of a chicken.

Ugly, published in 2006, has sold more than 400,000 copies in the UK. Briscoe and Hodder & Stoughton had denied libel and said the book was substantially true. Andrew Caldecott QC, for Briscoe, said the events occurred between 1964 and 1975.

Briscoe-Mitchell, from Southwark, south-east London, left court without making any immediate comment about her legal defeat. During the trial she had denied all the allegations of verbal and physical abuse and claimed she and her daughter had enjoyed a loving relationship within a happy family.

Her counsel, William Panton, told the jury Briscoe was "spinning a yarn", claiming his client had struggled to bring up her 11 children and had provided for them equally to the best of her ability.

Outside court, Briscoe told reporters she was "very happy" with the jury's verdict, which came after more than a day of deliberation.

"It is sad that my mother still feels the need to pursue me," she said. "Now I just want to get on with my career. I would like to thank all my readers who have sent me messages of support, including the very many children who provided helpful advice.

"I can quite understand why my family went into collective denial but whilst child abuse may be committed behind closed doors it should never be swept under the carpet."

Hodder & Stoughton said it was pleased with the verdict. "We are very proud to be Constance Briscoe's publisher," a statement said. "Her books Ugly and Beyond Ugly have touched hundreds of thousands of readers, many of them children. Sadly, as we know from the news over the past few weeks, child abuse is all too common and nothing and no one should ever stand in the way of the truth."

Asked during the trial why she wrote the book, Briscoe said: "I didn't believe for a split second that I owed my mother a bond of silence. I don't. I had a story to tell and that story really is that I, someone who from dirt poverty, from absolutely nowhere, with absolutely no assistance whatsoever, who faced adversity at every turn, could come through."

The court heard she had cleaned offices for two hours every day before school until her studies took her to Newcastle University, the criminal bar and, eventually, to become one of the country's few black women judges.

"I wanted to say to whoever read the book ... you can be whatever you want to be," Briscoe said. "You just have to believe in yourself ... you do not have to be posh or privileged to be at the Bar.

"You just need to believe in yourself and I truly, truly believe that my book has done an enormous amount of good."

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