Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and PG Distributed Proofreaders
THE PRICE OF THINGS
BY ELINOR GLYN
1919
FOREWORD
I wrote this book in Paris in the winter of 1917-18--in the midst of
bombs, and raids, and death. Everyone was keyed up to a strange pitch,
and only primitive instincts seemed to stand out distinctly.
Life appeared brutal, and our very fashion of speaking, the words we
used, the way we looked at things, was more realistic--coarser--than in
times of peace, when civilization can re-assert itself again. This is why
the story shocks some readers. I quite understand that it might do so;
but I deem it the duty of writers to make a faithful picture of each
phase of the era they are living in, that posterity may be correctly
informed about things, and get the atmosphere of epochs.
The story is, so to speak, rough hewn. But it shows the danger of
breaking laws, and interfering with fate--whether the laws be of God
or of Man.
It is also a psychological study of the instincts of two women, which the
strenuous times brought to the surface. "Amaryllis," with all her
breeding and gentleness, reacting to nature's call in her fierce fidelity
to the father of her child--and "Harietta," becoming in herself the
epitome of the age-old prostitute.
I advise those who are rebuffed by plain words, and a ruthless analysis
of the result of actions, not to read a single page.
[Signature: Elinor Glyn]
THE PRICE OF THINGS
CHAPTER I
"If one consciously and deliberately desires happiness on this plane,"
said the Russian, "one must have sufficient strength of will to banish
all thought. The moment that one begins to probe the meaning of things,
one has opened Pandora's box and it may be many lives before one
discovers hope lying at the bottom of it."
"What do you mean by thought? How can one not think?" Amaryllis Ardayre's
large grey eyes opened in a puzzled way. She was on her honeymoon in
Paris at a party at the Russian Embassy, and until now had accepted
things and not speculated about them. She had lived in the country and
was as good as gold.
She was accepting her honeymoon with her accustomed calm, although it was
not causing her any of the thrills which Elsie Goldmore, her school
friend, had assured her she should discover therein.
Honeymoons! Heavens! But perhaps it was because Sir John was dull. He
looked dull, she thought, as he stood there talking to the Ambassador. A
fine figure of an Englishman but--yes--dull. The Russian, on the
contrary, was not dull. He was huge and ugly and rough-hewn--his eyes
were yellowish-green and slanted upwards and his face was frankly
Calmuck. But you knew that you were talking to a personality--to one who
had probably a number of unknown possibilities about him tucked away
somewhere.
John had none of these. One could be certain of exactly what he would do
on any given occasion--and it would always be his duty. The Russian was
observing this charming English bride critically; she was such a perfect
specimen of that estimable race--well-shaped, refined and healthy. Chock
full of temperament too, he reflected--when she should discover herself.
Temperament and romance and even passion, and there were shrewdness and
commonsense as well.
"An agreeable task for a man to undertake her education," and he wished
that he had time.
Amaryllis Ardayre asked again:
"How can one not think? I am always thinking."
He smiled indulgently.
"Oh! no, you are not--you only imagine that you are. You have questioned
nothing--you do right generally because you have a nice character and
have been well brought up, not from any conscious determination to uplift
the soul. Yes--is it not so?"
She was startled.
"Perhaps."
"Do you ever ask yourself what things mean? What we are--where we are
going? What is the end of it all? No--you are happy; you live from day
to day--and yet you cannot be a very young ego, your eyes are too
wise--you have had many incarnations. It is merely that in this one life
the note of awakening has not yet been struck. You certainly must have
needed sleep."
"Many lives? You believe in that theory?"
She was not accustomed to discuss unorthodox subjects. She was
interested.
"But of course--how else could there be justice? We draw the reflex of
every evil action and of every good one, but sometimes not until the next
incarnation, that is why the heedless ones cannot grasp the truth--they
see no visible result of either good or evil--evil, in fact, seems
generally to win if there is a balance either way."
"Why are we not allowed memory then, so that we might profit by
our lessons?"
"We should in that case improve from self-interest and not have our
faults eliminated by suffering. We are given no conscious memory of
our last life, so we go on fighting for whatever desire still holds
us until its achievement brings such overwhelming pain that the
desire is no more."
"Why do you say that for happiness we must banish thought--that seems
a paradox."
She was a little disturbed.
"I said if one _consciously_ and deliberately desired happiness, one must
banish thought to bring oneself back to the condition of hundreds of
people who are happy; many of them are even elementals without souls at
all. They are permitted happiness so that they may become so attached to
the earth plane that they willingly return and gradually obtain a soul.
But no one who is allowed to think is allowed any continued happiness;
there would be no progress. If so, we should remain as brutes."
"Then how cruel of you to suggest to me to think. I want to be
happy--perhaps I do not want to obtain a soul."
"That was born long ago--my words may have awakened it once more, but the
sleep was not deep."
Amaryllis Ardayre looked at the crowds passing and re-passing in those
stately rooms.
"Tell me, who is that woman over there?" she asked. "The very pretty one
with the fair hair in jade green--she looks radiantly happy."
"And is--she is frankly an animal--exquisitely preserved, damnably
selfish, completely devoid of intellect, sugar manners, the senses of a
harem houri--and the tenacity of a rat."
"You are severe."
"Not at all. Harietta Boleski is a product of that most astonishing
nation across the Atlantic--none other could produce her. It is the
hothouse of the world as regards remarkable types. Here for immediate
ancestry we have a mother, from heaven knows what European refuse heap,
arrived in an immigrant ship--father of the 'pore white trash' of the
south--result: Harietta, fine points, beautiful, quite a lady for
ordinary purposes. The absence of soul is strikingly apparent to any
ordinary observer, but one only discovers the vulgarity of spirit if one
is a student of evolution--or chances to catch her when irritated with
her modiste or her maid. Other nations cannot produce such beings. Women
with the attributes of Harietta, were they European, would have surface
vulgarity showing--and so be out of the running, or they would have real
passion which would be their undoing--passion is glorious--it is aroused
by something beyond the physical. Observe her nostril! There is simple,
delightful animal sensuality for you! Look also at the convex curve below
the underlip--she will bite off the cherry whether it is hers by right or
another's, and devour it without a backward thought."
"Boleski--that is a Russian name, is it not?"
"No, Polish--she secured our Stanislass, a great man in his
country--last year in Berlin, having divorced a no longer required,
but worthy German husband who had held some post in the American
Consulate there."
"Is that old man standing obediently beside her your Stanislass?--he
looks quite cowed."
"A sad sight, is it not? Stanislass, though, is not old, barely forty. He
had a _béguin_ for her. She put his intelligence to sleep and bamboozled
his judgment with a continuous appeal to the senses; she has vampired him
now. Cloying all his will with her sugared caprices, she makes him scenes
and so keeps him in subjection. He was one of the Council de l'Empire for
Poland; the aims of his country were his earnest work, but now ambition
is no more. He is tired, he has ceased to struggle; she rules and eats
his soul as she has eaten the souls of others. Shall I present her to
you? As a type, she is worthy of your attention."
"It sounds as if she had the evil eye, as the Italians say," Amaryllis
shuddered.
"Only for men. She is really an amiable creature--women like her. She
is so frankly simple, since for her there are never two issues--only to
be allowed her own desires--a riot of extravagance, the first
place--and some one to gratify certain instincts without too many
refinements when the mood takes her. For the rest, she is kind and
good-natured and 'jolly,' as you English say, and has no notion that
she is a road to hell. But they are mostly dead, her other spider
mates, and cannot tell of it."
"I am much interested. I should like to talk to her. You say that she
is happy?"
"Obviously--she is an elemental--she never thinks at all, except to plan
some further benefit for herself. I do not believe in this life that she
can obtain a soul--her only force is her tenacious will."
"Such force is good, though?"
"Certainly. Even bad force is better than negative Good. One must first
be strong before one can be serene."
"You are strong."
"Yes, but not good. Hardly a fit companion for sweet little English
brides with excellent husbands awaiting them."
"I shall judge of that."
"_Tiens!_ So emancipated!"
"If you are bad, how does your theory work that we pay for each action?
Since by that you must know that it cannot be worth while to be bad."
"It is not--I am aware of it, but when I am bad I am bad deliberately,
knowing that I must pay."
"That seems stupid of you."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I take very severe exercise when I begin to think of things I should not
and I become savage when I require happiness--now is our chance for
making you acquainted with Harietta, she is moving our way."
Madame Boleski swept towards them on the arm of an Austrian Prince and
the Russian Verisschenzko said, with suave politeness:
"Madame, let me present you to Lady Ardayre. With me she has been
admiring you from afar."
The two women bowed, and with cheery, disarming simplicity, the American
made some gracious remarks in a voice which sounded as if she smoked too
much; it was not disagreeable in tone, nor had she a pronounced
American accent.
Amaryllis Ardayre found herself interested. She admired the superb
attention to detail shown in Madame Boleski's whole person. Her face was
touched up with the lightest art, not overdone in any way. Her hair, of
that very light tone bordering on gold, which sometimes goes with hazel
eyes, was quite natural and wonderfully done. Her dress was
perfection--so were her jewels. One saw that her corsetière was an
artist, and that everything had cost a great deal of money. She had taken
off one glove and Amaryllis saw her bare hand--it was well-shaped, save
that the thumb turned back in a remarkable degree.
"So delighted to meet you," Madame Boleski said. "We are going over to
London next month and I am just crazy to know more of you delicious
English people."
They chatted for a few moments and then Madame Boleski swept onwards. She
was quite stately and graceful and had a well-poised head. Amaryllis
turned to the Russian and was startled by the expression of fierce,
sardonic amusement in his yellow-green eyes.
"But surely, she can see that you are laughing at her?" she exclaimed,
astonished.
"It would convey nothing to her if she did."
"But you looked positively wicked."
"Possibly--I feel it sometimes when I think of Stanislass; he was a very
good friend of mine."
Sir John Ardayre joined them at this moment and the three walked towards
the supper room and the Russian said good-night.
"It is not good-bye, Madame. I, too, shall be in your country soon and I
also hope that I may see you again before you leave Paris."
They arranged a dinner for the following night but one, and said
au revoir.
An hour later the Russian was seated in a huge English leather chair in
the little salon of his apartment in the rue Cambon, when Madame Boleski
very softly entered the room and sat down upon his knee.
"I had to come, darling Brute," she said. "I was jealous of the English
girl," and she fitted her delicately painted lips to his. "Stanislass
wanted to talk over his new scheme for Poland, too, and as you know that
always gets on my nerves."
But Verisschenzko threw his head back impatiently, while he
answered roughly.
"I am not in the mood for your chastisement to-night. Go back as you
came, I am thinking of something real, something which makes your
body of no use to me--it wearies me and I do not even desire your
presence. Begone!"
Then he kissed her neck insolently and pushed her off his knee.
She pouted resentfully. But suddenly her eyes caught a small case lying
on a table near--and an eager gleam came into their hazel depths.
"Oh, Stépan! Is it the ruby thing! Oh! You beloved angel, you are going
to give it to me after all! Oh! I'll rush off at once and leave you, if
you wish it! Good-night!"
And when she was gone Verisschenzko threw some incense into a silver
burner and as the clouds of perfume rose into the air:
"Wough!" he said.