Читать книгу The Price of Things - Glyn Elinor - Страница 5

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"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.