The Price of Things. Glyn Elinor
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