Man and Maid

Man and Maid By Elinor Glyn
A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with J. B. Lippincott Company Printed in
U.S.A.
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COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY ELINOR GLYN
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MAN AND MAID
I
February, 1918.
I am sick of my life--The war has robbed it of all that a young man can
find of joy.
I look at my mutilated face before I replace the black patch over the left
eye, and I realize that, with my crooked shoulder, and the leg gone
from the right knee downwards, that no woman can feel emotion for me
again in this world.
So be it--I must be a philosopher.
Mercifully I have no near relations--Mercifully I am still very rich,
mercifully I can buy love when I require it, which under the
circumstances, is not often.
Why do people write journals? Because human nature is filled with
egotism. There is nothing so interesting to oneself as oneself; and

journals cannot yawn in one's face, no matter how lengthy the
expression of one's feelings may be!
A clean white page is a sympathetic thing, waiting there to receive
one's impressions!
Suzette supped with me, here in my appartement last night--When she
had gone I felt a beast. I had found her attractive on Wednesday, and
after an excellent lunch, and two Benedictines, I was able to persuade
myself that her tenderness and passion were real, and not the result of
some thousands of francs,--And then when she left I saw my face in the
glass without the patch over the socket, and a profound depression fell
upon me.
Is it because I am such a mixture that I am this rotten creature?--An
American grandmother, a French mother, and an English father.
Paris--Eton--Cannes--Continuous traveling. Some years of living and
enjoying a rich orphan's life.--The war--fighting--a zest hitherto
undreamed of--unconsciousness--agony--and then?--well now Paris
again for special treatment.
Why do I write this down? For posterity to take up the threads
correctly?--Why?
From some architectural sense in me which must make a beginning,
even of a journal, for my eyes alone, start upon a solid basis?
I know not--and care not.
* * *
Three charming creatures are coming to have tea with me to-day. They
had heard of my loneliness and my savageness from Maurice--They
burn to give me their sympathy--and have tea with plenty of sugar in
it--and chocolate cake.
I used to wonder in my salad days what the brains of women were
made of--when they have brains!--The cleverest of them are generally

devoid of a logical sense, and they seldom understand the relative value
of things, but they make the charm of life, for one reason or another.
When I have seen these three I will dissect them. A divorce--a war
widow of two years--and the third with a husband fighting.
All, Maurice assures me, ready for anything, and highly attractive. It
will do me a great deal of good, he protests. We shall see.
Night. They came, with Maurice and Alwood Chester, of the American
Red Cross. They gave little shrill screams of admiration for the room.
"Quel endroit delicieux!--What boiserie! English?--Yes, of course,
English dix-septième, one could see--What silver!--and cleaned--And
everything of a chic!--And the hermit so sduisant with his air
maussade!--Hein."
"Yes, the war is much too long--One has given of one's time in the first
year--but now, really, fatigue has overcome one!--and surely after the
spring offensive peace must come soon--and one must live!"
They smoked continuously and devoured the chocolate cake, then they
had liqueurs.
They were so well dressed! and so lissome. They wore elastic corsets,
or none at all. They were well painted; cheeks of the new tint, rather
apricot coloured--and magenta lips. They had arranged themselves
when they had finished munching, bringing out their gold
looking-glasses and their lip grease and their powder--and the divorcee
continued to endeavour to enthrall my senses with her voluptuous half
closing of the eyes, while she reddened her full mouth.
They spoke of the theatre, and the last bons mots about their cherès
amies--the last liasons--the last passions--They spoke of Gabrielle--her
husband was killed last week--'So foolish of him, since one of Alice's
'friends' among the Ministers could easily have got him a soft job, and
one must always help one's friends! Alice adored Gabrielle.--But he has
left her well provided for--Gabrielle will look well in her crepe--and

there it is, war is war--Que voulez vous?'
"After all, will it be as agreeable if peace does come this
summer?--One will be able to dance openly--that will be nice--but for
the rest? It may be things will be more difficult--and there may be
complications. One has been very well during the war--very well,
indeed--N'est ce pas ma cherie--n'est ce pas?"
Thus they talked.
The widow's lover is married, Maurice