The Price of Things

The Price of Things

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Title: The Price of Things
Author: Elinor Glyn
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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