Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and PG Distributed Proofreaders
1919
I wrote this book in Paris in the winter of 1917-18—in the midst ofbombs, 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 weused, the way we looked at things, was more realistic—coarser—than intimes of peace, when civilization can re-assert itself again. This is whythe 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 eachphase of the era they are living in, that posterity may be correctlyinformed about things, and get the atmosphere of epochs.
The story is, so to speak, rough hewn. But it shows the danger ofbreaking laws, and interfering with fate—whether the laws be of Godor of Man.
It is also a psychological study of the instincts of two women, which thestrenuous times brought to the surface. "Amaryllis," with all herbreeding and gentleness, reacting to nature's call in her fierce fidelityto the father of her child—and "Harietta," becoming in herself theepitome of the age-old prostitute.
I advise those who are rebuffed by plain words, and a ruthless analysisof the result of actions, not to read a single page.
[Signature: Elinor Glyn]
"If one consciously and deliberately desires happiness on this plane,"said the Russian, "one must have sufficient strength of will to banishall 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 onediscovers hope lying at the bottom of it."
"What do you mean by thought? How can one not think?" Amaryllis Ardayre'slarge grey eyes opened in a puzzled way. She was on her honeymoon inParis at a party at the Russian Embassy, and until now had acceptedthings and not speculated about them. She had lived in the country andwas as good as gold.
She was accepting her honeymoon with her accustomed calm, although it wasnot causing her any of the thrills which Elsie Goldmore, her schoolfriend, had assured her she should discover therein.
Honeymoons! Heavens! But perhaps it was because Sir John was dull. Helooked dull, she thought, as he stood there talking to the Ambassador. Afine figure of an Englishman but—yes—dull. The Russian, on thecontrary, was not dull. He was huge and ugly and rough-hewn—his eyeswere yellowish-green and slanted upwards and his face was franklyCalmuck. But you knew that you were talking to a personality—to one whohad probably a number of unknown possibilities about him tucked awaysomewhere.
John had none of these. One could be certain of exactly what he would doon any given occasion—and it would always be his duty. The Russian wasobserving this charming English bride critically; she was such a perfectspecimen of that estimable race—well-shaped, refined and healthy. Chockfull of temperament too, he reflected—when she should discover herself.Temperament and romance and even passion, and there were shrewdness andcommonsense as well.
"An agreeable task for a man to undertake her education," and he wishedthat he had time.
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