Man and Maid

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| Transcriber's Notes |
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| 1. Where possible, punctuation has been normalized to contemporary |
| standards. |
| 2. Diacritical marks are as they appeared in the printed book, and |
| may not reflect current usage. |
| 3. Obvious typographic and spelling errors have been corrected. |
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[Illustration: Suzette (Renee Adoree) makes the tedious hours of the
wounded Sir Nicholas Thormonde (Lew Cody) seem less monotonous. (A scene
from Elinor Glyn's production "Man and Maid" for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer)]

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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 divorcee--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-septieme_, one could see--What silver!--and cleaned--And
everything of a _chic_!--And the hermit so _seduisant_ 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 _cheres
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 tells me, and has been able to
keep his wife safely down at their place in Landes, but if peace should
come he must be _en famille_, and the wife can very well be disagreeable
about the affair.

The divorcee's three lovers will be in Paris at the same time. The
married one's husband returned for good--"Yes, certainly, peace will
have its drawbacks--The war knows its compensations--But considerable
ones!"

When they had departed, promising to return very soon--to dinner this
time, and see all the "exquisite _appartement_," Burton came into the
room to take away the tea things. His face was a mask as he swept up the
cigarette ash, which had fallen upon the William and Mary English lac
table, which holds the big lamp, then he carefully carried away the
silver ash trays filled with the ends, and returned with them cleaned.
Then he coughed slightly.

"Shall I open the window, Sir Nicholas?"

"It is a beastly cold evening."

He put an extra log on the fire and threw the second casement wide.

"You'll enjoy your dinner better now, Sir," he said, and left me
shivering.

* * * * *

I wish I were a musician, I could play to myself. I have still my two
hands, though perhaps my left shoulder hurts too much to play often. My
one eye aches when I read for too long, and the stump below the knee is
too tender still to fit the false leg on to, and I cannot, because of my
shoulder, use my crutch overmuch, so walking is out of the question.
These trifles are perhaps, the cause of my ennui with life.

I suppose such women as those who came to-day fulfill some purpose in the
scheme of things. One can dine openly with them at the most exclusive
restaurant, and not mind meeting one's relations. They are rather more
expensive than the others--pearl necklaces--sables--essence for their
motor cars--these are their prices.--They are so decorative, too, and
before the war were such excellent tango partners. These three are all
of the best families, and their relations stick to them in the
background, so they are not altogether _declasse_. Maurice says they are
the most agreeable women in Paris, and get the last news out of the
Generals. They are seen everywhere, and Coralie, the married one, wears
a Red Cross uniform sometimes at tea--if she happens to remember to go
into a hospital for ten minutes to hold some poor fellow's hand.

Yes, I suppose they have their uses--there are a horde of them, anyway.

To-morrow Maurice is bringing another specimen to divert me--American
this time--over here for "war work." Maurice says one of the cleverest
adventuresses he has ever met; and I am still irresistible, he assures
me, so I must be careful--(for am I not disgustingly rich!)

Burton is sixty years old--He is my earliest recollection. Burton knows
the world.

* * * * *

_Friday_--The American adventuress delighted me. She was so shrewd. Her
eyes are cunning and evil--her flesh is round and firm, she is not
extremely painted, and her dresses are quite six inches below her knees.

She has two English peers in tow, and any casual Americans of note whom
she can secure who will give her facilities in life. She, also, is
posing for a 'lady' and 'a virtuous woman,' and an ardent war worker.

All these parasites are the product of the war, though probably they
always existed, but the war has been their glorious chance. There is a
new verb in America, Maurice says--"To war work"--It means to get to
Paris, and have a splendid time.

Their _toupe_ is surprising! To hear this one talk one would think she
ruled all the politics of the allies, and directed each General.

* * * * *

Are men fools?--Yes, imbeciles--they cannot see the wiles of woman.
Perhaps I could not when I was a human male whom they could love!

Love?--did I say love?

Is there such a thing?--or is it only a sex excitement for the
moment!--That at all events is the sum of what these creatures know.

Do they ever think?--I mean beyond planning some fresh adventure for
themselves, or how to secure some fresh benefit.

I cannot now understand how a man ever marries one of them, gives his
name and his honour into such precarious keeping. Once I suppose I
should have been as easy a prey as the rest. But not _now_--I have too
much time to think, I fear. I seem to find some ulterior motive in
whatever people say or do.

To-day another American lunched with me, a bright girl, an heiress of the
breezy, jolly kind, a good sort before the war, whom I danced with
often. She told me quite naturally that she had a German prisoner's
thigh bone being polished into an umbrella handle--She had assisted at
the amputation--and the man had afterwards died--"A really cute
souvenir," she assured me it was going to be!

Are we all mad--?

No wonder the finest and best "go West."--Will they come again, souls of
a new race, when all these putrid beings have become extinguished by
time? I hope so to God....

These French women enjoy their crepe veils--and their high-heeled shoes,
and their short black skirts, even a cousin is near enough for the
trappings of woe.--Can any of us feel woe now?--I think not....

Maurice has his uses--Were I a man once more I should despise
Maurice--He is so good a creature, such a devoted hanger on of the very
rich--and faithful too. Does he not pander to my every fancy, and
procure me whatever I momentarily desire?

How much better if I had been killed outright! I loathe myself and all
the world.

* * * * *

Once--before the war--the doing up of this flat caused me raptures. To
get it quite English--in Paris! Every _antiquaire_ in London had
exploited me to his heart's content. I paid for it through the nose, but
each bit is a gem. I am not quite sure now what I meant to do with it
when finished, occupy it when I did come to Paris--lend it to
friends?--I don't remember--Now it seems a sepulchre where I can retire
my maimed body to and wait for the end.

* * * * *

Nina once proposed to stay with me here, no one should know,
Nina?--would she come now?--How dare they make this noise at the
door--what is it?--Nina!

* * * * *

_Sunday_--it was actually Nina herself--"Poor darling Nicholas," she
said. "The kindest fate sent me across--I 'wangled' a passport--really
serious war work, and here I am for a fortnight, even in war time one
_must_ get a few clothes--"

I could see I was a great shock to her, my attraction for her had
gone--I was just "poor darling Nicholas," and she began to be
motherly--Nina motherly!--She would have been furious at the very idea
once. Nina is thirty-nine years old, her boy has just gone into the
flying corps, she is so glad the war will soon be over.

She loves her boy.

She gave me news of the world, our old world of idle uselessness, which
is now one of solid work.

"Why have you completely cut yourself off from everything and everybody,
ever since you first went out to fight?--Very silly of you."

"When I was a _man_ and could fight, I liked fighting, and never wanted
to see any of you again. You all seemed rotters to me, so I spent my
leaves in the country or here. Now you seem glorious beings, and I the
rotter. I am no use at all--"

Nina came close to me and touched my hand--

"Poor darling Nicholas," she said again.

Something hurt awfully, as I realized that to touch me now caused her no
thrill. No woman will ever thrill again when I am near.

Nina does know all about clothes! She is the best-dressed Englishwoman I
have ever seen. She has worked awfully well for the war, too, I hear,
she deserves her fortnight in Paris.

"What are you going to do, Nina?" I asked her.

She was going out to theatres every night, and going to dine with lots
of delicious 'red tabs' whose work was over here, whom she had not seen
for a long time.

"I'm just going to frivol, Nicholas, I am tired of work."

Nothing could exceed her kindness--a mother's kindness.

I tried to take an interest in everything she said, only it seemed such
aeons away. As though I were talking in a dream.

She would go plodding on at her war job when she got back again, of
course, but she, like everyone else, is war weary.

"And when peace comes--it will soon come now probably--what then?"

"I believe I shall marry again."

I jumped--I had never contemplated the possibility of Nina marrying, she
has always been a widowed institution, with her nice little house in
Queen Street, and that wonderful cook.

"What on earth for?"

"I want the companionship and devotion of one man."

"Anyone in view?"

"Yes--one or two--they say there is a shortage of men, I have never
known so many men in my life."

Then presently, when she had finished her tea, she said--

"You are absolutely out of gear, Nicholas--Your voice is rasping, your
remarks are bitter, and you must be awfully unhappy, poor boy."

I told her that I was--there was no use in lying.

"Everything is finished," I said, and she bent down and kissed me as she
said good-bye--a mother's kiss.

* * * * *

And now I am alone, and what shall I do all the evening? or all the
other evenings--? I will send for Suzette to dine.

* * * * *

_Night_--Suzette--was amusing--. I told her at once I did not require
her to be affectionate.

"You can have an evening's rest from blandishments, Suzette."

"_Merci!_"--and then she stretched herself, kicked up her little feet,
in their short-vamped, podgy little shoes, with four-inch heels, and lit
a cigarette.

"Life is hard, _Mon ami_"--she told me--"And now that the English are
here, it is difficult to keep from falling in love."

For a minute I thought she was going to insinuate that I had aroused her
reflection--I warmed--but no--She had taken me seriously when I told her
I required no blandishments.

That ugly little twinge came to me again.

"You like the English?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"They are very _bons garcons_, they are clean, and they are fine men,
they have sentiment, too--Yes, it is difficult not to feel," she sighed.

"What do you do when you fall in love then, Suzette?"

"_Mon ami_, I immediately go for a fortnight to the sea--one is lost if
one falls in love _dans le metier_--The man tramples then--tramples and
slips off--For everything good one must never feel."

"But you have a kind heart Suzette--you feel for me?"

"_Hein?_"--and she showed all her little white pointed
teeth--"Thou?--Thou art very rich, _mon chou_. Women will always feel
for thee!"

It went in like a knife it was so true--.

"I was a very fine Englishman once," I said.

"It is possible, thou art still, sitting, and showing the right
profile--and full of _chic_--and then rich, rich!"

"You could not forget that I am rich, Suzette?"

"If I did I might love you--_Jamais!_"

"And does the sea help to prevent an attack?"--

"Absence--and I go to a poor place I knew when I was young, and I wash
and cook, and make myself remember what _la vie dure_ was--and would be
again if one loved--Bah! that does it. I come back cured--and ready only
to please such as thou, Nicholas!--rich, rich!"

* * * * *

And she laughed again her rippling gay laugh--

We had a pleasant evening, she told me the history of her life--or some
of it--They were ever the same from Lucien's Myrtale.

* * * * *

When all of me is aching--Shall I too, find solace if I go to the sea?

Who knows?

II

I have been through torture this week--The new man wrenches my shoulder
each day, it will become straight eventually, he says. They have tried
to fit the false leg also, so those two things are going on, but the
socket is not yet well enough for anything to be done to my left eye--so
that has defeated them. It will be months before any real improvement
takes place.

There are hundreds of others who are more maimed than I--in greater
pain--more disgusting--does it give them any comfort to tell the truth
to a journal?--or are they strong enough to keep it all locked up in
their hearts?--I used to care to read, all books bore me now--I cannot
take interest in any single thing, and above all, I loathe myself--My
soul is angry.

Nina came again, to luncheon this time. It was pouring with rain, an
odious day. She told me of her love affairs--as a sister might--Nina a
sister!

She can't make up her mind whether to take Jim Bruce or Rochester
Moreland, they are both Brigadiers now, Jim is a year younger than she
is.

"Rochester is really more my mate, Nicholas," she said, "but then there
are moments when I am with him when I am not sure if he would not bore
me eventually, and he has too much character for me to suppress--Jim
fascinates me, but I only hold him because he is not sure of me--If I
marry him he will be, and then I shall have to watch my looks, and
remember to play the game all the time, and it won't be restful--above
all, I want rest and security."

"You are not really in love with either, Nina?"

"Love?" and she smoothed out the fringe on her silk jersey with her
war-hardened hand--the hand I once loved to kiss--every blue vein on
it!--"I often, wonder what really is love, Nicholas--I thought I loved
you before the war--but, of course, I could not have--because I don't
feel anything now--and if I had really loved you, I suppose it would not
have made any difference."

Then she realized what she had said and got up and came closer to me.

"That was cruel of me, I did not mean to be--I love you awfully as a
sister--always."

"Sister Nina!--well, let us get back to love--perhaps the war has killed
it--or it has developed everything, perhaps it now permits a sensitive,
delicious woman like you to love two men."

"You see, we have become so complicated"--she puffed smoke rings at
me--"One man does not seem to fulfill the needs of every mood--Rochester
would not understand some things that Jim would, and _vice versa_--I do
not feel any glamour about either, but it is rest and certainty, as I
told you, Nicholas, I am so tired of working and going home to Queen
Street alone."

"Shall you toss up?"

"No--Rochester is coming up from the front to-morrow just for the night,
I am going to dine with him at Larue's--alone, I shall sample him all
the time--I sampled Jim when he was last in London a fortnight ago--"

"You will tell me about it when you have decided, won't you, Nina. You
see I have become a brother, and am interested in the psychological
aspects of things."

"Of course I will"--then she went on meditatively, her rather plaintive
voice low.

"I think all our true feeling is used up, Nicholas--our souls--if we
have souls--are blunted by the war agony. Only our senses still feel.
When Jim looks at me with his attractive blue eyes, and I see the D.S.O.
and the M.C., and his white nice teeth--and how his hair is brushed, and
how well his uniform fits, I have a jolly all-overish sensation--and I
don't much listen to what he is saying--he says lots of love--and I
think I would really like him all the time. Then, when he has gone I
think of other things, and I feel he would not understand a word about
them, and because he isn't there I don't feel the delicious all-overish
sensation, so I rather decide to marry Rochester--there would be such
risk--because when you are married to a man, it is possible to get much
fonder of him. Jim is a year younger than I am--It would be a strain,
perhaps in a year or two--especially if I got fond."

"You had better take the richer," I told her--"Money stands by one, it
is an attraction which even the effects of war never varies or lessens,"
and I could hear that there was bitterness in my voice.

"You are quite right," Nina said, taking no notice of it--"but I don't
want money--I have enough for every possible need, and my boy has his
own. I want something kind and affectionate to live with."

"You want a master--and a slave."

"Yes."

"Nina, when you loved me--what did you want?"

"Just you, Nicholas--just you."

"Well, I am here now, but an eye and a leg gone, and a crooked shoulder,
changes me;--so it is true love--even the emotion of the soul, depends
upon material things--"

Nina thought for a while.

"Perhaps not the emotion of the soul--if we have souls?--but what we
know of love now certainly does. I suppose there are people who can love
with the soul, I am not one of them."

"Well, you are honest, Nina."

She had her coffee and liqueur, she was graceful and composed and
refined, either Jim or Rochester will have a very nice wife.

Burton coughed when she had left.

"Out with it, Burton!"

"Mrs. Ardilawn is a kind lady, Sir Nicholas."

"Charming."

"I believe you'd be better with some lady to look after you, Sir--."

"To hell with you. Telephone for Mr. Maurice--I don't want any woman--we
can play piquet."

This is how my day ended--.

Maurice and piquet--then the widow and the divorcee for dinner--and now
alone again! The sickening rot of it all.

* * * * *

_Sunday_--Nina came for tea--she feels that I am a great comfort to her
in this moment of her life, so full of indecision--It seems that Jim has
turned up too, at the Ritz, where Rochester still is, and that his
physical charm has upset all her calculations again.

"I am really very worried Nicholas," she said, "and you, who are a dear
family friend"--I am a family friend now!--"ought to be able to help
me."

"What the devil do you want me to do, Nina?--outset them both, and ask
you to marry me?"

"My dearest Nicholas!" it seemed to her that I had suggested that she
should marry father Xmas! "How funny you are!"

Once it was the height of her desire--Nina is eight years older than I
am--I can see now her burning eyes one night on the river in the June of
1914, when she insinuated, not all playfully, that it would be good to
wed.

"I think you had better take Jim my dear, after all. You are evidently
becoming in love with him and you have proved to me that the physical
charm matters most,--or if you are afraid of that, you had better do as
another little friend of mine does when she is attracted--she takes a
fortnight at the sea!"

"The sea would be awful in this weather! I should send for both in
desperation!" and she laughed and began to take an interest in the
furnishings of my flat. She looked over it, and Burton pointed out all
its merits to her (My crutch hurts my shoulder so much to-day I did not
want to move out of my chair). I could hear Burton's remarks, but they
fell upon unheeding ears--Nina is not cut out for a nurse, my poor
Burton, if you only knew--!

When she returned to my sitting room tea was in, and she poured it out
for me, and then she remarked.

"We have grown so awfully selfish, haven't we, Nicholas, but we aren't
such hypocrites as we were before the war. People still have lovers, but
they don't turn up their eyes so much at other people having them, as
they used. There is more tolerance--the only thing you cannot do is to
act publicly so that your men friends cannot defend you--'You must not
throw your bonnet over the windmills'--otherwise you can do as you
please--."

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