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قراءة كتاب The Mystery of a Turkish Bath
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my own private rooms here,” was the quiet response. “I shall not mix with the other visitors.”
“Oh,” cried Mrs Jefferson, her face clouding, “I call that cruel. There are really some very good people here—titles, if you like them—money, if you care for that—one or two geniuses—a musician and a poet who are working for a future generation, because they can’t get appreciated here—and the usual crowd of mediocrities. Oh, you really must come to our evenings; they’d amuse you immensely. We’re quite dependent on ourselves for society. This is the dullest of dull holes, still we manage to get a bit spry not and then. Now, you—why, if you’d only show yourself to be looked at, you’d be doing the whole hotel a good turn.”
The stranger shook her head. “Society never amuses me,” she said. “It has nothing to offer that can rival the charms of books, art, and solitude. I possess all three.”
Mrs Jefferson opened her eyes wide. “The first and the last,” she said, “are comprehensible as travelling companions, but what about the middle one?”
“In my train I have a blind musician, whose equal I have never met, and a boy sculptor whose genius will one day astonish the world. For myself, I paint and I write, and I have a store of books that will outlast the longest limit of companionship. Can you tell me what better things the world will give?”
Mrs Ray Jefferson murmured something vaguely about amusement and distraction. She was growing more and more perplexed about this beautiful Mystery. Anyone who travelled about with a train of attendants must surely be a princess at the very least.
“Amusement!”—the stranger smiled. “Does society ever really give us that? We have to smile when we are bored—to tell polite falsehoods every hour—to eat and drink when we would rather fast—to awake all sorts of evil passions in other people’s minds if we are better-looking or better dressed, or more admired; and have them aroused in our own if we are not? Does a ball amuse? Does a dinner-party? Does even a comedy, after the first quarter of an hour? I can answer for myself in the negative, at all events.”
“Gracious!” exclaimed Mrs Jefferson wonderingly. “You must be a strange person, and you look so young. Why, I should have thought you were just the age for society? Don’t you care to be admired?”
“Not in the least. I have learnt the value of men’s passions. A quiet life is more wholesome and infinitely more contenting than anything society can offer.”
“For a time, perhaps; but it would become dull and monotonous, I should think.”
“Never, if you have the mind to appreciate it. The companionship I value will always come to me. I do not need to seek it in the world.”
“You are fortunate,” said Mrs Jefferson, somewhat sarcastically. “Ordinary mortals have to take what they can get. Still, I suppose such things are only a matter of personal disposition. If one has the mood for enjoyment, one can find it anywhere; if not—well, a funeral or a comedy would be equally amusing.”
“I suppose,” said the stranger, quietly, “you have the mood.”
“Well, I’m blessed with a pretty fair capacity for enjoying all that comes in my way,” said the little American, frankly. “I like studying human nature, even though I’m not clever enough to describe it. It’s like the critics, you know, who find it so powerful easy to cut up a book, yet couldn’t write one themselves to save their lives. Phew–ew! how hot it is here! How do you contrive to look so cool?”
“I can stand a great deal of heat,” answered the other, tranquilly. “I have Eastern blood in my veins, on my mother’s side. Is that the hottest room?” she added, nodding in the direction of the third doorway.
“Yes. I suppose you won’t go there? I never dare put my nose inside. It’s enough to scorch the skin off you.”
“I don’t suppose it can be hotter than the rooms in the East,” answered the stranger, as she rose and moved towards it. She stood for a moment looking in, then turned back and smiled at her late companion. “Oh, I can bear it,” she said, and disappeared from sight.
The little American pouted and looked disturbed. “What a shame! I had ever so many more things to ask her,” she said, “and to think, after all, I don’t know her name, or even to what country she belongs, and I did so want the whole story pat for the table d’hôte dinner to-night... Ready to be shampooed?—oh, yes, Morrison; I’m just about ‘done through;’ I’m glad you can take me first.”
She rose abruptly and followed the attendant past the flushed and perspiring groups who were still comparing notes as to different ailments and degrees of moisture, occasionally holding out their arms for mutual inspection.
“I wonder,” she said to herself, “how that one woman manages to look so different. Why, we get uglier and uglier, and she only more and more beautiful. Perhaps she’s a Rosicrucian!”
Chapter Three.
The Cooling Room.
A long room, down the centre of which ran a row of couches; on either side were the dressing-rooms, curtained off from the main apartment by curtains of dark Oriental blue, bordered with dull red. In the large bay window stood the dressing-tables and mirrors.
Mrs Ray Jefferson had it all to herself, as, wrapped in an enormous sheet of Turkish towelling, she emerged from the processes of shampooing and douche. She laid herself down on one of the couches, and the attendant, Morrison, threw another Turkish wrap over her, and left her to the enjoyment of the coffee she had ordered, and which was placed on one of the numerous small tables scattered about.
According to all rules of the baths, she should have rested calmly and patiently on that couch, until such time as she was cool enough to don her ordinary attire, but the little American, was of a restless and impatient disposition, and of all things hated to be inactive.
The attendant had scarcely left the room before she raised herself to a sitting position, and took a survey of her appearance in one of the mirrors. It did not appear to be very satisfactory. She turned abruptly away and reached some magazines from an adjoining table. Armed with these she once more sought her couch, and after tossing two or three contemptuously aside, she at last seemed to find one periodical that interested her. She grew so absorbed in its contents, that she scarcely heard the entrance of the beautiful woman who had so interested her, and who now took the next couch to her own, and lay down in an attitude of indolent grace that was quite in keeping with her appearance.
“You seem interested,” she remarked, as she glanced at the absorbed face of her neighbour.
Mrs Jefferson looked up sharply. “Well,” she said, turning the magazine round to read its title. “This is about the queerest story I ever read. I wish people wouldn’t write improbabilities that no one can swallow.”
“The question is rather what is an improbability?” answered her companion. “It is only a matter of the capacity of the age to receive what is new. A few years ago electricity was improbable, yet look at the telegraph and the telephone. Still further back, who would have believed that railways would exist above ground and under ground, and mock at the difficulties of rivers and mountains? What have you discovered strange enough to be called ‘improbable’?”
“Oh! it’s a story of a man who gets out of his own body and does all sorts of queer things, and then goes back to it again, just when he pleases. Finally, he falls in love with a woman as queer as himself, and finding he has a rival, he just gets rid of him by force of will-power. However, the day they are to be married, the woman is found dead in her bed. It appears that she also